I got this idea from another blog since I don't have time or patience to write a more traditional post. I don't know how I will like it since being a novelist is in my blood, so we'll see how it goes.
1) I am now 30 years old. So now what happens? Must I begin thinking about if or when I will reproduce? Will my eggs begin slowing down their production soon? Does it really matter? (No.)
2) I haven't been on a date in 2 1/2 years. Ugh. That is a hard one to type to the world. I've never had any great luck with guys, unfortunately. The date I went on 2 1/2 years ago didn't end so well, either. Probably won't call him up for another.
3) I am fat. Ouch. But it's true. I am approximately 40 lbs. overweight. I felt like such a blob during my recent vacation in Taiwan, and vowed to come home and try losing weight again. I really do want to be thin. I don't feel like myself inside this body. Maybe this is why I haven't dated in so long?
4) The doctor who took an x-ray on my ankle last night told me that I had "remarkably soft feet." I giggled and said it must be the result of mud bathing and the fish pool experience in Taiwan. Then I wondered why he couldn't have been 30 years younger and single (not out loud, of course).
5) I probably will not travel overseas again for a long time. I don't like being on the plane a long time because I can't sleep, which adversely affects how I feel upon landing and days after. It took me at least four days to get over my jet lag, which was about half of the vacation.
6) I never totally let loose on this blog because I am paranoid about who is reading it. I only have three readers signed up as "followers," but it doesn't mean that no one else reads this. And since I still haven't completely broken the habit of allowing others' opinions influence my mood and feelings, I think of that when I write in here.
7) Life would probably be easier if I would take medication, but I refuse. Been there, done that, not interested in going back unless my life depends on it. There are things about my life that taking a pill will not change; only I can change them or change the way I feel about them.
8) When I was younger, I pictured so many things to be different by now. That sentence sounds a little awkward. It must be the lingering jet lag affecting my grammar.
Sorry, I had to stop after 8. Not sure this style is for me, but at least I gave it a try. :)
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Ilha Formosa*
I'm leaving for Taiwan on March 23 and will be back home on April 3. It is nerve-wracking and weird, but I think I'll get more excited once I am within a few hours of landing. Right now, I am just focused on all of the things I'll either forget or wish I had while I was there. Shopping for vacations should be fun, right? Not when the clothes that you love or shoes that are so cute will not fit no matter what.
I will admit, it makes me feel strange when I think about flying to the other side of the globe by myself. I am afraid I may become homesick - even while on the plane, where there is nowhere for me to go and nothing to be reversed. Not that I would want to come home. It is hard to explain. But since it will take me a full day to get there, I will surely endure some mental challenges that will test my ability to stay sane, positive, and motivated. Here's hoping I'm up for that challenge.
My host has agreed to take me to lots of cool places on the island. I am grateful for his friendship and willingness to take on the task of housing a foreigner for 10 days of his precious time. How do you thank someone for such a thing?
I think I'm ready to go. Between now and Tuesday, I hope that God will give me the confidence and strength that I need to board the plane. Especially since I have been sick for the last three weeks. A mild illness, but enough to be annoying and suck the energy out of me long before the day is over. I have not been ill for three weeks straight for as long as I can remember. The last thing I want is to be sick 8,000 miles from home.
On the brighter side of things: every time someone asks me where I'm going for my trip and then hears my response, they are always surprised and I love hearing their reaction. "Taiwan?," they say with a raised eyebrow. Most think it is cool and would love to come along; my parents are not two of those individuals, however. If they had it their way, I would never go on vacation anywhere outside of my zip code.
In less than 48 hours, I'll be on my way.... Wish me luck!
*Ilha Formosa is what the Portguese named Taiwan upon discovering it during the 16th century. It means "beautiful island" in Portuguese.
I will admit, it makes me feel strange when I think about flying to the other side of the globe by myself. I am afraid I may become homesick - even while on the plane, where there is nowhere for me to go and nothing to be reversed. Not that I would want to come home. It is hard to explain. But since it will take me a full day to get there, I will surely endure some mental challenges that will test my ability to stay sane, positive, and motivated. Here's hoping I'm up for that challenge.
My host has agreed to take me to lots of cool places on the island. I am grateful for his friendship and willingness to take on the task of housing a foreigner for 10 days of his precious time. How do you thank someone for such a thing?
I think I'm ready to go. Between now and Tuesday, I hope that God will give me the confidence and strength that I need to board the plane. Especially since I have been sick for the last three weeks. A mild illness, but enough to be annoying and suck the energy out of me long before the day is over. I have not been ill for three weeks straight for as long as I can remember. The last thing I want is to be sick 8,000 miles from home.
On the brighter side of things: every time someone asks me where I'm going for my trip and then hears my response, they are always surprised and I love hearing their reaction. "Taiwan?," they say with a raised eyebrow. Most think it is cool and would love to come along; my parents are not two of those individuals, however. If they had it their way, I would never go on vacation anywhere outside of my zip code.
In less than 48 hours, I'll be on my way.... Wish me luck!
*Ilha Formosa is what the Portguese named Taiwan upon discovering it during the 16th century. It means "beautiful island" in Portuguese.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Come Again?
Delilah* told me today that she loves working here and loves all of the people here. I couldn't believe my ears. I began wondering what kind of affliction a person would need to have in order to enjoy working here. Dimentia? Schizophrenia? Certainly not ADD; that would send them right out the door.
I began asking myself, Have I ever liked my job? Have I ever looked forward to coming in, or enjoyed what I was doing while I was here? How sad is it when I cannot even produce a single "yes" in response. When I first started working here, I remember feeling happy that I HAD a job after being unemployed for 8 months. After a few weeks, however, I began feeling bored, depressed, and incredibly anxious once I began receiving paychecks that were not able to cover all of my bills.
In my nearly five years with this company, I have experienced record amounts of anxiety, depression, frustration, anger, and resentment. Working in an office (at least here), I have learned that you are generally supposed to keep to yourself and limit those conversations that are unrelated to work. All personal problems need to be kept secret, and any show of emotion due to being upset, angry, or anything else producing tears is largely frowned upon. I've even felt guilty for laughing and telling funny stories at times. I have been lied to, talked about behind my back, yelled at, ignored, discriminated against for my gender, sexually harassed, and laughed at. I have sat at my desk holding back tears for an entire day at a time; I have walked laps around the parking lot in the evening because I was too angry to drive home safely; I have allowed my place of employment to make me feel less than human way more times than I can count.
How in the world have I stuck it out for so long? How long does it generally take before someone has simply had enough and decides to pack up their things?
One way to look at it is, if God had wanted me to leave at some point, He would have provided me with the resources to do so. Another employer would have hired me at one of the numerous jobs I've applied for over the years; I would have acquired a large sum of money sustaining me long enough to find employment elsewhere; I would be married to a kind man who would tell me to let the job go if it was tearing me up inside, and that we'd figure it out financially for the sake of my peace and health; I would be let go and eligible for unemployment benefits until I found work again. And any other scenario that would allow me to be free.
But alas, none of these have happened. It leaves me with the belief that I had to go through what I've gone through for one or more reasons that I am unaware of, but that God is aware of. Perhaps I needed to be strengthened or disciplined; maybe I needed to learn how to forgive or to be patient. Whatever it is, I'm not seeing it now, though I hope that down the road, I will.
With my 30th birthday just around the corner next month, I have been reflecting on where I am at in life and where I want to be. I don't even know where I want to be anymore. Some days I feel so sure of what I want, and others leave me feeling weary, indecisive, and sad. I ask why things have happened as they have, and why they didn't happen how I'd wanted them to.
And Delilah loves it here. I was wondering which part she enjoyed the most: the monotonous, robotic work assignments; the absence of adequate vacation time; the close monitoring of time spent away from our desks; the lack of communication from our supervisor; the obvious chauvinistic attitude shared by most in the company; the absence of advancement opportunities in our department; the SILENCE (oh my word, the silence...) we sit through for 8 hours a day, in our dimly lit office, with no windows, and rarely any visitors; the horrendous smells in the restroom; the horrendous Lysol that is sprayed to try and battle the horrendous smells only to nearly cause nosebleeds and asthma attacks on unsuspecting patrons; and the antiquated way the company is managed that is even too embarrassing for me to disclose in this blog.
But, she loves it here. So more power to her.
In the meantime, I am gearing up for a trip to Taiwan next month. I don't know exactly how long I'll be gone, but I don't imagine it will be long enough. I may find paradise, however, and decide not to return. I'll let you know what I decide.
*not her real name, of course. Who names their kid 'Delilah?'
I began asking myself, Have I ever liked my job? Have I ever looked forward to coming in, or enjoyed what I was doing while I was here? How sad is it when I cannot even produce a single "yes" in response. When I first started working here, I remember feeling happy that I HAD a job after being unemployed for 8 months. After a few weeks, however, I began feeling bored, depressed, and incredibly anxious once I began receiving paychecks that were not able to cover all of my bills.
