Last night I was working as a phone volunteer for the KCRW pledge drive - support your local public radio station, people! Given that it was a Friday night, the calls were somewhat less than abundant, and the other volunteers and I were chatting between calls. Since part of the pledge drive includes enrollment in a sweepstakes for a European vacation, some of us got to talking about our own vacations, past and hoped-for, and since then I've been thinking of the rather bittersweet relationship I have with Paris.
My first trip to Paris was almost 10 years ago, January 1998. It was my honeymoon. This was an unusual extravagance at the time; I was working and finishing grad school, the husband-to-be earned a modest salary, and we had kept the wedding plans pretty much to the bare minimum. We had talked about doing a very simple honeymoon, a long weekend in a B+B, but one week the Sunday Times travel section had an ad for some cheap airfares to Paris, and an idea was born.
I learned a valuable lesson on that trip that I pass on to every bride-to-be I encounter. If people at your wedding are sneezing, coughing, or appear unwell in any way, save yourselves and send them away. Or, at the very least, banish them to a table far, far away from you. My new stepmother-in-law and sister-in-law had what I can only describe as Martian death flu at my wedding, and on our second day in Paris, the husband developed a raging fever and chills. The bulk of my honeymoon can be summed up in one scene: a much younger me, stumbling into a Parisian pharmacy, knowing no French whatsoever, where a kindly Parisian pharmacist deciphered my frantic miming and provided me with le Tylenol, le Advil, and le Vicks Vapo Rub. The husband didn't fully recover for a few weeks, so our first time in Paris was largely a wash.
Over 7 years later, in the fall of 2005, we had our next big vacation - London and Paris for 10 days. It was what I hoped would be the end of a particularly rough time for us, one that included over a year of trying to get pregnant, a failed in vitro fertilization cycle, and a number of sessions with a couples therapist. We both worked long hours and (I thought) looked forward to this chance to reconnect, away from work and cell phones and my doctor reminding me that my eggs weren't getting any younger. I thought that we had a reasonably good time on the trip - granted, he spent a fair amount of time in London criticizing my sightseeing choices, and he did tell our therapist the week prior to our departure that he hoped I would drink more on the trip so that I would loosen up a little (an excellent thing to tell the daughter of an alcoholic, don't you think?), but there was Paris, still insanely beautiful and romantic. It was moving, going back to the site of our disastrous honeymoon almost 8 years after the fact. I left Paris feeling that whatever problems we were having, we loved one another and therefore would work things out. 6 months later, after he had moved out, I discovered (don't ask how) that during that trip, he had all but decided that the marriage was over, that I was too needy, too helpless, not adventurous enough, whatever.
For several weeks after he moved out, I was an absolute train wreck. It took everything I had to go to work, do my job, pay the bills and feed the cats. But about 2 months into it, shortly after making the aforementioned humiliating discovery, I read an article about 'volunteer vacations'; specifically, a group that performed architectural restoration work in St. Victor la Coste, a small village outside of Provence. It took approximately 30 seconds for me to put my deposit check in the mail, and to start planning what would be my first solo vacation. To prove to myself that I wasn't the helpless creature my ex made me out to be, I bookended my time with the restoration group with solo outings; first, a long weekend in Barcelona, and to finish the trip, a day in Paris.
By the time I went on vacation, over 5 months had elapsed since the breakup, and our paperwork was already in the hands of lawyers. I had an amazing time on that vacation, with the group and on my solo outings. Thanks to my time there, I now know how to mix mortar and build a stone wall, and that I love pastis. But what I'm focused on now is that last day.
I had taken the train up from Avignon, and then a taxi to the hotel to drop my bags off and change. Then I found my way to the Metro and crammed in as much as I possibly could - some new things ( the D'Orsay), and some repeats from my prior trips (the Picasso Museum and a hot chocolate at Angeline's, down the street from the Louvre).
What I remember most from that night, however, is this:
After my hot chocolate, I made my way down the rue de Rivoli, intending to walk past the place de la Concorde and down the Champs Elysees. I hadn't gone very far when it grew colder and started to rain. In my hurry to get on with my day, I had left my umbrella and extra jacket at the hotel, so I bought a shawl from one of the vendors along the street, wrapped myself up, and headed to the nearest English language bookstore. A few doors down, I settled myself in a small cafe at a table next to the sidewalk, just inside the front doors that were open but shielded from the downpour by a large awning. I had purchased Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking at the bookstore, and I read it there while drinking an overpriced beer and watching the rain, and the people scurrying by, struggling with their umbrellas in the wind.
