“Don’t you know professors read your columns?” “Writing is autobiography, you know.” “Using ‘penis’ in your column doesn’t make you edgy.” “Everyone knows you’re just writing for the shock factor.”
I’ve obviously received lots of friendly comments about my last few columns. I also felt like vomiting after knowing a professor’s 11-year-old daughter read the last one. My only defense is that this is a college paper and that professors were once young hooligans. But, I do feel the need to defend against the claim that I’m going for shock factor. (When I write the “Getting to Know,” however, that is definitely about shock factor.)
We're all familiar with the statistic that people tell an average of 7 lies per day. I'm sure I do, too. Most of mine, however, are lies to myself. I say something enough that eventually even I believe it, and discerning the truth from the lie becomes impossible.Writing used to be a way of circumventing that problem for me--it was a way of always being truthful. Much of writing may indeed be autobiography, thanks to the advice of writing profs everywhere to “write what you know.” My columns always have some root in my own life, but my life is fairly boring, and I am forced to draw upon the lives of my exciting friends.Autobiography, even, is not always truthful. Remember James Frey's A Million Little Pieces? A good writer should not have to rely on autobiography or biography. There is usually a bigger story being told than the one that is rooted in an author’s personal narrative.
Toni Morrison’s Beloved is not autobiography, and we are certainly not all women or black, but everyone can feel her story—we feel its truth. If there is a mantra for writing and its truth, and where that truth should be derived from, I'm not sure if there is one. Joseph Campbell would say there is only one story, and thus all of our truths feed into it. For me, I think it would be one of the final lines of the film Shakespeare in Love, when Viola tells the parting Shakespeare "write me well."
Unfortunately, this is not a mantra I have done a good job of holding onto. It is infinitely difficult to write someone well. For me, "write me well" means to write everyone well, despite the pain they may have caused me. Villainizing them is so much easier, just as being remorseful is so much harder than asking for forgiveness. Asking for forgiveness, just like refusing to lie to myself anymore, takes balls.
This is where writing, or any attempt at being truthful to oneself, becomes dangerous territory. I am forced to acknowledge the lies I am telling myself when I see them, black on white. Writing someone well means I can’t wear rose-colored glasses, nor can I completely shut my eyes to the gray area.
Writing the people in my life well sometimes requires the use of words like ‘penis,’ and I just used ‘balls’ in the previous paragraph, and it sometimes requires surveying twelve of my closest friends to get the story I need to make the bigger point work.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Exes and O's
Cute title, right?
People deal with their exes in strange ways. Most villainize them, at least for awhile. That's definitely what I do. I talk to most of them now, except for one. I have a friend who hates her ex, but sleeps with him every time something doesn't work out with a guy she liked. At some point, I have to wonder when I begin seeing the relationship for what it was and stop seeing it with rose-colored glasses. Even now, years after relationships have ended, I remember the good. Predominantly, if not completely. My most recent breakup, and by far the most painful, still begs me to believe only the good memories.
Well, this isn't the best recipe for "getting over" or "moving on." It's a lot easier when I can hate my exes.
Some people--maybe even most--try to pretend their ex didn't mean as much as he/she did. Then, it's not a big deal when that person starts dating again or when that person wants to be friends. Of course, you still care what he or she is doing that night and who likes him or her.
It feels like no one ever really gets over anyone. There's not a person I know who doesn't want to trash their exes (or their ex's new flame). Even people who are friends with their exes feel this way.
As someone who jumps from relationship to relationship, I waited a long time to start dating anyone else this last time around. I thought the time would help clear my head. I thought by the time I was ready, I would believe in love and happily ever after again. It didn't work.
There's a reason why I usually wait a few weeks in between guys, and it's so I don't have a chance to get inside my head. Now, I'm so far inside my head that I don't know which way is up. I have no idea how to get out. I find myself losing sleep and feeling like crap. I wrote "FML" on my friend's Facebook Wall about 50 or 60 times.
The sad part is, I feel like I could really be happy if I could just stop being so self-involved for a few minutes. If I could put him before me. If I could be happy for the people I've loved and hope they're happy for me, too. If I could realize that I am doing the best I can, and hope that my life will continue to come together in the ways I want it to. Then, maybe, I would stop spontaneously bursting into tears (I've gotten good at hiding this occurence). And maybe I would sit back and smile at the good things.
People deal with their exes in strange ways. Most villainize them, at least for awhile. That's definitely what I do. I talk to most of them now, except for one. I have a friend who hates her ex, but sleeps with him every time something doesn't work out with a guy she liked. At some point, I have to wonder when I begin seeing the relationship for what it was and stop seeing it with rose-colored glasses. Even now, years after relationships have ended, I remember the good. Predominantly, if not completely. My most recent breakup, and by far the most painful, still begs me to believe only the good memories.
Well, this isn't the best recipe for "getting over" or "moving on." It's a lot easier when I can hate my exes.
Some people--maybe even most--try to pretend their ex didn't mean as much as he/she did. Then, it's not a big deal when that person starts dating again or when that person wants to be friends. Of course, you still care what he or she is doing that night and who likes him or her.
It feels like no one ever really gets over anyone. There's not a person I know who doesn't want to trash their exes (or their ex's new flame). Even people who are friends with their exes feel this way.
As someone who jumps from relationship to relationship, I waited a long time to start dating anyone else this last time around. I thought the time would help clear my head. I thought by the time I was ready, I would believe in love and happily ever after again. It didn't work.
There's a reason why I usually wait a few weeks in between guys, and it's so I don't have a chance to get inside my head. Now, I'm so far inside my head that I don't know which way is up. I have no idea how to get out. I find myself losing sleep and feeling like crap. I wrote "FML" on my friend's Facebook Wall about 50 or 60 times.
The sad part is, I feel like I could really be happy if I could just stop being so self-involved for a few minutes. If I could put him before me. If I could be happy for the people I've loved and hope they're happy for me, too. If I could realize that I am doing the best I can, and hope that my life will continue to come together in the ways I want it to. Then, maybe, I would stop spontaneously bursting into tears (I've gotten good at hiding this occurence). And maybe I would sit back and smile at the good things.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Romantic comedies are ruining our lives!
2.1.09
I like to blame everyone but myself for relationship issues, and I’ve come to the conclusion that romantic comedies are actually to blame. To be fair, I decided this way before a study was published in Edinburgh, saying that “rom-coms spoil your love life.”
The researchers claimed that romantic comedies spoiled love lives because the viewers communicated poorly with their partners (i.e., if you love someone, they should intrinsically know). And—big surprise—romantic comedies give us unrealistic expectations about love. Clearly, the researchers in Scotland did not know that Disney has been giving little girls unrealistic expectations for years. They also claim that romantic comedies cause people to believe in predestined love.
Well, this is just junk. I communicate very well, thank you, and I stopped believing in “The One” approximately when I stopped believing in the Easter Bunny. These were not caused by romantic comedies.
What was caused by romantic comedies—aside from furthering my ideas about unrealistic relationships—was my penchant for believing that the men in romantic comedies actually exist. They don’t. And men who seem like they do are usually womanizers (cue the Britney song, please).
I have been conditioned to believe that these amazing “moments” exist in life. The clock stops, your heart skips a beat, and “Wicked Game” starts playing in the background. I find myself continually watching for these moments—how he looks at me, the way he says certain words. And I love these moments in movies.
For example, I bawl my eyes out when James Marsden looks at Katherine Heigl at the end of “27 Dresses” during their wedding. This, to me, is the pinnacle of cinematic romance. Clearly they should be together in real life, because no one can fake emotion like that! Those words actually came out of my mouth.
Likewise, I do some pretty hardcore crying during “13 Going on 30” when Jennifer Garner finally figures out that she’s meant to be with Mark Ruffalo. Where are these moments in my life and in the lives of my friends? Last I checked, we were still trying to figure out what last night meant and what he meant when he said X and Y but not Z.
Needless to say, I am looking forward to the film of “He’s Just Not That Into You.” Like many women, that book has been my Bible since it came out. It changed the way I functioned in my relationships and has given me some guiding principles with which to live my life...just like the Bible.
I’m a little nervous, though, because I know deep-down that the director has filled it with these cliché moments of realization and uber-silly romantic gestures. HJNTIY has a lot of integrity, because it’s totally true. I don’t want to come away from it feeling like crap while the book inspired me.
In a conscious effort to heed my rom-com neurosis, I have tried to stick to watching Gossip Girl reruns instead of “Enchanted” or “Win A Date With Tad Hamilton”. However, I broke down last night and watched (for the fifth time) “Sex and the City: The Movie”. And, like always, I cried like a pathetic heap of emotional garbage when Big put the Manolo on Carrie’s foot. Clearly, men on one knee with Manolos are not in the future for any of us. It just isn’t in the cards, because men really just do not do things like that. Meanwhile, romantic comedies aren’t making living with that reality any easier.
I like to blame everyone but myself for relationship issues, and I’ve come to the conclusion that romantic comedies are actually to blame. To be fair, I decided this way before a study was published in Edinburgh, saying that “rom-coms spoil your love life.”
The researchers claimed that romantic comedies spoiled love lives because the viewers communicated poorly with their partners (i.e., if you love someone, they should intrinsically know). And—big surprise—romantic comedies give us unrealistic expectations about love. Clearly, the researchers in Scotland did not know that Disney has been giving little girls unrealistic expectations for years. They also claim that romantic comedies cause people to believe in predestined love.
Well, this is just junk. I communicate very well, thank you, and I stopped believing in “The One” approximately when I stopped believing in the Easter Bunny. These were not caused by romantic comedies.
What was caused by romantic comedies—aside from furthering my ideas about unrealistic relationships—was my penchant for believing that the men in romantic comedies actually exist. They don’t. And men who seem like they do are usually womanizers (cue the Britney song, please).
I have been conditioned to believe that these amazing “moments” exist in life. The clock stops, your heart skips a beat, and “Wicked Game” starts playing in the background. I find myself continually watching for these moments—how he looks at me, the way he says certain words. And I love these moments in movies.
For example, I bawl my eyes out when James Marsden looks at Katherine Heigl at the end of “27 Dresses” during their wedding. This, to me, is the pinnacle of cinematic romance. Clearly they should be together in real life, because no one can fake emotion like that! Those words actually came out of my mouth.
Likewise, I do some pretty hardcore crying during “13 Going on 30” when Jennifer Garner finally figures out that she’s meant to be with Mark Ruffalo. Where are these moments in my life and in the lives of my friends? Last I checked, we were still trying to figure out what last night meant and what he meant when he said X and Y but not Z.
Needless to say, I am looking forward to the film of “He’s Just Not That Into You.” Like many women, that book has been my Bible since it came out. It changed the way I functioned in my relationships and has given me some guiding principles with which to live my life...just like the Bible.
I’m a little nervous, though, because I know deep-down that the director has filled it with these cliché moments of realization and uber-silly romantic gestures. HJNTIY has a lot of integrity, because it’s totally true. I don’t want to come away from it feeling like crap while the book inspired me.
In a conscious effort to heed my rom-com neurosis, I have tried to stick to watching Gossip Girl reruns instead of “Enchanted” or “Win A Date With Tad Hamilton”. However, I broke down last night and watched (for the fifth time) “Sex and the City: The Movie”. And, like always, I cried like a pathetic heap of emotional garbage when Big put the Manolo on Carrie’s foot. Clearly, men on one knee with Manolos are not in the future for any of us. It just isn’t in the cards, because men really just do not do things like that. Meanwhile, romantic comedies aren’t making living with that reality any easier.
Religion 430...?
1.29.09
Because I am a masochist, I chose to take Christian Ethics this semester. I thought I got the religion bug out of my system last semester when I took three religion classes at once, but apparently not. I am in Kerns 02 every Wednesday from 3-6 p.m., sucking it up.
I found myself entirely out of my league after the first class. We discussed sources of Christian Ethics, few of which I ascribed to. Community, Bible, prayer... not so much my thing. I prefer to go it alone, I do not accept the Bible as a truth doctrine, and I do not believe in the power of prayer. This was a problem in last year’s religion classes also; it seemed I was speaking an entirely different language during some class periods.
Several of my friends have asked why I chose to take Christian Ethics instead of the UC section. I suppose the answer, besides being a masochist, would be that I believe I live in a culture saturated with the Judeo-Christian tradition. Even though I spent a good chunk of my life being antagonistic about it, I feel like it is my social responsibility to understand the people around me. Because I do not have any religious presuppositions, I can always learn something new without feeling like my own beliefs are threatened.
Though many times I end up with my jaw agape (a little play on words there: agape is also how you spell the Greek word for unconditional, godlike love) wondering how in the world people believe any of what they’re saying, I also find myself incredibly jealous of them. They have something to fall back on when reasons and explanations fail. I do not.
Part of my reasoning for taking Christian ethics and other religion classes at Capital is that I find faith incredibly inspirational, especially because I don’t possess it. It seems like magic. Ultimately, like magic, it proves unreal in my eyes. That doesn’t take away from its power, however. Faith is obviously a force that governs the lives of many people—people I would not have chose to know if it hadn’t been for my religion classes. I have learned a lot from them, most importantly that I cannot go around claiming they are completely deluded.
Another important lesson has been that not all of them are out to shove dogma down my throat. Most of them are—gasp—incredibly nice folks. Of course, I’ve had a few experiences where I’ve been told I was going to hell and that the person was going to pray for my soul, but those were not in the classroom.
Though at the end of last semester I was even more convinced that I believed the “right” thing, it seemed most people in the class felt that way. I’m not sure if this means we are all incredibly stubborn and wouldn’t change our beliefs for anything, or if it means we are comfortable enough in our beliefs to learn without needing to justify anything to ourselves.
Some of the most worthwhile classes I’ve taken at Capital have been ones like Christian Ethics and other religion classes I’ve taken. Seminary is still not in my future, nor is church-going or prayer-saying. However, having a better-rounded world outlook is completely attainable.
Because I am a masochist, I chose to take Christian Ethics this semester. I thought I got the religion bug out of my system last semester when I took three religion classes at once, but apparently not. I am in Kerns 02 every Wednesday from 3-6 p.m., sucking it up.
I found myself entirely out of my league after the first class. We discussed sources of Christian Ethics, few of which I ascribed to. Community, Bible, prayer... not so much my thing. I prefer to go it alone, I do not accept the Bible as a truth doctrine, and I do not believe in the power of prayer. This was a problem in last year’s religion classes also; it seemed I was speaking an entirely different language during some class periods.
Several of my friends have asked why I chose to take Christian Ethics instead of the UC section. I suppose the answer, besides being a masochist, would be that I believe I live in a culture saturated with the Judeo-Christian tradition. Even though I spent a good chunk of my life being antagonistic about it, I feel like it is my social responsibility to understand the people around me. Because I do not have any religious presuppositions, I can always learn something new without feeling like my own beliefs are threatened.
Though many times I end up with my jaw agape (a little play on words there: agape is also how you spell the Greek word for unconditional, godlike love) wondering how in the world people believe any of what they’re saying, I also find myself incredibly jealous of them. They have something to fall back on when reasons and explanations fail. I do not.
Part of my reasoning for taking Christian ethics and other religion classes at Capital is that I find faith incredibly inspirational, especially because I don’t possess it. It seems like magic. Ultimately, like magic, it proves unreal in my eyes. That doesn’t take away from its power, however. Faith is obviously a force that governs the lives of many people—people I would not have chose to know if it hadn’t been for my religion classes. I have learned a lot from them, most importantly that I cannot go around claiming they are completely deluded.
Another important lesson has been that not all of them are out to shove dogma down my throat. Most of them are—gasp—incredibly nice folks. Of course, I’ve had a few experiences where I’ve been told I was going to hell and that the person was going to pray for my soul, but those were not in the classroom.
Though at the end of last semester I was even more convinced that I believed the “right” thing, it seemed most people in the class felt that way. I’m not sure if this means we are all incredibly stubborn and wouldn’t change our beliefs for anything, or if it means we are comfortable enough in our beliefs to learn without needing to justify anything to ourselves.
Some of the most worthwhile classes I’ve taken at Capital have been ones like Christian Ethics and other religion classes I’ve taken. Seminary is still not in my future, nor is church-going or prayer-saying. However, having a better-rounded world outlook is completely attainable.
Figuring out how to live without having it "all figured out"
1.22.09
Lately, I have found myself thinking about what my life would have been like if I’d stayed with Dominic. Who would I be? How did our breakup change me?
After a few weeks of not speaking to him, I was running up a particularly long hill with Mr. Munch the Scottie, and stopped. “Munch,” I said, “I can apply to grad school anywhere. It doesn’t matter if there’s an army base there!” I was elated. I told my friend Mark this, and he said, “I can’t believe that wasn’t the first thing you thought of.”
Well, it wasn’t. The first thing I thought of was the fact that I would not be planning a wedding any longer. The second thing I thought of was how I had to get rid of a bunch of crap lurking around my house—pictures, jewelry, clothes. And then the thinking stopped and the mind-numbing level of activity began.
Eventually, though, I started thinking about our relationship again, and who I was in that relationship. I can’t count the times I’ve told a friend, “I don’t know how many times I can ride on this ridiculous merry-go-round of dating.” So many times I’ve thought I’d gotten it right, only to have failed miserably. Dominic and I had picked out a ring, a date, colors, hors d’ouevres. Even though I was the one to end it, doing away with those plans and the certainty they brought was painful.
Because I am a person who loves certainty and plans, probably more than anything else in the whole world, the past few weeks of preparing for the GRE has been a strange experience—no more wedding guest lists on Excel, it’s all about grad schools and their 10% acceptance rates.
As I help two of my oldest and closest friends plan their weddings, I feel like the friend who will end up with nine cats in a one-bedroom apartment. I console myself by believing I will be like Carrie Bradshaw, with designer shoes instead of cats, but everyone at the Chimes knows I’m not a real journalist like Carrie.
Needless to say, their weddings combined with my anxiety over grad school and my very uncertain future has made me think a lot about Dominic and the future I expected to live out. One day, as I was doing my daily freak-out about life, and pondering our breakup, I realized I wasn’t smiling. At all.
The feeling I was experiencing wasn’t one of regret or loss, but nausea at the thought of the life I almost had. It’s strange to know that the life that nauseates you now was almost the life you chose, willingly.
At times I wonder if I was a better person when I was with Dominic—more secure, less touchy, and less prone to anxiety. If those are prerequisites for being “better,” then the answer is probably yes. But if being a better person means being challenged on emotional and mental levels and being at peace with one’s decisions, then I am most certainly a better person today.
I understand, a little more after every breakup, that every relationship takes a piece of you. We yearn for that person simply so we’re complete, not because we actually want that person in our lives again. And as I do after every breakup, I wonder how to rebuild.
How do I level the ground and build another foundation more sturdy than the last? I feel like one of the three little pigs building house after house, but in my version of the story, there are lots of pigs. An absolute slew of hogs. And an entire block of houses, all in various states of disarray.
As I start over with someone new, I am relishing in the fact that for the first time, the guy I’m dating isn’t sitting back watching me do all the drilling and sawing—he is right there, helping me with the heavy lifting. I am finally learning to lay a foundation with stone instead of building from the ground up with sticks from the backyard. It’s all any of us can hope to do.
Lately, I have found myself thinking about what my life would have been like if I’d stayed with Dominic. Who would I be? How did our breakup change me?
After a few weeks of not speaking to him, I was running up a particularly long hill with Mr. Munch the Scottie, and stopped. “Munch,” I said, “I can apply to grad school anywhere. It doesn’t matter if there’s an army base there!” I was elated. I told my friend Mark this, and he said, “I can’t believe that wasn’t the first thing you thought of.”
Well, it wasn’t. The first thing I thought of was the fact that I would not be planning a wedding any longer. The second thing I thought of was how I had to get rid of a bunch of crap lurking around my house—pictures, jewelry, clothes. And then the thinking stopped and the mind-numbing level of activity began.
Eventually, though, I started thinking about our relationship again, and who I was in that relationship. I can’t count the times I’ve told a friend, “I don’t know how many times I can ride on this ridiculous merry-go-round of dating.” So many times I’ve thought I’d gotten it right, only to have failed miserably. Dominic and I had picked out a ring, a date, colors, hors d’ouevres. Even though I was the one to end it, doing away with those plans and the certainty they brought was painful.
Because I am a person who loves certainty and plans, probably more than anything else in the whole world, the past few weeks of preparing for the GRE has been a strange experience—no more wedding guest lists on Excel, it’s all about grad schools and their 10% acceptance rates.
As I help two of my oldest and closest friends plan their weddings, I feel like the friend who will end up with nine cats in a one-bedroom apartment. I console myself by believing I will be like Carrie Bradshaw, with designer shoes instead of cats, but everyone at the Chimes knows I’m not a real journalist like Carrie.
Needless to say, their weddings combined with my anxiety over grad school and my very uncertain future has made me think a lot about Dominic and the future I expected to live out. One day, as I was doing my daily freak-out about life, and pondering our breakup, I realized I wasn’t smiling. At all.
The feeling I was experiencing wasn’t one of regret or loss, but nausea at the thought of the life I almost had. It’s strange to know that the life that nauseates you now was almost the life you chose, willingly.
At times I wonder if I was a better person when I was with Dominic—more secure, less touchy, and less prone to anxiety. If those are prerequisites for being “better,” then the answer is probably yes. But if being a better person means being challenged on emotional and mental levels and being at peace with one’s decisions, then I am most certainly a better person today.
I understand, a little more after every breakup, that every relationship takes a piece of you. We yearn for that person simply so we’re complete, not because we actually want that person in our lives again. And as I do after every breakup, I wonder how to rebuild.
How do I level the ground and build another foundation more sturdy than the last? I feel like one of the three little pigs building house after house, but in my version of the story, there are lots of pigs. An absolute slew of hogs. And an entire block of houses, all in various states of disarray.
As I start over with someone new, I am relishing in the fact that for the first time, the guy I’m dating isn’t sitting back watching me do all the drilling and sawing—he is right there, helping me with the heavy lifting. I am finally learning to lay a foundation with stone instead of building from the ground up with sticks from the backyard. It’s all any of us can hope to do.
Monday, January 5, 2009
First column of 2009!
1.5.09
My New Year’s Eve traditions are few and far between. They never involve alcohol, and usually do involve going to bed well before midnight. The only thing I have done with any regularity is write a yearly reflection. I’ve done this since I was fifteen, and I have all of them stowed away in a folder on my computer. Every year, I write the new one, and then go back and read my retellings of the past.
Usually I am just surprised at how every year, I’ve said the same thing—that I’ve finally found a good guy, that I can see through all the societal crap around me, and that I’m surprised at where I am in my life.
When I reread everything this year, I was struck by the amount of lying I did. And it’s not like anyone was reading these—I had no one to impress. I was simply lying to myself. The best part was that I actually acknowledged the lies I was telling myself. Last year’s reflection said, “I know I won’t be happy, but if I keep telling myself I will, then it will come true and I will have to be okay with that.”
Wow. Depressing. I’m not sure which is worse—being twenty and feeling trapped, or feeling like my happiness meant so little.
Yet with this entrée of depression, there was a hearty side dish of urgency: the intense feeling that many college students have of knowing there is something more out there. It’s such a vague statement, but we all feel that way to some degree. There’s something more than this relationship, this school, this class, this part of our lives. The fact of the matter is, these parts of our lives are being written off as unimportant as we constantly search for the “something more” we believe is out there. Cynical as I am, I can’t stop believing in “something more.” I don’t mean that religiously, but rather that there is something better than the life I am living right now.
At some point, I think I am going to have to stop thinking this way. I’ve begun to notice that I typically don’t think that way—I often find myself saying, “well, this is as good as it gets.” But when I start analyzing my life and the ways I’ve gone wrong, I start believing that my life could be better. That I could be better. But as Voltaire alludes to in Candide, if this is the best possible world, then I sure don’t want to see the worst possible world. Likewise, if this is as good as I can be, please don’t make me see the worst I can be.