In my nearly five years with this company, I have experienced record amounts of anxiety, depression, frustration, anger, and resentment. Working in an office (at least here), I have learned that you are generally supposed to keep to yourself and limit those conversations that are unrelated to work. All personal problems need to be kept secret, and any show of emotion due to being upset, angry, or anything else producing tears is largely frowned upon. I've even felt guilty for laughing and telling funny stories at times. I have been lied to, talked about behind my back, yelled at, ignored, discriminated against for my gender, sexually harassed, and laughed at. I have sat at my desk holding back tears for an entire day at a time; I have walked laps around the parking lot in the evening because I was too angry to drive home safely; I have allowed my place of employment to make me feel less than human way more times than I can count.
How in the world have I stuck it out for so long? How long does it generally take before someone has simply had enough and decides to pack up their things?
One way to look at it is, if God had wanted me to leave at some point, He would have provided me with the resources to do so. Another employer would have hired me at one of the numerous jobs I've applied for over the years; I would have acquired a large sum of money sustaining me long enough to find employment elsewhere; I would be married to a kind man who would tell me to let the job go if it was tearing me up inside, and that we'd figure it out financially for the sake of my peace and health; I would be let go and eligible for unemployment benefits until I found work again. And any other scenario that would allow me to be free.
But alas, none of these have happened. It leaves me with the belief that I had to go through what I've gone through for one or more reasons that I am unaware of, but that God is aware of. Perhaps I needed to be strengthened or disciplined; maybe I needed to learn how to forgive or to be patient. Whatever it is, I'm not seeing it now, though I hope that down the road, I will.
With my 30th birthday just around the corner next month, I have been reflecting on where I am at in life and where I want to be. I don't even know where I want to be anymore. Some days I feel so sure of what I want, and others leave me feeling weary, indecisive, and sad. I ask why things have happened as they have, and why they didn't happen how I'd wanted them to.
And Delilah loves it here. I was wondering which part she enjoyed the most: the monotonous, robotic work assignments; the absence of adequate vacation time; the close monitoring of time spent away from our desks; the lack of communication from our supervisor; the obvious chauvinistic attitude shared by most in the company; the absence of advancement opportunities in our department; the SILENCE (oh my word, the silence...) we sit through for 8 hours a day, in our dimly lit office, with no windows, and rarely any visitors; the horrendous smells in the restroom; the horrendous Lysol that is sprayed to try and battle the horrendous smells only to nearly cause nosebleeds and asthma attacks on unsuspecting patrons; and the antiquated way the company is managed that is even too embarrassing for me to disclose in this blog.
But, she loves it here. So more power to her.
In the meantime, I am gearing up for a trip to Taiwan next month. I don't know exactly how long I'll be gone, but I don't imagine it will be long enough. I may find paradise, however, and decide not to return. I'll let you know what I decide.
*not her real name, of course. Who names their kid 'Delilah?'
Saturday, February 6, 2010
How One Stroke Leads To Another: Excerpt from 12/11/96
Mr. D.* (*in case he ever Googles himself - Heaven forbid he should read about what I had probably already made obvious over the years) was my high school art teacher for 2 1/2 years. And I was MADLY in love with him. When I say madly, I mean my world revolved around him for a solid 5 years (2 1/2 during high school, and roughly 2 1/2 during college).
So any compliments that I received from him were written in gold to be cherished and called upon forever, as if his words carried more authority to me at the time than the Holy Bible. Unfortunately, that is probably a good depiction of how much I loved the man (or was infatuated with him, anyway).
The following outlines something I thought was significant regarding my journey to becoming a good painter, a blurb I have not come across since the evening I etched it into the guts of this perfectly-kept diary sitting in my tote box, buried under about 20 others.
Sure enough, the painting was hung up in the showcase near the foyer area just inside the main entrance of the school, where every student and other human being passing through the front doors would be able to admire it and absorb its "energy," though originally I'd made the painting for no other reason other than to release an unexplainable feeling inside that could only be expressed via paintbrush and quickly.
Some months later, he told me that he'd wanted to enter it into a local county art contest and would take care of getting it to its proper location (other students were entering artwork, as well). I attended the contest and saw it on display with a blue ribbon attached to it, and felt very proud.
I still have a tube of oil paint and some brushes that I used in his class. The paint was given as a gift in return for making him some personalized stationery for his birthday. It was a joint effort between myself and another student in my Vo-Tech class, who was also one of his better students, and he was so pleased with our thoughtfulness that he purchased a tube of paint for each of us which contained the color he felt was best-suited for our personalities. Hers was a deep purple; mine a bright yellow/green color.
"Powerful images." I love that. I have always loved creating powerful images. Emotionally provoking and inviting imagery. Combining experience with artwork. Unifying the user and the piece as one. Each piece is like a separate world you may visit for as long as you'd like; there are no rules, and you don't have to leave if you don't want to.
I wonder if he hung it in his closet near his belongings because he saw a world that he did not want to leave, either...
So any compliments that I received from him were written in gold to be cherished and called upon forever, as if his words carried more authority to me at the time than the Holy Bible. Unfortunately, that is probably a good depiction of how much I loved the man (or was infatuated with him, anyway).
The following outlines something I thought was significant regarding my journey to becoming a good painter, a blurb I have not come across since the evening I etched it into the guts of this perfectly-kept diary sitting in my tote box, buried under about 20 others.
"...I did this painting on the impulse last night. It's one of the most passionate paintings I've ever done, and it only took me an hour. It wasn't derived from another picture; I created it myself. It's of two people, a man and woman, embracing each other toward the bottom of the paper, and a passionate, fiery background of red, green, purple, black, and blue above and around them.
I took it to school today, and Mr. D. loved it! We were speculating and discussing it this morning. He told me I've really created some powerful images in there (his class). That was really cool to hear. He put it in the back room for me, and during 3rd hour, I asked him to get it for me.
He had stuck it on the inside of the closet door where his coat and everything is kept (the door that is always locked). Then he said, "You wanna put it in the showcase?" And before I could answer, he hands me the key for it..."
Sure enough, the painting was hung up in the showcase near the foyer area just inside the main entrance of the school, where every student and other human being passing through the front doors would be able to admire it and absorb its "energy," though originally I'd made the painting for no other reason other than to release an unexplainable feeling inside that could only be expressed via paintbrush and quickly.
Some months later, he told me that he'd wanted to enter it into a local county art contest and would take care of getting it to its proper location (other students were entering artwork, as well). I attended the contest and saw it on display with a blue ribbon attached to it, and felt very proud.
I still have a tube of oil paint and some brushes that I used in his class. The paint was given as a gift in return for making him some personalized stationery for his birthday. It was a joint effort between myself and another student in my Vo-Tech class, who was also one of his better students, and he was so pleased with our thoughtfulness that he purchased a tube of paint for each of us which contained the color he felt was best-suited for our personalities. Hers was a deep purple; mine a bright yellow/green color.
"Powerful images." I love that. I have always loved creating powerful images. Emotionally provoking and inviting imagery. Combining experience with artwork. Unifying the user and the piece as one. Each piece is like a separate world you may visit for as long as you'd like; there are no rules, and you don't have to leave if you don't want to.
I wonder if he hung it in his closet near his belongings because he saw a world that he did not want to leave, either...
Revenge of the Nerd: Excerpt from 1/1/97
What better way to entertain myself on a Saturday night than read an old diary entry from January of 1997? Can you think of a better way?
In order to fully appreciate the following blurb from my diary, there is some background information setting the scene that you MUST know about first.
My friend Jodi, from church, had invited me over to her house for a New Year's Eve party. Her extremely laidback mother had also allowed boys to attend, and even stay overnight (ooooooh). We also had alcohol - that was the kicker. I can't remember if the mom knew about that part or not. Probably.
Anyway, Jodi, my friend from church, decided it'd be a good idea to set me up with one of the attendees, Ryan. Ryan was what we called a "whigger," regularly skipped school, smoked pot, dealed pot, and treated women like crap. My kinda man in 1997.
Ryan's male cousin, Ashley (first time I'd ever heard the name "Ashley" for a boy), was also present at the party, and showed interest in Jodi. In retrospect, Ashley would have been a better mate for me, and I might have even married him someday. But alas, this was 1997 and the part of my brain that handles good judgement had not fully developed yet.
The evening following the New Year's Eve party, the four of us went out on a double date. Somewhere along the way, I found out that Ryan actually had a girlfriend, despite the fact he'd been messing around with me at the underage alcohol party at Jodi-my-friend-from-church's house.
(Some parts of this entry will not be entered as to avoid redundancy, embarrassment, and unnecessary expletives):
I never did hear anything about any missing tapes. However, Jodi did mention about a week later that he had been angry with me for mentioning his girlfriend, and also said she didn't think it was "very cool" of me to do so, either. Gee, sorry for being the only one thinking of the "other woman" the entire time. How terribly rude of me!
I still see Jodi from time to time when I visit my parents' church. She attends intermittently, bringing along her six-year-old son from a failed marriage, which I believe was a result of her husband selling date-rape drugs through the mail and eventually getting caught. As selfish as it sounds, I'm glad I changed my taste in men before it was too late.
I wonder what ever happened to Ashley?
In order to fully appreciate the following blurb from my diary, there is some background information setting the scene that you MUST know about first.
My friend Jodi, from church, had invited me over to her house for a New Year's Eve party. Her extremely laidback mother had also allowed boys to attend, and even stay overnight (ooooooh). We also had alcohol - that was the kicker. I can't remember if the mom knew about that part or not. Probably.