I've since loaned my copy of that book (wonderful, by the way) to my mother, so I can't quote Ms. Didion's words appropriately. But I came to a passage where she talks about feeling invisible after her husband's death, as though in losing him, she lost herself as well. I've been lonely plenty of times before and since, but I have never felt as alone as I did at that moment, and yet, it wasn't as bad as it sounds. I was in a place that I had associated with love, and dreams of a future that wasn't mine anymore. No one in my life knew where I was at that moment, and when I got on the plane the next day and flew back to LAX, no one would be at the airport waiting to welcome me home. I sat there thinking about this, trying not to cry and make a complete ass of myself. I don't know why it would be easier for me to see the truth that my marriage was over thousands of miles from home, but it was. And somehow it was okay. I had traveled through two countries perfectly well on my own, unable to speak more than a few words of the native tongue in either place. But I had found my hotels, made my train connections, ate and drank very well, and stayed out of harm's way while enjoying some of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen, places where I refuse to believe that people actually buy groceries and toilet paper and pick up their dry cleaning, because how could you possibly do that when you have distractions like the Seine, the Jardin des Tuileries, the Arc de Triomphe, and even the simplest of their apartment buildings and shops make everyday life look magical?
The rain eventually stopped, and I left that cafe, walked some more, got dinner and made my way back to the hotel. And the next day I flew home.
It's hard to say everything I feel about that trip without wallowing in cliches (those of you thinking 'too late' can just keep that thought to yourselves, thank you). But I guess what I felt the most was relief. In the year leading up to that trip, I had lost nearly everything I'd wanted for my future - my career was driving me insane, I couldn't have a baby, and now I had no husband, either. But sitting there, watching the rain and the tourists and the chain-smoking cafe patrons, I could still see the beauty of the city , feel curiosity about the inhabitants and the sites I had not yet seen, and love it all enough that I didn't need or want to be anywhere that moment except where I actually was.
I haven't yet planned my next vacation. If I move back to Boston, I plan to make a road trip of it - me, the cat and my ipod in my Honda, cutting across the South in search of good barbecue and appropriately tacky tschotkes from Graceland. I'd love to get back to Barcelona (where that last vacation started) and maybe on to Madrid, although I wouldn't mind having someone to share my tapas with the next time around (I do have someone in mind, but like everything else, there's a story there). But if time and finances allow me, I'd like to see Paris again, at all the stages of my life. I think about going back to my favorite museums, sharing a bottle of wine in a cafe on the Latin Quarter with someone, taking my kids to Angeline's for some more hot chocolate. This may sound dreamy and overly romanticized. Between trips number two and three, however, there was a time when all I wanted was to feel numb so that I'd wouldn't care so much the next time I lost something or someone. The relief that I felt that night in the cafe came about when I realized that I finally wanted to feel something again, happy, sad, or otherwise.
And that's what Paris means to me.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
fab in the house (again)
Yet again, I've been slacking, but here's a little something until I have time to piece together a semi-coherent narrative once more:
- Just returned from visiting a friend in Louisville, Kentucky, and I have been instructed to tell the rest of the world that this cool little city is not filled with country bumpkins ignorant of modern conveniences and culture. The rents are cheap, the restaurants are amazing and my liver is recovering from the consumption of (too many) fine wines. If only they could do something about the humidity. And the lack of Trader Joe's.
- I got a 97 on the stats midterm I took last week. Alas, since this feat was the result of my skills in the fine art of cramming, I could not for the life of me explain any of the formulas that I knew by heart last week. My exam was done at about 8:45pm, and by 9, those suckers were gone.
- Anyone who complains about Harry Potter ,book 7, is just a hater and should be ignored. Or flogged, your choice.
- I went to see Snow Patrol at the Greek Theatre last night. After watching his performance on the big screens alongside the stage, I'm partially convinced that the lead singer has Tourette's, or perhaps a neuromuscular disorder. Granted, he is a white boy, but that does not excuse what I can only assume were his attempts at dancing. Fortunately for those of us in the audience, the boy can sing (and with an Irish accent, no less), so all is forgiven.
- Philosophical debate of the day: is it better to remain ignorant of a situation, always wondering 'what if'? Or better to find out the truth, but only after it's too late to change anything about it? I can't decide either.
