When I was fourteen, my friend Kermit and I decided to go on a hiking adventure through the American Southwest. Part of the five week trip, a journey that included eleven other kids and two adults, was a descent into the Grand Canyon. Our backpacks bursted with iodine tablets to clean the water and moleskin sections to tape the blisters. Eight hours after stepping off the rim we made it to the bottom. This isn’t such a problem save for how the descent factors into the ascent. According to Grand Canyon math, getting out is three times whatever it takes you to get down. Carry the one and you’ll see we were projected to climb for twenty-four hours.
Park regulations required everyone to be off the trails for a few hours in the middle of the night; something about limited visibility and wolves, two reasons I readily embraced. But in light of our anticipated full day climb, we needed as many hours as possible. Meaning my group was dressed and hiking within seconds of the trails reopening at two AM. Every other person cast a flashlight down to illuminate the stony path. And while no one else was up, animals included, we whispered our warnings about low branches and unsteady earth. As the sun lifted higher in the sky, my back started to ache, the edges of my lips cracked and multiple blisters came to life on the balls of my feet.
“I need to sit down and have a drink,” I said to the girl behind me as we neared our twelfth hour on the trail. In the distance I could see Kermit rounding a corner and disappearing out of view.
“No problem,” she said.
“I don’t know how much further I can go,” I whined as I lowered my pack off my shoulders and dropped it on to the dusty path.
“Me too but I didn’t want to say anything,” she confessed as she pulled her foot from her sock and started applying moleskin to the sore spots.
Leaning against a jagged boulder, I unscrewed the lid to my water bottle and tilted my head back, the iodine tainted liquid rolling down my throat as the sun beat down upon my grimy face. After a few handfuls of gorp, I stood to my feet. As I balanced against the blisters, I settled my backpack into the ruts on my tired shoulders. Together we resumed the ascent, following the trail another twenty feet before it curved. As I turned the corner, I found myself smack dab in the middle of a parking lot dotted with RV’s and tour buses. We broke into a fit of giggles before bee-lining to the bathroom.
“I had a fucked up dream last night,” I said to Leslie last week in between spoonfuls of yogurt.
“Yeah?”
“Alaska proposed, except it was by far the shittiest proposal ever. He said something like he didn’t want to be alone so he might as well marry me.”
“Awe, that’s so sweet.”
“I know, right? A girl’s dream proposal. Anyway, what I don’t get is why he’s still in my head. I mean, I’m over him.”
If you’d asked me how I felt in September or October, maybe even early January, I would have wavered. I would have quietly admitted a yearning. I would have confessed to plotting a quick visit to Alaska to cheer him on in an upcoming event. Walking down the street, I would see a banana peel in the trash and get weepy because one time I ate a banana in front of him. Or I would tear up when I heard a certain song because though it came out after we broke up and had nothing to do with our relationship, the melancholy lyrics and somber notes made me think of him.
But just the other day, I found myself flirting with a new boy. As he spoke, I found myself staring at his lips, drifting off about how they might feel against mine. I desperately wanted to lean forward and press my mouth to his. It was then I realized I was finally looking forward without bothering to look back. So even though I scraped my knees and clutched my crumbling heart as I crawled away from Alaska, even though it felt like the path and the pain would never end, it has. Just when I thought I would never move on, turns out a better life was just around the bend.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Nothing Personal
A few years ago, my college roommate Jenny had a show at a fantastic Philly gallery. I hadn’t seen her in a while because she’d been holed up in Manhattan and Vermont finishing graduate school. But when I got word of her visit to the area, I cleared my calendar.
“I need to go outside,” she said, anxiety coating the simple sentence.
“You okay?” I asked as I held the door open and scooted her out to the street.
“Yeah, I’m just nervous,” she confessed as she fumbled through her purse in search of a cigarette. She paused on the curb, clicked the lighter, took a long drag and as the smoke seeped out of her mouth, she said what she was really feeling. “What if no one likes what I’ve made?”
I knew what she was saying. It’s the same fear that knots my stomach after I post a piece. I refresh the link, I reread the essay and then I agonize over whether anyone will be inspired to comment. Sure they are just words but they are my words. Whether it’s a collection of brush strokes splashed across a canvas or a clutter of sentences dotting a page, the creation is personal. And the piece doesn’t have to be a portrait or a memoir; it just has to be something you created, something you birthed and coddled before putting on display for all the rest of the world to view. So when I pulled together my grad school essay and short story, I could totally relate to Jenny’s anxiety when she stood in the gallery surrounded by her own art.
“How many schools are you applying to?” Leslie asked in January.