Anyway, Jodi, my friend from church, decided it'd be a good idea to set me up with one of the attendees, Ryan. Ryan was what we called a "whigger," regularly skipped school, smoked pot, dealed pot, and treated women like crap. My kinda man in 1997.
Ryan's male cousin, Ashley (first time I'd ever heard the name "Ashley" for a boy), was also present at the party, and showed interest in Jodi. In retrospect, Ashley would have been a better mate for me, and I might have even married him someday. But alas, this was 1997 and the part of my brain that handles good judgement had not fully developed yet.
The evening following the New Year's Eve party, the four of us went out on a double date. Somewhere along the way, I found out that Ryan actually had a girlfriend, despite the fact he'd been messing around with me at the underage alcohol party at Jodi-my-friend-from-church's house.
(Some parts of this entry will not be entered as to avoid redundancy, embarrassment, and unnecessary expletives):
"...I already knew I didn't want him in my life but we were there and I was feeling saucy, so I didn't resist. He was pretty talkative for a while, but in Tricky's (a local pool hall for teens), he started getting quiet. After Tricky's, we went to Meijer (a local department store similar to Walmart).
In Meijer, the grand piss-off began. Ashley was so nice to me - you'd never know he and Ryan were even related. Well, I think something I said to Ryan on the way to Meijer did something.
I said, 'So why aren't you out with your girlfriend tonight?'
His eyes popped open so wide and he goes, "Oh wow" and never answered me. I said, 'You must not like her very much because you didn't spend New Year's with her," and he says, "Well, why are you with me if you knew I had a girlfriend?'
And I said, 'Because I don't care if you're going out with someone. I really could care less.'
Well, in Meijer, after looking for quilted flannels (for me) for about 15 min., he began to drift. I thought that was awfully rude. Jodi and Ashley were doing great because Ashley's such a nice guy and Jodi's a great chick. So I just said, "Forget it" to myself and ignored him for the rest of the night. That wasn't hard because he basically did the same to me.
He walked about three car lengths away from me in the parking lot, he didn't touch me or say one word the whole way home, and at Jodi's I sat on the floor instead of next to him on the couch. I wasn't actually angry; I was actually kind of relieved that this jerk-off didn't totally latch onto me or really like me.
So around 11:00, I decided to head on home. Ashley said it was nice meeting me and would see me next year. I said nothing to Silent Little Faggot on the couch.
When I walked outside, I had this urge. I was actually plotting this before I walked out the door, but seeing his car parked there really gave me the urge. I wanted to take something out of his car. No one could see me. There were no windows they could see out of from where they were sitting. Everyone else was sleeping.
So I opened the passenger door of his car, not believing I was going through with it. But having the perfect opportunity pushed me. I couldn't believe how clean his interior was. I was expecting to be able to grab something and leave. But there was nothing to grab!
So I opened the middle console and saw a whole bunch of tapes. Immediately, I started taking them out until I couldn't hold any more in my hands. Then I shut the console, shut the door quietly, and opened my door and shoved them in.
I was shaking. I was sure someone had been watching from somewhere. Well, I finally left. As I'm going down the road, I'm thinking, 'I can't keep these! I have to get rid of them!' So when I got to Moffitt's Corners (a local party store), I pulled over and checked out just which ones I'd taken. I think there was Def Leppard, Too Short, Dr. Dre, MTV Hits or something, a cassette player cleaner - he'll miss that one - a couple of unidentifyable ones, and a White Zombie one - that one I kept.
The rest, I held between my legs while going down Van Dyke. I rolled my window down and started tossing them out 2-3 at a time. After they all got tossed, I turned around and went home. I thought that I'd walk in the door and find out that they'd called to let me know they did see me take those tapes, or to ask me why I was in Ryan's car. But none of this happened, of course..."
I never did hear anything about any missing tapes. However, Jodi did mention about a week later that he had been angry with me for mentioning his girlfriend, and also said she didn't think it was "very cool" of me to do so, either. Gee, sorry for being the only one thinking of the "other woman" the entire time. How terribly rude of me!
I still see Jodi from time to time when I visit my parents' church. She attends intermittently, bringing along her six-year-old son from a failed marriage, which I believe was a result of her husband selling date-rape drugs through the mail and eventually getting caught. As selfish as it sounds, I'm glad I changed my taste in men before it was too late.
I wonder what ever happened to Ashley?
Friday, January 22, 2010
Re: Write me back.
As a child, I always wanted to do everything alone. My independence was something I couldn't wait to experience. Always wanting to walk alone, talk alone, play alone. I was annoyed when people would not leave me alone, especially at school where everyone wanted to be my friend (for the first few years, anyway).
So here I am, pushing 30 and living my childhood wish, to be alone. Except it was a child's wish, not a 30-year-old's wish. Sure, I enjoy being in my own place and having my own money and making my own choices, but I also like to stay connected with other human beings for the sake of stabilizing my own mental health.
What a joy to have the internet at our fingertips everywhere we go in 2010 (had the internet been available when I was a child, I probably would have never experienced the solo life for one minute as I did); it makes it so easy to write and respond to others in just minutes, or even seconds, if you are not a novelist by nature.
Which leads me to my current heartbreak: the absence of e-mail responses I receive from certain friends in my life, and other acquaintances. I take the time to write e-mails to people that mean something to me in some fashion, and I don't get a response.
It isn't just the absence of e-mail responses, either; it is the absence of response, period. One example: I was practically best friends with a guy that I'd met as a freshman at GVSU for about two years. We did everything together; ate together, did photo shoots together (he is a photographer and quite talented), talked about everything, laughed; went places together; things that friends do.
I transferred out of GVSU after my sophomore year to Concordia University Wisconsin, and he dropped me like a lead balloon. Or like a bag of dirt, as I'd felt at the time.
My numerous phonecalls and e-mails were never responded to, and I could not figure out for the life of me why he had put me out of his mind so fast, especially after all of our time and experiences together, and all the promises he'd made to come visit me and call regularly (after all, we were practically best friends so I had no reason to believe otherwise).
Since then, I did manage to find his phone number from a colleague of his that I found online (thank you again, Internet) and called him about 3-4 years ago. The conversation felt unnatural and strained, with him doing most of the talking - about himself - and I was genuinely angry with him by the time I hung up the phone.
I found him on Facebook and found his photography website last week, and tried to contact him again, wishing him a happy belated 30th birthday and mentioned that his photography had nearly brought me to tears, it was so stunning. It would have been nice to have received even a simple "thank-you" or "nice to hear from you, Jill," etc.
Nothing.
I can rattle off plenty of other examples of abandonment (including all of the men I've tried contacting via various singles sites or even my own siblings who don't care to get too involved except every so often with their younger sibling's life), but this sounds enough like a pity party as it is.
My point is: the internet has made it so easy and FAST to communicate with each other. Gone are the days of having to sit down and compose a letter on paper, which takes 15x longer. I can hardly accept that people are "too busy." Give me a break. Everyone is "busy." You can't carve out 45 seconds of your busy day to thank an old friend for wishing you a happy birthday and complimenting you on your work?
You know how many times I have racked my brain trying to think of the things I might have done to piss people off, only to finally realize later that it probably had nothing to do with me? Is it possible that my male friend felt rejected for those two years because we were just friends and nothing more, and maybe that's what he wanted all along? And now he is closing our short window of friendship by being a jackass and not talking to me at all? It really hurts me.
I ask God sometimes: How far are you going to take this? How long will I be alone? Is this seriously what you want for my life - for me to stay in isolation? For me to continue pouring out affection to others, only to be acknowledged by space and time? I even tried joining another singles site earlier this week and thought I'd give it yet another shot. I saw a man's profile that really made me jumpy; I mean, he sounded just awesome. I sent him a short note expressing some interest in his profile, and you know what I've gotten in return so far?
So here I am, pushing 30 and living my childhood wish, to be alone. Except it was a child's wish, not a 30-year-old's wish. Sure, I enjoy being in my own place and having my own money and making my own choices, but I also like to stay connected with other human beings for the sake of stabilizing my own mental health.
What a joy to have the internet at our fingertips everywhere we go in 2010 (had the internet been available when I was a child, I probably would have never experienced the solo life for one minute as I did); it makes it so easy to write and respond to others in just minutes, or even seconds, if you are not a novelist by nature.
Which leads me to my current heartbreak: the absence of e-mail responses I receive from certain friends in my life, and other acquaintances. I take the time to write e-mails to people that mean something to me in some fashion, and I don't get a response.
It isn't just the absence of e-mail responses, either; it is the absence of response, period. One example: I was practically best friends with a guy that I'd met as a freshman at GVSU for about two years. We did everything together; ate together, did photo shoots together (he is a photographer and quite talented), talked about everything, laughed; went places together; things that friends do.
I transferred out of GVSU after my sophomore year to Concordia University Wisconsin, and he dropped me like a lead balloon. Or like a bag of dirt, as I'd felt at the time.
My numerous phonecalls and e-mails were never responded to, and I could not figure out for the life of me why he had put me out of his mind so fast, especially after all of our time and experiences together, and all the promises he'd made to come visit me and call regularly (after all, we were practically best friends so I had no reason to believe otherwise).
Since then, I did manage to find his phone number from a colleague of his that I found online (thank you again, Internet) and called him about 3-4 years ago. The conversation felt unnatural and strained, with him doing most of the talking - about himself - and I was genuinely angry with him by the time I hung up the phone.