Though my New Year’s traditions never include resolutions, I think it would be a good idea to stop believing in the “something more” of life, just for a little bit. Believing that the grass is greener elsewhere motivates me to some extent, but the rest of the time, it just sabotages my relationships and other good things in my life.
In my reflection for 2005, I said that it had become necessary to forgo elaborate fantasies in exchange for a pretty good reality. I’m sure I was referring to some completely ridiculous situation, but I wish I’d taken my own words to heart. If I could stop believing in happily ever after, a thesis statement that is tight enough for Dr. Summers, or getting all A’s, I could breathe for a moment and enjoy what was happening in my life, no matter how messy or poorly worded it may be.
My New Year’s Eve traditions are few and far between. They never involve alcohol, and usually do involve going to bed well before midnight. The only thing I have done with any regularity is write a yearly reflection. I’ve done this since I was fifteen, and I have all of them stowed away in a folder on my computer. Every year, I write the new one, and then go back and read my retellings of the past.
Usually I am just surprised at how every year, I’ve said the same thing—that I’ve finally found a good guy, that I can see through all the societal crap around me, and that I’m surprised at where I am in my life.
When I reread everything this year, I was struck by the amount of lying I did. And it’s not like anyone was reading these—I had no one to impress. I was simply lying to myself. The best part was that I actually acknowledged the lies I was telling myself. Last year’s reflection said, “I know I won’t be happy, but if I keep telling myself I will, then it will come true and I will have to be okay with that.”
Wow. Depressing. I’m not sure which is worse—being twenty and feeling trapped, or feeling like my happiness meant so little.
Yet with this entrée of depression, there was a hearty side dish of urgency: the intense feeling that many college students have of knowing there is something more out there. It’s such a vague statement, but we all feel that way to some degree. There’s something more than this relationship, this school, this class, this part of our lives. The fact of the matter is, these parts of our lives are being written off as unimportant as we constantly search for the “something more” we believe is out there. Cynical as I am, I can’t stop believing in “something more.” I don’t mean that religiously, but rather that there is something better than the life I am living right now.
At some point, I think I am going to have to stop thinking this way. I’ve begun to notice that I typically don’t think that way—I often find myself saying, “well, this is as good as it gets.” But when I start analyzing my life and the ways I’ve gone wrong, I start believing that my life could be better. That I could be better. But as Voltaire alludes to in Candide, if this is the best possible world, then I sure don’t want to see the worst possible world. Likewise, if this is as good as I can be, please don’t make me see the worst I can be.
Though my New Year’s traditions never include resolutions, I think it would be a good idea to stop believing in the “something more” of life, just for a little bit. Believing that the grass is greener elsewhere motivates me to some extent, but the rest of the time, it just sabotages my relationships and other good things in my life.
In my reflection for 2005, I said that it had become necessary to forgo elaborate fantasies in exchange for a pretty good reality. I’m sure I was referring to some completely ridiculous situation, but I wish I’d taken my own words to heart. If I could stop believing in happily ever after, a thesis statement that is tight enough for Dr. Summers, or getting all A’s, I could breathe for a moment and enjoy what was happening in my life, no matter how messy or poorly worded it may be.
A clarification and continuation of last week
11.13
Last week’s column sparked several angry responses to my email inbox from men around campus defending their gender and their motives. And, rest assured, I do know that there are great guys out there who respect women. The ones who were so up in arms are probably some of them.
However, men don’t understand that women deal with guys who are jerks all the time. How many of the messages I’ve received from random guys were downright insulting? How many men do I talk to that don’t realize I have a head on my shoulders? It’s difficult to see anyone’s motives as anything but transparent.
Many of them wanted to know why I didn’t just go out with the typing Casanovas. Why not, indeed? Maybe because I’m sick of trying; maybe because I’m sick of giving people chances they don’t deserve; maybe because many of my relationships have been born of random encounters that ended badly.
The rest said that if these guys tried to be romantic, that I would write them off as psychos or as just being full of it. This is probably true, and I have no rebuttal.
Women are full of paradoxes, and the sooner men understand this, the better. We want to be swept off our feet, but if someone actually tried, we’d probably get freaked out. We want romance, but we’d say you were trying too hard. We want a man who’s secure in his emotions, but we’ll make fun of you with our friends if you cry too much. Yes, this happens in the Chimes office—I’m not making it up.
As cynical and untrusting as I am, deep down I still believe that when I hear the right words, I’ll know. When I see the right face, I’ll know. When the right thing happens, I’ll know. It pains me to say I believe something so ridiculous, but I do. The right guy is going to buy me a book I’ve never heard of and make me fall in love with it, and in turn, him. He’s going to say the right words in the most unassuming way possible. He’s going to send me song lyrics because he can’t write them himself. He will appreciate qualities in me that no one else has bothered to see.
Most women feel this way, and most of us believe this sort of romance will not start with a Facebook message or drunken pickup line. Just like you don’t meet nice women in bars—you have to go to gardening classes or the library—you can’t just go around expecting nice women to want to go out with you after sending them a message that uses “u” instead of “you.”
Last week’s column sparked several angry responses to my email inbox from men around campus defending their gender and their motives. And, rest assured, I do know that there are great guys out there who respect women. The ones who were so up in arms are probably some of them.
However, men don’t understand that women deal with guys who are jerks all the time. How many of the messages I’ve received from random guys were downright insulting? How many men do I talk to that don’t realize I have a head on my shoulders? It’s difficult to see anyone’s motives as anything but transparent.
Many of them wanted to know why I didn’t just go out with the typing Casanovas. Why not, indeed? Maybe because I’m sick of trying; maybe because I’m sick of giving people chances they don’t deserve; maybe because many of my relationships have been born of random encounters that ended badly.
The rest said that if these guys tried to be romantic, that I would write them off as psychos or as just being full of it. This is probably true, and I have no rebuttal.
Women are full of paradoxes, and the sooner men understand this, the better. We want to be swept off our feet, but if someone actually tried, we’d probably get freaked out. We want romance, but we’d say you were trying too hard. We want a man who’s secure in his emotions, but we’ll make fun of you with our friends if you cry too much. Yes, this happens in the Chimes office—I’m not making it up.
As cynical and untrusting as I am, deep down I still believe that when I hear the right words, I’ll know. When I see the right face, I’ll know. When the right thing happens, I’ll know. It pains me to say I believe something so ridiculous, but I do. The right guy is going to buy me a book I’ve never heard of and make me fall in love with it, and in turn, him. He’s going to say the right words in the most unassuming way possible. He’s going to send me song lyrics because he can’t write them himself. He will appreciate qualities in me that no one else has bothered to see.
Most women feel this way, and most of us believe this sort of romance will not start with a Facebook message or drunken pickup line. Just like you don’t meet nice women in bars—you have to go to gardening classes or the library—you can’t just go around expecting nice women to want to go out with you after sending them a message that uses “u” instead of “you.”
Men continue to amaze me...
11.3
Boys are funny.
Or clueless. Whichever you prefer.
Since school started, I have gotten fourteen (fourteen!) Facebook messages from men I have either never met, or with whom I am barely acquainted. This is more than one message per week. Men on campus: don’t you have classes with girls? Are you desperate?
What makes them think the messaging of strangers is a good idea? One said:
“So I went to the "Do you know this person" section on Facebook, and your name came up. I thought to myself, "Who is this person?" So I looked up what I could, and I thought you seemed pretty cool. So hi, I'm X, and I hope you think I'm cool too.”
Sorry to X, because I do think X seems pretty cool. His message just happens to be one I have not deleted, which is why I’m copying it straight out of my Facebook inbox. We actually have a lot in common, and he is probably a great guy. I wasn’t creeped out, and he seems smart, which is a plus. But the fact remains: X and I have never met.
X’s message was pretty tame compared to others, some of them saying something along the lines of, “wow, you’re really hot, we should get together sometime.” Usually this basic sentence is riddled with misspellings and grammatical errors, which is another testament to how little these boys know of me.
Some of them comment on my columns, which is equally hilarious, because usually I am berating men and my experience with relationships. None of these men are telling me that they are going to be my knight in shining armor; none of them say they want to prove me wrong about men. They just want to “get together sometime.”
My ex continues to provide fodder for the gender cannon, further proving that boys are funny and clueless. He thinks that by posting pictures of himself doing body shots off ugly girls will make me jealous. It really just makes him look sloppy and desperate.
It would take him getting his act together and dating a Petra Nemcova lookalike and a MENSA membership to boot to make me jealous.
The fact of the matter is, courtship and relationships could be simple if we’d allow it. Getting to know someone isn’t hard, figuring out if you like someone isn’t hard. Why should dating them or breaking up with them be hard? I have personally always found the breaking up part to be quite simple, but that’s beside the point.
Hooking up with someone you don’t know or making someone jealous is not the way to his or her heart. That may be the way to a few weeks of shallow fun, but I’ve realized that college is the last place I’ll be that’s filled with eligible bachelors. Luckily, I happen to have someone in mind, sans awkward Facebook messages and ridiculous pictures designed to make me jealous.
Boys are funny.
Or clueless. Whichever you prefer.
Since school started, I have gotten fourteen (fourteen!) Facebook messages from men I have either never met, or with whom I am barely acquainted. This is more than one message per week. Men on campus: don’t you have classes with girls? Are you desperate?
What makes them think the messaging of strangers is a good idea? One said:
“So I went to the "Do you know this person" section on Facebook, and your name came up. I thought to myself, "Who is this person?" So I looked up what I could, and I thought you seemed pretty cool. So hi, I'm X, and I hope you think I'm cool too.”
Sorry to X, because I do think X seems pretty cool. His message just happens to be one I have not deleted, which is why I’m copying it straight out of my Facebook inbox. We actually have a lot in common, and he is probably a great guy. I wasn’t creeped out, and he seems smart, which is a plus. But the fact remains: X and I have never met.
X’s message was pretty tame compared to others, some of them saying something along the lines of, “wow, you’re really hot, we should get together sometime.” Usually this basic sentence is riddled with misspellings and grammatical errors, which is another testament to how little these boys know of me.
Some of them comment on my columns, which is equally hilarious, because usually I am berating men and my experience with relationships. None of these men are telling me that they are going to be my knight in shining armor; none of them say they want to prove me wrong about men. They just want to “get together sometime.”
My ex continues to provide fodder for the gender cannon, further proving that boys are funny and clueless. He thinks that by posting pictures of himself doing body shots off ugly girls will make me jealous. It really just makes him look sloppy and desperate.
It would take him getting his act together and dating a Petra Nemcova lookalike and a MENSA membership to boot to make me jealous.
The fact of the matter is, courtship and relationships could be simple if we’d allow it. Getting to know someone isn’t hard, figuring out if you like someone isn’t hard. Why should dating them or breaking up with them be hard? I have personally always found the breaking up part to be quite simple, but that’s beside the point.
Hooking up with someone you don’t know or making someone jealous is not the way to his or her heart. That may be the way to a few weeks of shallow fun, but I’ve realized that college is the last place I’ll be that’s filled with eligible bachelors. Luckily, I happen to have someone in mind, sans awkward Facebook messages and ridiculous pictures designed to make me jealous.
Do not pass Go, do not collect $200
10.23
Last week, my mom came home with the library with a book for me, not about the GRE or writing the best cover letter, but about relationships: The Seven Dumbest Relationship Mistakes Smart People Make. The title is a mouthful, and the contents are a bunch of contradictory psychological mumbo-jumbo.
The first half of the book was about telling your partner what you want, and not expecting him to read your mind. The second half was about how to play games, because playing games was necessary for a relationship’s success. I should not make myself available, not call back immediately, and not make room in my schedule for him—even in committed relationships. But I’m also supposed to just say what I want from him.
Does anyone else see the problem here?
Of course, I get the author’s point. And I have expected men to read my mind (it doesn’t go well) and I’ve also played plenty of games in my day (which did not go well, either). Her example was that if I wanted red flowers on my birthday, I should tell him, in no uncertain terms, that I wanted red flowers on my birthday. If he failed to do that, I should play games, insinuating that I’m teaching him a lesson.
Nothing about this says “fulfilling relationship” to me. Firstly, if I want to be with someone, why can’t I just say it? Aren’t we both adults who can handle the truth? I’ve always been very straightforward with men; if I like them, I say so. I like to get what I want, and typically I’ll do anything to get it. According to the author, I’m sabotaging my relationships before they even start, because I’m not playing hard to get and letting him pursue me. If a man was playing hard to get with me, I would get very annoyed and move on.
In my relationships, while I’ve subconsciously expected some mind-reading, I’ve also made a sincere effort to communicate directly and clearly. I also call back in a reasonable amount of time and am willing to rearrange my schedule, within reason.
My friend Carrie at Otterbein, who recently broke up with her boyfriend of three years (and has moved on to a new catch), said, “I want to believe that I can have a relationship without games; that we can just say what we want and be together. I want to believe it can be that simple.”
For both of us, history has proved otherwise. That sort of relationship just doesn’t seem to be out there, as much as we want it to be. When we make ourselves available and tell a guy what we want, he seems uninterested. When we stop calling, or emailing, or texting, he becomes more interested. Is it the thrill of the chase? If it was meant to be, would a chase be in the cards at all? I would like to say no—that we could just tell the other person how we felt, and that could be it. Until then, I guess we’ll both turn our phones off and start hanging out with each other in order to be unavailable.
Let the games begin.
Last week, my mom came home with the library with a book for me, not about the GRE or writing the best cover letter, but about relationships: The Seven Dumbest Relationship Mistakes Smart People Make. The title is a mouthful, and the contents are a bunch of contradictory psychological mumbo-jumbo.
The first half of the book was about telling your partner what you want, and not expecting him to read your mind. The second half was about how to play games, because playing games was necessary for a relationship’s success. I should not make myself available, not call back immediately, and not make room in my schedule for him—even in committed relationships. But I’m also supposed to just say what I want from him.
Does anyone else see the problem here?
Of course, I get the author’s point. And I have expected men to read my mind (it doesn’t go well) and I’ve also played plenty of games in my day (which did not go well, either). Her example was that if I wanted red flowers on my birthday, I should tell him, in no uncertain terms, that I wanted red flowers on my birthday. If he failed to do that, I should play games, insinuating that I’m teaching him a lesson.
Nothing about this says “fulfilling relationship” to me. Firstly, if I want to be with someone, why can’t I just say it? Aren’t we both adults who can handle the truth? I’ve always been very straightforward with men; if I like them, I say so. I like to get what I want, and typically I’ll do anything to get it. According to the author, I’m sabotaging my relationships before they even start, because I’m not playing hard to get and letting him pursue me. If a man was playing hard to get with me, I would get very annoyed and move on.
In my relationships, while I’ve subconsciously expected some mind-reading, I’ve also made a sincere effort to communicate directly and clearly. I also call back in a reasonable amount of time and am willing to rearrange my schedule, within reason.
My friend Carrie at Otterbein, who recently broke up with her boyfriend of three years (and has moved on to a new catch), said, “I want to believe that I can have a relationship without games; that we can just say what we want and be together. I want to believe it can be that simple.”
For both of us, history has proved otherwise. That sort of relationship just doesn’t seem to be out there, as much as we want it to be. When we make ourselves available and tell a guy what we want, he seems uninterested. When we stop calling, or emailing, or texting, he becomes more interested. Is it the thrill of the chase? If it was meant to be, would a chase be in the cards at all? I would like to say no—that we could just tell the other person how we felt, and that could be it. Until then, I guess we’ll both turn our phones off and start hanging out with each other in order to be unavailable.
Let the games begin.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Making sense of solitude
10.6.08
I have not been truly single since I was about fifteen. My relationship history has been peppered with a few short, fun relationships, but most of it has been spent in perfect monogamy-induced bliss. Six months with Nick was followed shortly by two years with Justin, and then a quick turnaround to three years with Dominic.
A few weeks ago, I was talking to the guy I went to freshman dance with in high school, recounting my latest breakup to him. “Wow,” he said. “You have wasted six years of your life in relationships that have gone nowhere.”
Thanks, Alex. Exactly what I needed to hear. Well, he’s spent most of the last six years single, so what does he know?
But, to some extent, he’s right. The pathetic part is that every time, I thought I’d found someone so different than the last. I entered each new relationship with this blinding hope, instilling all faith in my significant other. Yet they all have let me down, miserably so.
I don’t know what it is about me, but men tend to view me as disposable. That’s all it really comes down to. I’m someone to edit papers or help with trigonometry homework; maybe I’m just some arm candy on Friday night. Do they look at me and not see a future?
Yet every time, I was the girlfriend who cooked romantic dinners, found thoughtful gifts for no reason at all, and went to sporting events I did not understand or enjoy. One boyfriend made me a grilled cheese in the microwave, one gave me pictures of himself for a holiday, and they all went to my tennis matches just to watch girls in short skirts.
This isn’t to say I was a saint in any of these relationships. I regularly made it clear that sitting through soccer games was akin to rubbing a cheese grater over my face. And I have been called narcissistic and high-maintenance, not without good reason. (I’ve also been called plenty of things that we cannot print in the Chimes—also, probably not without good reason.) Say what they will, but I gave each relationship my all. I tried, and I tried, and I tried to fix it and pour every ounce of energy I had into making the partnership succeed.
Maybe the problem was that there was no partnership. The effort was all mine; they sat back and enjoyed the ride. My mother says this is how men are and that I should have learned that by now. They will not pick up after themselves, they will not listen to you, and they certainly are not going to match your efforts in the relationship.
This is depressing. It makes me want to stop trying and stop believing that they next one will be different, which is what I’ve always believed was true without question.
I feel like I’m no better off than when I was fifteen, without even a driver’s license. Now, I have can vote and legally drink, but has anything really changed?
I have not been truly single since I was about fifteen. My relationship history has been peppered with a few short, fun relationships, but most of it has been spent in perfect monogamy-induced bliss. Six months with Nick was followed shortly by two years with Justin, and then a quick turnaround to three years with Dominic.
A few weeks ago, I was talking to the guy I went to freshman dance with in high school, recounting my latest breakup to him. “Wow,” he said. “You have wasted six years of your life in relationships that have gone nowhere.”
Thanks, Alex. Exactly what I needed to hear. Well, he’s spent most of the last six years single, so what does he know?
But, to some extent, he’s right. The pathetic part is that every time, I thought I’d found someone so different than the last. I entered each new relationship with this blinding hope, instilling all faith in my significant other. Yet they all have let me down, miserably so.
I don’t know what it is about me, but men tend to view me as disposable. That’s all it really comes down to. I’m someone to edit papers or help with trigonometry homework; maybe I’m just some arm candy on Friday night. Do they look at me and not see a future?
Yet every time, I was the girlfriend who cooked romantic dinners, found thoughtful gifts for no reason at all, and went to sporting events I did not understand or enjoy. One boyfriend made me a grilled cheese in the microwave, one gave me pictures of himself for a holiday, and they all went to my tennis matches just to watch girls in short skirts.
This isn’t to say I was a saint in any of these relationships. I regularly made it clear that sitting through soccer games was akin to rubbing a cheese grater over my face. And I have been called narcissistic and high-maintenance, not without good reason. (I’ve also been called plenty of things that we cannot print in the Chimes—also, probably not without good reason.) Say what they will, but I gave each relationship my all. I tried, and I tried, and I tried to fix it and pour every ounce of energy I had into making the partnership succeed.
Maybe the problem was that there was no partnership. The effort was all mine; they sat back and enjoyed the ride. My mother says this is how men are and that I should have learned that by now. They will not pick up after themselves, they will not listen to you, and they certainly are not going to match your efforts in the relationship.
This is depressing. It makes me want to stop trying and stop believing that they next one will be different, which is what I’ve always believed was true without question.
I feel like I’m no better off than when I was fifteen, without even a driver’s license. Now, I have can vote and legally drink, but has anything really changed?
The summer of no Facebook
9.15.08
When I got back from Greece, I deleted my Facebook account for many reasons, none of which anyone needs to know. I spent June, July, and August in the wake of my Facebook’s death, which ended up being more of a mercy killing than anything else.
After the initial withdrawal symptoms had passed—what do I do after checking my email?—I found out how bound I had been to Facebook and its evils. Checking up on my “friends” without actually having to interact with them had become my modus operandi, and without Facebook, I found myself having very little interaction with anyone. The deletion of Facebook became complete social absconding for a summer.
I heard from one friend, two or three times, over the course of the summer. Even that was via email.
When I got back on Facebook when school started, there was a flood of messages asking where I’d been, what had happened to me, and why I was back. It was like I’d gone away to boarding school after a scandal. In reality, I’d been at home, working, doing everything I would naturally do.
Of course, now that I’m back on, I have slipped back into my old habits. Why call someone when you can write on their wall? Why go to lunch when you can use the chat option? We’ve become so interconnected that we can’t truly connect with anyone.
Not having Facebook was one of the best choices I made this summer, though. There was no one to barrage me with questions about my breakup—I didn’t have to try to explain a situation that I did not understand to people who really had no right asking. With no Facebook, there was no duty to keep “in touch” with people—mostly people I didn’t want to be friends with anyway, like my old group from high school. No Facebook meant an excuse from all means of interaction, which is both scary and pathetic.
Deleting Facebook became a segue to other, more meaningful changes. I stopped checking my email so much, and my computer actually had a chance to collect some dust. When I really needed to say something to someone, I called them. I spent most of my time outside with my dog, not inside downloading music, Facebooking, or playing solitaire. Now that Facebook has weaseled its way back into my daily routine, I find myself fighting the urge to immediately reply to posts or messages. Usually, I lose that inner struggle, but the fact that the struggle exists is a step in the right direction.
When I got back from Greece, I deleted my Facebook account for many reasons, none of which anyone needs to know. I spent June, July, and August in the wake of my Facebook’s death, which ended up being more of a mercy killing than anything else.
After the initial withdrawal symptoms had passed—what do I do after checking my email?—I found out how bound I had been to Facebook and its evils. Checking up on my “friends” without actually having to interact with them had become my modus operandi, and without Facebook, I found myself having very little interaction with anyone. The deletion of Facebook became complete social absconding for a summer.
I heard from one friend, two or three times, over the course of the summer. Even that was via email.
When I got back on Facebook when school started, there was a flood of messages asking where I’d been, what had happened to me, and why I was back. It was like I’d gone away to boarding school after a scandal. In reality, I’d been at home, working, doing everything I would naturally do.
Of course, now that I’m back on, I have slipped back into my old habits. Why call someone when you can write on their wall? Why go to lunch when you can use the chat option? We’ve become so interconnected that we can’t truly connect with anyone.
Not having Facebook was one of the best choices I made this summer, though. There was no one to barrage me with questions about my breakup—I didn’t have to try to explain a situation that I did not understand to people who really had no right asking. With no Facebook, there was no duty to keep “in touch” with people—mostly people I didn’t want to be friends with anyway, like my old group from high school. No Facebook meant an excuse from all means of interaction, which is both scary and pathetic.
Deleting Facebook became a segue to other, more meaningful changes. I stopped checking my email so much, and my computer actually had a chance to collect some dust. When I really needed to say something to someone, I called them. I spent most of my time outside with my dog, not inside downloading music, Facebooking, or playing solitaire. Now that Facebook has weaseled its way back into my daily routine, I find myself fighting the urge to immediately reply to posts or messages. Usually, I lose that inner struggle, but the fact that the struggle exists is a step in the right direction.
What school should be about
8.31.08
Though I wanted to write something along the lines of relationship problems or social criticisms, I though I’d jump on the back-to-school bandwagon this week.
My fifth semester at Capital has begun—the second part of my undergraduate journey. The only strange part of this is that I think I’ve just realized what college is supposed to be about. Not parties (too busy to go) or drinking (also too busy), but rather challenging your assumptions.
This is the first semester I haven’t taken primarily classes in my major. Instead, I have a whopping three religion classes. I’ve called Capital’s religion requirement “indoctrination,” among other things that are not printable, but I would like to formally rescind those comments.
I’m not going to say that in week two of the semester I’ve started to understand religion, because I don’t and I probably never will. However, I recently read a Buddhist parable about a woman’s grief making her more susceptible to religious conversion.
