Relevations and Fusstrations
I suppose I must be packing to warrant a break from packing. We’ll call this part of my routine, which is as follows: pack two sweaters, go to the kitchen for a glass of water, walk back to my room, throw 3 shoes into a bag, hunt for the fourth, check my email, find the fourth, lose the bag...
I want to pack less, but my fashion compassion refuses to yield. I’m a sucker for lonely clothes. The sweaters and skirts that never get out hopefully squeeze themselves beside my old stand-bys. The awkward skirt with so much potential. The sexy, knee-high boots that hide under my jeans. The little black dress that has only sees my bedroom mirror. They’re all coming home for the holidays. After I make an appearance at work and get a quick haircut, I’m starting on the first 400 miles of my trip. I love to drive. I hate to pack, but I love when I get behind the wheel with some Orbitz citrusmint gum, a big Diet Coke, and my finger on the "seek" button.
But I'm a bad little elf - I have two untouched boxes of Christmas cards.
When I return to my bed in two weeks, I will be a year older (and have cheaper car insurance – I think they do that to soften the blow), I will have logged over 23 hours on the road, and I will have met some new faces. I’m already tired just thinking about it.
One more thing – I made [another] important career decision. All this week at work, I have been practically alone and I have been fairly busy – until today. I got there at 9, and I was ready for a nap by 11. I thought that my downtime would result in a flurry of productivity. It was more of a lethargic hum. At the office Christmas party, the same joke about “that Secret Santa gift must be from Earl” kept circulating as common currency for funny. I heard two women coach a co-worker on suit shopping, “NO NAVY BLUE!” The office stickler/good ole boy ranted about the poor not taking time for their kids; my favorite office hippie offered an intelligent rebuttal. People on elevators talked about things people on elevators talk about – the weather, holidays, surprise over not stopping on the first floor. A few lucky ones board the elevator with an ally and avoid awkward conversations. Polite purse or shoe compliments are met with store recommendations. In the office, a mom hissed at her son for being hungry. Christmas music played softly from PCs. A certain ultra-southern cackle rang in my ears as I sat in my cubicle with nothing work-related to do. People whined in clichés about the air conditioning, holiday traffic, Christmas shopping…and other people offered just as clichéd solutions. I realize I sound hateful, and I don’t mean to be. I’m amused by the buffers we (myself included) create as we navigate social situations. But today, I was miserable. My conscience won’t let me work too much on my papers on the company’s dime. I have already worked ahead of myself in anticipation of what might be asked of me. I thought bad, non-Christmas-y thoughts. However, I have recently flirted with other jobs because of the downtime for reading and writing they seem to offer. Now, I have learned that a job with more downtime would not increase my creative output. Instead, it might just make me snippy and fat, and a little too organized. Well, maybe it would take a little more than that to get me organized…
To Know Better
When I used to stay home from school, I remember the slow fade between dreams and awake to the sounds of the Smurfs, The Price is Right, and Webster.
Today, I left work early to half-sleep through Bernie Mac, infomercials for great hits of the 70s and The Little Giant, and C-SPAN.
I almost ordered The Little Giant “for only four easy payments of $89.99…and, if you order now, free shipping!”
I used to wonder if the infomercial companies had to always know when and where they were being shown to see if they could offer “free _______ now” to whomever was on the phone based on their geography.
I know better now.
By the way, my stay on the couch and this cold-medicine induced blog entry is brought to you by my attempt at thriftiness.
I wanted to save money so I cut off the heat in my apartment; I thought I could soldier my way through it because it's Florida.
I definitely know better now.
Back to where we left off - I love Boston. I smiled politely when everyone told me that I would. Boston is notoriously cold and rude – both of which make me crabby. But I loved Boston. Our flight arrived forty minutes early, and we attempted to take the world’s best public transportation system into the city. The Boy researched the route and had our plan memorized, but we hit construction at Park Street and had to lug our suitcases up several flights of stairs and into several overcrowded shuttle buses. Rather, the Boy lugged. I attempted to argue back in my best women’s-lib, I-made-my-bed-now-I-have-to-sleep-in-it voice, but I also didn’t want to make a scene. He valiantly lugged and I felt sheepish about my big red suitcase. I'm not used to letting people help me. Finally, our lovely hosts drove through the icy streets and rescued us from the detours. The blizzard the day before left everything in a thick layer of white cold. Our hosts were brilliant snow drivers. I think I want to move to a big city just so I can have an intelligent, “you do NOT want to take MLK between 4 and 6. Take a left on 6th, and a right on Tribune” conversation and know how to find the good parking spots. I want to be that kind of cool.