I found him on Facebook and found his photography website last week, and tried to contact him again, wishing him a happy belated 30th birthday and mentioned that his photography had nearly brought me to tears, it was so stunning. It would have been nice to have received even a simple "thank-you" or "nice to hear from you, Jill," etc.
Nothing.
I can rattle off plenty of other examples of abandonment (including all of the men I've tried contacting via various singles sites or even my own siblings who don't care to get too involved except every so often with their younger sibling's life), but this sounds enough like a pity party as it is.
My point is: the internet has made it so easy and FAST to communicate with each other. Gone are the days of having to sit down and compose a letter on paper, which takes 15x longer. I can hardly accept that people are "too busy." Give me a break. Everyone is "busy." You can't carve out 45 seconds of your busy day to thank an old friend for wishing you a happy birthday and complimenting you on your work?
You know how many times I have racked my brain trying to think of the things I might have done to piss people off, only to finally realize later that it probably had nothing to do with me? Is it possible that my male friend felt rejected for those two years because we were just friends and nothing more, and maybe that's what he wanted all along? And now he is closing our short window of friendship by being a jackass and not talking to me at all? It really hurts me.
I ask God sometimes: How far are you going to take this? How long will I be alone? Is this seriously what you want for my life - for me to stay in isolation? For me to continue pouring out affection to others, only to be acknowledged by space and time? I even tried joining another singles site earlier this week and thought I'd give it yet another shot. I saw a man's profile that really made me jumpy; I mean, he sounded just awesome. I sent him a short note expressing some interest in his profile, and you know what I've gotten in return so far?
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Nunya.
At an undisclosed age (meaning I can't remember), my brother began answering my prying questions regarding his personal life with, "Nunya." The first time I heard it, I asked, "Nunya?" "Nunya," he responded. "Nunya business." (Oh. So we're black now?)
Years later, I find myself on Facebook wanting to respond the same way to certain "friends" of mine who make comments that I feel are inappropriate or too revealing of their deep-seeded envy of my current activities or purchases. I purchased a high-powered - and inevitably, high-priced - blender (more like a countertop lawn mower) before Christmas, and showed pictures of it on my Facebook page. The first comment I received on it, which I promptly deleted, was one of my friends stating that she had looked up the blender online and couldn't believe that I paid "that much" for a blender. Actually, I didn't even pay "that much" for it; I received an insider's discount that everyday web surfers wouldn't likely come across.
Anyway, that isn't the point. The point is, I don't like it when people ask me about my money and how much everything costs. It is nosy and rude. My parents told me early on to never ask about money or tell others about my own money. So this all must be some kind of twisted revenge for every interrogation I ever put anybody through regarding sensitive issues that I did not pick up on.
In fact, I'm hesitant to even post on Facebook that I'm planning on taking a trip to Asia in a few months. I can see the responses now: "How much is the ticket? Must be REAL EXPENSIVE to go to Asia..." "Wow, you're so lucky! I wish I could afford to go on a trip like that!" "First the awesome blender, then you want to sponsor a child, and now you want to go overseas on a vacation for your 30th birthday? I hate you!"
Here's what I would like to say to many who feel the need to inquire on my financial status (though I don't because I really don't need to explain anything to anybody): NUNYA. It doesn't mean that I am rich or have access to secret offshore funds or am prostituting myself to wealthy men who were kind enough to pass along a few extra Benjamins for my new Blendtec (now you can research the blender for yourself if you'd like). It means I am single, independent, have a full-time job, paid off my credit card debt, don't have a mortgage payment, don't have a spouse or children to think of, don't have pets, don't have a car payment, don't enjoy clothes/shoes shopping, don't travel often, and don't socialize enough to put it in the budget.
I do save every week, I do live within my means, I do have a boss who finally began paying me enough to live on after 4 years of overdrafting checks and falling deep into credit card debt, I do believe in the reward system, I do believe in taking advantage when the opportunity strikes, I do believe in fulfilling the right kinds of needs and deep desires in the right ways, and I absolutely believe in sustenance of good mental health.
I like learning about other cultures and wish I had more money and time to explore them. The only thing most of my acquaintances know about Taiwan is that their jeans and car batteries were made there. You wouldn't know that Taiwan has some of the nicest natural hot springs in the world, or that it has a coastline featuring buildings similar to those found in Santorini, Greece, if you didn't take the time to find out. But since I took the time to make friends from different countries, I discovered the beauty of this hidden gem in the ocean.
It would be like me saying to someone who has just posted a picture of their new house: "How much did you pay for that??? You're buying a boring, sterile-looking house in a sterile neighborhood with no yard and no privacy, that's going to drain your finances for the next 30 years, instead of taking an awesome trip overseas and having the time of your life?"
Funny how the same people who have just purchased brand-new vehicles, brand-new HDTVs, and other brand-new miscellaneous items have the guts to make a stink about how much I spent on a blender.
How much did I spend on it? Less than $400. Want more specifics than that?
Nunya.
Years later, I find myself on Facebook wanting to respond the same way to certain "friends" of mine who make comments that I feel are inappropriate or too revealing of their deep-seeded envy of my current activities or purchases. I purchased a high-powered - and inevitably, high-priced - blender (more like a countertop lawn mower) before Christmas, and showed pictures of it on my Facebook page. The first comment I received on it, which I promptly deleted, was one of my friends stating that she had looked up the blender online and couldn't believe that I paid "that much" for a blender. Actually, I didn't even pay "that much" for it; I received an insider's discount that everyday web surfers wouldn't likely come across.
Anyway, that isn't the point. The point is, I don't like it when people ask me about my money and how much everything costs. It is nosy and rude. My parents told me early on to never ask about money or tell others about my own money. So this all must be some kind of twisted revenge for every interrogation I ever put anybody through regarding sensitive issues that I did not pick up on.
In fact, I'm hesitant to even post on Facebook that I'm planning on taking a trip to Asia in a few months. I can see the responses now: "How much is the ticket? Must be REAL EXPENSIVE to go to Asia..." "Wow, you're so lucky! I wish I could afford to go on a trip like that!" "First the awesome blender, then you want to sponsor a child, and now you want to go overseas on a vacation for your 30th birthday? I hate you!"
Here's what I would like to say to many who feel the need to inquire on my financial status (though I don't because I really don't need to explain anything to anybody): NUNYA. It doesn't mean that I am rich or have access to secret offshore funds or am prostituting myself to wealthy men who were kind enough to pass along a few extra Benjamins for my new Blendtec (now you can research the blender for yourself if you'd like). It means I am single, independent, have a full-time job, paid off my credit card debt, don't have a mortgage payment, don't have a spouse or children to think of, don't have pets, don't have a car payment, don't enjoy clothes/shoes shopping, don't travel often, and don't socialize enough to put it in the budget.
I do save every week, I do live within my means, I do have a boss who finally began paying me enough to live on after 4 years of overdrafting checks and falling deep into credit card debt, I do believe in the reward system, I do believe in taking advantage when the opportunity strikes, I do believe in fulfilling the right kinds of needs and deep desires in the right ways, and I absolutely believe in sustenance of good mental health.
I like learning about other cultures and wish I had more money and time to explore them. The only thing most of my acquaintances know about Taiwan is that their jeans and car batteries were made there. You wouldn't know that Taiwan has some of the nicest natural hot springs in the world, or that it has a coastline featuring buildings similar to those found in Santorini, Greece, if you didn't take the time to find out. But since I took the time to make friends from different countries, I discovered the beauty of this hidden gem in the ocean.
It would be like me saying to someone who has just posted a picture of their new house: "How much did you pay for that??? You're buying a boring, sterile-looking house in a sterile neighborhood with no yard and no privacy, that's going to drain your finances for the next 30 years, instead of taking an awesome trip overseas and having the time of your life?"
Funny how the same people who have just purchased brand-new vehicles, brand-new HDTVs, and other brand-new miscellaneous items have the guts to make a stink about how much I spent on a blender.
How much did I spend on it? Less than $400. Want more specifics than that?
Nunya.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
My Private Fire
I recently went out to lunch by myself about a week ago, which is uncommon for me as I usually eat lunch with the same people every day. But that was the thing - I eat lunch every day with the same people in the same room inside of the same building - and I reached a point where I thought one more day might cause my head to pop off my torso and begin turning around a full 360 degrees at about 75 mph. I needed some time alone that day.
So, I drove up the street to a nearby Wendy's that has a terribly-designed drive-thru lane for itself and the conjoined Tim Horton's inside, and made my way to a distant parking space with burger and fries in hand (my favorite meal) once I figured out which of the 15 lanes to navigate my Beetle on to the food window. My guilt for abandoning ship and leaving my lunch buddies behind had stayed back with my dust as I sped out of the work parking lot just ten minutes earlier; at last, I had some peace.
My radio and engine were both turned off, allowing a full onset of quiet and harmony to settle in. As expected, my thoughts began to wander. And wander. And wander. And wander.