- Just returned from visiting a friend in Louisville, Kentucky, and I have been instructed to tell the rest of the world that this cool little city is not filled with country bumpkins ignorant of modern conveniences and culture. The rents are cheap, the restaurants are amazing and my liver is recovering from the consumption of (too many) fine wines. If only they could do something about the humidity. And the lack of Trader Joe's.
- I got a 97 on the stats midterm I took last week. Alas, since this feat was the result of my skills in the fine art of cramming, I could not for the life of me explain any of the formulas that I knew by heart last week. My exam was done at about 8:45pm, and by 9, those suckers were gone.
- Anyone who complains about Harry Potter ,book 7, is just a hater and should be ignored. Or flogged, your choice.
- I went to see Snow Patrol at the Greek Theatre last night. After watching his performance on the big screens alongside the stage, I'm partially convinced that the lead singer has Tourette's, or perhaps a neuromuscular disorder. Granted, he is a white boy, but that does not excuse what I can only assume were his attempts at dancing. Fortunately for those of us in the audience, the boy can sing (and with an Irish accent, no less), so all is forgiven.
- Philosophical debate of the day: is it better to remain ignorant of a situation, always wondering 'what if'? Or better to find out the truth, but only after it's too late to change anything about it? I can't decide either.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
if they gave medals in procrastination...
I was reminded today that I have been woefully remiss in keeping up with my postings of late, so here's some random commentary from the past few weeks:
- Psychological statistics is a deathly boring topic. I'm taking it at UCLA this quarter and have to keep reminding myself that this is the last prerequisite course that I need in order to start applying to PsyD programs this fall. I have my first exam tomorrow night and my brain is awash in formulas, all of which I keep mixing up. Prayer would be a good option except that I'm agnostic. Perhaps I should sacrifice a chicken?
- Fashion retailers hate the average American woman. It's the only conclusion I can arrive at after spending a chunk of this (overly warm) afternoon looking for the perfect little sundress that I can wear with flip-flops. Hell, I would have settled for a merely adequate sundress. Instead I came across a plethora of fall clothing but very little that could actually be worn now without suffering heatstroke. Another thing I've noticed about sale racks; there's often a good reason why these items never sold at full price. I tried on one dress where I seriously couldn't tell which side was the front and which was the back. I've decided that any item of clothing that requires an instruction manual should stay on the sale rack and out of my closet; I'm disoriented enough in the morning.
- Being single is seriously boring.
- My current area of internal debate (because lord knows I can't go more than a day or two without fretting over something) is regarding where I should move next. I'm more or less done with LA and am planning on moving before the end of the year; the question is where. My two top possibilities are San Francisco (or somewhere in the Bay area), and Boston. My big fear about moving back to Massachusetts, my home until age 21, is that I will regress back to my youthful self (i.e. dorky and rampantly insecure) and will end up adopting 5 more cats, gaining 50 pounds and becoming a cranky spinster. Not to mention freezing to death (LA has its faults, but the weather does kick ass). But some days I just feel like going home.
- For once in my life, I may actually have stumbled across a cool band before they become popular (so now I can be one of those annoying types who says, "Well, I liked them back BEFORE they became huge..."). The band in question is Scouting for Girls and I have a flaming crush on the lead singer, who is probably all of 20 years old. But who cares? He's British; that makes up for all kinds of flaws. I've only heard them on a local indie radio station once, but you can see them on MySpace ( http://www.myspace.com/scoutingforgirls ). Watch their video for "It's Not About You"; that's my favorite song so far. And no drooling over Roy, he's mine.
- Only 6 days left until Harry Potter book 7! Thank god it comes out after this test, otherwise I'd be completely doomed.
- Have I mentioned how godawful boring statistics is? It bears repeating.
- Psychological statistics is a deathly boring topic. I'm taking it at UCLA this quarter and have to keep reminding myself that this is the last prerequisite course that I need in order to start applying to PsyD programs this fall. I have my first exam tomorrow night and my brain is awash in formulas, all of which I keep mixing up. Prayer would be a good option except that I'm agnostic. Perhaps I should sacrifice a chicken?
- Fashion retailers hate the average American woman. It's the only conclusion I can arrive at after spending a chunk of this (overly warm) afternoon looking for the perfect little sundress that I can wear with flip-flops. Hell, I would have settled for a merely adequate sundress. Instead I came across a plethora of fall clothing but very little that could actually be worn now without suffering heatstroke. Another thing I've noticed about sale racks; there's often a good reason why these items never sold at full price. I tried on one dress where I seriously couldn't tell which side was the front and which was the back. I've decided that any item of clothing that requires an instruction manual should stay on the sale rack and out of my closet; I'm disoriented enough in the morning.