After we dug out a parking spot (and fought off a dude who tried to show us up with his fancy metal shovel), our first stop and main concern for the weekend was food. We went to an old firehouse for tasty thin crust, froo-froo pizza and beer. J-girl and I walked through the city while J-boy and the Boy sat at the restaurant where he works and watched basketball. I liked the cold. I liked that I had to kick my shoes against a wall before I walked into a building and I liked that we had to hold onto each other to not fall on the ice.
The chronology of the rest of the trip is fuzzy because it felt like a string of Saturdays and food and sights. While our hosts worked, the Boy and I explored the city. He had spent some time in Boston (and most big cities in the US) when he worked for his fraternity after college, so he knew the area. He had been planning our itinerary for weeks, and it was beautiful to have someone share my excitement for travel. We went to the MFA, the Freedom Trail, Fanueil Hall, the Old North Church, Harvard Square…We had a few big meals that I can never match – an Italian restaurant in the North End of town, a restaurant where they served sushi on boats, and the best cheeseburger I will ever taste in a small restaurant that caters to MIT. I eventually stopped wondering if I was walking next to an intellectual rockstar in normal clothes. After all, there’s no magical aura around the people who get into these big name schools.
We spent a large part of Sunday at the Bizarre Bazaar, where independent vendors arrive with their melted-record bowls, homemade purses and notebooks, kitsch-y decorations, and small business cards, and Boston stands in line for hours to purchase it. I almost bought a bag that said “Sexy, Sexy Bicycle”, but I couldn’t justify it. While some of these crafts could have been made at home, Boston wanted to reward these artists for their ingenuity. I really dug that. Every dollar we spent in Boston went to independent vendors and restaurants or towards art. We spent hours in used bookstores. I spent too much money that I didn’t have, but I felt good about the people I supported.
Now, I never really saw myself as a consumer activist; I still shop at the Gap. But I like feeling good about my purchases. Maybe it’s the strangled-artist within me that wants desperately for art to always be valued. But this person also comes up against the grad-student-on-a-stipend who really cannot afford to be a philanthropist now. My conundrum.
Anyway, it was nice to flow so effortlessly between serious conversation and goofy moments for those few days. I didn’t always feel like I had to talk or had to impress anybody. I appreciated these people for how beautiful and unique they all are. I started to miss college and the things we would do when we had nothing to do. It’s easy to forget how good friends can be. I wonder if I’ll always miss those days and the conversations that lasted until sunrise. And I wonder if I'll be brave enough to make those connections with people here.
And I think I should stop now before the nostalgia/cold medicine really kicks in and all of my hopes and dreams are vomited onto the page. I need to turn savor these rare moments by myself that seem so full of potential. And yesterday, I bought a book to teach me to play guitar...
Well, I've got "aaaawful" down pat...
...for my trip to Bah-ston tomorrow. Certain words always trip off of my tongue in another accent. I can't even do a Spanish accent right, but I turn into New York every time I say "hot dawg." But my "awful" is very Bostonian. Go figure.
Many of you have requested my promised gush, and it will happen eventually...I've never wanted to be one of those "my pookie-wookie-love-muffin is the bestest!" girls giving shout-outs to their "baaaby" on their away messages. Without being
that girl, I'll just say that things are really good! We were in nebulousville for almost a year and it was time to either go for it or cut it off. We decided to go. Long distance isn't very much fun, but I still get excited when I see his name on my phone. We have fun together, we're good friends. He makes me laugh and he doesn't always tell me what I want to hear - he tells me the best thing for me to hear. He's supportive and sensitive. I'm always learning new and interesting things about him, and I think he's fascinating. He's a writer. He's also handsome. (And I can only write most of this stuff because I know he doesn't read this.) This...this is a good thing.
We're flying to Boston tomorrow to visit some of his/our friends that were in school with us down here. I'll Mary-Tyler-Moore it up in the big city...perhaps I'll even post a few pics sometime soon.
By the way, I sent out six school applications, and no one has sent back an "um, is this a joke?" yet, so I should be cool. I didn't anticipate how good it would feel to not have those churning in my stomach anymore. For better or for worse, they're out there now.
I need wash clothes and pack my carefully planned wardrobe into the uber-nice luggage I borrowed from my boss.
Until then...you stay classy, planet earth. I'm freezing my Floridian cajones off up in the great Northeast.
Parable of the Perpetually Prodigal Friend
Make sure you’re sitting down when I tell you this – I am not good under prolonged stress.
Under momentary stress, I can juggle, skate, and duck.
Now I’ve made the “stressed-out dance” – jazz hands to the sides and a couple of kick-ball-changes – my response to every question.
I feel awful.
I blame part of my consuming guilt on
He’s Just Not That Into You, the ex-must-read answer to every “why is he doing this to me?” question.
One part of the book explains that if he says that he has been too busy, that’s code for *sshole.