I pictured so many things at once: beauty, laughter, bright skies, rainbows, angels, hugs, kisses... I thought about things of the past and things to come, and the feeling of achievement that I sorely missed. My mind took me back in time to writing poetry and short stories; painting in the art studio at school; long conversations with my gorgeous art instructor; the freedom I felt as I pushed the nozzle down and spray-painted my entire Blazer; learning to dance the salsa and merengue; the intense pleasure as I badly damaged the drivers' side door of the truck owned by my childhood bully; the beloved dog I trained; the late night swims I took; the dear friends I made; the tears I cried; the life I had once lived.
Pretty soon, I remembered that I needed to return to work as I gazed out my windshield amidst a private fire of memories that had invisibly engulfed me inside of my vehicle. So my visions continued as I drove back to work, and lingered as I sat in my parking spot not wanting to go back inside "just yet."
I turned around and looked back at the building, and thought about what it'd be like on my last day. That day where I could walk out and never come back after saying all my "good-byes," given all my hugs, cleaned off my desk, walking out that front door one last time and letting the door quietly shut behind me. Would it be a sad day? Is it something to be scared of? Absolutely not. In fact, the imagined feeling of leaving sent a surge of energy through me, making me jump out of the car and walk quickly back inside as if doing so would make my imaginary departure more speedy.
I am living in the future. I have already told this place "good-bye" and experienced the joy that followed. The calendar date just hasn't arrived yet. But I am already there in spirit.
So, I drove up the street to a nearby Wendy's that has a terribly-designed drive-thru lane for itself and the conjoined Tim Horton's inside, and made my way to a distant parking space with burger and fries in hand (my favorite meal) once I figured out which of the 15 lanes to navigate my Beetle on to the food window. My guilt for abandoning ship and leaving my lunch buddies behind had stayed back with my dust as I sped out of the work parking lot just ten minutes earlier; at last, I had some peace.
My radio and engine were both turned off, allowing a full onset of quiet and harmony to settle in. As expected, my thoughts began to wander. And wander. And wander. And wander.
I pictured so many things at once: beauty, laughter, bright skies, rainbows, angels, hugs, kisses... I thought about things of the past and things to come, and the feeling of achievement that I sorely missed. My mind took me back in time to writing poetry and short stories; painting in the art studio at school; long conversations with my gorgeous art instructor; the freedom I felt as I pushed the nozzle down and spray-painted my entire Blazer; learning to dance the salsa and merengue; the intense pleasure as I badly damaged the drivers' side door of the truck owned by my childhood bully; the beloved dog I trained; the late night swims I took; the dear friends I made; the tears I cried; the life I had once lived.
Pretty soon, I remembered that I needed to return to work as I gazed out my windshield amidst a private fire of memories that had invisibly engulfed me inside of my vehicle. So my visions continued as I drove back to work, and lingered as I sat in my parking spot not wanting to go back inside "just yet."
I turned around and looked back at the building, and thought about what it'd be like on my last day. That day where I could walk out and never come back after saying all my "good-byes," given all my hugs, cleaned off my desk, walking out that front door one last time and letting the door quietly shut behind me. Would it be a sad day? Is it something to be scared of? Absolutely not. In fact, the imagined feeling of leaving sent a surge of energy through me, making me jump out of the car and walk quickly back inside as if doing so would make my imaginary departure more speedy.
I am living in the future. I have already told this place "good-bye" and experienced the joy that followed. The calendar date just hasn't arrived yet. But I am already there in spirit.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
More
More. I want more.
Not quite sure of what it is that I want more of; I just know that I want more.
It is hard for me to relax because I feel restless. Trying to be peaceful throughout my current journey is like trying to tell a caterpillar to sit still while it is in its cocoon, liquifying and transforming into a butterfly.
So here I am, stuck inside of my cocoon, beating on the walls, feeling claustrophobic, wanting to get out. I can't tell if my wings have fully developed or not, because I don't know what fully developed wings look or feel like. All I know is that there is more to live and love, and I want it.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
The Mad and The Good
One thing I have learned about being in the midst of mundane, tedious, soul-draining activities is that my mind tends to wander into other worlds that I most likely wouldn't have explored otherwise.
This past weekend, I spent a few lovely days away from my life in southeastern Michigan and explored my former west coast stomping grounds in the vicinity of Grand Haven, which is a quaint beach community perched on Lake Michigan and also located roughly 40 minutes from where I spent my first two years of college at Grand Valley State University.
I drove through the campus for the first time in ten years, and like a sudden jolt from the deepest of slumbers, I returned to August of 1998 when I first came to GVSU. As I drove past the empty sidewalks (it was a holiday weekend), I saw myself walking or biking to class, carrying my backpack, probably running late, a drink in my hand, waving to friends, waving to professors, maneuvering through crowds of hundreds going the opposite direction.
How cool would it be to live like that again?, I thought. But surely at this point, it would be impossible. It is always nice to daydream, however.
How does this relate to the first paragraph of this post? Well....
I began my work day doing the same thing I've been doing for the past three months. It is not worth describing in this post. After having such a refreshing weekend away, this task was much more difficult than usual. So my mind began to wander and I started staring at the wall next to my desk. I remembered how much I loved painting while at college and wondered what it would be like to bring in a painting of my own and hang it on the wall next to my desk.
Nothing I have already done would suffice; I'd have to make something new. Something more "work-appropriate"; but it is an excuse to begin creating again. I thought of what kind of images I'd like to paint, and between my iPod and the bitterness I was fighting off in my brain, I came up with some bizarre ideas that probably wouldn't earn me the "Employee of the Month" award. So I still have to work on that part.
Madness = swirling thoughts = creativity = something you wouldn't have done otherwise = something good for someone (hopefully you).
This past weekend, I spent a few lovely days away from my life in southeastern Michigan and explored my former west coast stomping grounds in the vicinity of Grand Haven, which is a quaint beach community perched on Lake Michigan and also located roughly 40 minutes from where I spent my first two years of college at Grand Valley State University.
I drove through the campus for the first time in ten years, and like a sudden jolt from the deepest of slumbers, I returned to August of 1998 when I first came to GVSU. As I drove past the empty sidewalks (it was a holiday weekend), I saw myself walking or biking to class, carrying my backpack, probably running late, a drink in my hand, waving to friends, waving to professors, maneuvering through crowds of hundreds going the opposite direction.
How cool would it be to live like that again?, I thought. But surely at this point, it would be impossible. It is always nice to daydream, however.
How does this relate to the first paragraph of this post? Well....
I began my work day doing the same thing I've been doing for the past three months. It is not worth describing in this post. After having such a refreshing weekend away, this task was much more difficult than usual. So my mind began to wander and I started staring at the wall next to my desk. I remembered how much I loved painting while at college and wondered what it would be like to bring in a painting of my own and hang it on the wall next to my desk.
Nothing I have already done would suffice; I'd have to make something new. Something more "work-appropriate"; but it is an excuse to begin creating again. I thought of what kind of images I'd like to paint, and between my iPod and the bitterness I was fighting off in my brain, I came up with some bizarre ideas that probably wouldn't earn me the "Employee of the Month" award. So I still have to work on that part.
Madness = swirling thoughts = creativity = something you wouldn't have done otherwise = something good for someone (hopefully you).
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Fantasy Island
Today I had a wonderful fantasy. Hopefully I can describe it within the next six minutes at which point I am due to eat lunch. It went something like this...
I finally take my vacation to Taiwan as I have been wanting to do for a while now. Upon spending a significant amount of time there (say, 7-10 days), I decide that I do not want to return to the United States. I make a phonecall home stating that I am not returning. My mom thinks I am joking. I am not. Then, my fantasy switches to the scene at work where my department is sitting around talking about it, scratching their heads.
"She's not coming back," the supervisor says. Boss comes in to join the conversation with crunched eyebrows and moving eyeballs that reflect alternating left- and right-brained activity (you didn't know that your eyes reflected that, did you?). He shakes his head and says, "I don't get it" and Delilah sits at her desk, looking very depressed, while LT and Supervisor pick up where they left off and keep typing in silence.
Two minutes left.
There is an eery silence and a strange aura floating in my corner of the room. My calendar, lamps, pictures, pens, papers, and glowing telephone sit unused at my desk waiting for my return. Except I am not returning, and nobody quite understands why.
Meanwhile, I am still in Taiwan and it has begun to rain. I am outside getting drenched, laughing like I have finally lost it (which, after making such a decision, I most likely have), drawing attention to myself as I sprint up and down the street. There is a pond nearby, and I jump in and swim around in my clothes. My friend O. that has so graciously hosted me during my stay in Taiwan is not sure what to think, so he suggests we go have a drink. I agree. However, we must have a drink in an outdoor pub since I am soaking wet. The Taiwanese natives stare at me and my mess of dripping hair and clothes, but I am like a walking vapor cloud of freedom and delusion, if there is such a thing, and hardly notice the extra attention.
Time's up. I have a sloppy joe and kiwi waiting for me in the frig.
I finally take my vacation to Taiwan as I have been wanting to do for a while now. Upon spending a significant amount of time there (say, 7-10 days), I decide that I do not want to return to the United States. I make a phonecall home stating that I am not returning. My mom thinks I am joking. I am not. Then, my fantasy switches to the scene at work where my department is sitting around talking about it, scratching their heads.
"She's not coming back," the supervisor says. Boss comes in to join the conversation with crunched eyebrows and moving eyeballs that reflect alternating left- and right-brained activity (you didn't know that your eyes reflected that, did you?). He shakes his head and says, "I don't get it" and Delilah sits at her desk, looking very depressed, while LT and Supervisor pick up where they left off and keep typing in silence.