- Being single is seriously boring.
- My current area of internal debate (because lord knows I can't go more than a day or two without fretting over something) is regarding where I should move next. I'm more or less done with LA and am planning on moving before the end of the year; the question is where. My two top possibilities are San Francisco (or somewhere in the Bay area), and Boston. My big fear about moving back to Massachusetts, my home until age 21, is that I will regress back to my youthful self (i.e. dorky and rampantly insecure) and will end up adopting 5 more cats, gaining 50 pounds and becoming a cranky spinster. Not to mention freezing to death (LA has its faults, but the weather does kick ass). But some days I just feel like going home.
- For once in my life, I may actually have stumbled across a cool band before they become popular (so now I can be one of those annoying types who says, "Well, I liked them back BEFORE they became huge..."). The band in question is Scouting for Girls and I have a flaming crush on the lead singer, who is probably all of 20 years old. But who cares? He's British; that makes up for all kinds of flaws. I've only heard them on a local indie radio station once, but you can see them on MySpace ( http://www.myspace.com/scoutingforgirls ). Watch their video for "It's Not About You"; that's my favorite song so far. And no drooling over Roy, he's mine.
- Only 6 days left until Harry Potter book 7! Thank god it comes out after this test, otherwise I'd be completely doomed.
- Have I mentioned how godawful boring statistics is? It bears repeating.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
endings and other upheavals
I can't tell if my life actually has been fucked up lately or if I'm just being a drama queen. See for yourself.
- I got my ex-husband's financial paperwork from my lawyer a few days ago, another step closer to my divorce being final. This pleases me. The ex is doing very well financially, and has saved quite a bit of money since we split. I, however, have enlarged my shoe collection by several pairs, and am feeling somewhat foolish as a result. This does not please me.
- I almost took a new job and left the foolishness at BSMC once and for all. However, the prosepective new employers were offering less money and less vacation, and I decided to stay where I am. Three days after making this decision, I found myself still in my office after 8:30pm on a Friday, cursing our lab for delaying important test results yet again. This is not what I would consider positive reinforcement of my decision, but there you have it.
- The Writer dumped me on Wednesday night. He called around 10pm, and with very little preamble informed me that he doesn't want to be a boyfriend and isn't really in to dating right now, even though I'm wonderful and he feels badly about it and blah blah blah. Once again, I am not pleased. The upside, however, is that since being dumped automatically puts me into what I affectionately think of as "Fat ugly and neurotic mode", it has brought me back to my neighborhood yoga studio in the hopes of preventing any stress-induced, chocolate-fueled weight gain. Plus, as I just fired my acupuncturist, I'm hoping the yoga might coax my shoulders from their current position approximately 1 mm below my earlobes. Why did I fire her, you ask? In addition to making me drink an herb mixture that tastes like hell 3 times a day, she was very into this treatment called cupping. The involves punching countless holes in my back with something that feels like a staple gun, then applying suction cups in the hopes of 'releasing stagnant energy'. If you saw "Alien: Resurrection" (the one where a pre-shoplifting Winona Ryder plays an android), remember the scene at the end where Sigourney Weaver breaks a tiny hole in the window of the spaceship, and the alien gets sucked against it and the sheer force squirts his entire body out of the ship like one long strand of spaghetti? That's what cupping feels like. I'd rather keep my migraines, thanks.
But it could be worse. My orchids are alive and well. I have the weekend off. And I still have one reliable man in my life, although he does hog the pillows.
- I got my ex-husband's financial paperwork from my lawyer a few days ago, another step closer to my divorce being final. This pleases me. The ex is doing very well financially, and has saved quite a bit of money since we split. I, however, have enlarged my shoe collection by several pairs, and am feeling somewhat foolish as a result. This does not please me.
- I almost took a new job and left the foolishness at BSMC once and for all. However, the prosepective new employers were offering less money and less vacation, and I decided to stay where I am. Three days after making this decision, I found myself still in my office after 8:30pm on a Friday, cursing our lab for delaying important test results yet again. This is not what I would consider positive reinforcement of my decision, but there you have it.