“A lot. The acceptance rate’s low and my desire to attend is high so I’m flooding the market.”
“What’s low?”
“Five to ten percent, tops,” I offered with a grumble.
“Oh, um, wow. Yeah, flood the market.”
So I did. Because there’s nothing else I want more right now. Nothing. Sure I’d love to be wearing a Cartier Roadster and I’d love to go home every night to a smarty man I adore. Oh and I would love love love to have thinner celuliteless thighs. But I want this more. Way more. At least way more right now. When I’m surrounded by a pile of books in August, noting passages and struggling to pen my own creations, I might think otherwise. But now? Now I want in to a MFA program for creative writing.
After organizing multiple spreadsheets and color coding each one with neon streaks, I whittled the list of schools down to ten. Then, in late January, in a heap of desperation and self doubt, I added one more. It’s a newer program that has done little to no advertising. I figured the acceptance rate would be higher because the applicant pool would be smaller. I disregarded the fact that the program ran four years instead of two and was located in the far reaches of Alaska. Right, I know - Alaska? As if I need any reminder of that slice of my life. Anyway, like I said, I want this.
As of today, I’ve submitted nine applications and I have two left to complete. Of course they’re for schools that rank rather high on my list. They both have strong reputations and excellent rosters of affiliated writers. But as much as I foam at the mouth with excitement about those two stragglers, I’d be quite content with any of the schools I have applied to. Happy instead of happier isn’t the worst consolation prize in my book.
“Good news or bad news?” I asked my dad as I helped him through the back door at work earlier this morning.
“Bad,” he said as he tightened the grip of his mitten clad hands around his walker and moved in a forward motion. Like a clumsy waltz, I faced him and slowly stepped backwards as I relayed the news.
“The heater in the office is busted and we have to replace it.”
“Shit. Good?”
“I got into a grad school.”
“Really? That’s awesome bubby!” he said as he beamed a grin and cautiously lifted his right hand to offer a high five.
As I stepped out of my dad’s way, allowing him to continue on his original morning path leading to his office, I smiled. I smiled at my insecurities and my accomplishments. And that’s when I knew how Jenny felt when at the close of the opening the gallery owner told her she’d sold half of the available pieces. It’s a swirly warmth that settles the nerves and excites the heart.
“I need to go outside,” she said, anxiety coating the simple sentence.
“You okay?” I asked as I held the door open and scooted her out to the street.
“Yeah, I’m just nervous,” she confessed as she fumbled through her purse in search of a cigarette. She paused on the curb, clicked the lighter, took a long drag and as the smoke seeped out of her mouth, she said what she was really feeling. “What if no one likes what I’ve made?”
I knew what she was saying. It’s the same fear that knots my stomach after I post a piece. I refresh the link, I reread the essay and then I agonize over whether anyone will be inspired to comment. Sure they are just words but they are my words. Whether it’s a collection of brush strokes splashed across a canvas or a clutter of sentences dotting a page, the creation is personal. And the piece doesn’t have to be a portrait or a memoir; it just has to be something you created, something you birthed and coddled before putting on display for all the rest of the world to view. So when I pulled together my grad school essay and short story, I could totally relate to Jenny’s anxiety when she stood in the gallery surrounded by her own art.
“How many schools are you applying to?” Leslie asked in January.
“A lot. The acceptance rate’s low and my desire to attend is high so I’m flooding the market.”
“What’s low?”
“Five to ten percent, tops,” I offered with a grumble.
“Oh, um, wow. Yeah, flood the market.”
So I did. Because there’s nothing else I want more right now. Nothing. Sure I’d love to be wearing a Cartier Roadster and I’d love to go home every night to a smarty man I adore. Oh and I would love love love to have thinner celuliteless thighs. But I want this more. Way more. At least way more right now. When I’m surrounded by a pile of books in August, noting passages and struggling to pen my own creations, I might think otherwise. But now? Now I want in to a MFA program for creative writing.
After organizing multiple spreadsheets and color coding each one with neon streaks, I whittled the list of schools down to ten. Then, in late January, in a heap of desperation and self doubt, I added one more. It’s a newer program that has done little to no advertising. I figured the acceptance rate would be higher because the applicant pool would be smaller. I disregarded the fact that the program ran four years instead of two and was located in the far reaches of Alaska. Right, I know - Alaska? As if I need any reminder of that slice of my life. Anyway, like I said, I want this.