Two minutes left.
There is an eery silence and a strange aura floating in my corner of the room. My calendar, lamps, pictures, pens, papers, and glowing telephone sit unused at my desk waiting for my return. Except I am not returning, and nobody quite understands why.
Meanwhile, I am still in Taiwan and it has begun to rain. I am outside getting drenched, laughing like I have finally lost it (which, after making such a decision, I most likely have), drawing attention to myself as I sprint up and down the street. There is a pond nearby, and I jump in and swim around in my clothes. My friend O. that has so graciously hosted me during my stay in Taiwan is not sure what to think, so he suggests we go have a drink. I agree. However, we must have a drink in an outdoor pub since I am soaking wet. The Taiwanese natives stare at me and my mess of dripping hair and clothes, but I am like a walking vapor cloud of freedom and delusion, if there is such a thing, and hardly notice the extra attention.
Time's up. I have a sloppy joe and kiwi waiting for me in the frig.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Ee-von
On Thursday night, we had a guest in our evening spinning class who was up from Mexico visiting his girlfriend, who is a regular attendee. As soon as I saw them enter the gym together, my eyes were on him like a mustache on a Mariachi. At the time, I didn't realize he was her boyfriend, but within seconds she introduced him to me in English as her boyfriend after a brief hello in Spanish (do not attempt to practice your Spanish with Mexicans if they know English; you'll never win).
Damn. Nevertheless, I feasted my eyes upon him anyhow. It was my turn to stare at a Mexican man for a change.
As the class began, my instructor politely asked him questions to help him feel included in our small group of overweight American cyclists (excluding his very thin Mexican girlfriend that he was seated next to, of course).
"What is your name?," she asked.
"Ivan," he responded (pronounced like Ee-von).
"'Ee-von?,'" the girl cycling next to me asked.
"Yeah, you know, like 'Ivan,'" I replied to her, minus the Spanish accent.
"Oh."
I guess she doesn't know the Spanish alphabet, I thought.
The instructor continued to make small talk over the noise of spinning bicycle wheels and blaring techno music.
"How long are you here for?"
"Two weeks."
"Is this your first time here?"
"Yes," and then something about his job and coming back and forth, like his girlfriend does. But, yes.
"Do you like it here?"
Say yes.
"Yes."
Good boy.
"Would you want to live here?"
Ooh, good one.
"Yes."
Of course.
"Do you 'do this' in Mexico, as well?" (spinning classes)
"Yes, all the time."
Why, that would explain your lovely, fit body, then.
Ahem...
At that point, I began wondering what it was like to live in Ivan's world at that moment. There is a large window in the studio where you can see everybody walking by, standing outside of the studio next door, walking around the track, stretching, doing nothing, whatever. I soon realized that Ivan's ocular senses and twenty-something hormones were most likely going into overdrive as he took in all of the sights and sounds of blonde and brunette young American women in their spandex workout clothing and lighter complexions, something he naturally was not used to seeing as he comes from a land where everyone looks the same, something he most likely only sees on TV or as he browses through porn sites online. (Ha....)
I was willing to bet even the American men were intimidating to him, with their bulging muscles and seemingly gigantic Nordic structures, complemented with lightly-colored eyes that beamed stereotypes and beaner jokes into the souls of each Latino crossing their paths.
Everything that we do not notice on a daily basis, Ivan most likely noticed during his stay in America. Right down to how fast you appear to be pedaling on your stationery bike, the look on your face as you push yourself as hard as you can, and the amount of sweat pooling under your arms and above your eyebrows as you frantically cycle through an entire hour of Fitness Hell.
Ivan and his girlfriend come from a class of Mexican society that we do not see often in the United States. We don't see them often because that type of Mexican comes from a family where the parents have seen some success, so they are able to go to college, get his/her degree, learn English along the way, and reach success in their home country with a professional job that allows them to live comfortably and remain immersed in their native culture. I never knew Mexicans of this caliber existed until I spent four months living there, and realized that even they were not exempt from having divisions and "castes" within their own society. Ivan's girlfriend was in the U.S. because she works for a Mexican company that has an office in Auburn Hills, so she goes back and forth a few times a year for months at a time. (I wouldn't mind having her job...)
The Mexicans we see crawling into the states with $5 in their pocket, a sack of dirty clothes on their back, and bruises from being robbed and beaten by Mexican cartels specializing in this kind of behavior, have grown up in poverty, have not gone to college and most likely never finished grammar school, have been working hard physical labor since age 10 or younger, have siblings, parents, wives and children back home living off of whatever they bring home, who have decided that their country has failed them and they are now willing to risk it all by going to the U.S. to find work, even if it means they will die or go to jail along the way. To them it is better than remaining how and where they are, and they see no other way out.
Two very different sets of people; two cultures co-existing as one; two groups of Mexican society that make up the country's population - the rich and the poor. There is maybe a sliver of middle-class in their society, but it is hard to know what Mexico even defines as "middle-class."
After the class ended, one woman approached Ivan's girlfriend and began asking questions about Mexico. I didn't hear exactly what she was asking; I could just hear the tones in her voice going up and down, her squeals of delight as she dreamed of visiting one day, and her increasingly loud voice that was sure to scare away poor Ee-von and shatter all of his daydreams of experimenting with an American woman. Yet it sounded so typical, like I was just waiting for somebody to approach her and perform this dialogue any day now, letting out bursts of temporary excitement in the presence of a foreigner, the false claims that their country must be "just so beautiful," and the implication of a blossoming friendship that will most likely never be. It sounded so superficial, weak, annoying, so..... American?
Damn. Nevertheless, I feasted my eyes upon him anyhow. It was my turn to stare at a Mexican man for a change.
As the class began, my instructor politely asked him questions to help him feel included in our small group of overweight American cyclists (excluding his very thin Mexican girlfriend that he was seated next to, of course).
"What is your name?," she asked.
"Ivan," he responded (pronounced like Ee-von).
"'Ee-von?,'" the girl cycling next to me asked.
"Yeah, you know, like 'Ivan,'" I replied to her, minus the Spanish accent.
"Oh."
I guess she doesn't know the Spanish alphabet, I thought.
The instructor continued to make small talk over the noise of spinning bicycle wheels and blaring techno music.
"How long are you here for?"
"Two weeks."
"Is this your first time here?"
"Yes," and then something about his job and coming back and forth, like his girlfriend does. But, yes.
"Do you like it here?"
Say yes.
"Yes."
Good boy.
"Would you want to live here?"
Ooh, good one.
"Yes."
Of course.
"Do you 'do this' in Mexico, as well?" (spinning classes)
"Yes, all the time."
Why, that would explain your lovely, fit body, then.
Ahem...
At that point, I began wondering what it was like to live in Ivan's world at that moment. There is a large window in the studio where you can see everybody walking by, standing outside of the studio next door, walking around the track, stretching, doing nothing, whatever. I soon realized that Ivan's ocular senses and twenty-something hormones were most likely going into overdrive as he took in all of the sights and sounds of blonde and brunette young American women in their spandex workout clothing and lighter complexions, something he naturally was not used to seeing as he comes from a land where everyone looks the same, something he most likely only sees on TV or as he browses through porn sites online. (Ha....)
I was willing to bet even the American men were intimidating to him, with their bulging muscles and seemingly gigantic Nordic structures, complemented with lightly-colored eyes that beamed stereotypes and beaner jokes into the souls of each Latino crossing their paths.
Everything that we do not notice on a daily basis, Ivan most likely noticed during his stay in America. Right down to how fast you appear to be pedaling on your stationery bike, the look on your face as you push yourself as hard as you can, and the amount of sweat pooling under your arms and above your eyebrows as you frantically cycle through an entire hour of Fitness Hell.
Ivan and his girlfriend come from a class of Mexican society that we do not see often in the United States. We don't see them often because that type of Mexican comes from a family where the parents have seen some success, so they are able to go to college, get his/her degree, learn English along the way, and reach success in their home country with a professional job that allows them to live comfortably and remain immersed in their native culture. I never knew Mexicans of this caliber existed until I spent four months living there, and realized that even they were not exempt from having divisions and "castes" within their own society. Ivan's girlfriend was in the U.S. because she works for a Mexican company that has an office in Auburn Hills, so she goes back and forth a few times a year for months at a time. (I wouldn't mind having her job...)
The Mexicans we see crawling into the states with $5 in their pocket, a sack of dirty clothes on their back, and bruises from being robbed and beaten by Mexican cartels specializing in this kind of behavior, have grown up in poverty, have not gone to college and most likely never finished grammar school, have been working hard physical labor since age 10 or younger, have siblings, parents, wives and children back home living off of whatever they bring home, who have decided that their country has failed them and they are now willing to risk it all by going to the U.S. to find work, even if it means they will die or go to jail along the way. To them it is better than remaining how and where they are, and they see no other way out.
Two very different sets of people; two cultures co-existing as one; two groups of Mexican society that make up the country's population - the rich and the poor. There is maybe a sliver of middle-class in their society, but it is hard to know what Mexico even defines as "middle-class."