- The Writer dumped me on Wednesday night. He called around 10pm, and with very little preamble informed me that he doesn't want to be a boyfriend and isn't really in to dating right now, even though I'm wonderful and he feels badly about it and blah blah blah. Once again, I am not pleased. The upside, however, is that since being dumped automatically puts me into what I affectionately think of as "Fat ugly and neurotic mode", it has brought me back to my neighborhood yoga studio in the hopes of preventing any stress-induced, chocolate-fueled weight gain. Plus, as I just fired my acupuncturist, I'm hoping the yoga might coax my shoulders from their current position approximately 1 mm below my earlobes. Why did I fire her, you ask? In addition to making me drink an herb mixture that tastes like hell 3 times a day, she was very into this treatment called cupping. The involves punching countless holes in my back with something that feels like a staple gun, then applying suction cups in the hopes of 'releasing stagnant energy'. If you saw "Alien: Resurrection" (the one where a pre-shoplifting Winona Ryder plays an android), remember the scene at the end where Sigourney Weaver breaks a tiny hole in the window of the spaceship, and the alien gets sucked against it and the sheer force squirts his entire body out of the ship like one long strand of spaghetti? That's what cupping feels like. I'd rather keep my migraines, thanks.
But it could be worse. My orchids are alive and well. I have the weekend off. And I still have one reliable man in my life, although he does hog the pillows.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
avoid men in red g-strings
So one of my coworkers invited me to a "naughty girl" party last weekend; apparently it was the third annual such event that she's hosted. She's a single woman in her late forties, rather serious, very by-the-book at work, so this was something of a surprise. I'd never been to one of these parties before and thought it would be something along the lines of a Tupperware party, but with vibrators.
I was partially right. There were toys aplenty, courtesy of my friend Lisa, who was only too happy to offer her expert opinion on ALL of the items she was selling, having thoroughly tested each model (strictly market research, according to her). Most alarming by far was an offering known as "The Scorpion". You know how a scorpion has a tail that curves up and over its body? Picture the body fitting in one hole, and the tail... well, let's just say that an object modeled after a deadly insect wreaking havoc in a rather sensitive part of the body doesn't do it for me. But on the plus side, after a careful perusal of the goods for sale, my friend Angie now has a heck of a gift coming her way at her moving-away party this weekend.
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There was food, there were games (do you know how difficult it is to put a condom on a cucumber without using your hands AT ALL? I do.) And, inevitably, there was entertainment.
My friends and I left between the first and second performers, mostly out of fear after seeing the first guy in action. The last time I was in the presence of a stripper, it was at my friend Julie's bachelorette party. Nice looking guy, gave the bride-to-be a little lap dance, stayed and had some drinks with us afterwards - harmless enough. This was something else entirely. I had no idea the women I worked with were quite so flexible.
The good thing about being the photographer in this situation is that I was able to hide behind the camera and avoid becoming better acquainted with the gentleman in red. My friends, who were not as lucky as I, are still recovering nearly a week later. Call me a prude, but I doubt that there is enough alcohol in the Western Hemisphere, let alone at that party, to make me comfortable with having a strange man's head in my crotch in front of my coworkers.
But it was still a good time. And you should see the lollipop I got as a prize for participating in (alas, not winning) the cucumber game! My compliments to whomever was the model.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
the state of the union
I started thinking about this post a few days ago, but like many things, the events within haven't turned out quite the way I thought they would. The fact that I'm surprised by this makes me think I'm not quite as cynical as I imagine myself to be. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing, so I suppose it's neither.
A few weeks ago I found a lump in a place where it hadn't existed previously, where it shouldn't exist at all. One of the advantages of being an employee at BSMC (Big Scary Medical Center), I thought, would be that I should be able to have this looked into efficiently, preferably before I lost any sleep. Not so; the soonest the radiology department would accommodate me was July 31st. They were not impressed by the fact that I was an employee in need. But St. John's in Santa Monica was much more helpful and said they could see me in two weeks; time enough to fret, but infinitely better than two-plus months. So I waited. I didn't tell anybody for 4 or 5 days. Then I cracked and told my sister Donna, who did the proper big sister thing and told me it was probably nothing, lamenting that she would be in New York on business and couldn't come to my appointment with me (this isn't lip service; she actually would have come along, being that kind of a sister). And then I waited some more.
Roughly 36 hours before the appointment, I was over at the Writer's apartment. The Writer is a man I've been seeing for over 5 months. I've been on dates since the ex and I separated, but he's the first guy I've dated repeatedly. It's a strange thing; on paper, this relationship doesn't make much sense. In many ways, he's not my type, not who you think I'd be looking for. I've said a number of times that I know he's not the next Mr., but there's something I can't explain that makes me hope it's his name I see when I have a text message on my phone. I don't know how to define this relationship. Uncertainty makes me anxious and I feel better when I can slap a label on something, although in the case of my marriage, the label was frequently inaccurate.