Every time I explain why I forgot to call, write, lunch, or movie, I follow it up with a silent “and because I’m an *sshole.” But my earnest efforts at reigniting the friendship flames with some of these lovely folk has the strength of PlayDo on my end.
I apologize, I make an effort, I get busy, I am inconsistent…shower, rinse, repeat.
This past Thursday, for example. I was up until 3am working on my Personal Statement and Critical Writing Sample. I woke up at 6:45 to get ready for school – a process that takes much longer as of the past two weeks. I came home from Memphis and had a 20 hour turnaround time before I left for the wedding in Tampa. I came back from Tampa and spent the next five days working on my application documents, work, school, and classes. I have yet to unpack or wash anything. The clean clothes are mingling with the dirty clothes and my shoes refuse to come anywhere near each other.
I worked, showered, packed my computer, my bookbag, and my gym bag (I have good intentions), and I was out the door. Then I ran back in for something I forgot. I was in a great mood. I had on a pink sweater, clean pants, and cute underwear. I left the house with twenty minutes to go to Staples to make eight copies of a chapter from Strunk & White and fax my transcript request forms and buy dry-erase markers, swing through Chic-Fil-A for a morning chicken biscuit and gynormous Diet Coke, and run into school in time to meet my student for a conference. I talked with my student about story details and having a “thesis”, and ran into the room to teach the three of the eight students that actually showed up. We discussed the phrase “the elephant in the room.” I explained that it’s when there’s something in the room that most people know about but no one wants to say, and my 285 pound football player asked if it was like when there is a roach on the wall and no one wants to tell everyone else that it’s there. Is it bad to laugh at your students? :)
After class, I got my books together and ran over to the DOE and my cubicle for work. I spent the day rewriting memos, hunting down rebellious verbs, and tweaking my personal statement. My semi-boss was trying to feel out if I was coming back after my class, but I wasn’t sure if she was saying, “Don’t worry about coming back, we really don’t need you” or “It would be nice if you actually came to work all the time.” Then, something happened. I got upset about where my personal statement was going, I didn’t feel like I could remove myself from it enough to get an objective opinion, and I just kind of broke down. Midnight was my deadline. I had class at 2 and I was crying as I ran out of The DOE. I called the Boy and he couldn’t tell if I was laughing or crying at first. No one is used to hearing me cry. It wouldn’t stop. Poor guy, he tried desperately to console me. I walked into class late and sat against the wall with the other sick girl. (My office/classmates knew that I was pink, bubbly, and perfectly healthy that morning, and they weren’t fooled.) My face was so wet, I couldn’t tell the new tears from the old. Finally, my teacher turned on “Heavy Metal Parking Lot” (popular culture studies class), and I distracted myself long enough to dry up.
After class, I went to my office and tried to work. I worked until my conference with my teacher at 5, then until my class at 6:45, and then until 12:30 when I submitted my online application and, finally, went home. My roommate has law school exams right now, so neither of us are home enough to clean. I moved some dishes in the sink and almost gagged. I loaded the dishwasher, went to my room, changed into some sweats, threw my sweater in with the mess, and passed out by 2am. At 6am on Friday, I was up again.
And then, last night was the English Department party, and I don’t even feel like I went. It’s the
one time when we can shed our jeans and flip-flops for our dressiest dress, drink free wine and eat what book-nerds cook, and relax. It’s when you don’t have to talk shop with your professors and catch up with everyone else who has been hiding out. I was too tired and cold to wear my red dress, so I settled on a gold mesh sweater, black pants, and strappy gold heels. I had to drive with my kahlua and pecan brie in one hand so it wouldn’t dump all over my seat (again). I bought batteries for my camera but forgot to take any pictures - even for the annual production where one of our professors ignores the protests, clears out one room, and dances for the whole department. With a minimum of three wardrobe changes. This year, she brought a whole dance troupe and we were creeped out when she tangoed with a fifteen year old boy.
I was there talking with a few people, but I felt like I was really sitting in a corner and watching everything happen. Such is life. But as I sat and watched everyone laugh and drink, I realized how far I had drifted away – how little I knew about any of them anymore. I have been going through the motions and not taking any time to play and I was miserable. I wanted to go up to each one and look at them earnestly and say “I’m sorry!” and beg for that familiarity to be back. But I realize that they’ve seen that show before. I don’t know if I can expect them to be that forgiving.
So here I am, the prodigal friend, in desperate need of the gym and some friend time and three completed twelve page papers and for things to become more manageable. And a really, really good nap.
When I return to my bed in two weeks, I will be a year older (and have cheaper car insurance – I think they do that to soften the blow), I will have logged over 23 hours on the road, and I will have met some new faces. I’m already tired just thinking about it. 