After the class ended, one woman approached Ivan's girlfriend and began asking questions about Mexico. I didn't hear exactly what she was asking; I could just hear the tones in her voice going up and down, her squeals of delight as she dreamed of visiting one day, and her increasingly loud voice that was sure to scare away poor Ee-von and shatter all of his daydreams of experimenting with an American woman. Yet it sounded so typical, like I was just waiting for somebody to approach her and perform this dialogue any day now, letting out bursts of temporary excitement in the presence of a foreigner, the false claims that their country must be "just so beautiful," and the implication of a blossoming friendship that will most likely never be. It sounded so superficial, weak, annoying, so..... American?
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Rejection
Rejection. It's a hard feeling to swallow, whether it is perceived or real, external or internal. It is a feeling that, if expressed verbally by its host, would say something like, "You aren't good enough" or "You didn't say the right thing" or "You aren't trying hard enough" or "I prefer someone else over you." Not everyone has the guts to reject someone outright; many times they use more discreet mediums to deliver the rejection, such as silence, deliberately leaving you out of a conversation being held in your presence, deciding at the last minute to outsource your project to another company instead of allowing you to do it, promoting your co-worker to manager when he/she has worked for a lesser time at the company than you, giving your co-worker free vacation time for doing a great job - and giving you nothing for your great job; an interviewer who escorts you out only seven minutes into the interview, a friend who won't give a straight answer about wanting to visit you this summer, men who intermittently express interest only to be pulled back by.... ? who knows?, and family members who don't understand you in the way that you long to be understood.
These have all happened to me, both in the past and recently. Of course these incidents are nothing too serious, and there are plenty more situations that I did not list, but when situations like this tend to repeat themselves, over time the mind becomes weak from trying to ward off the bad as it tries to keep itself healthy and balanced. Inevitably, the thoughts and feelings make a connection and if the thoughts are leaning more towards rejection, the feelings follow, and the thick, black smoke of rejection begins seeping in through the cracks.
I think about how my nieces and nephews will grow up and begin experiencing rejection, if they haven't already, and it makes me sad when I picture them feeling that sting of hurt in their little hearts for the first time. What a shock it must be to step out of the warm environment of nurture and love from your family and parents, and into a world of people who are hurtful and unfair, and never see it coming. I remember going to kindergarten and hearing comments being made about my glasses. I had never given my glasses a second thought until I went to school, but all of a sudden I was made aware that the lines (bifocals) running through my glasses were ugly and extremely noticeable by everybody. From then on, I always wondered if kids would continue rejecting me because of them.
And every year when summer comes, I have to listen to comments being made about how "white" I am because my skin can't tan. It sounds funny, but it hurts and I feel rejected every time I hear it. I have felt that way my whole life. To me it is someone saying, "You won't look pretty until you get a tan."
How often do you wonder if you will be "accepted" when getting ready to go into a new situation in your life? And how often do you feel "rejected" once you are there? I hope for your sake that your history is more positive than mine!
These have all happened to me, both in the past and recently. Of course these incidents are nothing too serious, and there are plenty more situations that I did not list, but when situations like this tend to repeat themselves, over time the mind becomes weak from trying to ward off the bad as it tries to keep itself healthy and balanced. Inevitably, the thoughts and feelings make a connection and if the thoughts are leaning more towards rejection, the feelings follow, and the thick, black smoke of rejection begins seeping in through the cracks.
I think about how my nieces and nephews will grow up and begin experiencing rejection, if they haven't already, and it makes me sad when I picture them feeling that sting of hurt in their little hearts for the first time. What a shock it must be to step out of the warm environment of nurture and love from your family and parents, and into a world of people who are hurtful and unfair, and never see it coming. I remember going to kindergarten and hearing comments being made about my glasses. I had never given my glasses a second thought until I went to school, but all of a sudden I was made aware that the lines (bifocals) running through my glasses were ugly and extremely noticeable by everybody. From then on, I always wondered if kids would continue rejecting me because of them.
And every year when summer comes, I have to listen to comments being made about how "white" I am because my skin can't tan. It sounds funny, but it hurts and I feel rejected every time I hear it. I have felt that way my whole life. To me it is someone saying, "You won't look pretty until you get a tan."
How often do you wonder if you will be "accepted" when getting ready to go into a new situation in your life? And how often do you feel "rejected" once you are there? I hope for your sake that your history is more positive than mine!
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Power of Thinking
During this past week, I watched a movie called "The Secret." I found it to be a bit strange - a bunch of philosophers and quantitative physicists discussing the "law of attraction," and how utilizing it can bring happiness and wealth into your own life. I dismissed the parts that I thought were indicating that humans possess God-like powers, but I did connect with one idea that they continually mentioned throughout the movie.
It was the power of thought. Your thoughts can quite easily ruin or improve your day. You can feel like everyone hates you or everyone is in love with you, based on whatever you believe to be true. Your thoughts affect your feelings, and whether or not something you are thinking about is actually true, your feelings will begin reflecting those thoughts. Your feelings don't know what is true and what isn't; they change as a result of what your thoughts are saying.
Not long ago, I constantly felt depressed and humiliated every day I came into work because I thought that my supervisor was always angry with me and did not like me. I didn't know for sure if this was true, but I kept thinking that it was and so my feelings followed. I felt like it was true.
This sequence can happen so fast that we don't even stop to realize if what we are thinking is even valid or makes sense. At one point, I even thought that each time my supervisor and boss met privately in his office, it was because they were talking about me and deciding whether or not to fire me. It made no sense but I felt the anxiety and fear all of the time. I never stopped to challenge that thought to the point of realizing that it was ridiculous. (I'm still employed, by the way).
The movie also discussed the process of visualization, which I enjoyed learning about. They were saying if you really want to achieve something, picture yourself doing it - really focus on it. When you do that, you experience that same sequence of thoughts + feelings, and you begin to feel like you are really doing it. Like I mentioned above, your feelings respond to what is going on in your thoughts and they don't know what is truth or fiction.
So I visualized myself at my ideal weight and wearing the clothes that I used to wear, and it felt wonderful. I pictured myself traveling through Taiwan and not feeling embarrassed to wear my bathing suit into the hot springs. Immediately, I began to feel excited and confident. So I continued. I thought about what kind of job I would like to have; things I could do with my hair; places I'd love to travel to; conversations I would have; the laughter, the aromas, the turns and stares.
This process is supposed to help you stay in tune with your goals, continuously working towards them and making you want success on a heart level. I found this to be psychologically fascinating, and I am hoping to use this technique to my full advantage.
It was the power of thought. Your thoughts can quite easily ruin or improve your day. You can feel like everyone hates you or everyone is in love with you, based on whatever you believe to be true. Your thoughts affect your feelings, and whether or not something you are thinking about is actually true, your feelings will begin reflecting those thoughts. Your feelings don't know what is true and what isn't; they change as a result of what your thoughts are saying.
Not long ago, I constantly felt depressed and humiliated every day I came into work because I thought that my supervisor was always angry with me and did not like me. I didn't know for sure if this was true, but I kept thinking that it was and so my feelings followed. I felt like it was true.
This sequence can happen so fast that we don't even stop to realize if what we are thinking is even valid or makes sense. At one point, I even thought that each time my supervisor and boss met privately in his office, it was because they were talking about me and deciding whether or not to fire me. It made no sense but I felt the anxiety and fear all of the time. I never stopped to challenge that thought to the point of realizing that it was ridiculous. (I'm still employed, by the way).
The movie also discussed the process of visualization, which I enjoyed learning about. They were saying if you really want to achieve something, picture yourself doing it - really focus on it. When you do that, you experience that same sequence of thoughts + feelings, and you begin to feel like you are really doing it. Like I mentioned above, your feelings respond to what is going on in your thoughts and they don't know what is truth or fiction.
So I visualized myself at my ideal weight and wearing the clothes that I used to wear, and it felt wonderful. I pictured myself traveling through Taiwan and not feeling embarrassed to wear my bathing suit into the hot springs. Immediately, I began to feel excited and confident. So I continued. I thought about what kind of job I would like to have; things I could do with my hair; places I'd love to travel to; conversations I would have; the laughter, the aromas, the turns and stares.
This process is supposed to help you stay in tune with your goals, continuously working towards them and making you want success on a heart level. I found this to be psychologically fascinating, and I am hoping to use this technique to my full advantage.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Excerpt #1: 12/18/95
An excerpt from my 15th year of life. I had fallen madly in love with the Brazilian foreign exchange student that had a locker across the hall from me. He had an olive complexion with dark eyes, dark eyebrows, a perfectly-shaped mouth, and a lovely ponytail that held some pretty thick, curly, black hair back from his shoulders (I suppose my interest in Latin American men stems further back than I'd originally thought...). I'm over the long-hair-thing now, by the way.
".... I'm nearly in love with him. He is so hot. I analyze his every move, trying to find out something about his personality and how he is. I want to talk to him now that my stupid braces are off. I don't want him to think I'm a total senseless dork. His hair turns me on so much. What the hell is it with me and long hair? I love it so damn much! It is SOOOO sexy! If I approach him in the morning when I have just put my make-up and perfume on, he's bound to like me....."
"... Come to think of it, if he was giving me some of that weird eye contact before, he shouldn't have a problem with lending me a pen or pencil. I always chicken out from talking to him when I see him. That would be cool if he were secretly in love with me, and when I finally did talk to him he grabs me without warning and starts frenching me. But then my retainer would get in the way!"