Not only is this a text I never would have willingly picked up, it has made me think very hard for the last week about the difficult times I’ve had where I’ve wished I had a religious pillow on which to fall back.
I only took these classes because I hoped they would help me understand literary works within my major better—books that were written with a strong religious context. Now I find myself viewing the world under this lens of grief-to-religion—how much faith is born of a person needing something to get them through the seemingly impossible? And does it matter how faith is born, anyways? That’s what this week has been for me—a line of questions.
My memory holds no warm and fuzzy stories about the “Cap Family” or late night dorm room talks that have changed my life. But now I do have a story about a group of classes that have made me think, if only for a little while, about a subject I’ve held with disdain. That is what a liberal arts school should be about—not reaffirming ignorance but about opening up a line of questioning. It’s certainly not about supplying a set group of answers to closed minds.
College is full of these kinds of opportunities. Capital has been accused of being like high school, and it can be if you let it. It would be very easy to enter a small school like this and have another four years of high school. Or, you can take classes in a subject you know nothing about (for me, religion and China) and make yourself talk to people you don’t know—people who are different from you, look different from you, and have different value systems from you.
Allowing yourself to be molded by new experiences is vital to being a part of a world that is inseparably connected across religious, political, and continental lines. The world we’ll be a part of after graduation will not be welcoming to people who are stuck in a high school senior mindset.
Though I wanted to write something along the lines of relationship problems or social criticisms, I though I’d jump on the back-to-school bandwagon this week.
My fifth semester at Capital has begun—the second part of my undergraduate journey. The only strange part of this is that I think I’ve just realized what college is supposed to be about. Not parties (too busy to go) or drinking (also too busy), but rather challenging your assumptions.
This is the first semester I haven’t taken primarily classes in my major. Instead, I have a whopping three religion classes. I’ve called Capital’s religion requirement “indoctrination,” among other things that are not printable, but I would like to formally rescind those comments.
I’m not going to say that in week two of the semester I’ve started to understand religion, because I don’t and I probably never will. However, I recently read a Buddhist parable about a woman’s grief making her more susceptible to religious conversion.
Not only is this a text I never would have willingly picked up, it has made me think very hard for the last week about the difficult times I’ve had where I’ve wished I had a religious pillow on which to fall back.
I only took these classes because I hoped they would help me understand literary works within my major better—books that were written with a strong religious context. Now I find myself viewing the world under this lens of grief-to-religion—how much faith is born of a person needing something to get them through the seemingly impossible? And does it matter how faith is born, anyways? That’s what this week has been for me—a line of questions.
My memory holds no warm and fuzzy stories about the “Cap Family” or late night dorm room talks that have changed my life. But now I do have a story about a group of classes that have made me think, if only for a little while, about a subject I’ve held with disdain. That is what a liberal arts school should be about—not reaffirming ignorance but about opening up a line of questioning. It’s certainly not about supplying a set group of answers to closed minds.
College is full of these kinds of opportunities. Capital has been accused of being like high school, and it can be if you let it. It would be very easy to enter a small school like this and have another four years of high school. Or, you can take classes in a subject you know nothing about (for me, religion and China) and make yourself talk to people you don’t know—people who are different from you, look different from you, and have different value systems from you.
Allowing yourself to be molded by new experiences is vital to being a part of a world that is inseparably connected across religious, political, and continental lines. The world we’ll be a part of after graduation will not be welcoming to people who are stuck in a high school senior mindset.
The argument against friendship
4.21.08
Finals week last year was marked by the unexpected death of my mother’s best friend. Losing a friend, I think, is harder than losing a relative. You chose your friend; you chose to be with them. In a way, it makes your bond more meaningful because it was cultivated purposefully. The time and effort that goes into creating a friendship is hard to go through again. After the loss of all my closest friends, I find myself wondering the same thing she still is: will I ever have a best friend again? More importantly, will I ever want one?
The possibilities for loss just don’t seem to outweigh the possibilities for gain anymore. The slight chance for companionship has become the sure chance for disappointment. My mom has the errant email or call from an old friend but there is no daily correspondence; why would she devote time to people who don’t keep their word or have any desire to be the friend she is to them? As for myself, I’ve completely stopped opening up. As Kenny Chesney would say, “I can’t go there.” Why would I bother to try when every attempt ends in dismay?
I do not have the desire to cultivate any more deep and lasting friendships, nor do I make the time to do so. Of course, there is a downside; there is no one to talk to “just because” and no one to listen to my diatribes. A year after the fact and there is still a large gap in my mother’s life: no one to talk to while doing the dishes, no one to confide in at all. I suppose she feels much the same as I do—in a strange way, betrayed. Anger, distance and death are cold and unforgiving. No second chances. I’ve come to stop desiring second chances at all.
I get very tired of hearing people say things like, “you can never have too many friends” or “you should get out more” to me. While I recognize the need for social interaction, I do not recognize the need to pour my heart out to anyone or risk relationships with a bevy of people who could stab me in the back at any moment. History is riddled with people trusting people they should not trust. Why fall victim to an obvious trap? I realize that many people feel the risk is worth the possible gain. That does not hold true anymore for me.
We eventually get used to our new way of life without someone important in it. We stop expecting to replace the people we lose. The trust we had in them simply dissolves over time; though the love we felt for them remains. We no longer check the caller ID or dial their number by accident. Normalcy is slowly replaced by normalcy v2.1. We readjust to life not necessarily alone, but perhaps with a canine companion or a good book—both less frustrating and more rewarding than people any day.
Finals week last year was marked by the unexpected death of my mother’s best friend. Losing a friend, I think, is harder than losing a relative. You chose your friend; you chose to be with them. In a way, it makes your bond more meaningful because it was cultivated purposefully. The time and effort that goes into creating a friendship is hard to go through again. After the loss of all my closest friends, I find myself wondering the same thing she still is: will I ever have a best friend again? More importantly, will I ever want one?
The possibilities for loss just don’t seem to outweigh the possibilities for gain anymore. The slight chance for companionship has become the sure chance for disappointment. My mom has the errant email or call from an old friend but there is no daily correspondence; why would she devote time to people who don’t keep their word or have any desire to be the friend she is to them? As for myself, I’ve completely stopped opening up. As Kenny Chesney would say, “I can’t go there.” Why would I bother to try when every attempt ends in dismay?
I do not have the desire to cultivate any more deep and lasting friendships, nor do I make the time to do so. Of course, there is a downside; there is no one to talk to “just because” and no one to listen to my diatribes. A year after the fact and there is still a large gap in my mother’s life: no one to talk to while doing the dishes, no one to confide in at all. I suppose she feels much the same as I do—in a strange way, betrayed. Anger, distance and death are cold and unforgiving. No second chances. I’ve come to stop desiring second chances at all.
I get very tired of hearing people say things like, “you can never have too many friends” or “you should get out more” to me. While I recognize the need for social interaction, I do not recognize the need to pour my heart out to anyone or risk relationships with a bevy of people who could stab me in the back at any moment. History is riddled with people trusting people they should not trust. Why fall victim to an obvious trap? I realize that many people feel the risk is worth the possible gain. That does not hold true anymore for me.
We eventually get used to our new way of life without someone important in it. We stop expecting to replace the people we lose. The trust we had in them simply dissolves over time; though the love we felt for them remains. We no longer check the caller ID or dial their number by accident. Normalcy is slowly replaced by normalcy v2.1. We readjust to life not necessarily alone, but perhaps with a canine companion or a good book—both less frustrating and more rewarding than people any day.
What men don't understand about women
4.7.08
And I only have five hundred words?
Let me begin with a few obvious observations: men don’t understand how much women enjoy shoes, handbags, and sunglasses; nor do they understand how much we like “looking around.” This is what we mean by “shopping.” Not “going to get something we need.” It’s “looking around,” and men should learn to love it. My boyfriend switches out sizes for me and when my usual size doesn’t fit, he says it was made wrong. Men, take note. We need self-affirmation.
Really, though: men don’t understand that women like labeling. Not labeling as in “geek” or “dork,” but labeling in relationships. We want to know where we stand with you. Are we just a friend? A friend you like? A fling? Someone you’d bring home? “In a relationship” on Facebook? Don’t make us guess about your feelings.
FYI, we don’t want to hear about your car anymore. Please stop. I don’t want to feel like I’m sitting on broken glass when I’m really just in your mom’s old car. Whether your ride is an ’08 Lexus or an ’86 Corsica, I don’t want to get an earful when my dog gets a little dirt on the seat.
That being said, men who take care of themselves and their possessions (to a reasonable extent) are attractive. Grooming habits matter to us. Cologne. Mouthwash. Wax your car (but don’t look at yourself in it). Pluck or wax your eyebrows. Yes, I said pluck or wax. It doesn’t make you metrosexual, it makes you stop looking like a caveman. Do you think David Beckham was born looking like a Greek god? No. Put some effort into your appearance, boys.
I think I need to tell a story to better convey this disconnect in male understanding of females. I’ve spent the better part of this semester attempting to set up my friends Derek and Claire. Derek was completely shocked when I was mad at him for not responding to Claire’s messages. At first I thought he was simply a dolt. Later, I realized that it just wasn’t a big deal to him. Claire would be wondering what she’d said to make Derek not want to talk to her, and to Derek, this wasn’t even a situation. The moral of this story? Communication matters to us deeply. Call us, email us, text us. When we talk to you, talk back without monosyllabic answers.
When all’s said and done, we want you to understand the simple things (which are often the things that elude you). Confide in us, talk to us like we’re not just one of the guys, let us know we matter. More than anything, we need you to understand that we crave being needed. I don’t want to be disposable. Yes, you should be able to live without me. But don’t make me think we could say goodbye and I’d never cross your mind again.
And I only have five hundred words?
Let me begin with a few obvious observations: men don’t understand how much women enjoy shoes, handbags, and sunglasses; nor do they understand how much we like “looking around.” This is what we mean by “shopping.” Not “going to get something we need.” It’s “looking around,” and men should learn to love it. My boyfriend switches out sizes for me and when my usual size doesn’t fit, he says it was made wrong. Men, take note. We need self-affirmation.
Really, though: men don’t understand that women like labeling. Not labeling as in “geek” or “dork,” but labeling in relationships. We want to know where we stand with you. Are we just a friend? A friend you like? A fling? Someone you’d bring home? “In a relationship” on Facebook? Don’t make us guess about your feelings.
FYI, we don’t want to hear about your car anymore. Please stop. I don’t want to feel like I’m sitting on broken glass when I’m really just in your mom’s old car. Whether your ride is an ’08 Lexus or an ’86 Corsica, I don’t want to get an earful when my dog gets a little dirt on the seat.
That being said, men who take care of themselves and their possessions (to a reasonable extent) are attractive. Grooming habits matter to us. Cologne. Mouthwash. Wax your car (but don’t look at yourself in it). Pluck or wax your eyebrows. Yes, I said pluck or wax. It doesn’t make you metrosexual, it makes you stop looking like a caveman. Do you think David Beckham was born looking like a Greek god? No. Put some effort into your appearance, boys.
I think I need to tell a story to better convey this disconnect in male understanding of females. I’ve spent the better part of this semester attempting to set up my friends Derek and Claire. Derek was completely shocked when I was mad at him for not responding to Claire’s messages. At first I thought he was simply a dolt. Later, I realized that it just wasn’t a big deal to him. Claire would be wondering what she’d said to make Derek not want to talk to her, and to Derek, this wasn’t even a situation. The moral of this story? Communication matters to us deeply. Call us, email us, text us. When we talk to you, talk back without monosyllabic answers.
When all’s said and done, we want you to understand the simple things (which are often the things that elude you). Confide in us, talk to us like we’re not just one of the guys, let us know we matter. More than anything, we need you to understand that we crave being needed. I don’t want to be disposable. Yes, you should be able to live without me. But don’t make me think we could say goodbye and I’d never cross your mind again.
In light of the Spitzer scandal...
3.24.08
If I’ve learned anything over the past few weeks, it’s that if I’m ever hard-up for cash, I should go carouse New York City and look for city personnel. I’m just kidding, but $4,000 for 4 hours? Really, Eliot Spitzer (who, by the way, I’m pretty sure will be much lower than the circle of the lustful in Dante’s hell)? Were you that sexually frustrated? Was your wife that much of a dead fish that you had to find a call girl?
The Spitzer scandal points to a larger truth I’ve been mulling over for awhile now and it’s not that women are higher life forms—it’s actually the antithesis. Why do women continue to stand next to men who are louses?
As I watched the clips of Spitzer’s speeches, his obviously stunned wife standing there with him, I was disgusted for reasons beyond his personal ethics. They have two teenage daughters. The example she is setting is that it is perfectly fine to continue to be with someone who does not respect you or themselves. Then the new governor comes out with his wife and talks about his affairs, and his wife is still there with him. How will these marriages ever have any semblance of trust in them again?
Second chances are great, but the foundation of a relationship is trust. I know I’m not a very forgiving person by nature, and I actually hold grudges for an extended period of time, but I’d like to think that most women couldn’t stand next to their cheater husbands on television for the world to see. Apparently, I’m wrong.
I think this is part of the reason I don’t have much respect for Hillary Clinton—that and the heinous black and yellow jacket I always see her wearing; it makes her look like a bumblebee. She is undoubtedly an incredibly intelligent woman who has political experience and viable plans for the future of this country. But how much self-respect could she have left, after the huge scandal with Bill? I don’t see strength and leadership when I look at a woman who didn’t leave the man who turned her life upside down. I see weakness.
“Everyone has affairs,” the defense seems to be for cheaters and people that stay in relationships with them. I’m very bitter and cynical, but even I can’t make myself believe that. I want to believe that there are people out there who respect their significant others, politicians or not. Unfortunately, I know many relationships that have both endured affairs and ended because of them, so affairs obviously happen frequently. The consensus seems to be that just because the person you love decides to “love” someone else for awhile doesn’t mean you can stop loving them. How could you continue loving them?
I speak without experience in the situation, but I do speak with self-respect and a clear sense of how I believe women should be treated (and men; we all know women cheat too). So, if you see me on TV one day standing next to my cheating, public official of a husband, call me out on it. Or, if you see my MySpace page with pictures of me and a public official who is someone else’s husband, call me out on that, too.
If I’ve learned anything over the past few weeks, it’s that if I’m ever hard-up for cash, I should go carouse New York City and look for city personnel. I’m just kidding, but $4,000 for 4 hours? Really, Eliot Spitzer (who, by the way, I’m pretty sure will be much lower than the circle of the lustful in Dante’s hell)? Were you that sexually frustrated? Was your wife that much of a dead fish that you had to find a call girl?
The Spitzer scandal points to a larger truth I’ve been mulling over for awhile now and it’s not that women are higher life forms—it’s actually the antithesis. Why do women continue to stand next to men who are louses?
As I watched the clips of Spitzer’s speeches, his obviously stunned wife standing there with him, I was disgusted for reasons beyond his personal ethics. They have two teenage daughters. The example she is setting is that it is perfectly fine to continue to be with someone who does not respect you or themselves. Then the new governor comes out with his wife and talks about his affairs, and his wife is still there with him. How will these marriages ever have any semblance of trust in them again?
Second chances are great, but the foundation of a relationship is trust. I know I’m not a very forgiving person by nature, and I actually hold grudges for an extended period of time, but I’d like to think that most women couldn’t stand next to their cheater husbands on television for the world to see. Apparently, I’m wrong.
I think this is part of the reason I don’t have much respect for Hillary Clinton—that and the heinous black and yellow jacket I always see her wearing; it makes her look like a bumblebee. She is undoubtedly an incredibly intelligent woman who has political experience and viable plans for the future of this country. But how much self-respect could she have left, after the huge scandal with Bill? I don’t see strength and leadership when I look at a woman who didn’t leave the man who turned her life upside down. I see weakness.
“Everyone has affairs,” the defense seems to be for cheaters and people that stay in relationships with them. I’m very bitter and cynical, but even I can’t make myself believe that. I want to believe that there are people out there who respect their significant others, politicians or not. Unfortunately, I know many relationships that have both endured affairs and ended because of them, so affairs obviously happen frequently. The consensus seems to be that just because the person you love decides to “love” someone else for awhile doesn’t mean you can stop loving them. How could you continue loving them?
I speak without experience in the situation, but I do speak with self-respect and a clear sense of how I believe women should be treated (and men; we all know women cheat too). So, if you see me on TV one day standing next to my cheating, public official of a husband, call me out on it. Or, if you see my MySpace page with pictures of me and a public official who is someone else’s husband, call me out on that, too.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Holy Hypocrites
What has happened to religion?
It seems like every time I get on Facebook, I have to read about how so-and-so has “added ‘Jesus’ to their interests.” Or joined the group “Jesus Christ rocks my socks!”. Many times, these are people I know to regularly drink, have premarital sex, or just generally treat others like something stuck on the bottom of their shoe. Everyone’s “About Me” rambles about their personal relationship with Jesus, yet these people find it okay to talk behind others’ backs and do things they regret in the morning.
Are any of these people truly religious? Have they actually read the Bible, or anything more than a smattering of scripture from the New Testament? Do they understand the meaning of “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone”? What I’d really like know is if these people would still be praising “their one true Savior and Lord” when their life goes down the drain. My guess is no, and that is not faith. That is, at best, a mirage of faith.
Our generation does not treat religion very seriously. Religious gatherings are now equated with social networking and ways to make friends or meet people. I don’t claim to be religious, and I don’t judge the beliefs of others. But I’ve had plenty of religious people tell me I’m going to hell because I don’t go to a Bible study or a church service every week. Whether I burn or not is my business.
I cite the high school religious group Young Life (a sibling program to Campus Crusade) as responsible for most of the hypocrisy today. The Young Life leaders at my high school were fun people, but I did not respect them as religious leaders, especially as they partied with the kids that joined the group. Their stories about how they used to be “bad people” and then found Christ were not believable or appealing. I find hypocrisy repulsive--especially religious hypocrisy.
Religion by itself is fine. Dogma that people buy into without examining it first is not fine. Saying you believe something and not acting like you believe it is not fine either. True faith should not need to be flaunted. Your friends and people around you should know you’re a Christian because you live your life in a way that shows it. Whatever happened to just being a good person and calling it a day? Having religion shoved down my throat does not make me want to be religious--especially when the shoving is being done by people who talk the talk but don’t walk the walk.
All of this is a shame, because it gives the truly religious a bad name for being involved by proxy. I know several people who I admire for their faith. I admire them because they lead their lives in such a way that makes me want to be a better person. That is what I believe religion should be about, and that is the best way to bring others to religion. Why would I want to be associated with someone who preaches the gospel to me and then talks about me like I’m a godless heathen? Religion is not a business, a party, or a place to pick up a one-night-stand, and that is slowly what it is becoming--a fad, a joke, and ultimately losing the meaning it should have.
It seems like every time I get on Facebook, I have to read about how so-and-so has “added ‘Jesus’ to their interests.” Or joined the group “Jesus Christ rocks my socks!”. Many times, these are people I know to regularly drink, have premarital sex, or just generally treat others like something stuck on the bottom of their shoe. Everyone’s “About Me” rambles about their personal relationship with Jesus, yet these people find it okay to talk behind others’ backs and do things they regret in the morning.
Are any of these people truly religious? Have they actually read the Bible, or anything more than a smattering of scripture from the New Testament? Do they understand the meaning of “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone”? What I’d really like know is if these people would still be praising “their one true Savior and Lord” when their life goes down the drain. My guess is no, and that is not faith. That is, at best, a mirage of faith.
Our generation does not treat religion very seriously. Religious gatherings are now equated with social networking and ways to make friends or meet people. I don’t claim to be religious, and I don’t judge the beliefs of others. But I’ve had plenty of religious people tell me I’m going to hell because I don’t go to a Bible study or a church service every week. Whether I burn or not is my business.
I cite the high school religious group Young Life (a sibling program to Campus Crusade) as responsible for most of the hypocrisy today. The Young Life leaders at my high school were fun people, but I did not respect them as religious leaders, especially as they partied with the kids that joined the group. Their stories about how they used to be “bad people” and then found Christ were not believable or appealing. I find hypocrisy repulsive--especially religious hypocrisy.
Religion by itself is fine. Dogma that people buy into without examining it first is not fine. Saying you believe something and not acting like you believe it is not fine either. True faith should not need to be flaunted. Your friends and people around you should know you’re a Christian because you live your life in a way that shows it. Whatever happened to just being a good person and calling it a day? Having religion shoved down my throat does not make me want to be religious--especially when the shoving is being done by people who talk the talk but don’t walk the walk.
All of this is a shame, because it gives the truly religious a bad name for being involved by proxy. I know several people who I admire for their faith. I admire them because they lead their lives in such a way that makes me want to be a better person. That is what I believe religion should be about, and that is the best way to bring others to religion. Why would I want to be associated with someone who preaches the gospel to me and then talks about me like I’m a godless heathen? Religion is not a business, a party, or a place to pick up a one-night-stand, and that is slowly what it is becoming--a fad, a joke, and ultimately losing the meaning it should have.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
V-day nostalgia: relationships past and present
02.03.08
As Valentine’s Day rolls around, I find myself not thinking so much of my current relationships, but the ones I’ve left behind. Not just the romantic relationships, but the friendships too. Though February 14 makes me think of my future with my boyfriend, I always remember the people in my past.
There was Andrew (names changed to protect the not-so-innocent), the on and off for two years athlete who thought he was going to be a famous baseball player despite the fact that he couldn’t pitch and had a horrible batting average. There was also Brian, the brief but memorable Abercrombie model lookalike who couldn’t pass a window without grooming himself. And there was John, the guy my mom babysat when he was little- my first love. The list wouldn’t be complete without naming my best guy friend, Kevin, who was in love with me for our entire seven year friendship. I don’t speak to any of them anymore and haven’t for quite some time. I just don’t see my exes anymore, though I’m friendly with John. As for Kevin, we had a falling out that has kept us from being even remotely polite to each other for over eighteen months.
I wonder if they think of me, if they miss me, if they wish things had gone differently between us--because I do think of them, and I miss pieces of all of them. I miss laughing about how Andrew hid his poetry from his jock friends but still showed it to me, and I miss Brian’s perfectly chiseled physique (there wasn‘t much else about him I liked). I miss the way John remembered that my favorite painting was Van Gogh‘s Sunflowers. I miss the way I trusted Kevin most of all. I miss the history we had. I miss the music he used to burn me- songs that reminded him of me- and I miss seeing his latest paintings. I miss how he changed me for the better in so many ways, not the least of which was instilling a love of country music in me.
Despite missing all of this in all of them, I realize that these people are in my past whether I want them to be or not. I can’t change what happened years ago even if I wanted to- and it’s useless to regret the person I was when I knew and loved those people. I couldn’t have been anyone else other than who I was at those exact moments in time.
As I make reservations at the Melting Pot, the V-day tradition Dominic and I have, I have fleeting thoughts of the futures I’d planned out with these other guys. Then I look at Dom and see all the things I miss in my exes still in him, standing right in front of me. And the feeling that I am incredibly lucky washes over me again. As hard as it is to accept relationships past, I realize those relationships got me to where I am today-- and perhaps into the relationship I’m in today-- despite moments of being caught up in old memories.
As Valentine’s Day rolls around, I find myself not thinking so much of my current relationships, but the ones I’ve left behind. Not just the romantic relationships, but the friendships too. Though February 14 makes me think of my future with my boyfriend, I always remember the people in my past.
There was Andrew (names changed to protect the not-so-innocent), the on and off for two years athlete who thought he was going to be a famous baseball player despite the fact that he couldn’t pitch and had a horrible batting average. There was also Brian, the brief but memorable Abercrombie model lookalike who couldn’t pass a window without grooming himself. And there was John, the guy my mom babysat when he was little- my first love. The list wouldn’t be complete without naming my best guy friend, Kevin, who was in love with me for our entire seven year friendship. I don’t speak to any of them anymore and haven’t for quite some time. I just don’t see my exes anymore, though I’m friendly with John. As for Kevin, we had a falling out that has kept us from being even remotely polite to each other for over eighteen months.