As of today, I’ve submitted nine applications and I have two left to complete. Of course they’re for schools that rank rather high on my list. They both have strong reputations and excellent rosters of affiliated writers. But as much as I foam at the mouth with excitement about those two stragglers, I’d be quite content with any of the schools I have applied to. Happy instead of happier isn’t the worst consolation prize in my book.
“Good news or bad news?” I asked my dad as I helped him through the back door at work earlier this morning.
“Bad,” he said as he tightened the grip of his mitten clad hands around his walker and moved in a forward motion. Like a clumsy waltz, I faced him and slowly stepped backwards as I relayed the news.
“The heater in the office is busted and we have to replace it.”
“Shit. Good?”
“I got into a grad school.”
“Really? That’s awesome bubby!” he said as he beamed a grin and cautiously lifted his right hand to offer a high five.
As I stepped out of my dad’s way, allowing him to continue on his original morning path leading to his office, I smiled. I smiled at my insecurities and my accomplishments. And that’s when I knew how Jenny felt when at the close of the opening the gallery owner told her she’d sold half of the available pieces. It’s a swirly warmth that settles the nerves and excites the heart.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
And Another Thing
To the man standing behind me at Hartsfield International Airport at 6am on Friday:
That security line sure felt long, right? Especially considering how early in the morning it was. I mean, the line moved like molasses. Speaking of moving, if you step forward and your over sized duffel loaded up with shit collides with the person in front of you, the proper thing to do is apologize, not do it again and again and again. And while I’m on the topic of personal space, if the stranger ahead of you is able to identify which brand of toothpaste you used an hour earlier, you are clearly too close.
Regards,
Damp Neck P
To 80% of the Philly folk who travel through Philadelphia International Airport:
Hey guys, listen up - I know the luxury of air travel has diminished. I know that the seats are smaller, the peanuts are fewer and the lines are longer. I also realize it is important to be comfortable when you travel. That’s why I always pack a pashmina; it’s the perfect accessory to barricade against the cold air pumping out of the vents. And if I’m flying for more than five hours, I try to wear a loose skirt or comfortable jeans. But this whole tattered sweat suit shit y’all are donning these days is despicable. And bedazzling BeBe across the chest or Juicy across the ass doesn’t make it any more appropriate. No wonder people curiously looked me up and down as I slipped out of my pressed blazer before going through security. Blazer? Huh? What’s that? But forgetting that I’m a fashion plate and you aren’t, let’s get one thing straight – you represent our fair city and from the ridiculously high murder rate to the uneducated twangy accent, we already have enough working against us. So perhaps you can bypass the elastic waist, the scrunchy and the sneakers for something a tad less sloppy?
Your truly,
Fashion P
To the smelly footed asshat on my Philadelphia bound flight:
Put you’re fucking shoes back on. I should never have to spend half of the time in the air breathing through my pashmina. Never.
Best,
P in 15F
To the prick who hit my bumper in the airport parking lot and departed without leaving a note:
Karma’s a bitch and I can’t wait until you get what’s coming to you.
Sincerely,
Zen Master P
To my sister Leslie:
Even though schlepping to Atlanta for a 16 hour visit wasn’t my first choice, spending the day to help you celebrate turning forty was and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Sure I tormented you in your youth. I told you other girls were prettier even though they weren’t. And whenever we shared a hotel bed I farted and fanned the sheet like a mainsail to ensure you were subjected to the stench. But with age came maturity. You’ve taught me priceless life lessons like how to give a blow job and when to get the best deal on overpriced designer shoes at Sak’s. You have also taught me that no matter how tough life gets, it’s good. As much as I hate that you live so far away, I love the fact that whenever we talk on the phone, it feels like we are in the same room. If we lived in West Virginia and were both lesbians, I would marry you in a heartbeat. Or to put it another way, I can’t imagine my life without you in it. Happy birthday, Big Boogie. May the year ahead be the bestest one yet.
Love,
L’il Boogie
That security line sure felt long, right? Especially considering how early in the morning it was. I mean, the line moved like molasses. Speaking of moving, if you step forward and your over sized duffel loaded up with shit collides with the person in front of you, the proper thing to do is apologize, not do it again and again and again. And while I’m on the topic of personal space, if the stranger ahead of you is able to identify which brand of toothpaste you used an hour earlier, you are clearly too close.