But the Writer can be very perceptive about what I'm feeling when the mood strikes him. On our first date (or what I think of as date 0.5, since it was just a hour's conversation over coffee), he had me talking about myself for probably 80% of the time, atypical to say the least. And this wasn't chitchat about what movies I'd seen recently; it was about my family, my upbringing, what I want from life, things that are important to me and not revealed easily. I let my guard down in front of relatively few people, and the fact that I'm starting to do so with him is somewhat unnerving.
So on Monday night I told him about the appointment, and he offered (twice) to come with me. I never expected that he would do so, and although I was tempted by his offer, I turned him down with the excuse that I was going straight to work afterwards. But really I just didn't want to deal with the fact that I was scared that I might need him there with me if things went badly.
Wednesday morning, I woke up at 4:30 after a poor excuse for a night's sleep. My appointment wasn't for another 4 hours, and I'm not one to bounce out of bed even if I have something to look forward to, so I just lay there and fretted. At 4:45 my cell phone beeped - an incoming text. The Writer sent a message saying to call whenever I wanted. This isn't something we do, 4 am phone calls. My friend Angie has a man in her life who regularly calls in the middle of the night, but my general policy is that if my phone rings after hours, there had better be someone dead on the other end of the line. I'm kind of cranky when I'm woken up.
But I called, and we talked, and he told me that things would be okay and that he wanted to hear from me as soon as the tests were finished. I didn't manage to get back to sleep after that, but I was a little happier when I did finally haul myself out of bed. And, some hours later, I called him back to give him the good news that the lump turned out to be nothing. He sounded even happier than I felt.
Last night he came over. Me being me, I had been hyperanalyzing recent events in the hope of figuring out what it all meant, what we are or what we're doing. I feel like I should just be happy with what's in front of me without deconstructing it all in search of some bigger meaning, but I'm not. So I asked him what he thought was going on, if we were still in the 'dating other people' stage or not. I thought his recent behavior hinted at a turn towards the 'not' but I was wrong. He didn't seem perturbed by the question, but in essence, he said that while he hadn't been doing much dating of other people, he wasn't ready to not do so. He asked what my view of it was, and I told him that while I had been dating other people, I found I was losing interest in doing so. Mercifully, the subject was soon changed, and shortly thereafter he went home, and I found myself lying awake for the second time this week.
There are many reasons why I shouldn't want anything serious. I'm still waiting for my godforsaken divorce to be final (the ex is a bit slow with the paperwork). I'm hoping to go back to school and possibly move in the next year. But most importantly, right now I'm less than certain about my judgement regarding relationships. Last year, once the initial shock of my separation had passed, I began to realize how much faith I had put into my marriage - the concept of marriage itself and what I thought it meant in terms of commitment and the ability to work through issues - while failing to recognize the very real problems developing between the two of us. In hindsight it's easy to look back and see missed signs and opportunities for change, but most of you who have been there will probably agree that in the midst of it all, there are times when very little is clear cut, and you have to do the best you can with the information you have at the time. In worrying over my current situation, I'm trying to project myself to a place where things are clear and certain and logical, even though my experience tells me that such a place is little more than a mirage.
Today I am not calling, not texting, trying very hard not to become one of those girls pressuring the guy for commitment, all the while wishing for the time when the state of my union is a given, and I can focus my energies on more important things again. I've been reading books about Buddhism lately, and one of the truths of Buddhism is that suffering is caused by our desire for things to be different from how they actually are. While that makes sense to me, at times like this it kind of makes me want to smack Buddha across his fat little face. I'm hoping this will be resolved in a later chapter.
A few weeks ago I found a lump in a place where it hadn't existed previously, where it shouldn't exist at all. One of the advantages of being an employee at BSMC (Big Scary Medical Center), I thought, would be that I should be able to have this looked into efficiently, preferably before I lost any sleep. Not so; the soonest the radiology department would accommodate me was July 31st. They were not impressed by the fact that I was an employee in need. But St. John's in Santa Monica was much more helpful and said they could see me in two weeks; time enough to fret, but infinitely better than two-plus months. So I waited. I didn't tell anybody for 4 or 5 days. Then I cracked and told my sister Donna, who did the proper big sister thing and told me it was probably nothing, lamenting that she would be in New York on business and couldn't come to my appointment with me (this isn't lip service; she actually would have come along, being that kind of a sister). And then I waited some more.