I wonder if they think of me, if they miss me, if they wish things had gone differently between us--because I do think of them, and I miss pieces of all of them. I miss laughing about how Andrew hid his poetry from his jock friends but still showed it to me, and I miss Brian’s perfectly chiseled physique (there wasn‘t much else about him I liked). I miss the way John remembered that my favorite painting was Van Gogh‘s Sunflowers. I miss the way I trusted Kevin most of all. I miss the history we had. I miss the music he used to burn me- songs that reminded him of me- and I miss seeing his latest paintings. I miss how he changed me for the better in so many ways, not the least of which was instilling a love of country music in me.
Despite missing all of this in all of them, I realize that these people are in my past whether I want them to be or not. I can’t change what happened years ago even if I wanted to- and it’s useless to regret the person I was when I knew and loved those people. I couldn’t have been anyone else other than who I was at those exact moments in time.
As I make reservations at the Melting Pot, the V-day tradition Dominic and I have, I have fleeting thoughts of the futures I’d planned out with these other guys. Then I look at Dom and see all the things I miss in my exes still in him, standing right in front of me. And the feeling that I am incredibly lucky washes over me again. As hard as it is to accept relationships past, I realize those relationships got me to where I am today-- and perhaps into the relationship I’m in today-- despite moments of being caught up in old memories.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Use WORDS When You Talk To Me!
1.21.08
There comes a point in every relationship where you've spent so much time together it feels like you're married. This is usually around the two-year mark, and this is usually where my relationships fall apart. Over the weekend, it felt like another one was about to bite the dust.
When Dominic returned from Air Assault School (rapelling out of helicopters for OU's ROTC program for a few weeks), I envisioned a homecoming that would somehow deepen our bond, and maybe even fix the problems that had been plaguing us for the past six months or so. Instead, we looked at each other awkwardly. One offhanded comment sparked a two-hour fight, in which he walked away and I said, "either choose right now to stand here and fight with me, or just get out." For some reason, that broke the ice between us. There was some unsaid realization that our good times far outweighed the bad times. We saw what everyone else sees from the outside- commitment, witty banter, and love.
The problems we had been having were rooted in what I think many relationships are suffering
from today, especially in light of Sex and the City and He's Just Not That Into You. Over-communication was slowly draining the life out of our relationship. We talked so much about the future and our commitment to each other that we forgot to have a present. We were so wrapped up in what we thought our relationship should be like that we forgot to make it that way.
Women want to talk about everything, and I epitomize this stereotype. I don’t shut up. I talk and analyze every little thing Dom says and does. I put weight in every statement. Instead of enjoying the jokes that only we get reveling in how we finish each other’s sentences, I was just thinking about the sentences and the diction in them. I see so many of my friends do this- over-analyze, over-communicate, and over-talk everything. Just let it happen. Let it be what it is. I don’t advocate letting problems build up beneath the surface, but I do believe in picking my battles and letting some problems work themselves out. If it’s a serious issue, talking probably won’t fix it anyways. And if it’s not a serious issue, why rock the boat?
That being said, women also want affirmation. I want to know how he feels about me. And even though I do know, I want to hear it. Actions speak louder than words, but sometimes hearing the words is enough to save a relationship. It saved ours Saturday night. Sometimes when you’re ready to throw your hands up, you just want him to take you in his arms and tell you that he loves you now more than ever. It might be corny and it might seem pointless later, especially when you’re in the same position in a few months, but everyone wants to know that someone loves them. Even if, and especially if, they haven’t been acting like it lately. It’s important to get back to basics and what you loved about each other in the first place and remember the reasons you’re still together- commitment, witty banter, and love.
There comes a point in every relationship where you've spent so much time together it feels like you're married. This is usually around the two-year mark, and this is usually where my relationships fall apart. Over the weekend, it felt like another one was about to bite the dust.
When Dominic returned from Air Assault School (rapelling out of helicopters for OU's ROTC program for a few weeks), I envisioned a homecoming that would somehow deepen our bond, and maybe even fix the problems that had been plaguing us for the past six months or so. Instead, we looked at each other awkwardly. One offhanded comment sparked a two-hour fight, in which he walked away and I said, "either choose right now to stand here and fight with me, or just get out." For some reason, that broke the ice between us. There was some unsaid realization that our good times far outweighed the bad times. We saw what everyone else sees from the outside- commitment, witty banter, and love.
The problems we had been having were rooted in what I think many relationships are suffering
from today, especially in light of Sex and the City and He's Just Not That Into You. Over-communication was slowly draining the life out of our relationship. We talked so much about the future and our commitment to each other that we forgot to have a present. We were so wrapped up in what we thought our relationship should be like that we forgot to make it that way.
Women want to talk about everything, and I epitomize this stereotype. I don’t shut up. I talk and analyze every little thing Dom says and does. I put weight in every statement. Instead of enjoying the jokes that only we get reveling in how we finish each other’s sentences, I was just thinking about the sentences and the diction in them. I see so many of my friends do this- over-analyze, over-communicate, and over-talk everything. Just let it happen. Let it be what it is. I don’t advocate letting problems build up beneath the surface, but I do believe in picking my battles and letting some problems work themselves out. If it’s a serious issue, talking probably won’t fix it anyways. And if it’s not a serious issue, why rock the boat?
That being said, women also want affirmation. I want to know how he feels about me. And even though I do know, I want to hear it. Actions speak louder than words, but sometimes hearing the words is enough to save a relationship. It saved ours Saturday night. Sometimes when you’re ready to throw your hands up, you just want him to take you in his arms and tell you that he loves you now more than ever. It might be corny and it might seem pointless later, especially when you’re in the same position in a few months, but everyone wants to know that someone loves them. Even if, and especially if, they haven’t been acting like it lately. It’s important to get back to basics and what you loved about each other in the first place and remember the reasons you’re still together- commitment, witty banter, and love.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Talkin' bout a revolution
11.11.2007
Talkin’ bout a revolution
It seems like every day I see another “Awareness” ribbon. Breast cancer. Support the troops. POW/MIA. Anti-drugs. Virginia Tech. Darfur. We all want to feel like we’re making a difference. I always buy the pink versions of things; one, because I like pink, and two, it’s for a good cause. When I see the boxes in stores for things to be sent to troops in Iraq, I always try to put something in, even if it’s just Chapstick. And I do feel a little better about myself—like I’ve done my part.
The reality of this is that it’s easier to feel like you’re changing something when that something is very far removed from you. It’s easy to go to rallies, make tshirts, start Facebook groups, and, even better, add the “Causes” application so you can “recruit” your friends to your electronic cause. We live in a society where it is very easy to get warm fuzzies from helping others.
Sometimes I listen to the Beatles and Bob Dylan and I want to go out and join the Peace Corps and prevent all injustice in the world. It’s a pretty lofty ambition and not a realistic one—not only would I never be able to prevent all injustice, but I would also have to go without the Fekkai glossing cream for my hair, and that would be a tragedy. Nevertheless, it’s easy to get swept up in the thought of doing something important.
However, we forget that the best way to make the world a better place is to start with your own corner of the world. The people that need you most are the people right around you, maybe down your hall or in your hometown. Sometimes those causes just aren’t as easily seen.
As I drive home, surrounded by Mercedes and Hummers, America looks pretty prosperous. Bigger and more beautiful homes are everywhere. But the coat drives and the canned goods drives aren’t for people overseas—they’re for people here, and they need those things. We are surrounded by the needs of so many.
I’m not saying that we shouldn’t care about international events or try to help people in foreign countries. What I am saying is that there are people right here in Columbus who need help, too. Maybe you won’t look like you are addicted to the BBC, but you will be helping your own country and your own people, who are just as deserving and a lot closer to home.
Lately, I’ve been trying to drive less and recycle more. I made lasagna for a too-busy mom. I bought the shampoo with the anti-animal testing logo. My boyfriend and I are buying Christmas presents for a local child through Toys to Share. My mom and I have been finding all our old coats to donate. I’ve been working on a quilt for a girl whose leukemia returned. I bought Mr. Munch a Christmas toy just because I knew it would make him so happy. I doubt I’ll be building houses anytime soon, or be doing any mission work. But you know, all of these things make me feel a lot better, and like I’m really helping someone, than putting a magnetic ribbon on my car.
Talkin’ bout a revolution
It seems like every day I see another “Awareness” ribbon. Breast cancer. Support the troops. POW/MIA. Anti-drugs. Virginia Tech. Darfur. We all want to feel like we’re making a difference. I always buy the pink versions of things; one, because I like pink, and two, it’s for a good cause. When I see the boxes in stores for things to be sent to troops in Iraq, I always try to put something in, even if it’s just Chapstick. And I do feel a little better about myself—like I’ve done my part.
The reality of this is that it’s easier to feel like you’re changing something when that something is very far removed from you. It’s easy to go to rallies, make tshirts, start Facebook groups, and, even better, add the “Causes” application so you can “recruit” your friends to your electronic cause. We live in a society where it is very easy to get warm fuzzies from helping others.
Sometimes I listen to the Beatles and Bob Dylan and I want to go out and join the Peace Corps and prevent all injustice in the world. It’s a pretty lofty ambition and not a realistic one—not only would I never be able to prevent all injustice, but I would also have to go without the Fekkai glossing cream for my hair, and that would be a tragedy. Nevertheless, it’s easy to get swept up in the thought of doing something important.
However, we forget that the best way to make the world a better place is to start with your own corner of the world. The people that need you most are the people right around you, maybe down your hall or in your hometown. Sometimes those causes just aren’t as easily seen.
As I drive home, surrounded by Mercedes and Hummers, America looks pretty prosperous. Bigger and more beautiful homes are everywhere. But the coat drives and the canned goods drives aren’t for people overseas—they’re for people here, and they need those things. We are surrounded by the needs of so many.
I’m not saying that we shouldn’t care about international events or try to help people in foreign countries. What I am saying is that there are people right here in Columbus who need help, too. Maybe you won’t look like you are addicted to the BBC, but you will be helping your own country and your own people, who are just as deserving and a lot closer to home.
Lately, I’ve been trying to drive less and recycle more. I made lasagna for a too-busy mom. I bought the shampoo with the anti-animal testing logo. My boyfriend and I are buying Christmas presents for a local child through Toys to Share. My mom and I have been finding all our old coats to donate. I’ve been working on a quilt for a girl whose leukemia returned. I bought Mr. Munch a Christmas toy just because I knew it would make him so happy. I doubt I’ll be building houses anytime soon, or be doing any mission work. But you know, all of these things make me feel a lot better, and like I’m really helping someone, than putting a magnetic ribbon on my car.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Things that go BUMP in the night
10.28.07
My boyfriend and I have a Halloween tradition of going someplace supposedly haunted and exploring. This is interesting, considering I am the most paranoid and psychotic person when it comes to the occult. Not to mention the fact that I am scared of basically everything. Our first Halloween, we went to the Moonville Tunnel, an abandoned railroad tunnel in the middle of nowhere. I ran through it with a digital camera, trying to get those balls of light ghost hunters say are the ghosts. No such luck, but it was scary anyways, despite it being the middle of the day. Our inner Christopher Columbus got the best of us, though, and we proceeded to get lost, find a bar in the woods, and nearly run out of gas. On our second Halloween we went to the Mansfield Reformatory, where the people doing the scaring thought I was hyperventilating. The guards kept asking Dom if I was okay. To give me some credit, you can feel people breathing on you, it’s pitch black, and there are terrifying sound effects. Nevertheless, I cried and kept my eyes closed the entire time—this made for an interesting walking experience. This year, we went back to Moonville to find the cemetery, also supposedly haunted. We drove up a tightly winding path, where, at the top, we found ourselves facing the cemetery. We looked at the piles of tombstones, then at each other, and left. On the way home, Dom said, “we really don’t to prove anything to each other anymore. I don’t really like cemeteries.” I agreed.
I never cared about Halloween until we started this tradition. The whole holiday just seemed pointless to me. I have never donned a Playboy Bunny costume and I hated trick-or-treat when I was little. Now that I’m older, and opportunities to live in a different world for a while are becoming increasingly rare, Halloween has started to grow on me. And though I’ve never completely understood why people enjoy being scared, I’m obviously one of those people because I keep going back for more. The suspension of disbelief encapsulates me every time—at Mansfield, I really was convinced an executed inmate was going to kill me. It sounds silly now, but it certainly didn’t then. I don’t think it’s just me, either. The people around me seemed to be feeling the same way.
While our cultural fascination with the hauntings that arise from murders, executions, and suicides is a bit disturbing, we all want to feel like we’re braving something—the night, the dark, the ghosts, our own inherent fear of the unknown. On some level, there’s a sense of accomplishment after walking through a haunted house, and I’m sure we’ll all go searching for that same experience next year. As for me, I’m ready for Christmas- throw out the pumpkins and bring on the snowmen.
My boyfriend and I have a Halloween tradition of going someplace supposedly haunted and exploring. This is interesting, considering I am the most paranoid and psychotic person when it comes to the occult. Not to mention the fact that I am scared of basically everything. Our first Halloween, we went to the Moonville Tunnel, an abandoned railroad tunnel in the middle of nowhere. I ran through it with a digital camera, trying to get those balls of light ghost hunters say are the ghosts. No such luck, but it was scary anyways, despite it being the middle of the day. Our inner Christopher Columbus got the best of us, though, and we proceeded to get lost, find a bar in the woods, and nearly run out of gas. On our second Halloween we went to the Mansfield Reformatory, where the people doing the scaring thought I was hyperventilating. The guards kept asking Dom if I was okay. To give me some credit, you can feel people breathing on you, it’s pitch black, and there are terrifying sound effects. Nevertheless, I cried and kept my eyes closed the entire time—this made for an interesting walking experience. This year, we went back to Moonville to find the cemetery, also supposedly haunted. We drove up a tightly winding path, where, at the top, we found ourselves facing the cemetery. We looked at the piles of tombstones, then at each other, and left. On the way home, Dom said, “we really don’t to prove anything to each other anymore. I don’t really like cemeteries.” I agreed.
I never cared about Halloween until we started this tradition. The whole holiday just seemed pointless to me. I have never donned a Playboy Bunny costume and I hated trick-or-treat when I was little. Now that I’m older, and opportunities to live in a different world for a while are becoming increasingly rare, Halloween has started to grow on me. And though I’ve never completely understood why people enjoy being scared, I’m obviously one of those people because I keep going back for more. The suspension of disbelief encapsulates me every time—at Mansfield, I really was convinced an executed inmate was going to kill me. It sounds silly now, but it certainly didn’t then. I don’t think it’s just me, either. The people around me seemed to be feeling the same way.
While our cultural fascination with the hauntings that arise from murders, executions, and suicides is a bit disturbing, we all want to feel like we’re braving something—the night, the dark, the ghosts, our own inherent fear of the unknown. On some level, there’s a sense of accomplishment after walking through a haunted house, and I’m sure we’ll all go searching for that same experience next year. As for me, I’m ready for Christmas- throw out the pumpkins and bring on the snowmen.
What's important...
09.27.07
It has been a beautiful Sunday morning in the country. I just got back from a nice run with my dog, and as I came up over the last hill on our dirt road, the leaves were falling and the sun was almost up. It looked like a scene from Bridges of Madison County. Mr. Munch, the Scottie, was trying to chase the leaves and all I could hear was the sounds of my footsteps and our combined heavy breathing. I think, “This is what it’s all about. This is why we’re put here on Earth.” And for the last few minutes of our run, the world is in harmony and my life is in order.
When we get back into the house and subsequently collapse on the cool floor, the mediocrities of everyday life come rushing back. I realize I have to call my old doubles partner, Tara, to make sure we’re still on for lunch today. I have to call Dr. C’s wife to make sure this morning is still okay for her boys’ piano lessons. I should start looking for an article to use for my paper in Dr. Jebsen’s class. This is definitely not what it’s all about. During all of this worrying and planning, Munch is sitting all of his toys at my feet. He’s a clever little guy.
I’ve had a hard week. Last Saturday, my mom and I went out to an old friend of hers to help out because his fifteen-year-old daughter’s leukemia has returned. Her old friend is also the president of the bank where I work, and she dated his older brother and was best friends with his younger sister. It’s a small town. While we were there, an aunt started talk about the support our town gave Sarah. She said, “Friday night, after the football game, an announcement was made about Sarah’s leukemia. Both football teams joined hands at the fifty-yard line and said a prayer, and the entire stadium joined in. Afterwards, about one hundred people came out here and just stood in the yard, waiting to talk to Sarah and wish her well. It was amazing.” On the drive home, my mom said, “While she was talking, I realized again that this is why I came back here. You don’t get this everywhere.”
She’s right. Our little town has its misgivings- there’s a lot of gossip, a lot of “everyone knows everyone,” and also a lot of “everyone’s related.” But at the end of the day, the people here understand what is important. They understand unity; they understand what it means to love thy neighbor as thyself. Everyone spends the first twenty or so years of their lives trying to leave, but we all come back home. Here I am, my second year in college, and I’m living at home so I could keep my job at the bank, watch my little brother grow up, be a good mom to Mr. Munch, keep giving piano lessons and tennis lessons… so I could keep my connections here. Because these connections are for life. These are the people that have mattered to me for as long as I could remember, and I try to keep in touch with all of them.
After seeing Sarah and her resilience, and especially after seeing her family’s pain, the trivialities of everyday life seem incredibly unimportant. I have called my best friend, who moved to San Diego after freshman year of high school, a little more often. I understand now why adults are always saying, “life just gets in the way.” Life does get in the way. The logistics of flying across the country for two working college students really isn’t very good. But, like Danielle said, we always manage to keep things together. I haven’t been annoyed when my students haven’t practiced. After all, I threw fits when my mother tried to make me practice when I was younger. I haven’t crunched the numbers for CD rates and stock market influxes like I usually do at least weekly. One shot for Sarah’s leukemia costs one hundred thousand dollars. I do not have one hundred thousand dollars, and all the Excel spreadsheets in the world, all of this reading about the NASDAQ, will not change that.
The sun is now completely overhead, and Mr. Munch is waking up from his post-run nap. I will make my necessary phone calls, and do a little tug-of-war with Munch. I will try not to get mad at my boyfriend for stupid things, and I will try to rub Munch’s belly more. Most importantly, I will try not to forget this week, and I will try to put my life in perspective. Because, let’s face it, I really don’t have much to complain about.
It has been a beautiful Sunday morning in the country. I just got back from a nice run with my dog, and as I came up over the last hill on our dirt road, the leaves were falling and the sun was almost up. It looked like a scene from Bridges of Madison County. Mr. Munch, the Scottie, was trying to chase the leaves and all I could hear was the sounds of my footsteps and our combined heavy breathing. I think, “This is what it’s all about. This is why we’re put here on Earth.” And for the last few minutes of our run, the world is in harmony and my life is in order.
When we get back into the house and subsequently collapse on the cool floor, the mediocrities of everyday life come rushing back. I realize I have to call my old doubles partner, Tara, to make sure we’re still on for lunch today. I have to call Dr. C’s wife to make sure this morning is still okay for her boys’ piano lessons. I should start looking for an article to use for my paper in Dr. Jebsen’s class. This is definitely not what it’s all about. During all of this worrying and planning, Munch is sitting all of his toys at my feet. He’s a clever little guy.
I’ve had a hard week. Last Saturday, my mom and I went out to an old friend of hers to help out because his fifteen-year-old daughter’s leukemia has returned. Her old friend is also the president of the bank where I work, and she dated his older brother and was best friends with his younger sister. It’s a small town. While we were there, an aunt started talk about the support our town gave Sarah. She said, “Friday night, after the football game, an announcement was made about Sarah’s leukemia. Both football teams joined hands at the fifty-yard line and said a prayer, and the entire stadium joined in. Afterwards, about one hundred people came out here and just stood in the yard, waiting to talk to Sarah and wish her well. It was amazing.” On the drive home, my mom said, “While she was talking, I realized again that this is why I came back here. You don’t get this everywhere.”
She’s right. Our little town has its misgivings- there’s a lot of gossip, a lot of “everyone knows everyone,” and also a lot of “everyone’s related.” But at the end of the day, the people here understand what is important. They understand unity; they understand what it means to love thy neighbor as thyself. Everyone spends the first twenty or so years of their lives trying to leave, but we all come back home. Here I am, my second year in college, and I’m living at home so I could keep my job at the bank, watch my little brother grow up, be a good mom to Mr. Munch, keep giving piano lessons and tennis lessons… so I could keep my connections here. Because these connections are for life. These are the people that have mattered to me for as long as I could remember, and I try to keep in touch with all of them.
After seeing Sarah and her resilience, and especially after seeing her family’s pain, the trivialities of everyday life seem incredibly unimportant. I have called my best friend, who moved to San Diego after freshman year of high school, a little more often. I understand now why adults are always saying, “life just gets in the way.” Life does get in the way. The logistics of flying across the country for two working college students really isn’t very good. But, like Danielle said, we always manage to keep things together. I haven’t been annoyed when my students haven’t practiced. After all, I threw fits when my mother tried to make me practice when I was younger. I haven’t crunched the numbers for CD rates and stock market influxes like I usually do at least weekly. One shot for Sarah’s leukemia costs one hundred thousand dollars. I do not have one hundred thousand dollars, and all the Excel spreadsheets in the world, all of this reading about the NASDAQ, will not change that.
The sun is now completely overhead, and Mr. Munch is waking up from his post-run nap. I will make my necessary phone calls, and do a little tug-of-war with Munch. I will try not to get mad at my boyfriend for stupid things, and I will try to rub Munch’s belly more. Most importantly, I will try not to forget this week, and I will try to put my life in perspective. Because, let’s face it, I really don’t have much to complain about.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Learning to let go shows what really matters
Learning to let go shows what really matters 09.01.07
I heard a program on NPR a few years ago called “This I Believe,” modeled after a program by the same name from the fifties piloted by Edward R. Murrow. Ordinary people- a pizza delivery boy, a cab driver- and famous people- Penn Jillette, Eleanor Roosevelt- had written short essays about what they believe. The prompt espoused the writer not to focus on what they did not believe, but rather something they truly believed in their hearts that guided their lives.
After reading the book of essays, I realized that I could not think of anything to write a “This I Believe” essay about. I could think of so many things I didn’t believe, but not one I believed in deeply enough to write something inspired over. In fact, I couldn’t think of one thing I believed that wasn’t tainted by sarcasm or something dark.
We live in troubled times, as any news report will tell us. I think a great deal of what’s wrong with the world is that we’ve stopped believing in this deep-down-bottom-of-your-heart way. We don’t care about anything that much.
We believe in our country enough to badmouth it, but we don’t care enough to try to change it. Our patriotism is summed up with bumper stickers and signing a few petitions. We believe in animal rights enough to disdain Michael Vick, but we’re not out volunteering our time to local organizations. We believe in education enough to be here in college, but we’re using Spark Notes instead of reading great works of literature.
Most essays were about religion, America, children, and advice from mom. Some were more creative- believing in sending cards or a need for quiet. I am not particularly religious, and while I love this country, I can’t say that losing our men is worth Iraqi freedom. I don’t have children, so I can’t speak about the beauty of childbirth or raising one. My mother has given me some pretty good advice, but that advice doesn’t resonate with me on a daily basis. I do like sending cards, but I don’t deeply believe in Hallmark. I also enjoy the quiet, but by nature, I am a loud person. Nor do I believe that all people are good at heart, or that love conquers all, or that I learned everything I needed to know in kindergarten. At twenty, am I not a little too young to be so cynical?
We are a young country full of young people, full of untested ideals. Most of my beliefs, when tested, fell apart in my hands. My belief in religion floundered as the religious people I knew became more and more hypocritical. My belief in words waned when I couldn’t find the right ones. My belief in books dissipated when the books stopped being able to give me answers to life’s big questions. So can I honestly say I truly and deeply believed in any of them? The things I’ve believed in my whole life sound trite at best- good shoes, that dogs are better than men, and old-fashioned cleaning is the best therapy- seem even a little worse than trite.