I wonder what ever happened to that kid. I remember that later on, I did work up the nerve to ask him to the Homecoming dance (in a handwritten letter, delivered one second before scurrying away to class, of course), but he didn't seem to be interested. Maybe he works at a guesthouse down in Rio someplace, regretting that he never gave that toothy, bubbly American girl a chance back in 1995. Or maybe he couldn't read any English and still wonders to this day what the hell was written in that crinkly, sweaty note that was shoved into his hand against his will.
The 15:29 Train
I mean it when I say that being an adult is not much fun, and that most days I'd rather be 15 years old again, even though at 15 I didn't have a driver's license, had no source of income besides household chores that I rarely completed when I was supposed to, hung out with less than desirable individuals, still enjoyed getting high every so often, and had a strong urge to break free from the bounds of my parents and hometown as soon as possible. But at age 15, I was still writing, took piano lessons (though I did not practice often), went to the fair with my friends in the summer and followed boys around hoping they wouldn't notice (and hoping the cops would not realize I was too young to be smoking), shopped with my mom and drove her crazy trying to convince her that my clothes weren't too "skimpy," thought about what kind of tattoo I would like to get when I turned 18, and did up my hair and make-up perfectly for when we went out on the road during driver's training.
I daydreamed a lot at that age. I couldn't wait to turn 16; then it was 18; and finally, the big "21." I had visions and dreams of so much for my life. I would leave Imlay City and go to college - an enchanted land of individuals that didn't know anything about me; men - desirable men - as far as the eye could see; friends, parties, laughter, community; oh man, the list went on and on.
After turning 19, I began hating college but knew I had to finish somewhere and do something. I had gained weight, my friends had all but turned into alcoholics, the desirable men and I never crossed paths, I didn't know what I wanted to do with myself, and my parents and I still fought occasionally.
Fast forward to age 24. I had transferred to Concordia at age 20 - and was SURE things were going to turn around and all my dreams would finally come true; graduated with a degree in graphic design and faced the realization that I was not ever meant to experience any blissful "college boyfriend" romance that lived in my daydreams, had studied abroad in Mexico and stayed with a family that simply filed us through the semester like a herd of cattle (feed them and give them a place to lay, but don't talk much to them because they can't understand anyway), was still overweight, had to come home and live with my parents because I had no job prospects in WI or anywhere else and was being kicked out of the dorms the day after graduation, and so there I was.
I remember one day I was sitting in my old bedroom at home looking out the window, and it was completely quiet. I thought, It's like I just woke up from some weird dream where I met tons of people and sat through hours and hours of instruction that I will never remember. And here I am; back at the place I was trying to get away from.
Now at age 29, I am living on my own and supporting myself. I supported myself to the extent of having to work two jobs for the last two years, which ate up every weekend and occasional evenings during the week. The second job was embarrassing and frustrating, and I began forgetting about what I wanted from life; what I had dreamt of accomplishing, and the things I enjoyed doing in my spare time.
It was more than two months ago that I finally left the second job, and now I am trying to remember what it was that I loved so much about living; forgotten hobbies, the feeling of having a crush on someone, the joy of doing something new, the urge to do more and more and never feel completely satisfied; all of these things were fresh and real at age 15. It just seems like someone else's life from centuries ago, and when I read my old diaries from those years, it is incredible what my thought process was.
I might even go as far as sharing some of those diary entries with the readers of this blog, though I have never let anyone read them, ever. Maybe that will be something for my next post. I am still getting used to this blogging thing. It usually seems a little less natural when I am writing for an audience.
I daydreamed a lot at that age. I couldn't wait to turn 16; then it was 18; and finally, the big "21." I had visions and dreams of so much for my life. I would leave Imlay City and go to college - an enchanted land of individuals that didn't know anything about me; men - desirable men - as far as the eye could see; friends, parties, laughter, community; oh man, the list went on and on.
After turning 19, I began hating college but knew I had to finish somewhere and do something. I had gained weight, my friends had all but turned into alcoholics, the desirable men and I never crossed paths, I didn't know what I wanted to do with myself, and my parents and I still fought occasionally.
Fast forward to age 24. I had transferred to Concordia at age 20 - and was SURE things were going to turn around and all my dreams would finally come true; graduated with a degree in graphic design and faced the realization that I was not ever meant to experience any blissful "college boyfriend" romance that lived in my daydreams, had studied abroad in Mexico and stayed with a family that simply filed us through the semester like a herd of cattle (feed them and give them a place to lay, but don't talk much to them because they can't understand anyway), was still overweight, had to come home and live with my parents because I had no job prospects in WI or anywhere else and was being kicked out of the dorms the day after graduation, and so there I was.
I remember one day I was sitting in my old bedroom at home looking out the window, and it was completely quiet. I thought, It's like I just woke up from some weird dream where I met tons of people and sat through hours and hours of instruction that I will never remember. And here I am; back at the place I was trying to get away from.
Now at age 29, I am living on my own and supporting myself. I supported myself to the extent of having to work two jobs for the last two years, which ate up every weekend and occasional evenings during the week. The second job was embarrassing and frustrating, and I began forgetting about what I wanted from life; what I had dreamt of accomplishing, and the things I enjoyed doing in my spare time.
It was more than two months ago that I finally left the second job, and now I am trying to remember what it was that I loved so much about living; forgotten hobbies, the feeling of having a crush on someone, the joy of doing something new, the urge to do more and more and never feel completely satisfied; all of these things were fresh and real at age 15. It just seems like someone else's life from centuries ago, and when I read my old diaries from those years, it is incredible what my thought process was.
I might even go as far as sharing some of those diary entries with the readers of this blog, though I have never let anyone read them, ever. Maybe that will be something for my next post. I am still getting used to this blogging thing. It usually seems a little less natural when I am writing for an audience.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Bienvenidos
Welcome to my new home. I've decided to relocate to a new blog and to give myself a fresh start here. Not to mention, I can sign up for Google AdSense and even make a few extra pennies through some ads in my sidebars that may or may not have anything to do with what I am writing. We'll see what happens.
We begin today with Loud Typer. Yesterday, another co-worker we will call Delilah* (*to protect her identity) confirmed that, indeed, Loud Typer assaults her sense of hearing, as well. Delilah and I had a great laugh as she also confirmed that he has a loud breathing problem - something I identified during the first few days of Loud Typer's employment. If I didn't know better, I would have assumed that LT had a live porn stream in the lower right section of his monitor showing on a regular basis that was inducing the amplified exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide coming from his corner of the office.
It wasn't long ago that I politely asked him one day if he was angry about something. He wasn't, of course. Then I decided that my next plan of action would be to swipe his keyboard on an unspecified date. Yes, that's right, I would revoke his keyboard privileges. He would have to do all of his work via dictation, a tape recorder, and cheap overseas labor.
Lately, I have been studying the art of forgiveness. I will probably elaborate more on this subject in future posts. It is something that I admit, I am not very good at. I tend to "forgive" people and still feel anger toward them. Forgiveness can be quite tricky. It is one thing to forgive someone for doing one single thing to hurt you, but it is another to forgive them on a regular basis when they repeatedly make you angry.
LT will serve as Challenge #1 as I learn how to do the latter. I am not quite sure how it will work, though. "Geez, you piss me off but I forgive you. You're pissing me off again and I'm forgiving you again. And again." Every pound of the keyboard, every gallop across the keys, every cloud of smoke emitting from his hands is another sting of anger and annoyance. I hardly have time to even forgive him between visions of splitting the keyboard over his head.
Let's continue to explore this topic in another post. LT isn't in the room for a short moment and I need to bask in his exit.
We begin today with Loud Typer. Yesterday, another co-worker we will call Delilah* (*to protect her identity) confirmed that, indeed, Loud Typer assaults her sense of hearing, as well. Delilah and I had a great laugh as she also confirmed that he has a loud breathing problem - something I identified during the first few days of Loud Typer's employment. If I didn't know better, I would have assumed that LT had a live porn stream in the lower right section of his monitor showing on a regular basis that was inducing the amplified exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide coming from his corner of the office.
It wasn't long ago that I politely asked him one day if he was angry about something. He wasn't, of course. Then I decided that my next plan of action would be to swipe his keyboard on an unspecified date. Yes, that's right, I would revoke his keyboard privileges. He would have to do all of his work via dictation, a tape recorder, and cheap overseas labor.
Lately, I have been studying the art of forgiveness. I will probably elaborate more on this subject in future posts. It is something that I admit, I am not very good at. I tend to "forgive" people and still feel anger toward them. Forgiveness can be quite tricky. It is one thing to forgive someone for doing one single thing to hurt you, but it is another to forgive them on a regular basis when they repeatedly make you angry.
LT will serve as Challenge #1 as I learn how to do the latter. I am not quite sure how it will work, though. "Geez, you piss me off but I forgive you. You're pissing me off again and I'm forgiving you again. And again." Every pound of the keyboard, every gallop across the keys, every cloud of smoke emitting from his hands is another sting of anger and annoyance. I hardly have time to even forgive him between visions of splitting the keyboard over his head.
Let's continue to explore this topic in another post. LT isn't in the room for a short moment and I need to bask in his exit.
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