Roughly 36 hours before the appointment, I was over at the Writer's apartment. The Writer is a man I've been seeing for over 5 months. I've been on dates since the ex and I separated, but he's the first guy I've dated repeatedly. It's a strange thing; on paper, this relationship doesn't make much sense. In many ways, he's not my type, not who you think I'd be looking for. I've said a number of times that I know he's not the next Mr., but there's something I can't explain that makes me hope it's his name I see when I have a text message on my phone. I don't know how to define this relationship. Uncertainty makes me anxious and I feel better when I can slap a label on something, although in the case of my marriage, the label was frequently inaccurate.
But the Writer can be very perceptive about what I'm feeling when the mood strikes him. On our first date (or what I think of as date 0.5, since it was just a hour's conversation over coffee), he had me talking about myself for probably 80% of the time, atypical to say the least. And this wasn't chitchat about what movies I'd seen recently; it was about my family, my upbringing, what I want from life, things that are important to me and not revealed easily. I let my guard down in front of relatively few people, and the fact that I'm starting to do so with him is somewhat unnerving.
So on Monday night I told him about the appointment, and he offered (twice) to come with me. I never expected that he would do so, and although I was tempted by his offer, I turned him down with the excuse that I was going straight to work afterwards. But really I just didn't want to deal with the fact that I was scared that I might need him there with me if things went badly.
Wednesday morning, I woke up at 4:30 after a poor excuse for a night's sleep. My appointment wasn't for another 4 hours, and I'm not one to bounce out of bed even if I have something to look forward to, so I just lay there and fretted. At 4:45 my cell phone beeped - an incoming text. The Writer sent a message saying to call whenever I wanted. This isn't something we do, 4 am phone calls. My friend Angie has a man in her life who regularly calls in the middle of the night, but my general policy is that if my phone rings after hours, there had better be someone dead on the other end of the line. I'm kind of cranky when I'm woken up.
But I called, and we talked, and he told me that things would be okay and that he wanted to hear from me as soon as the tests were finished. I didn't manage to get back to sleep after that, but I was a little happier when I did finally haul myself out of bed. And, some hours later, I called him back to give him the good news that the lump turned out to be nothing. He sounded even happier than I felt.
Last night he came over. Me being me, I had been hyperanalyzing recent events in the hope of figuring out what it all meant, what we are or what we're doing. I feel like I should just be happy with what's in front of me without deconstructing it all in search of some bigger meaning, but I'm not. So I asked him what he thought was going on, if we were still in the 'dating other people' stage or not. I thought his recent behavior hinted at a turn towards the 'not' but I was wrong. He didn't seem perturbed by the question, but in essence, he said that while he hadn't been doing much dating of other people, he wasn't ready to not do so. He asked what my view of it was, and I told him that while I had been dating other people, I found I was losing interest in doing so. Mercifully, the subject was soon changed, and shortly thereafter he went home, and I found myself lying awake for the second time this week.
There are many reasons why I shouldn't want anything serious. I'm still waiting for my godforsaken divorce to be final (the ex is a bit slow with the paperwork). I'm hoping to go back to school and possibly move in the next year. But most importantly, right now I'm less than certain about my judgement regarding relationships. Last year, once the initial shock of my separation had passed, I began to realize how much faith I had put into my marriage - the concept of marriage itself and what I thought it meant in terms of commitment and the ability to work through issues - while failing to recognize the very real problems developing between the two of us. In hindsight it's easy to look back and see missed signs and opportunities for change, but most of you who have been there will probably agree that in the midst of it all, there are times when very little is clear cut, and you have to do the best you can with the information you have at the time. In worrying over my current situation, I'm trying to project myself to a place where things are clear and certain and logical, even though my experience tells me that such a place is little more than a mirage.
Today I am not calling, not texting, trying very hard not to become one of those girls pressuring the guy for commitment, all the while wishing for the time when the state of my union is a given, and I can focus my energies on more important things again. I've been reading books about Buddhism lately, and one of the truths of Buddhism is that suffering is caused by our desire for things to be different from how they actually are. While that makes sense to me, at times like this it kind of makes me want to smack Buddha across his fat little face. I'm hoping this will be resolved in a later chapter.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Rule #1: Do not point at the turtles.