“This I Believe” seems to want a little more than my belief that amazing shoes are a foolproof recipe for success in life. So, this I believe: I believe in letting things go.
That’s different than forgiveness; I’m not one to forgive or forget easily. Letting things go means there is more room in my life for what makes me happy. Mailing a diamond necklace back to my ex and throwing away everything he gave me in a car wash trash can (that way I couldn’t get it back) allowed me to open my heart and my dresser drawers to someone new. Letting go of past relationships made room in my heart for a new love that has surpassed the old loves I used to know. I let go of old fights with even older friends because I wanted room in my days for long breakfasts and longer talks about nothing. Letting go of my anger over my boyfriend joining the Army has allowed me to enjoy military balls and made me a little more patriotic. Letting go of my fear over my dog’s heart problem has allowed me to truly listen to the experts and research his condition to ensure that he’ll live a healthy life.
This isn’t to say that I’ve forgotten all about the past, the things that scare me, or people who have hurt me- I haven’t. After detaching myself from inane arguments and yesterday’s relationships, I’m able see what really matters. Letting go of the past allows me to look at it more objectively, and, more importantly, allows me to learn from it. This, I believe.
I heard a program on NPR a few years ago called “This I Believe,” modeled after a program by the same name from the fifties piloted by Edward R. Murrow. Ordinary people- a pizza delivery boy, a cab driver- and famous people- Penn Jillette, Eleanor Roosevelt- had written short essays about what they believe. The prompt espoused the writer not to focus on what they did not believe, but rather something they truly believed in their hearts that guided their lives.
After reading the book of essays, I realized that I could not think of anything to write a “This I Believe” essay about. I could think of so many things I didn’t believe, but not one I believed in deeply enough to write something inspired over. In fact, I couldn’t think of one thing I believed that wasn’t tainted by sarcasm or something dark.
We live in troubled times, as any news report will tell us. I think a great deal of what’s wrong with the world is that we’ve stopped believing in this deep-down-bottom-of-your-heart way. We don’t care about anything that much.
We believe in our country enough to badmouth it, but we don’t care enough to try to change it. Our patriotism is summed up with bumper stickers and signing a few petitions. We believe in animal rights enough to disdain Michael Vick, but we’re not out volunteering our time to local organizations. We believe in education enough to be here in college, but we’re using Spark Notes instead of reading great works of literature.
Most essays were about religion, America, children, and advice from mom. Some were more creative- believing in sending cards or a need for quiet. I am not particularly religious, and while I love this country, I can’t say that losing our men is worth Iraqi freedom. I don’t have children, so I can’t speak about the beauty of childbirth or raising one. My mother has given me some pretty good advice, but that advice doesn’t resonate with me on a daily basis. I do like sending cards, but I don’t deeply believe in Hallmark. I also enjoy the quiet, but by nature, I am a loud person. Nor do I believe that all people are good at heart, or that love conquers all, or that I learned everything I needed to know in kindergarten. At twenty, am I not a little too young to be so cynical?
We are a young country full of young people, full of untested ideals. Most of my beliefs, when tested, fell apart in my hands. My belief in religion floundered as the religious people I knew became more and more hypocritical. My belief in words waned when I couldn’t find the right ones. My belief in books dissipated when the books stopped being able to give me answers to life’s big questions. So can I honestly say I truly and deeply believed in any of them? The things I’ve believed in my whole life sound trite at best- good shoes, that dogs are better than men, and old-fashioned cleaning is the best therapy- seem even a little worse than trite.
“This I Believe” seems to want a little more than my belief that amazing shoes are a foolproof recipe for success in life. So, this I believe: I believe in letting things go.
That’s different than forgiveness; I’m not one to forgive or forget easily. Letting things go means there is more room in my life for what makes me happy. Mailing a diamond necklace back to my ex and throwing away everything he gave me in a car wash trash can (that way I couldn’t get it back) allowed me to open my heart and my dresser drawers to someone new. Letting go of past relationships made room in my heart for a new love that has surpassed the old loves I used to know. I let go of old fights with even older friends because I wanted room in my days for long breakfasts and longer talks about nothing. Letting go of my anger over my boyfriend joining the Army has allowed me to enjoy military balls and made me a little more patriotic. Letting go of my fear over my dog’s heart problem has allowed me to truly listen to the experts and research his condition to ensure that he’ll live a healthy life.
This isn’t to say that I’ve forgotten all about the past, the things that scare me, or people who have hurt me- I haven’t. After detaching myself from inane arguments and yesterday’s relationships, I’m able see what really matters. Letting go of the past allows me to look at it more objectively, and, more importantly, allows me to learn from it. This, I believe.
Losing and loss
04.29.07 Sunday afternoon
“When someone you love dies, you’re supposed to cry. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.” This is what my mom told my six-year-old brother after her best friend died unexpectedly on a Sunday afternoon at the end of last semester. I was close to her too, and at nearly twenty, it’s the first death of someone I knew and, well, loved.
I cry about everything. I don’t cry about death, though. It’s not that I deal well with things- I really don’t. I’m not sure if I don’t deal with things, or if I just do it in a convoluted way. Coping, I suppose, is different for everyone. I can cry for an hour over my boyfriend joining the army, but I can barely squeeze out a few tears for what can only be described as a death in the family.
This is a strange experience for me. Her last dream was about me- she told my mom about it in their last phone conversation. I wish now I’d answered the phone more when she called. I wonder when I’ll stop expecting to see MCGUIRE JOHN R on the caller ID. My mom said, “I wonder if I’ll ever have a best friend again.”
Loss is an interesting thing. Losing a friend, I think, is harder than losing a relative. You chose your friend; you chose to be with them. In a way, it makes your bond more meaningful because it was chosen and cultivated purposefully. The time and effort that goes into creating a friendship is hard to go through again. After losing my dearest friends- most to distance, some to stupid fights- like her, I wondered, and still wonder, “Will I ever have a best friend again?”
I don’t think either of us will.
My mom and boyfriend are now the only people on the “called” list on my cell phone. Aside from a weekly breakfast with my old doubles partner, I don’t hang out with friends. Not only do I not have the desire to cultivate any more lasting and deep friendships, but I don’t make the time. Now, there is no one to talk to “just because,” no one to go to breakfast with, no one to respond to all my emails. For my mom, there will be no one to call while she’s doing dishes, and there will be no one’s house to go to on Easter. For me, there is no one to read my writing, no one to care, no one to trust infinitely. I suppose she feels much the same: betrayed, in a strange way, by circumstance and death.
With all deaths, everyone says, “Life is so short.” Or, “You never know when you’re going to lose someone you love.” Why don’t we really listen to these admonishments? Why don’t we say “I love you” or “I appreciate you” or “I’m sorry” when we really need to? In a moment, what seems like a lifetime of friendship is gone. Suddenly, there is no going back to say what needed to be said. Like the tomb, both anger and distance are cold and unforgiving. The gap is unbridgeable.
For a few weeks, we will all be more loving to those that mean the most to us. Then, we’ll forget about acting like we should until the next death. It’s twisted.
We eventually get used to our new way of life without someone important in it. We no longer refresh our email inbox or check the caller ID or dial their number by accident, as my mom has already done. Normalcy is replaced by normalcy v2.1, but some late nights, it will feel far from normal as we attempt to get over what will affect us forever.
“When someone you love dies, you’re supposed to cry. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.” This is what my mom told my six-year-old brother after her best friend died unexpectedly on a Sunday afternoon at the end of last semester. I was close to her too, and at nearly twenty, it’s the first death of someone I knew and, well, loved.
I cry about everything. I don’t cry about death, though. It’s not that I deal well with things- I really don’t. I’m not sure if I don’t deal with things, or if I just do it in a convoluted way. Coping, I suppose, is different for everyone. I can cry for an hour over my boyfriend joining the army, but I can barely squeeze out a few tears for what can only be described as a death in the family.
This is a strange experience for me. Her last dream was about me- she told my mom about it in their last phone conversation. I wish now I’d answered the phone more when she called. I wonder when I’ll stop expecting to see MCGUIRE JOHN R on the caller ID. My mom said, “I wonder if I’ll ever have a best friend again.”
Loss is an interesting thing. Losing a friend, I think, is harder than losing a relative. You chose your friend; you chose to be with them. In a way, it makes your bond more meaningful because it was chosen and cultivated purposefully. The time and effort that goes into creating a friendship is hard to go through again. After losing my dearest friends- most to distance, some to stupid fights- like her, I wondered, and still wonder, “Will I ever have a best friend again?”
I don’t think either of us will.
My mom and boyfriend are now the only people on the “called” list on my cell phone. Aside from a weekly breakfast with my old doubles partner, I don’t hang out with friends. Not only do I not have the desire to cultivate any more lasting and deep friendships, but I don’t make the time. Now, there is no one to talk to “just because,” no one to go to breakfast with, no one to respond to all my emails. For my mom, there will be no one to call while she’s doing dishes, and there will be no one’s house to go to on Easter. For me, there is no one to read my writing, no one to care, no one to trust infinitely. I suppose she feels much the same: betrayed, in a strange way, by circumstance and death.
With all deaths, everyone says, “Life is so short.” Or, “You never know when you’re going to lose someone you love.” Why don’t we really listen to these admonishments? Why don’t we say “I love you” or “I appreciate you” or “I’m sorry” when we really need to? In a moment, what seems like a lifetime of friendship is gone. Suddenly, there is no going back to say what needed to be said. Like the tomb, both anger and distance are cold and unforgiving. The gap is unbridgeable.
For a few weeks, we will all be more loving to those that mean the most to us. Then, we’ll forget about acting like we should until the next death. It’s twisted.
We eventually get used to our new way of life without someone important in it. We no longer refresh our email inbox or check the caller ID or dial their number by accident, as my mom has already done. Normalcy is replaced by normalcy v2.1, but some late nights, it will feel far from normal as we attempt to get over what will affect us forever.
My experience at the military ball
04-30-07 12:40 AM
At the end of the night, the colors were retired. The colors, however, are actually never retired. That is, I suppose, what makes the US Army the greatest army in the world. They never retire the colors.
As we watched slide shows of MS IVs and gave scripted answers to toasts (i.e., “I propose a toast to ____” then, the answer, “to the ____!”), I was simultaneously wrapped up in the prestige and the pain. I wanted to immerse myself in and cast myself away from the red, white, and blue. As I looked at him there, standing at attention, I wanted to smile with pride. But I also wanted to shake him and scream, “How could you do this to me?”
The military is an entirely different way of life. It has scripted roles, long-standing traditions, and a different set of social rules. The guys I’ve come to know and love this year- my boyfriend’s fellow cadets- were not the fun-loving, sex-craving, beer-wanting guys I knew. They were men. Their backs were straight, their hair was cut, their buttons shined, their smiles were gone. As we dates looked on, these men (and lone women) stood ramrod straight, looking dead ahead.
I didn’t look at him once while he was at attention. I watched one of our friends do the color guard; another did the sabre arch. I watched him get an award, and I smiled and was perfectly sociable. I played my role in the military hierarchy- submissive female, attractive woman- whatever you want to call it, I did it and I did it well.
As a two-star general talked (I later learned that the stars meant something, and weren’t just a Homeric epithet) I realized that the military meant everything to these men. They weren’t doing it for the great benefits or to get a great body. This meant something to them, on a strange level. As I watched “Wibs” emcee the event, being incredibly serious, I wanted to cry. This vibrant young man was, to me, almost destroyed. They aren’t men, or boyfriends, or sons, or even husbands. They are soldiers.
It killed me.
I looked at the military wives, their arms linked with their decorated husband’s arms, and I thought, “How can you marry someone that isn’t really yours?” Indeed, he isn’t really mine- he signed a contract. Our wedding will be rushed in between engineering school and moving to a base in God knows where. We will wait to have kids because I don’t want to raise our baby alone. I also don’t want to take my chances with being a twenty-something widow, but no one seems to want to discuss that.
Some days it is a great adventure and an honor to be a part of something like this. Other days, it is reason enough to either get Prozac or swerve my car off the road.
I looked at the other women- some of them engaged to their military man- and wondered if they felt the same way. Am I a freak? Do I think this over too much? Do most women not mind if their husbands or boyfriends are in the army? So many families seem to be able to live this way. I wonder if I can. Can I be alone for eighteen months on some base? Can I smile and play my role for seven more years (three more years of college, four years of active duty)? Can I cope with all of the unknowns, and will I ever be able to vote Republican again?
Perhaps if I was more religious, I could pray to some higher power for help. But believing in a higher power gets harder as I read more about Iraq and see more young men wiping off their identities for “a bar of gold on Army green,” as the song goes.
As I walked by the table set for one- the cup turned over, they won’t toast with us; their bread sprinkled with salt for the tears of the families; a slice of lemon for their bitter fate- to honor the dead, I wonder if anyone thinks it’ll be them. I wonder if I will be the family whose salt is on the bread. And I wonder if given a choice, who would still choose Army, and who would choose everything else. More than anything, I wonder if being part of the greatest Army in the world is worth it.
At the end of the night, the colors were retired. The colors, however, are actually never retired. That is, I suppose, what makes the US Army the greatest army in the world. They never retire the colors.
As we watched slide shows of MS IVs and gave scripted answers to toasts (i.e., “I propose a toast to ____” then, the answer, “to the ____!”), I was simultaneously wrapped up in the prestige and the pain. I wanted to immerse myself in and cast myself away from the red, white, and blue. As I looked at him there, standing at attention, I wanted to smile with pride. But I also wanted to shake him and scream, “How could you do this to me?”
The military is an entirely different way of life. It has scripted roles, long-standing traditions, and a different set of social rules. The guys I’ve come to know and love this year- my boyfriend’s fellow cadets- were not the fun-loving, sex-craving, beer-wanting guys I knew. They were men. Their backs were straight, their hair was cut, their buttons shined, their smiles were gone. As we dates looked on, these men (and lone women) stood ramrod straight, looking dead ahead.
I didn’t look at him once while he was at attention. I watched one of our friends do the color guard; another did the sabre arch. I watched him get an award, and I smiled and was perfectly sociable. I played my role in the military hierarchy- submissive female, attractive woman- whatever you want to call it, I did it and I did it well.
As a two-star general talked (I later learned that the stars meant something, and weren’t just a Homeric epithet) I realized that the military meant everything to these men. They weren’t doing it for the great benefits or to get a great body. This meant something to them, on a strange level. As I watched “Wibs” emcee the event, being incredibly serious, I wanted to cry. This vibrant young man was, to me, almost destroyed. They aren’t men, or boyfriends, or sons, or even husbands. They are soldiers.
It killed me.
I looked at the military wives, their arms linked with their decorated husband’s arms, and I thought, “How can you marry someone that isn’t really yours?” Indeed, he isn’t really mine- he signed a contract. Our wedding will be rushed in between engineering school and moving to a base in God knows where. We will wait to have kids because I don’t want to raise our baby alone. I also don’t want to take my chances with being a twenty-something widow, but no one seems to want to discuss that.
Some days it is a great adventure and an honor to be a part of something like this. Other days, it is reason enough to either get Prozac or swerve my car off the road.
I looked at the other women- some of them engaged to their military man- and wondered if they felt the same way. Am I a freak? Do I think this over too much? Do most women not mind if their husbands or boyfriends are in the army? So many families seem to be able to live this way. I wonder if I can. Can I be alone for eighteen months on some base? Can I smile and play my role for seven more years (three more years of college, four years of active duty)? Can I cope with all of the unknowns, and will I ever be able to vote Republican again?
Perhaps if I was more religious, I could pray to some higher power for help. But believing in a higher power gets harder as I read more about Iraq and see more young men wiping off their identities for “a bar of gold on Army green,” as the song goes.
As I walked by the table set for one- the cup turned over, they won’t toast with us; their bread sprinkled with salt for the tears of the families; a slice of lemon for their bitter fate- to honor the dead, I wonder if anyone thinks it’ll be them. I wonder if I will be the family whose salt is on the bread. And I wonder if given a choice, who would still choose Army, and who would choose everything else. More than anything, I wonder if being part of the greatest Army in the world is worth it.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Microsoft Excel should come with a warning label
Microsoft Excel should come with a warning label.
The other Office programs aren’t as bad.
Nevertheless, Excel has ruined my life.
I don’t really know how to use
The math part of it
But that doesn’t matter.
I know how to make lists
And I do the math with the calculator
Found under “Accessories.”
My life is so, so perfect.
In terms of spreadsheets,
I’ve got it going on.
I have one for everything-
Guests for the wedding I’m not planning
Expenses for the life I’m not living
And classes I need to take.
The last spreadsheet
Is the only tangible one.
I like quantifying, and Excel caters to my type
Like cocaine caters to girls that want to be thinner.
The other Office programs aren’t as bad.
Nevertheless, Excel has ruined my life.
I don’t really know how to use
The math part of it
But that doesn’t matter.
I know how to make lists
And I do the math with the calculator
Found under “Accessories.”
My life is so, so perfect.
In terms of spreadsheets,
I’ve got it going on.
I have one for everything-
Guests for the wedding I’m not planning
Expenses for the life I’m not living
And classes I need to take.
The last spreadsheet
Is the only tangible one.
I like quantifying, and Excel caters to my type
Like cocaine caters to girls that want to be thinner.
Fading movement
Fading movement 3/13/07
I am sick of sleeping with your sweatshirt.
I am also sick of writer’s block.
When, if ever, will I get up from this patch of ground
And begin to dig?
I am sick of dirt under my nails.
My fists have been clenched for so long that I’m
Not sure how to play the piano anymore.I can punch the keys, though
And some days- some- it sounds like Music.
I drank expired orange juice yesterday
And I am still waiting to feel the aftermath of it.
My hands are at 10 and 2.
Always.
Thanks.
And you, my dear, linger around 12-Noon or midnight, I’m not sure.
You know, it doesn’t even smell like you anymore.I don’t really recall if you had a smell.
I still smell the same,
Though I have been tempted to change perfumes.
I think I need a muskier scent.
Changing the world used to seem noble
Naïve, but still noble.
Now, though, nothing but naïve.
Changing perfumes seems much more logical.
And important.
You manage to infiltrate most days.
How does that make you feel?
I kiss my fists at night now.
I blow my nose in your sweatshirt
And chop away at writer’s block.
I am sick of sleeping with your sweatshirt.
I am also sick of writer’s block.
When, if ever, will I get up from this patch of ground
And begin to dig?
I am sick of dirt under my nails.
My fists have been clenched for so long that I’m
Not sure how to play the piano anymore.I can punch the keys, though
And some days- some- it sounds like Music.
I drank expired orange juice yesterday
And I am still waiting to feel the aftermath of it.
My hands are at 10 and 2.
Always.
Thanks.
And you, my dear, linger around 12-Noon or midnight, I’m not sure.
You know, it doesn’t even smell like you anymore.I don’t really recall if you had a smell.
I still smell the same,
Though I have been tempted to change perfumes.
I think I need a muskier scent.
Changing the world used to seem noble
Naïve, but still noble.
Now, though, nothing but naïve.
Changing perfumes seems much more logical.
And important.
You manage to infiltrate most days.
How does that make you feel?
I kiss my fists at night now.
I blow my nose in your sweatshirt
And chop away at writer’s block.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Zombies of the 21st Century: The Undead of Our Days
8/6/2006
Death used to be so casual. Bodies of the deceased were kept in their home for a week, sitting in their chair or lying on the sofa. This was only a century ago. Now, we have grief counselors, elaborate funerals, and ceremonies that are supposed to provide closure. We have books to tell us how to let go of someone, how to deal with break ups and divorces. Are we so inept that we don’t know how to get over anything?
Maybe dead and gone just isn’t so simple anymore.
Death customs have changed radically and repeatedly over the course of humanity. The Egyptians mummified and treated the dead as if they were going to continue in life, and prepared them for Anubis. The Mesopotamians believed there to be no worse fate for a soul then to lie unburied—after death, the soul would continue to feel what was done to the body. There was a deep respect for the dead, but there was no prolonged mourning period. It is interesting that in the Old Testament, death is a very final thing. In the New Testament, death is bordering on happy because it is viewed as a new beginning. In Africa, “funerals” are celebrations. African tribes have always felt that the deceased were better off because they no longer had to endure the world. The Greeks placed much effort into the dead, placing gold coins over their eyes to keep them closed on the journey to the underworld via the river Styx. Interestingly enough, Lethe was another river to Hades- Greek for “forgiveness.”
In none of these cultures would our rituals be normal. It was in Europe all our customs originated. Widows wore black for four years at a minimum, with a lock of their dead husband’s hair around their necks. Strangely, in some American Indian tribes, cutting off a finger honored death. In the deep South- think Scarlett O’Hara times- it was unthinkable to associate with a man during a mourning period. Remember the frowns of society when Scarlett danced with Rhett? Is North America just an oddball?
Why, in most of the world, is death expected and considered natural? The end is always part of the story in every culture but ours. No longer are we allowed to enter a relationship and admit it will end. Friends tell us we’re damning it before it starts, or that it’s like living in terms of dying. We don’t even like our movies to really end, or our TV series to draw to a close. We like soap operas where our favorite character comes back from the dead. We live for cliffhangers… for un-endings. And sadly, that’s how we’ve come to expect life. Our media-fed culture isn’t fed “how to end” or “how to move on.”
Because we are conditioned to carry grief and unhappiness, we accumulate an amazing amount of baggage. Each tough episode totes the luggage out from our closets. Each suitcase is unzipped and every painful detail pours out. Therefore, our lives just keep getting harder. It takes longer each time to stuff the clothes and shoes and letters and pain back in, until eventually we’re sitting on top of it while someone else tries to zip it. We usually get the top to stay shut, but there’s still that inch or two at the end we leave open. It’s that inch or two that makes it hard to sleep at night.
When- and more importantly, how- did it become so difficult to let go of what’s left you? We now view death as the end- we fear it from the day we become old enough to comprehend the end of our life. Not only do we fear it, but also we fight it tooth and nail. It’s unacceptable not to cry at a funeral, just as it is unacceptable to pull the plug when a loved one has been in a coma for years. It is unacceptable to accept death.
This is why women can’t get remarried without feeling guilty. This is why we have books called “He’s Just Not That Into You” and funerals that cost 10K. We’re trying to buy a way to move on… but moving on is something that’s learned. Closure isn’t brought by a beautiful sermon or a thoughtfully engraved tombstone or finding him in bed with another woman. It’s just not as simple as we need it to be these days.
Dead and gone just doesn’t happen. Every apartment in New York City is haunted for a reason, right?
Death used to be so casual. Bodies of the deceased were kept in their home for a week, sitting in their chair or lying on the sofa. This was only a century ago. Now, we have grief counselors, elaborate funerals, and ceremonies that are supposed to provide closure. We have books to tell us how to let go of someone, how to deal with break ups and divorces. Are we so inept that we don’t know how to get over anything?
Maybe dead and gone just isn’t so simple anymore.
Death customs have changed radically and repeatedly over the course of humanity. The Egyptians mummified and treated the dead as if they were going to continue in life, and prepared them for Anubis. The Mesopotamians believed there to be no worse fate for a soul then to lie unburied—after death, the soul would continue to feel what was done to the body. There was a deep respect for the dead, but there was no prolonged mourning period. It is interesting that in the Old Testament, death is a very final thing. In the New Testament, death is bordering on happy because it is viewed as a new beginning. In Africa, “funerals” are celebrations. African tribes have always felt that the deceased were better off because they no longer had to endure the world. The Greeks placed much effort into the dead, placing gold coins over their eyes to keep them closed on the journey to the underworld via the river Styx. Interestingly enough, Lethe was another river to Hades- Greek for “forgiveness.”
In none of these cultures would our rituals be normal. It was in Europe all our customs originated. Widows wore black for four years at a minimum, with a lock of their dead husband’s hair around their necks. Strangely, in some American Indian tribes, cutting off a finger honored death. In the deep South- think Scarlett O’Hara times- it was unthinkable to associate with a man during a mourning period. Remember the frowns of society when Scarlett danced with Rhett? Is North America just an oddball?
Why, in most of the world, is death expected and considered natural? The end is always part of the story in every culture but ours. No longer are we allowed to enter a relationship and admit it will end. Friends tell us we’re damning it before it starts, or that it’s like living in terms of dying. We don’t even like our movies to really end, or our TV series to draw to a close. We like soap operas where our favorite character comes back from the dead. We live for cliffhangers… for un-endings. And sadly, that’s how we’ve come to expect life. Our media-fed culture isn’t fed “how to end” or “how to move on.”
Because we are conditioned to carry grief and unhappiness, we accumulate an amazing amount of baggage. Each tough episode totes the luggage out from our closets. Each suitcase is unzipped and every painful detail pours out. Therefore, our lives just keep getting harder. It takes longer each time to stuff the clothes and shoes and letters and pain back in, until eventually we’re sitting on top of it while someone else tries to zip it. We usually get the top to stay shut, but there’s still that inch or two at the end we leave open. It’s that inch or two that makes it hard to sleep at night.
When- and more importantly, how- did it become so difficult to let go of what’s left you? We now view death as the end- we fear it from the day we become old enough to comprehend the end of our life. Not only do we fear it, but also we fight it tooth and nail. It’s unacceptable not to cry at a funeral, just as it is unacceptable to pull the plug when a loved one has been in a coma for years. It is unacceptable to accept death.
This is why women can’t get remarried without feeling guilty. This is why we have books called “He’s Just Not That Into You” and funerals that cost 10K. We’re trying to buy a way to move on… but moving on is something that’s learned. Closure isn’t brought by a beautiful sermon or a thoughtfully engraved tombstone or finding him in bed with another woman. It’s just not as simple as we need it to be these days.
Dead and gone just doesn’t happen. Every apartment in New York City is haunted for a reason, right?
Screwing the Senses: Stepping Back From the Screen
7/21/2006
At first, I concentrated too much. My muscles were tense, my eyebrows furrowed, and I tried too hard to come up with a “strategy.” I swerved erratically and shot blanks while I thought about what was going on. Fifteen dollars worth of tokens later, I realized that with arcade games, a strategy isn’t really needed. “That deaf, dumb, and blind kid sure plays mean pinball.” And after playing my very first arcade game tonight, I think I see the logic in this line of the song. There may be a strategy inside the machine- a precut plan as to what is going to happen- but we don’t really have any control over where the bad guys shoot, do we?
That’s why the deaf, dumb, and blind kid is so good. He hears, understands, and sees what is behind the screen. He can’t overthink or look too deeply or hear a bit more than is meant. He uses his instincts.
I have been told many times that I overthink everything. I read between the lines of every statement. And, more than once, that facet of my personality has destroyed my relationships. No one likes to be under a microscope, but I don’t like to be in the dark either. I don’t like to feel as if someone is pulling a hat over my eyes. However, I’m willing to bet that if I were just a little more deaf, dumb, and blind, guys would like me a lot better. I wouldn’t analyze them and have premeditated conversations designed to draw out information to further my analysis.
Wouldn’t love be so much better without the senses behind our senses? If we only heard the words he actually chose, not the words we think he meant to say. If we only understood what he said, not what we decide he wanted to say. If only we saw him for exactly who he is, not who we want him to be. Instead we go beyond what God gave us to understand and venture back into the Garden of Eden to find what we believe will give us greater understanding- when in reality, it only gives us heartache.
If we just stepped back from the screen a little bit and saw the big picture instead of the minutiae. If we only could see the garish colors around the gunshots instead of the colors within the pixels. If only we could see the look in his eyes instead of trying to read his entire body for some earth-shattering confession.
The next date I head out on, I am going completely unarmed. The next arcade game, well, I’ll be armed with a plastic gun and a fistful of tokens. But certainly no plan to execute in either situation… even if I have to blindfold myself and get some of those awful yellow earplugs.
At first, I concentrated too much. My muscles were tense, my eyebrows furrowed, and I tried too hard to come up with a “strategy.” I swerved erratically and shot blanks while I thought about what was going on. Fifteen dollars worth of tokens later, I realized that with arcade games, a strategy isn’t really needed. “That deaf, dumb, and blind kid sure plays mean pinball.” And after playing my very first arcade game tonight, I think I see the logic in this line of the song. There may be a strategy inside the machine- a precut plan as to what is going to happen- but we don’t really have any control over where the bad guys shoot, do we?
That’s why the deaf, dumb, and blind kid is so good. He hears, understands, and sees what is behind the screen. He can’t overthink or look too deeply or hear a bit more than is meant. He uses his instincts.
I have been told many times that I overthink everything. I read between the lines of every statement. And, more than once, that facet of my personality has destroyed my relationships. No one likes to be under a microscope, but I don’t like to be in the dark either. I don’t like to feel as if someone is pulling a hat over my eyes. However, I’m willing to bet that if I were just a little more deaf, dumb, and blind, guys would like me a lot better. I wouldn’t analyze them and have premeditated conversations designed to draw out information to further my analysis.
Wouldn’t love be so much better without the senses behind our senses? If we only heard the words he actually chose, not the words we think he meant to say. If we only understood what he said, not what we decide he wanted to say. If only we saw him for exactly who he is, not who we want him to be. Instead we go beyond what God gave us to understand and venture back into the Garden of Eden to find what we believe will give us greater understanding- when in reality, it only gives us heartache.
If we just stepped back from the screen a little bit and saw the big picture instead of the minutiae. If we only could see the garish colors around the gunshots instead of the colors within the pixels. If only we could see the look in his eyes instead of trying to read his entire body for some earth-shattering confession.
The next date I head out on, I am going completely unarmed. The next arcade game, well, I’ll be armed with a plastic gun and a fistful of tokens. But certainly no plan to execute in either situation… even if I have to blindfold myself and get some of those awful yellow earplugs.
I Walk The Line
6/26/2006
As we tiptoe closer to the borderline of playing God, both as a nation and as individuals, we have to ask ourselves if we are trying too hard. Are we pushing too hard for something that we are not supposed to have, pushing the limits to get what we want, superceding what should be with what we want to be?
How do we know when to stop trying?
I’ve often said at the demise of a relationship, “it shouldn’t be this hard.” When I was younger it was, “nothing good comes without hard work.” Today, I’m not sure which I stand by.
As cloned sheep- genetic copies of healthy sheep- die for no reason, and kids with cancer live through bone marrow transplants and then die from an aneurysm in their twenties, we have to ask ourselves if this is God’s way of saying to back off. As we string our marriages through counseling, trying to scrape the bottom of the barrel to find something worth saving--only to be divorced in a year--are we just trying too hard? But on the same token, we don’t want to throw our hands up at every bump in the road. In the midst of quarrels, it is almost impossible to see what we should do.
I think perhaps we owe it to ourselves, our relationships, whatever- to do everything in our power to save whatever it is we’re trying to save. Otherwise, we will never know. If we do everything we possibly can, and we still fail, then we know it wasn’t meant to be. Do we waste time, energy, emotion? Of course. However, it becomes so hard to live with ourselves when we don’t know if we’ve tried hard enough.
When I gave up at the first sign of trouble in a relationship, I kept going back to the problem because I just couldn’t accept that one little thing could be a deal-breaker. I kept trying, and I gave him every ounce of everything in me. I was desperately caught between my two mantras. I had to eventually accept that I might lose everything if I kept trying to save it. And sure enough, I did lose everything. But today no one could ever accuse me of not trying hard enough to make it work.
If something is meant to fail, it will inevitably fail. If someone is meant to die, they will inevitably die. And if something is meant to be, it will be. When our number is up, it’s up. We can’t stop fate anymore than we can stop the sun from shining. Unfortunately, we don’t know fate and we can’t steal fate’s game book or infiltrate it. Therefore we must play on the offense. It is useless to defend against fate.
Looking back, I see the amount of time I wasted on relationships and people that ultimately didn’t matter. But I always gave them one hundred percent, simply because you never know who is going to end up as the most important person or what will end up being the most influential situation in your life. I’ve treated every relationship as one that could possibly turn into forever. I’ve treated every friendship like one that could last a lifetime. Yes, I’ve gotten hurt and I have been hung out to dry more times than I could count; however, I’ve also come to accept destiny for what it is. When things don’t work out my way, I don’t curse fate and yell, “I defy you, stars!” Rather, I accept that what is meant to be, will be… even though it may not be what I want it to be.
As we tiptoe closer to the borderline of playing God, both as a nation and as individuals, we have to ask ourselves if we are trying too hard. Are we pushing too hard for something that we are not supposed to have, pushing the limits to get what we want, superceding what should be with what we want to be?
How do we know when to stop trying?
I’ve often said at the demise of a relationship, “it shouldn’t be this hard.” When I was younger it was, “nothing good comes without hard work.” Today, I’m not sure which I stand by.
As cloned sheep- genetic copies of healthy sheep- die for no reason, and kids with cancer live through bone marrow transplants and then die from an aneurysm in their twenties, we have to ask ourselves if this is God’s way of saying to back off. As we string our marriages through counseling, trying to scrape the bottom of the barrel to find something worth saving--only to be divorced in a year--are we just trying too hard? But on the same token, we don’t want to throw our hands up at every bump in the road. In the midst of quarrels, it is almost impossible to see what we should do.
I think perhaps we owe it to ourselves, our relationships, whatever- to do everything in our power to save whatever it is we’re trying to save. Otherwise, we will never know. If we do everything we possibly can, and we still fail, then we know it wasn’t meant to be. Do we waste time, energy, emotion? Of course. However, it becomes so hard to live with ourselves when we don’t know if we’ve tried hard enough.
When I gave up at the first sign of trouble in a relationship, I kept going back to the problem because I just couldn’t accept that one little thing could be a deal-breaker. I kept trying, and I gave him every ounce of everything in me. I was desperately caught between my two mantras. I had to eventually accept that I might lose everything if I kept trying to save it. And sure enough, I did lose everything. But today no one could ever accuse me of not trying hard enough to make it work.
If something is meant to fail, it will inevitably fail. If someone is meant to die, they will inevitably die. And if something is meant to be, it will be. When our number is up, it’s up. We can’t stop fate anymore than we can stop the sun from shining. Unfortunately, we don’t know fate and we can’t steal fate’s game book or infiltrate it. Therefore we must play on the offense. It is useless to defend against fate.
Looking back, I see the amount of time I wasted on relationships and people that ultimately didn’t matter. But I always gave them one hundred percent, simply because you never know who is going to end up as the most important person or what will end up being the most influential situation in your life. I’ve treated every relationship as one that could possibly turn into forever. I’ve treated every friendship like one that could last a lifetime. Yes, I’ve gotten hurt and I have been hung out to dry more times than I could count; however, I’ve also come to accept destiny for what it is. When things don’t work out my way, I don’t curse fate and yell, “I defy you, stars!” Rather, I accept that what is meant to be, will be… even though it may not be what I want it to be.
Benediction
5/16/2006-- the speech I gave at graduation
As I look out tonight at my class, our diplomas finally in hand, I can’t believe this is real. Time is no longer on our side, and there is no going back now. There is no more redoing, or undoing. Our days at Logan High School are now reduced to remembrance.
God has graced us with so much learning and experience throughout high school. We have learned more than cosine functions and how a bill becomes a law. I think we’ve finally figured out that there is so much more to life than the pettiness we have busied ourselves with for the past four years, because the person next to us is not going to remember if we were on homecoming court, or made the winning basket, or our GPA. Instead, I hope we’ve learned how to treat people, how to be a true friend, and, most importantly, how to be true to ourselves. As Matthew 16:26 says, “How do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul in the process?” So I hope that tonight as we walk away, we do so in peace with our souls.
Looking back on the past nine months- our last nine months together- I find it so bittersweet because tonight the world seems utterly foreign to me and completely out of my grasp. I am trying to ask God questions that I cannot enunciate. But from Holden Caulfield and Jay Gatsby to you and me, there is one question we’re all asking: what world am I living in now? This is the question of your life. It is a deeply personal quest; it is the quest. When Jung and Campbell talked about the hero journey; well, this is it. As a very wise teacher told me on the first day of high school, “we are all the heroes of our own life stories.” Be the hero of your story.
Tonight I ask God to bless the Class of 2006. Give us guidance when we don’t know which road to follow. Offer us Your love when it seems there is none left in our hearts. Let us see Your light when we are surrounded by darkness. Help us to stand firm on our own shores in a world whose current is trying to sweep us away. Bless us with the humility to know when the only place for us is on our knees. And most importantly, give us the courage to question deeply, make every decision count, and to be rather than seem. I ask God to help us all live our questions as we embark on this brave new world. Congratulations and Godspeed. Thank you.
As I look out tonight at my class, our diplomas finally in hand, I can’t believe this is real. Time is no longer on our side, and there is no going back now. There is no more redoing, or undoing. Our days at Logan High School are now reduced to remembrance.
God has graced us with so much learning and experience throughout high school. We have learned more than cosine functions and how a bill becomes a law. I think we’ve finally figured out that there is so much more to life than the pettiness we have busied ourselves with for the past four years, because the person next to us is not going to remember if we were on homecoming court, or made the winning basket, or our GPA. Instead, I hope we’ve learned how to treat people, how to be a true friend, and, most importantly, how to be true to ourselves. As Matthew 16:26 says, “How do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul in the process?” So I hope that tonight as we walk away, we do so in peace with our souls.
Looking back on the past nine months- our last nine months together- I find it so bittersweet because tonight the world seems utterly foreign to me and completely out of my grasp. I am trying to ask God questions that I cannot enunciate. But from Holden Caulfield and Jay Gatsby to you and me, there is one question we’re all asking: what world am I living in now? This is the question of your life. It is a deeply personal quest; it is the quest. When Jung and Campbell talked about the hero journey; well, this is it. As a very wise teacher told me on the first day of high school, “we are all the heroes of our own life stories.” Be the hero of your story.
Tonight I ask God to bless the Class of 2006. Give us guidance when we don’t know which road to follow. Offer us Your love when it seems there is none left in our hearts. Let us see Your light when we are surrounded by darkness. Help us to stand firm on our own shores in a world whose current is trying to sweep us away. Bless us with the humility to know when the only place for us is on our knees. And most importantly, give us the courage to question deeply, make every decision count, and to be rather than seem. I ask God to help us all live our questions as we embark on this brave new world. Congratulations and Godspeed. Thank you.
Desperation in Dystopia: Complaceny in Relationships
5/15/2006
Are we being blindsided because we want to be blind, or are we really being deceived? Why do we just hide our eyes when there’s something we don’t want to see? Are we really so complacent with only half the picture?
Times have obviously changed, and relationships have changed with them. No longer do women marry right out of high school or college. We wait now. We date many men. We watch shows like Sex and the City and read the infamous “chick lit” and revel in our singleness. Our expectations of relationships are much higher because we go through so damn many of them. If we added up all the men we’d dated, we get an unattainable vision of perfection. Subconsciously, we search for the guy that’s going to top that vision. We get so desperate that we block out what we don’t want to see. But our eyes are always forcefully opened when we least expect it.
We make him seem perfect by blocking him out. Ironic, isn’t it? At a time when we should be sharing ourselves, we’re putting a wall up for both of us. Whether he’s intentionally hiding something or not, we just don’t want to see it. We want to make the relationship as perfect as possible for as long as possible. In a society where we have to deal with so many problems up front, love is just one of those things we want to be without problems. And it is… until he reaches from behind you not to stroke your face, but instead to yank off the blindfold.
Suddenly, that “half of the picture” is a finished picture. And an ugly one at that. The original beauty has been marred by a few quick and careless strokes of a brush that’s too wide. We’re wondering if there’s a message on the back of the canvas, a la The Da Vinci Code, or if there’s still some little corner of the painting missing. We make every available excuse for him, when in reality he doesn’t deserve an excuse. We try so hard to believe nothing but the best of him, and this is what happens? But somehow, in all our idealism, a dystopia defeats our white blood cells.
It’s hard to open up in relationship after relationship. We learn from experience what things not to say, what pieces of our past to hide, what topics to talk about on the first date. It stops being real and it starts being manufactured. When we finally do open up, it’s almost too late. Sometimes it’s entirely too late, because there is an ultimate realization that the relationship has been between two people faking it. Not knowing everything quickly changes from self-preservation to deception. This is a fine line, and none of us walk it well.
Our dystopia, a result of our complacency with not knowing what we deserve to know, eventually dies off or becomes our life. We have cultured a strange breed of relationships in our petri dish of a heart. It’s up to us to vaccinate against our bacteria or to evolve to live with it.
Are we being blindsided because we want to be blind, or are we really being deceived? Why do we just hide our eyes when there’s something we don’t want to see? Are we really so complacent with only half the picture?
Times have obviously changed, and relationships have changed with them. No longer do women marry right out of high school or college. We wait now. We date many men. We watch shows like Sex and the City and read the infamous “chick lit” and revel in our singleness. Our expectations of relationships are much higher because we go through so damn many of them. If we added up all the men we’d dated, we get an unattainable vision of perfection. Subconsciously, we search for the guy that’s going to top that vision. We get so desperate that we block out what we don’t want to see. But our eyes are always forcefully opened when we least expect it.
We make him seem perfect by blocking him out. Ironic, isn’t it? At a time when we should be sharing ourselves, we’re putting a wall up for both of us. Whether he’s intentionally hiding something or not, we just don’t want to see it. We want to make the relationship as perfect as possible for as long as possible. In a society where we have to deal with so many problems up front, love is just one of those things we want to be without problems. And it is… until he reaches from behind you not to stroke your face, but instead to yank off the blindfold.
Suddenly, that “half of the picture” is a finished picture. And an ugly one at that. The original beauty has been marred by a few quick and careless strokes of a brush that’s too wide. We’re wondering if there’s a message on the back of the canvas, a la The Da Vinci Code, or if there’s still some little corner of the painting missing. We make every available excuse for him, when in reality he doesn’t deserve an excuse. We try so hard to believe nothing but the best of him, and this is what happens? But somehow, in all our idealism, a dystopia defeats our white blood cells.
It’s hard to open up in relationship after relationship. We learn from experience what things not to say, what pieces of our past to hide, what topics to talk about on the first date. It stops being real and it starts being manufactured. When we finally do open up, it’s almost too late. Sometimes it’s entirely too late, because there is an ultimate realization that the relationship has been between two people faking it. Not knowing everything quickly changes from self-preservation to deception. This is a fine line, and none of us walk it well.
Our dystopia, a result of our complacency with not knowing what we deserve to know, eventually dies off or becomes our life. We have cultured a strange breed of relationships in our petri dish of a heart. It’s up to us to vaccinate against our bacteria or to evolve to live with it.
The Show Must Go On: A Masquerade of Relationships
4/19/2006
When a tear slips out, we say nothing is wrong. In dead silence, we say nothing is on our mind. When we are falling out of love, we deny it until the very end. Just whom are we trying to convince?
In all of my relationships, I have painted a face on every morning, and not necessarily with a makeup brush. I have consistently put his needs before mine, focusing on staying in love and keeping the relationship intact—even when a more pressing problem is at hand. Inside my heart is breaking, my makeup may be flaking, but my smile still stays on. Every relationship has become a cabaret show. It becomes difficult for our lovers to discern our show from our reality.
Women seem to be guiltier of keeping the smile on than men. We are so afraid of vulnerability and judgment that we would rather perform our love than live it. Are we really this insecure? Realities bring people together, not fiction.
When we don’t know what we’re fighting for, living for, or loving for, acting becomes easier. Fake masquerades as real, and wanting to love masquerades as real love. This isn’t living. This is acting. And there is a difference. On with the show, I’ll top the bill, I’ll overkill. Overkill, indeed.
I have become quite the actress over the past few years. I have hid the direst of problems. It should bother me, but it doesn’t. I don’t want to be judged. And perhaps more than anything, I don’t want to unload my problems on him. They are men, they are lovers- not counselors. I, like generations of women before me, am trying to live up to standards that aren’t even living.
Whatever happens, I’ll leave it all to chance, another heartache, another failed romance. Yes, I would rather have another dead relationship underneath my bed than the fear of not putting on my show face. Living is so much scarier, so much harder, than acting. I find myself consistently choosing to put on my sequin bustier and thigh-highs rather than jeans and t-shirt.
Maybe if my relationships started out honest, it would be easier to keep them honest. But instead, we all start out on our “best behavior,” trying so hard to get someone to like us. All the sudden, it’s a year later. He has opened up to you, confided in you, and you are rushing to paint on your face before he wakes. No matter how much he asks you to tell him what’s on your mind, you can’t. Instead, you scramble for a believable lie.
This is probably why most women, myself included, say they feel true love and marriage are unattainable or that they are incapable of them. I can’t imagine marrying someone, waking up next to someone, with whom I only pretend.
Are we afraid of ourselves or are we afraid of what he might think? Are we afraid of the real world or are we afraid to quit writing our own script? Because that’s essentially what my relationships have become- cheap movie scripts. I can’t seem to gain the confidence to improvise, or even hand the pen to him.
Even now, as I write this, trying so desperately to address a problem that is killing love, I wonder if I am glossing over it. But it is of no matter because we don’t have a choice anymore- at least I don’t. The show must go on.
When a tear slips out, we say nothing is wrong. In dead silence, we say nothing is on our mind. When we are falling out of love, we deny it until the very end. Just whom are we trying to convince?
In all of my relationships, I have painted a face on every morning, and not necessarily with a makeup brush. I have consistently put his needs before mine, focusing on staying in love and keeping the relationship intact—even when a more pressing problem is at hand. Inside my heart is breaking, my makeup may be flaking, but my smile still stays on. Every relationship has become a cabaret show. It becomes difficult for our lovers to discern our show from our reality.
Women seem to be guiltier of keeping the smile on than men. We are so afraid of vulnerability and judgment that we would rather perform our love than live it. Are we really this insecure? Realities bring people together, not fiction.
When we don’t know what we’re fighting for, living for, or loving for, acting becomes easier. Fake masquerades as real, and wanting to love masquerades as real love. This isn’t living. This is acting. And there is a difference. On with the show, I’ll top the bill, I’ll overkill. Overkill, indeed.
I have become quite the actress over the past few years. I have hid the direst of problems. It should bother me, but it doesn’t. I don’t want to be judged. And perhaps more than anything, I don’t want to unload my problems on him. They are men, they are lovers- not counselors. I, like generations of women before me, am trying to live up to standards that aren’t even living.
Whatever happens, I’ll leave it all to chance, another heartache, another failed romance. Yes, I would rather have another dead relationship underneath my bed than the fear of not putting on my show face. Living is so much scarier, so much harder, than acting. I find myself consistently choosing to put on my sequin bustier and thigh-highs rather than jeans and t-shirt.
Maybe if my relationships started out honest, it would be easier to keep them honest. But instead, we all start out on our “best behavior,” trying so hard to get someone to like us. All the sudden, it’s a year later. He has opened up to you, confided in you, and you are rushing to paint on your face before he wakes. No matter how much he asks you to tell him what’s on your mind, you can’t. Instead, you scramble for a believable lie.
This is probably why most women, myself included, say they feel true love and marriage are unattainable or that they are incapable of them. I can’t imagine marrying someone, waking up next to someone, with whom I only pretend.
Are we afraid of ourselves or are we afraid of what he might think? Are we afraid of the real world or are we afraid to quit writing our own script? Because that’s essentially what my relationships have become- cheap movie scripts. I can’t seem to gain the confidence to improvise, or even hand the pen to him.
Even now, as I write this, trying so desperately to address a problem that is killing love, I wonder if I am glossing over it. But it is of no matter because we don’t have a choice anymore- at least I don’t. The show must go on.