For one reason or another, my friend Jeannette and I had not seen each other in many months. But after a few phone calls and emails, we set out last Thursday night to enjoy one of the fine cultural offerings available here in L.A. - turtle racing. Unsuprisingly, this was NOT one of the events you read about in O.K. or People, attended by celebutantes and A-listers (or even B or C listers, to be perfectly honest). But hey, it's culture.
Brennan's is a little hole in the wall pub on Lincoln Boulevard in Marina del Rey, populated mostly by buzzed 23-year-olds. It is not a place where you see people drinking Cosmos, or whatever the hell the drink du jour is. There's beer, and french fries, and on Thursday nights at 10, there's turtles.
I've never asked if you can bring your own turtle to race; this is a town populated by yapping little rat-on-a-leash dogs, so I'd be surprised to see anyone pull a red-eared slider out of their handbag. No, these would-be champions are brought out to their racing grounds (the patio adjacent to the bar) in the humble transport of an Igloo cooler. Attendees go up and sponsor a turtle for a small fee, and, three at a time, they are placed inside of a small plastic holding pen. The pen is lifted out of the way at the end of the (somewhat inebriated) countdown, and the turtles race their way to the outside rim of the large circle that serves as their racetrack; the first to hit the painted line is declared the winner. At the end of these races, the various winners are penned together and released for the dramatic conclusion to the evening, in which one lucky turtle becomes the evening's champion. Alas, the glory does not last long, as the champion and the defeated alike are once again returned to their Igloo and ferried away (where to, I have no earthly idea).
(Yes, I know that this is a crappy picture and that I need to spring for Photoshop. But look, people: has Annie Leibovitz ever captured a turtle at the moment of victory? Didn't think so.)
Before the races, however, the evening's emcee reads the rules, the first of which is: do not point at the turtles. Despite the fact that this rule is repeated, at full volume and with an admirable level of audience participation, at the beginning of each and every race, it is frequently ignored. What's more interesting is that the turtles actually appear disturbed by these pointing behaviors; more than once, I have seen the leading runner millimeters away from his goal rendered motionless, paralyzed by the power of a single digit pointing in his or her direction. These races are, in the interest of fairness, disqualified, and the offenders are fined anywhere from $10-50, depending on the number of offenses thus far that evening. I don't know if these fees are actually collected, but they are posted. Rules 2-4 escape me now, but, as the emcee says, they can all be summed up by rule #5: don't be a douche bag. If only more people followed rule #5.
Brennan's is a little hole in the wall pub on Lincoln Boulevard in Marina del Rey, populated mostly by buzzed 23-year-olds. It is not a place where you see people drinking Cosmos, or whatever the hell the drink du jour is. There's beer, and french fries, and on Thursday nights at 10, there's turtles.
I've never asked if you can bring your own turtle to race; this is a town populated by yapping little rat-on-a-leash dogs, so I'd be surprised to see anyone pull a red-eared slider out of their handbag. No, these would-be champions are brought out to their racing grounds (the patio adjacent to the bar) in the humble transport of an Igloo cooler. Attendees go up and sponsor a turtle for a small fee, and, three at a time, they are placed inside of a small plastic holding pen. The pen is lifted out of the way at the end of the (somewhat inebriated) countdown, and the turtles race their way to the outside rim of the large circle that serves as their racetrack; the first to hit the painted line is declared the winner. At the end of these races, the various winners are penned together and released for the dramatic conclusion to the evening, in which one lucky turtle becomes the evening's champion. Alas, the glory does not last long, as the champion and the defeated alike are once again returned to their Igloo and ferried away (where to, I have no earthly idea).
(Yes, I know that this is a crappy picture and that I need to spring for Photoshop. But look, people: has Annie Leibovitz ever captured a turtle at the moment of victory? Didn't think so.)Before the races, however, the evening's emcee reads the rules, the first of which is: do not point at the turtles. Despite the fact that this rule is repeated, at full volume and with an admirable level of audience participation, at the beginning of each and every race, it is frequently ignored. What's more interesting is that the turtles actually appear disturbed by these pointing behaviors; more than once, I have seen the leading runner millimeters away from his goal rendered motionless, paralyzed by the power of a single digit pointing in his or her direction. These races are, in the interest of fairness, disqualified, and the offenders are fined anywhere from $10-50, depending on the number of offenses thus far that evening. I don't know if these fees are actually collected, but they are posted. Rules 2-4 escape me now, but, as the emcee says, they can all be summed up by rule #5: don't be a douche bag. If only more people followed rule #5.
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