Why I Read Books
3/17/2006
Literature gives us permission to be real in a society where the only realness valued is reality television. Literature allows us to be raw when we are supposed to be airbrushed. We can be harsh, crude, crass, rough, or violent- emotions it is not prudent to display towards the real world. One makes love to literature or one rapes it. There is a fine line between coaxing meaning out and just ripping away what we desire, but the line exists nonetheless. Perhaps that is why it is so easy to feel so strongly while reading.
The “Walter Mitty” world can get very tiresome. It kills off the passionate side of our soul, and leaves us feeling disconcerted and bare. When something comes along that awakens that piece of us again, we jump at the opportunity to be real. We are so eager to feel in a society that is numb. Books encourage this, and readers understand this.
Last weekend, I spent Saturday in bed with Pride and Prejudice. It is a book one must caress softly and speak gently to, as Austen does not throw her prose out generously. And when the story is ready, it unfolds magnificently, grasping us. I read each page twice, slowly, savoring the moment, indulging myself in what is beauty at its purest. A woman and a man that weren’t willing to settle. It is a romantic’s story, certainly, but it is also a lover’s story. I think Casanova would have appreciated the long, drawn-out verbal seduction of both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. And isn’t that what literature is- seduction of the mind? It captivates, cruelly and intensely, holding us against the wall until we finally take from it what we must.
The power of human emotion is a major concept in Beloved. Sethe’s guilt manifested in the succubus of Beloved, Denver’s love for her mother ousted Beloved, and Beloved’s loneliness was part of the reason she infested the house in the first place. The footprints in the riverbed stand for many things, but at the root level, these footprints are guilt. Anyone that steps in them understands- the footprints mold, the story changes, the water changes its course. But when finally stepping out of the footprints, the prints disappear- disremembered. Beloved taught me that it is okay to disremember once the past has been dug up and reburied. Just knowing that it is okay to reify the past was something I needed to hear before I consumed myself with the past.
Books satiate our senses in a way that even other people cannot. Our mother, best friend, or lover sometimes cannot understand the depth of our feelings and the realness of our experience. Pain- more so than joy or anger- is unyielding. And it is pain that usually sends us running for our bookshelves, trying to locate the pages that will explain our own emotion to us. I read once that people find the books they need. I always do. Even when I am not sure what I am feeling, there is a book that knows. This is not escapism of the real world, but rather living in it even more completely. Books give us- or me, at least- an explanation, a reason, a cause… something. Something more.
Oftentimes the characters we fall in love with are searching for the same thing we are- importance, a deeper meaning, an understanding of a life that is not easy to understand. Emma Bovary, too, relished prose and lived her mental and emotional life through the literature she pored over. But in Emma’s quest for enlightenment, she only further deludes herself. I try to read for clarity, but I know that I too delude myself. I find myself believing that I am going to have a Mr. Darcy, or a Rochester, or a life-changing affair. At the end of the chapter- more often the end of the night- I wake up and leave the passion I crave buried somewhere in the sheets. Madame Bovary could not do this, and her inability to accept life for what it really was ended up as her demise. Literature exists as a means to acceptance of the world; it is a boiled-down version of our society that helps us make sense of life.
To take the words of Arnold, “In the sea of life enisled, with echoing straits between us thrown, dotting the shoreless watery wild, we mortal millions live alone.”
From Lady Chatterley to Madame Bovary to Kurtz and Marlow to you and me, we are all asking the same question: what shores of what worlds? This is the question of your life. What shores will you live on and how will you live? It is a deeply personal quest; it is the quest. When Jung and Campbell talked about the hero journey; well, this is it.
A River Runs Through It defined my shores. I can pinpoint the exact moment, where I was sitting, what words I was reading. I’ll never forget- “Sometimes it is those we live with, and love, and should know that elude us.” The brevity--or maybe it was the poetry--of Maclean somehow made my whole life come together. The people that had been falling away from me, and the fact that I had been falling away from myself… suddenly I understood why it was happening. Suddenly it didn’t matter that those closest to me were suddenly farther away than ever; all that mattered was that I loved them and that we were there. Being there is good enough sometimes. Admitting that we will never understand is good enough sometimes too. I find a strange sort of comfort in not knowing, in blackness, in blindness.
Loneliness, pain, love- they are all so much more bearable and meaningful when something is next to you, when something is in your soul. Books give me this. Literature has taught me what school, parents, and relationships never could—how to question deeply, how to make every decision count, and how to derive my own shores.
Literature gives us permission to be real in a society where the only realness valued is reality television. Literature allows us to be raw when we are supposed to be airbrushed. We can be harsh, crude, crass, rough, or violent- emotions it is not prudent to display towards the real world. One makes love to literature or one rapes it. There is a fine line between coaxing meaning out and just ripping away what we desire, but the line exists nonetheless. Perhaps that is why it is so easy to feel so strongly while reading.
The “Walter Mitty” world can get very tiresome. It kills off the passionate side of our soul, and leaves us feeling disconcerted and bare. When something comes along that awakens that piece of us again, we jump at the opportunity to be real. We are so eager to feel in a society that is numb. Books encourage this, and readers understand this.
Last weekend, I spent Saturday in bed with Pride and Prejudice. It is a book one must caress softly and speak gently to, as Austen does not throw her prose out generously. And when the story is ready, it unfolds magnificently, grasping us. I read each page twice, slowly, savoring the moment, indulging myself in what is beauty at its purest. A woman and a man that weren’t willing to settle. It is a romantic’s story, certainly, but it is also a lover’s story. I think Casanova would have appreciated the long, drawn-out verbal seduction of both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. And isn’t that what literature is- seduction of the mind? It captivates, cruelly and intensely, holding us against the wall until we finally take from it what we must.
The power of human emotion is a major concept in Beloved. Sethe’s guilt manifested in the succubus of Beloved, Denver’s love for her mother ousted Beloved, and Beloved’s loneliness was part of the reason she infested the house in the first place. The footprints in the riverbed stand for many things, but at the root level, these footprints are guilt. Anyone that steps in them understands- the footprints mold, the story changes, the water changes its course. But when finally stepping out of the footprints, the prints disappear- disremembered. Beloved taught me that it is okay to disremember once the past has been dug up and reburied. Just knowing that it is okay to reify the past was something I needed to hear before I consumed myself with the past.
Books satiate our senses in a way that even other people cannot. Our mother, best friend, or lover sometimes cannot understand the depth of our feelings and the realness of our experience. Pain- more so than joy or anger- is unyielding. And it is pain that usually sends us running for our bookshelves, trying to locate the pages that will explain our own emotion to us. I read once that people find the books they need. I always do. Even when I am not sure what I am feeling, there is a book that knows. This is not escapism of the real world, but rather living in it even more completely. Books give us- or me, at least- an explanation, a reason, a cause… something. Something more.
Oftentimes the characters we fall in love with are searching for the same thing we are- importance, a deeper meaning, an understanding of a life that is not easy to understand. Emma Bovary, too, relished prose and lived her mental and emotional life through the literature she pored over. But in Emma’s quest for enlightenment, she only further deludes herself. I try to read for clarity, but I know that I too delude myself. I find myself believing that I am going to have a Mr. Darcy, or a Rochester, or a life-changing affair. At the end of the chapter- more often the end of the night- I wake up and leave the passion I crave buried somewhere in the sheets. Madame Bovary could not do this, and her inability to accept life for what it really was ended up as her demise. Literature exists as a means to acceptance of the world; it is a boiled-down version of our society that helps us make sense of life.
To take the words of Arnold, “In the sea of life enisled, with echoing straits between us thrown, dotting the shoreless watery wild, we mortal millions live alone.”
From Lady Chatterley to Madame Bovary to Kurtz and Marlow to you and me, we are all asking the same question: what shores of what worlds? This is the question of your life. What shores will you live on and how will you live? It is a deeply personal quest; it is the quest. When Jung and Campbell talked about the hero journey; well, this is it.
A River Runs Through It defined my shores. I can pinpoint the exact moment, where I was sitting, what words I was reading. I’ll never forget- “Sometimes it is those we live with, and love, and should know that elude us.” The brevity--or maybe it was the poetry--of Maclean somehow made my whole life come together. The people that had been falling away from me, and the fact that I had been falling away from myself… suddenly I understood why it was happening. Suddenly it didn’t matter that those closest to me were suddenly farther away than ever; all that mattered was that I loved them and that we were there. Being there is good enough sometimes. Admitting that we will never understand is good enough sometimes too. I find a strange sort of comfort in not knowing, in blackness, in blindness.
Loneliness, pain, love- they are all so much more bearable and meaningful when something is next to you, when something is in your soul. Books give me this. Literature has taught me what school, parents, and relationships never could—how to question deeply, how to make every decision count, and how to derive my own shores.
Disorder, Enthalpy, and Thermodynamics
3/11/2006
The enthalpy of the universe is constant. Even though energy is constantly leaving and entering, it is doing so in equal parts. This sounds so simple, yet it’s a difficult concept to truly grasp. If we had put a glass dome over Hiroshima before bombing it, we would still have the same amount of “stuff” as we did pre-bombing. Granted, the “stuff” is now obliterated into energy, particles, or just debris, but it’s still there. We can’t get rid of that “stuff.” This is the first law of thermodynamics… and it’s called a law for a reason, folks.
No matter what we do, all that energy is still going to be there. Atomic bombs, bazookas, or a bullet between the eyes will not change the amount of energy present. Those actions may cause a transfer of energy into matter, or change the “direction” of the energy, but we can’t get rid of it. So can we ever really destroy anything?
Though we burn our love letters from the one that broke our heart, and smash the picture frames against the wall, we’re not really getting rid of anything. At the purest level, we are transferring our pain into anger. We’re not burning anything away. In the end, there are no ashes, because nothing ever went up in flames. If we cannot create or destroy, are we ever over what happened? Is our energy just going from pain to anger to remorse to love again, transmitted in full amount? Or is our energy just being divvied up into smaller and smaller pieces?
In my experience, each breakup hurts less and less. Either I am, in the immortal words of Jet, a “cold hard bitch,” or my emotions are getting diluted, divided, and otherwise weakened. The passion of first kisses is waning, and the pain of being left doesn’t seem as harsh. If I can’t create or destroy, then after a few more relationships, I’m going to be, in the even more immortal words of Air Supply, “all out of love.”
No matter how “over” him we are, he’s still there. Always will be. He wasn’t our soulmate. Nor was the one before him… or the one before that. But ask a woman about any one of her past loves and I guarantee she will be able to recall him and their memories with perfect detail. Is it that we don’t have a choice in letting go, or do we just not want to let go? Is our energy- our emotion- left behind, or do we leave it there on purpose?
Maybe it’s wrong to try to define emotion via science, but I feel the need to rationalize romance. In my book, if I can’t define it, then it doesn’t exist. But here is this paradox that I can’t explain. Here is this phenomenon that the laws of physics I’ve believed in cannot justify. But I also believe that emotion is energy, and therefore it must be measurable. We must have some set quantity. We have to reach a point where there’s nothing left to give, nothing left to feel. It’s emotionally maxing out.
However, the universe is supposed to be infinite. Doesn’t that mean that the energy is infinite as well? Perhaps it’s only energy in a closed system that is always equal, always measurable. So it depends if our hearts, our emotions, are a closed system or not. And that is, by and large, something we decide for ourselves when entering a new relationship. Do we check our baggage or do we carry it with us as a constant reminder of our past? Do we allow ourselves to just transfer the love we felt for someone else onto someone new or do we just leave a little love behind? Do we create new emotion after every broken heart, or does new enter just as the old leaves?
It’s futile to try to understand, because emotion can’t be measured. We can’t change it into light and find its nearly infinite speed. We can’t change it into mass and find its kinetic energy. We can’t put a dome over it and blow it up. We just can’t. And maybe it’s better that way. It might be better that we can’t measure the love we’ve lost, gained, or have left behind- depending on which theory we abide by. But of course, the universe thrives on spontaneity, and maybe emotion is one of those spontaneous occurrences that give us the necessary disorder.
The enthalpy of the universe is constant. Even though energy is constantly leaving and entering, it is doing so in equal parts. This sounds so simple, yet it’s a difficult concept to truly grasp. If we had put a glass dome over Hiroshima before bombing it, we would still have the same amount of “stuff” as we did pre-bombing. Granted, the “stuff” is now obliterated into energy, particles, or just debris, but it’s still there. We can’t get rid of that “stuff.” This is the first law of thermodynamics… and it’s called a law for a reason, folks.
No matter what we do, all that energy is still going to be there. Atomic bombs, bazookas, or a bullet between the eyes will not change the amount of energy present. Those actions may cause a transfer of energy into matter, or change the “direction” of the energy, but we can’t get rid of it. So can we ever really destroy anything?
Though we burn our love letters from the one that broke our heart, and smash the picture frames against the wall, we’re not really getting rid of anything. At the purest level, we are transferring our pain into anger. We’re not burning anything away. In the end, there are no ashes, because nothing ever went up in flames. If we cannot create or destroy, are we ever over what happened? Is our energy just going from pain to anger to remorse to love again, transmitted in full amount? Or is our energy just being divvied up into smaller and smaller pieces?
In my experience, each breakup hurts less and less. Either I am, in the immortal words of Jet, a “cold hard bitch,” or my emotions are getting diluted, divided, and otherwise weakened. The passion of first kisses is waning, and the pain of being left doesn’t seem as harsh. If I can’t create or destroy, then after a few more relationships, I’m going to be, in the even more immortal words of Air Supply, “all out of love.”
No matter how “over” him we are, he’s still there. Always will be. He wasn’t our soulmate. Nor was the one before him… or the one before that. But ask a woman about any one of her past loves and I guarantee she will be able to recall him and their memories with perfect detail. Is it that we don’t have a choice in letting go, or do we just not want to let go? Is our energy- our emotion- left behind, or do we leave it there on purpose?
Maybe it’s wrong to try to define emotion via science, but I feel the need to rationalize romance. In my book, if I can’t define it, then it doesn’t exist. But here is this paradox that I can’t explain. Here is this phenomenon that the laws of physics I’ve believed in cannot justify. But I also believe that emotion is energy, and therefore it must be measurable. We must have some set quantity. We have to reach a point where there’s nothing left to give, nothing left to feel. It’s emotionally maxing out.
However, the universe is supposed to be infinite. Doesn’t that mean that the energy is infinite as well? Perhaps it’s only energy in a closed system that is always equal, always measurable. So it depends if our hearts, our emotions, are a closed system or not. And that is, by and large, something we decide for ourselves when entering a new relationship. Do we check our baggage or do we carry it with us as a constant reminder of our past? Do we allow ourselves to just transfer the love we felt for someone else onto someone new or do we just leave a little love behind? Do we create new emotion after every broken heart, or does new enter just as the old leaves?
It’s futile to try to understand, because emotion can’t be measured. We can’t change it into light and find its nearly infinite speed. We can’t change it into mass and find its kinetic energy. We can’t put a dome over it and blow it up. We just can’t. And maybe it’s better that way. It might be better that we can’t measure the love we’ve lost, gained, or have left behind- depending on which theory we abide by. But of course, the universe thrives on spontaneity, and maybe emotion is one of those spontaneous occurrences that give us the necessary disorder.
Baby's Gotten Good at Goodbye... or not
2/20/2006
For such a pessimistic and/or realistic society, we sure do get let down a lot.
The pain of giving up your dreams is nothing short of excruciating, even when that moment has been planned. Maybe it’s worse when you know the time will come when you have to let go- you’ve thought about it, analyzed it, mapped it out. Then all the sudden, it’s done. Gone. And you watch it fall away from you in slow motion for what seems like eternity.
Maybe we kid ourselves into thinking we won’t really have to give up. We feed ourselves false hope up until the very moment. Then the phone rings, and our feeding tubes are abruptly pulled.
Even when you know what’s happening is for the best, you still hold onto that sliver of a chance that everyone else is wrong and you’re right- you were right to hold on so tightly. However, it never works out that way. Everyone else is always right- just what did you see in it/him/or any other pronoun?
I’ve had quite a few lofty ambitions, far-out goals, and desperate relationships, and I’ve seen each one fall farther away from me. I’m slowly becoming emotionally void when it comes to losing. Why does everyone hold on so tightly? Is it ever justifiable to give up and let go? Yes, of course it is- but it doesn’t change the fact that most of us can’t seem to let anything or anyone go. We save our old love letters, prom dresses, ticket stubs, and unrealistic expectations like they’re vintage Versace.
How do we know when we’re beyond the point of no return? Is there a sign somewhere that says “STOP TRYING” in bold print? If so, I haven’t found it, and neither have a million other people holding on to bogus dreams. Why have we been raised to follow our dreams, when those dreams may be completely asinine? Whether it’s a picket fence and three kids or making partner at the firm, it seems like we’re lying to ourselves in outlandish proportions.
So has the sky gotten higher, or have we just gotten more naïve? Or maybe having high hopes ensures that we’ll at least get something sort of close to the sky. Is it better, though, to be a realist from the start? Do we really want to know we don’t have a chance with the GQ-esque guy in the corner, or would we rather have him be icily polite to us when we brave the cheese tray?
Whether it’s filling out that grad school application to Harvard, or just telling yourself that maybe the guy in Starbucks really was looking at you, this kind of hope is necessary. So we’re going to get let down ninety percent of the time, but at least saying goodbye gets easier… right?
For such a pessimistic and/or realistic society, we sure do get let down a lot.
The pain of giving up your dreams is nothing short of excruciating, even when that moment has been planned. Maybe it’s worse when you know the time will come when you have to let go- you’ve thought about it, analyzed it, mapped it out. Then all the sudden, it’s done. Gone. And you watch it fall away from you in slow motion for what seems like eternity.
Maybe we kid ourselves into thinking we won’t really have to give up. We feed ourselves false hope up until the very moment. Then the phone rings, and our feeding tubes are abruptly pulled.
Even when you know what’s happening is for the best, you still hold onto that sliver of a chance that everyone else is wrong and you’re right- you were right to hold on so tightly. However, it never works out that way. Everyone else is always right- just what did you see in it/him/or any other pronoun?
I’ve had quite a few lofty ambitions, far-out goals, and desperate relationships, and I’ve seen each one fall farther away from me. I’m slowly becoming emotionally void when it comes to losing. Why does everyone hold on so tightly? Is it ever justifiable to give up and let go? Yes, of course it is- but it doesn’t change the fact that most of us can’t seem to let anything or anyone go. We save our old love letters, prom dresses, ticket stubs, and unrealistic expectations like they’re vintage Versace.
How do we know when we’re beyond the point of no return? Is there a sign somewhere that says “STOP TRYING” in bold print? If so, I haven’t found it, and neither have a million other people holding on to bogus dreams. Why have we been raised to follow our dreams, when those dreams may be completely asinine? Whether it’s a picket fence and three kids or making partner at the firm, it seems like we’re lying to ourselves in outlandish proportions.
So has the sky gotten higher, or have we just gotten more naïve? Or maybe having high hopes ensures that we’ll at least get something sort of close to the sky. Is it better, though, to be a realist from the start? Do we really want to know we don’t have a chance with the GQ-esque guy in the corner, or would we rather have him be icily polite to us when we brave the cheese tray?
Whether it’s filling out that grad school application to Harvard, or just telling yourself that maybe the guy in Starbucks really was looking at you, this kind of hope is necessary. So we’re going to get let down ninety percent of the time, but at least saying goodbye gets easier… right?
Twenty Lashes: The New Borderline Between Pain and Pleasure
2/19/2006
Heartbreak. What a great time. Who doesn’t love sitting home alone on Friday nights, spending ungodly amounts of money on eBay?
Do we somehow desire the sting that comes at the demise of a relationship? Are the women looking for bad boys really looking for agony? When we know things will go sour, we trudge ahead anyways. Are we that naïve, or are we just hopeful? Do we like the challenge, or do we like the pain when we fail?
Women (and men to a lesser extent) deceive themselves into believing almost anything regarding love. I’ll admit to my friends how horrible a guy treats me, but it doesn’t stop me from waiting on him, cooking for him, and generally taking care of him. “He needs me” or the more common “he just needs time” are usually my excuses. Strangely, none of those relationships have worked out for me. So why do I stick it out for a few years? Do I subconsciously like feeling like shit when the relationship falls completely apart? Maybe I enjoy picking up the shards of my life and Scotch-taping them back together.
The line between what feels good and what doesn’t has become so blurred that S&M has become outrageously popular. Sex- what is supposed to be emotionally binding- now just binds our wrists to the bedposts. Whips and handcuffs (and not just physically speaking) now mar yet another aspect of our love lives. We’re losing sight of our own boundaries. When do you say enough is enough? How many lashes are too many?
The threshold between pain and pleasure is surprisingly porous, and I think Heathcliff and Cathy would agree. Few would argue the realness (not necessarily the functionality or rationality) of their love. But is their love real because pain and pleasure are so synonymous? Perhaps it’s real because they don’t guard themselves from pain, but rather submerge themselves in it. Today, we take just enough caution to barely impair our vision- just enough to let it hurt.
Have we been cultured into believing something that doesn’t hurt is a lie? Since when did simple pleasure become extinct?
Maybe simple pleasure just never existed.
Perhaps it’s human nature to want to feel the burn. Adam and Eve had it too good- she had to taste the fruit because even before Christ, having pleasure with no pain wasn’t natural. It’s programmed into us. Maybe wanting pain is the true primeval sin.
Heartbreak. What a great time. Who doesn’t love sitting home alone on Friday nights, spending ungodly amounts of money on eBay?
Do we somehow desire the sting that comes at the demise of a relationship? Are the women looking for bad boys really looking for agony? When we know things will go sour, we trudge ahead anyways. Are we that naïve, or are we just hopeful? Do we like the challenge, or do we like the pain when we fail?
Women (and men to a lesser extent) deceive themselves into believing almost anything regarding love. I’ll admit to my friends how horrible a guy treats me, but it doesn’t stop me from waiting on him, cooking for him, and generally taking care of him. “He needs me” or the more common “he just needs time” are usually my excuses. Strangely, none of those relationships have worked out for me. So why do I stick it out for a few years? Do I subconsciously like feeling like shit when the relationship falls completely apart? Maybe I enjoy picking up the shards of my life and Scotch-taping them back together.
The line between what feels good and what doesn’t has become so blurred that S&M has become outrageously popular. Sex- what is supposed to be emotionally binding- now just binds our wrists to the bedposts. Whips and handcuffs (and not just physically speaking) now mar yet another aspect of our love lives. We’re losing sight of our own boundaries. When do you say enough is enough? How many lashes are too many?
The threshold between pain and pleasure is surprisingly porous, and I think Heathcliff and Cathy would agree. Few would argue the realness (not necessarily the functionality or rationality) of their love. But is their love real because pain and pleasure are so synonymous? Perhaps it’s real because they don’t guard themselves from pain, but rather submerge themselves in it. Today, we take just enough caution to barely impair our vision- just enough to let it hurt.
Have we been cultured into believing something that doesn’t hurt is a lie? Since when did simple pleasure become extinct?
Maybe simple pleasure just never existed.
Perhaps it’s human nature to want to feel the burn. Adam and Eve had it too good- she had to taste the fruit because even before Christ, having pleasure with no pain wasn’t natural. It’s programmed into us. Maybe wanting pain is the true primeval sin.
What You See Is What You (may or may not) Get
2/13/2006
There has long been a debate between artists over the concept of white space. Good or bad? Lots or none at all? Valuable or insignificant? Is it worthwhile to have an area that’s completely untouched?
Having a white space makes colors pop. The object the artist is trying to draw becomes more easily visible, more alive, more accessible. Do we look at art to satiate our senses, or do we want to be left wondering about something? Perhaps this is the allure of art as a whole- the fact that we can always be wondering about something. “Was that clean space meant to be there? Is the painting unfinished? Is the artist trying to say something?” But maybe white space just causes us to overthink.
Some things are better left unsaid, left to the imagination, or just left to the dogs. An element of mystery keeps things exciting- keeps you coming back for more. Another look, another taste, another conversation, another lingering glance. There is something unspeakably sexy and raw about what isn’t said or shown. Do you want the girl that spills her life story and bares it all, or the girl that has a few secrets and keeps on a string of pearls? What you don’t know makes you beg for round two.
However, staying to learn more may not be the best reason to stay in the relationship. What happens when Gatsby’s green light is gone? His element of mystery has vanished and his desire for Daisy has went with it. Perhaps this is why middle-aged men that have been married for twenty years have affairs. There are no secrets left by that time. What you see is what you already have, and that is either reassuring (to a woman) or terrifying (to a man).
Having a white space in a relationship lets you see what you want to see. Are the unfilled corners purity or concealment? Is her mysteriousness just coyness, or is she hiding something? White space allows the artist to choose what the viewer will pay attention to, and this is a useful skill in a relationship. But is it a skill of deception? Is hiding part of the picture fair to the person trying to understand it?
Perhaps we all deceive each other in the beginning. It’s a part of the relationship game we assume must be played. Trying to figure a few things out is expected. The first time through Beloved, the first glimpse of Starry Night, the first date- we are thrilled by what we don’t know. This is the same allure of the dark stranger in a bar and the new car smell. We all love that initial “getting to know you” stage.
Consistency is not only the hobgoblin of foolish minds, but the hobgoblin of foolish hearts as well. Subconsciously or not, we’re all aware of what our significant other wants to hear. The cutthroat game of ambiguity has no real definitions, but I think all blind-daters out there on V-day know exactly how to play.
There has long been a debate between artists over the concept of white space. Good or bad? Lots or none at all? Valuable or insignificant? Is it worthwhile to have an area that’s completely untouched?
Having a white space makes colors pop. The object the artist is trying to draw becomes more easily visible, more alive, more accessible. Do we look at art to satiate our senses, or do we want to be left wondering about something? Perhaps this is the allure of art as a whole- the fact that we can always be wondering about something. “Was that clean space meant to be there? Is the painting unfinished? Is the artist trying to say something?” But maybe white space just causes us to overthink.
Some things are better left unsaid, left to the imagination, or just left to the dogs. An element of mystery keeps things exciting- keeps you coming back for more. Another look, another taste, another conversation, another lingering glance. There is something unspeakably sexy and raw about what isn’t said or shown. Do you want the girl that spills her life story and bares it all, or the girl that has a few secrets and keeps on a string of pearls? What you don’t know makes you beg for round two.
However, staying to learn more may not be the best reason to stay in the relationship. What happens when Gatsby’s green light is gone? His element of mystery has vanished and his desire for Daisy has went with it. Perhaps this is why middle-aged men that have been married for twenty years have affairs. There are no secrets left by that time. What you see is what you already have, and that is either reassuring (to a woman) or terrifying (to a man).
Having a white space in a relationship lets you see what you want to see. Are the unfilled corners purity or concealment? Is her mysteriousness just coyness, or is she hiding something? White space allows the artist to choose what the viewer will pay attention to, and this is a useful skill in a relationship. But is it a skill of deception? Is hiding part of the picture fair to the person trying to understand it?
Perhaps we all deceive each other in the beginning. It’s a part of the relationship game we assume must be played. Trying to figure a few things out is expected. The first time through Beloved, the first glimpse of Starry Night, the first date- we are thrilled by what we don’t know. This is the same allure of the dark stranger in a bar and the new car smell. We all love that initial “getting to know you” stage.
Consistency is not only the hobgoblin of foolish minds, but the hobgoblin of foolish hearts as well. Subconsciously or not, we’re all aware of what our significant other wants to hear. The cutthroat game of ambiguity has no real definitions, but I think all blind-daters out there on V-day know exactly how to play.
Self-Delusion: The New Prozac
1/30/2006
The line between truth and fiction has been blurred not only on a national level, but on a personal one as well, and for much longer. Whatever happened to “sort of true” and “based on the truth” being fiction? Does the real truth even matter anymore, or do we only care about what we perceive to be the truth?
The human mind is powerful, but is it powerful enough to convince us of what we wish was true? Can our mind- or heart- deceive us into believing a lie? We tell ourselves our boyfriend really was working late last night, and the female voice that answered his phone really was his sister. Sooner or later, we stop doubting what we initially knew was a lie. In the two sides to the same story, why can’t we say that one is true and the other a lie? Is there no such thing as the truth anymore?
Journalistically speaking, the truth cannot exist because the writer cannot possibly discern which source is completely credible and which is not. Religiously speaking, the truth is said to be blinding. Romantically speaking, the truth usually just hurts. So we’ve fudged it. We’ve meshed black and white to create a completely gray world where we can’t say yes or no, right or wrong, truth or fiction.
And we wonder why the divorce rate is fifty percent.
He cheated. “Sex is only physical, he really loves me.” He lied. “He was just trying to protect me.” He went MIA. “He didn’t want to hurt me anymore.” Come on! Why can’t we just say it was wrong? Are we not allowed to judge the actions of others anymore? Instead we give excuses for lying- excuses for anything less than the truth. No matter how hurt we are, we are forced into giving the other person the benefit of the doubt-- even when all signs are pointing towards “lie.”
Sure, white lies, those little lies that probably don’t really matter in the big scheme of the world, aren’t really hurting anyone. But white lies make the big lies just that much easier to tell. When we’re used to giving a knee-jerk answer, what’s going to stop us when the question being asked really matters?
Maybe ignorance really is bliss. Do we really want to know how many women he’s slept with anyways? Do we honestly want to know if a stripper was at the bachelor party? Do we really want him to tell us we look fat in our non-black dress? Maybe it’s just better, safer, and easier to believe what we want to believe. I think it’s a little bit emptying, though- to always hear what you want to hear. Especially when our hearts know the truth is otherwise.
No matter how many times we tell ourselves to trust him, don’t we internally know that the lie meter is ticking? Or have we found a way to muffle that as well? I’d like to think that, at heart, I still know when someone is lying to me. Maybe I’ll consciously make the decision to ignore it. I hope that decision hasn’t become completely subconscious, that I automatically tell myself not to care. Have I taught myself not to ask questions to which I don’t really want the answer? Or have I taught myself to simply take each answer as the truth if I want it to be the truth?
Unfortunately, the latter is probably correct. Of course we all want to believe what is best for us. I’m all for optimism, but this is really self-delusion. So not only do we believe lies, we’re lying to ourselves more than we lie to our lovers.
Has the world always been this way and it just takes Oprah denouncing someone’s memoirs to make us think about it? Or is lying- and not caring about it- a new development for mankind? Next week, will anyone care if Maureen Dowd is skirting the truth or if our boyfriend is twisting what he did last night? Or will we just decide if we want the story to be true or not? Maybe the truth just doesn’t matter anymore, politically, religiously, or romantically. Maybe he really did get stuck in traffic last night.
The line between truth and fiction has been blurred not only on a national level, but on a personal one as well, and for much longer. Whatever happened to “sort of true” and “based on the truth” being fiction? Does the real truth even matter anymore, or do we only care about what we perceive to be the truth?
The human mind is powerful, but is it powerful enough to convince us of what we wish was true? Can our mind- or heart- deceive us into believing a lie? We tell ourselves our boyfriend really was working late last night, and the female voice that answered his phone really was his sister. Sooner or later, we stop doubting what we initially knew was a lie. In the two sides to the same story, why can’t we say that one is true and the other a lie? Is there no such thing as the truth anymore?
Journalistically speaking, the truth cannot exist because the writer cannot possibly discern which source is completely credible and which is not. Religiously speaking, the truth is said to be blinding. Romantically speaking, the truth usually just hurts. So we’ve fudged it. We’ve meshed black and white to create a completely gray world where we can’t say yes or no, right or wrong, truth or fiction.
And we wonder why the divorce rate is fifty percent.
He cheated. “Sex is only physical, he really loves me.” He lied. “He was just trying to protect me.” He went MIA. “He didn’t want to hurt me anymore.” Come on! Why can’t we just say it was wrong? Are we not allowed to judge the actions of others anymore? Instead we give excuses for lying- excuses for anything less than the truth. No matter how hurt we are, we are forced into giving the other person the benefit of the doubt-- even when all signs are pointing towards “lie.”
Sure, white lies, those little lies that probably don’t really matter in the big scheme of the world, aren’t really hurting anyone. But white lies make the big lies just that much easier to tell. When we’re used to giving a knee-jerk answer, what’s going to stop us when the question being asked really matters?
Maybe ignorance really is bliss. Do we really want to know how many women he’s slept with anyways? Do we honestly want to know if a stripper was at the bachelor party? Do we really want him to tell us we look fat in our non-black dress? Maybe it’s just better, safer, and easier to believe what we want to believe. I think it’s a little bit emptying, though- to always hear what you want to hear. Especially when our hearts know the truth is otherwise.
No matter how many times we tell ourselves to trust him, don’t we internally know that the lie meter is ticking? Or have we found a way to muffle that as well? I’d like to think that, at heart, I still know when someone is lying to me. Maybe I’ll consciously make the decision to ignore it. I hope that decision hasn’t become completely subconscious, that I automatically tell myself not to care. Have I taught myself not to ask questions to which I don’t really want the answer? Or have I taught myself to simply take each answer as the truth if I want it to be the truth?
Unfortunately, the latter is probably correct. Of course we all want to believe what is best for us. I’m all for optimism, but this is really self-delusion. So not only do we believe lies, we’re lying to ourselves more than we lie to our lovers.
Has the world always been this way and it just takes Oprah denouncing someone’s memoirs to make us think about it? Or is lying- and not caring about it- a new development for mankind? Next week, will anyone care if Maureen Dowd is skirting the truth or if our boyfriend is twisting what he did last night? Or will we just decide if we want the story to be true or not? Maybe the truth just doesn’t matter anymore, politically, religiously, or romantically. Maybe he really did get stuck in traffic last night.
The Science of Heartbreak
1/29/2006
Is there any right way to end a relationship? A right way to leave someone? A right way to say it’s over? Whether it’s “I can’t do this anymore” or “We should see other people” or “I don’t love you anymore,” they all mean the same thing- goodbye.
We cry, complain, withdraw, and try to convince someone of our feelings for them. We write letters, burn CDs, listen to sad music, and hope the person who left us is doing the same. We pretend we are resilient, better off, but inside a piece of us is missing. Our very soul feels unsettlingly empty.
I’ve always told myself that the dice are loaded against me from day one in a relationship. After all, there’s only one “The One.” This means that, chances are, my flavor of the week is not the man I’m going to marry. Sometimes my little philosophy makes the breakup easier to deal with- mathematically, I knew it was going to happen, right? I’m able to bypass “Go” and collect another scar on my heart, then move right on into Mediterranean Avenue. I usually don’t look back on what I thought was my Park Place, because I know that, mathematically speaking, he probably wasn’t.
Unfortunately for me, as scientific as I am, I cannot avoid heartbreak completely. I can’t rationalize why I feel like I just lost a part of myself. Mediterranean Avenue, though I’ve been through it a million times before, feels so lonely and foreign and, well, cheap. I’d gotten used to the luxury of Park Place, of having someone next to me. Maybe a few windows were broken, but so what? That’s nothing compared to looking out the single window of a one-bedroom apartment alone. The song “sleeping single in a double bed” comes to mind here.
When there are no more tears to cry and no more words to say, what is there left to do? Resuming life alone is close to unbearable. We try new hobbies, or work out maniacally, or maybe read a book or two, but then what? What happens after the initial pain has subsided and all that’s left is a dull, nagging reminder of what used to be in your heart?
We spend our days with our chin up and our heart down; a smile on and our feelings off; acting strong and being weaker than ever. After the breakup, there is no one’s hand to hold, no one to put on speed dial, no one to just be with when a girlfriend simply won’t suffice. And then it hits us- we’re really alone now. We see him with the newer, updated version of us- someone a little smarter, or a little prettier, a little something more than we were. And suddenly, the past months, or years, are supposed to be erased. We suddenly must pretend that we never loved each other at all.
How is it that men can seemingly forget and women pine away for months? Does love just mean more to us? To a woman, loving someone is the most intimate experience- we bare our hearts and spill our life into his hands. We think about it before we say those three loaded words- “I love you.” And when he says it, we assume he means it to the extent that we do. However, after the man that “loves” us leaves us a few too many times, we begin to guard ourselves.
But is it fair to guard your heart in a relationship? Should we go into battle with our shields up, or do we take the risk of an arrow piercing our skin? Is a little blood worth a shot at glory? Blood loss, however, can be fatal- just as breakups seem to be as well. But wounds scab over and scars fade, and while our heart will never be quite the same, the holes someone else dug are eventually filled in. This is a road we will walk down many times, creating a past that is impossible to forget, but one we will someday look back on and realize the beauty of the pain we survived.
Is there any right way to end a relationship? A right way to leave someone? A right way to say it’s over? Whether it’s “I can’t do this anymore” or “We should see other people” or “I don’t love you anymore,” they all mean the same thing- goodbye.
We cry, complain, withdraw, and try to convince someone of our feelings for them. We write letters, burn CDs, listen to sad music, and hope the person who left us is doing the same. We pretend we are resilient, better off, but inside a piece of us is missing. Our very soul feels unsettlingly empty.
I’ve always told myself that the dice are loaded against me from day one in a relationship. After all, there’s only one “The One.” This means that, chances are, my flavor of the week is not the man I’m going to marry. Sometimes my little philosophy makes the breakup easier to deal with- mathematically, I knew it was going to happen, right? I’m able to bypass “Go” and collect another scar on my heart, then move right on into Mediterranean Avenue. I usually don’t look back on what I thought was my Park Place, because I know that, mathematically speaking, he probably wasn’t.
Unfortunately for me, as scientific as I am, I cannot avoid heartbreak completely. I can’t rationalize why I feel like I just lost a part of myself. Mediterranean Avenue, though I’ve been through it a million times before, feels so lonely and foreign and, well, cheap. I’d gotten used to the luxury of Park Place, of having someone next to me. Maybe a few windows were broken, but so what? That’s nothing compared to looking out the single window of a one-bedroom apartment alone. The song “sleeping single in a double bed” comes to mind here.
When there are no more tears to cry and no more words to say, what is there left to do? Resuming life alone is close to unbearable. We try new hobbies, or work out maniacally, or maybe read a book or two, but then what? What happens after the initial pain has subsided and all that’s left is a dull, nagging reminder of what used to be in your heart?
We spend our days with our chin up and our heart down; a smile on and our feelings off; acting strong and being weaker than ever. After the breakup, there is no one’s hand to hold, no one to put on speed dial, no one to just be with when a girlfriend simply won’t suffice. And then it hits us- we’re really alone now. We see him with the newer, updated version of us- someone a little smarter, or a little prettier, a little something more than we were. And suddenly, the past months, or years, are supposed to be erased. We suddenly must pretend that we never loved each other at all.
How is it that men can seemingly forget and women pine away for months? Does love just mean more to us? To a woman, loving someone is the most intimate experience- we bare our hearts and spill our life into his hands. We think about it before we say those three loaded words- “I love you.” And when he says it, we assume he means it to the extent that we do. However, after the man that “loves” us leaves us a few too many times, we begin to guard ourselves.
But is it fair to guard your heart in a relationship? Should we go into battle with our shields up, or do we take the risk of an arrow piercing our skin? Is a little blood worth a shot at glory? Blood loss, however, can be fatal- just as breakups seem to be as well. But wounds scab over and scars fade, and while our heart will never be quite the same, the holes someone else dug are eventually filled in. This is a road we will walk down many times, creating a past that is impossible to forget, but one we will someday look back on and realize the beauty of the pain we survived.
L-O-V-E: The New Four-Letter Word
1/28/2006
In the advent of speed dating and eHarmony, as well as The Rules and He’s Just Not That Into You, and my personal favorite, Let’s Face It- You Weren’t That Into Him Either, has the definition of love changed?
No longer do women believe that it takes twice the amount you were with someone to get over them. It’s simply not socially acceptable anymore. It’s not politically correct to say a man broke your heart; if he broke it, that means we gave it to him. (Sorry- he “stole” it, right?) We’re not allowed to take a breather from the dating scene in fear that we may get cycled out completely. Although women today are single, forty, and supposedly loving it, it is still frowned upon to say, “I don’t want to date.” Imagine the awkward lull in conversation. It appears we are at a threshold in the dating world- don’t let men break your heart, but don’t stop dating. Which will it be?
Are women becoming more desperate or just more resourceful? Should love have to be resourceful, or are women today not even looking for love? Love has taken a backseat to something safe. Maybe it's not groundbreaking and maybe we don't care. If he's there in the morning when we wake up, why complain? We don’t believe in fairy tales anymore and we can’t grasp that someone can sweep us off our feet. This sort of thing is reduced to childish stupidity, and maybe it is. But if we don’t believe in fairy tales, then we don’t believe in love at all. Maybe it’s not the conventional fairy tale with a white horse and whatnot- but a fairy tale in that a man and a woman can just fall in love and just be happy. Why is it so wrong to believe that?
A lot of women, myself included, are calling this new mentality a reality check. Why, after dating dog after dog, should I believe that the next guy is “The One”? Why, when I realize every shortcoming all my exes had, should I sit and cry over them? Logic is against actions like that. And isn’t that the definition of insanity- doing the same thing over and over expecting different results? Ladies, I hate to say it, but love is insanity. If it were rational, would it be so amazing? Would we read about people taking bullets for their lover? Would we watch movies like The Notebook and imagine ourselves in the cast? It’s hardwired into women to want that sort of thing. To fight it is to fight biology. But admitting we want love like that… well, it’s not easy.
In a society where women are encouraged to go for careers rather than car pools and Wall Street over a wedding day, it is no wonder women are anti-love. And it’s not just anti-love, but anti-romance and anti-men. We say we don’t want men that send us flowers because “it’s a waste of time and money.” We say we don’t want men that open doors because “this is 2006 and we can do it ourselves.” We say we don’t want men that pick up the check because “we probably make more money than they do anyways.” Are we losing sight of what our heart really wants?
But who am I to say what’s wrong with women today? I regularly say that I don’t believe in love. I don’t admit when men break my heart; I keep my chin up and throw myself back on to the dating treadmill (at least in public; at home I may be feeding the stereotype of the heartbroken woman with her Ben & Jerry’s). When people ask my future plans, getting married and having kids is never a part of those plans. I don’t like feeling submissive, subjective, or stupid, and love makes me all of those things. By not believing in love, I can have my cake and eat it too. He can be in love with me, and I’m able to just be with him. And isn’t it better that way?
I worry that my children (I’m not admitting I might have them, mind you) will simply fill out a lengthy survey about their ideal mate and then walk down to the courthouse to meet that mate the next day. I don’t want love to be boiled down and simplified for them, because love is the one thing we shouldn’t understand. I want my daughter to experience heartbreak many times over because it will make her stronger; heartbreak defines us and gives us character. I want her to be able to cry over romantic movies and be wide-eyed over puppy love without feeling like she’s doing her gender a huge disservice.
If being heartbroken is not allowed, the heart will never be whole enough to give to someone else. Who fills in those holes our previous love left? We give pieces of ourselves to the people we love, and we don’t get those pieces back. When the love ends, we have to rebuild. But today, the restoration process seems to be almost extinct. A string of other men and one-night-stands are not a recipe for feeling better when someone has left a bowling ball in your chest. Ignoring pain is never the solution.
Ghosts of past loves lie in bed with us long after someone else has begun lying next to us. And they will stay there, nestled in the middle, until we find a new love that has surpassed the dedication we used to know. It’s just the way the heart works. It doesn’t mean we still love them, it just means they have set some sort of a standard (however low or high that standard may be). It just means that heartbreak and love do exist, no matter how much we want to pretend they don’t.
Being in love, feeling love, and giving love are probably the only ways to feel fulfilled in this world. Because at the end of your long, stressful, power-woman day, should it be so wrong to want to come home and find flowers on your doorstep?
In the advent of speed dating and eHarmony, as well as The Rules and He’s Just Not That Into You, and my personal favorite, Let’s Face It- You Weren’t That Into Him Either, has the definition of love changed?
No longer do women believe that it takes twice the amount you were with someone to get over them. It’s simply not socially acceptable anymore. It’s not politically correct to say a man broke your heart; if he broke it, that means we gave it to him. (Sorry- he “stole” it, right?) We’re not allowed to take a breather from the dating scene in fear that we may get cycled out completely. Although women today are single, forty, and supposedly loving it, it is still frowned upon to say, “I don’t want to date.” Imagine the awkward lull in conversation. It appears we are at a threshold in the dating world- don’t let men break your heart, but don’t stop dating. Which will it be?
Are women becoming more desperate or just more resourceful? Should love have to be resourceful, or are women today not even looking for love? Love has taken a backseat to something safe. Maybe it's not groundbreaking and maybe we don't care. If he's there in the morning when we wake up, why complain? We don’t believe in fairy tales anymore and we can’t grasp that someone can sweep us off our feet. This sort of thing is reduced to childish stupidity, and maybe it is. But if we don’t believe in fairy tales, then we don’t believe in love at all. Maybe it’s not the conventional fairy tale with a white horse and whatnot- but a fairy tale in that a man and a woman can just fall in love and just be happy. Why is it so wrong to believe that?
A lot of women, myself included, are calling this new mentality a reality check. Why, after dating dog after dog, should I believe that the next guy is “The One”? Why, when I realize every shortcoming all my exes had, should I sit and cry over them? Logic is against actions like that. And isn’t that the definition of insanity- doing the same thing over and over expecting different results? Ladies, I hate to say it, but love is insanity. If it were rational, would it be so amazing? Would we read about people taking bullets for their lover? Would we watch movies like The Notebook and imagine ourselves in the cast? It’s hardwired into women to want that sort of thing. To fight it is to fight biology. But admitting we want love like that… well, it’s not easy.
In a society where women are encouraged to go for careers rather than car pools and Wall Street over a wedding day, it is no wonder women are anti-love. And it’s not just anti-love, but anti-romance and anti-men. We say we don’t want men that send us flowers because “it’s a waste of time and money.” We say we don’t want men that open doors because “this is 2006 and we can do it ourselves.” We say we don’t want men that pick up the check because “we probably make more money than they do anyways.” Are we losing sight of what our heart really wants?
But who am I to say what’s wrong with women today? I regularly say that I don’t believe in love. I don’t admit when men break my heart; I keep my chin up and throw myself back on to the dating treadmill (at least in public; at home I may be feeding the stereotype of the heartbroken woman with her Ben & Jerry’s). When people ask my future plans, getting married and having kids is never a part of those plans. I don’t like feeling submissive, subjective, or stupid, and love makes me all of those things. By not believing in love, I can have my cake and eat it too. He can be in love with me, and I’m able to just be with him. And isn’t it better that way?
I worry that my children (I’m not admitting I might have them, mind you) will simply fill out a lengthy survey about their ideal mate and then walk down to the courthouse to meet that mate the next day. I don’t want love to be boiled down and simplified for them, because love is the one thing we shouldn’t understand. I want my daughter to experience heartbreak many times over because it will make her stronger; heartbreak defines us and gives us character. I want her to be able to cry over romantic movies and be wide-eyed over puppy love without feeling like she’s doing her gender a huge disservice.
If being heartbroken is not allowed, the heart will never be whole enough to give to someone else. Who fills in those holes our previous love left? We give pieces of ourselves to the people we love, and we don’t get those pieces back. When the love ends, we have to rebuild. But today, the restoration process seems to be almost extinct. A string of other men and one-night-stands are not a recipe for feeling better when someone has left a bowling ball in your chest. Ignoring pain is never the solution.
Ghosts of past loves lie in bed with us long after someone else has begun lying next to us. And they will stay there, nestled in the middle, until we find a new love that has surpassed the dedication we used to know. It’s just the way the heart works. It doesn’t mean we still love them, it just means they have set some sort of a standard (however low or high that standard may be). It just means that heartbreak and love do exist, no matter how much we want to pretend they don’t.
Being in love, feeling love, and giving love are probably the only ways to feel fulfilled in this world. Because at the end of your long, stressful, power-woman day, should it be so wrong to want to come home and find flowers on your doorstep?
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