Regards,
Damp Neck P
To 80% of the Philly folk who travel through Philadelphia International Airport:
Hey guys, listen up - I know the luxury of air travel has diminished. I know that the seats are smaller, the peanuts are fewer and the lines are longer. I also realize it is important to be comfortable when you travel. That’s why I always pack a pashmina; it’s the perfect accessory to barricade against the cold air pumping out of the vents. And if I’m flying for more than five hours, I try to wear a loose skirt or comfortable jeans. But this whole tattered sweat suit shit y’all are donning these days is despicable. And bedazzling BeBe across the chest or Juicy across the ass doesn’t make it any more appropriate. No wonder people curiously looked me up and down as I slipped out of my pressed blazer before going through security. Blazer? Huh? What’s that? But forgetting that I’m a fashion plate and you aren’t, let’s get one thing straight – you represent our fair city and from the ridiculously high murder rate to the uneducated twangy accent, we already have enough working against us. So perhaps you can bypass the elastic waist, the scrunchy and the sneakers for something a tad less sloppy?
Your truly,
Fashion P
To the smelly footed asshat on my Philadelphia bound flight:
Put you’re fucking shoes back on. I should never have to spend half of the time in the air breathing through my pashmina. Never.
Best,
P in 15F
To the prick who hit my bumper in the airport parking lot and departed without leaving a note:
Karma’s a bitch and I can’t wait until you get what’s coming to you.
Sincerely,
Zen Master P
To my sister Leslie:
Even though schlepping to Atlanta for a 16 hour visit wasn’t my first choice, spending the day to help you celebrate turning forty was and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Sure I tormented you in your youth. I told you other girls were prettier even though they weren’t. And whenever we shared a hotel bed I farted and fanned the sheet like a mainsail to ensure you were subjected to the stench. But with age came maturity. You’ve taught me priceless life lessons like how to give a blow job and when to get the best deal on overpriced designer shoes at Sak’s. You have also taught me that no matter how tough life gets, it’s good. As much as I hate that you live so far away, I love the fact that whenever we talk on the phone, it feels like we are in the same room. If we lived in West Virginia and were both lesbians, I would marry you in a heartbeat. Or to put it another way, I can’t imagine my life without you in it. Happy birthday, Big Boogie. May the year ahead be the bestest one yet.
Love,
L’il Boogie
Monday, February 18, 2008
Friends: A Sappy PMS-ing Post I Should Have Deleted
When I set out to start this blog, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. My intention was to simply use the forum as a writing exercise. Period. I knew I had some talent with words but I also knew I had a lot of room to grow. So I dusted off my keyboard and went to town writing. I kept a regimented schedule of two essays a week and made a concerted effort to roam the blogosphere in search of guidance and inspiration. Along the way, I became a steady reader of certain sites. And curiously, I amassed a little following of my own.
In Philadelphia, blogging is about as popular as eating a cheesesteak topped with pineapple or pronouncing the Eagles any other way than d’iggles. Meaning, there are no networks or social gatherings like you might find in hipper cities like Boston and DC. We don’t have happy hours on Thursday after work or mingling brunches on Sunday before the weekend officially ends. In fact, up until recently, I never even read a blog by a fellow Philadelphian. Odd considering we’re one of the largest cities in the damn country.
As my corner in the blogosphere evolved, my interaction with other bloggers increased. I started to randomly email with Kris and Sean and Ryan and in turn I started to get to know these writers on a different level. It’s sort of like Match without the anxiety of being judged or liked. Plus I don’t have to shave or worry about putting out.
In the past year, I’ve had the chance to come face to face with a few bloggers. I threw back drinks with Kris, Stacy and Amie while attending BlogHer. Sean came to Philadelphia for a conference and after we agreed upon a detailed pact I had meticulously formulated – he would neither rape nor kill me and I would neither rape nor kill him - I gave him a grand tour of the city with a finale of beer, mussels and burgers at Monk’s. I roamed the halls of the Phillips with Ryan before settling in at a table in her neighborhood to have girly chats over ginormous cups of coffee.
There are a lot more people I’ve never met but feel like I know. So much so that I can confidently claim they’re friends. Like Theresa, a complete stranger who has graciously assisted me with my grad school crap, has offered her sofa if I ever work my way toward Fairbanks. And I know Kenneth would pop by my hotel in San Francisco if I attend BlogHer in July. KB would take me on a really tame biking trail if I ever land in San Diego. Preppy would happily show me the best of Vermont and I know MiniJonB would spin me some tunes if I ever passed through Michigan. And if I’m going to end up in that state, I might as well meet Croaker for some pizza. Inarticulate Fumblings & Marfs would most certainly show me around Vancouver, all the while making me laugh until I peed my pants. Carpe up in the Yukon would let me tussle her puppy and Desiree and Leisel would most definitely adopt me as their honorary sister if I passed through their part of Cali. And don’t even get me started about the damage Red or Ms. Dish and I could do in their respective home towns. And the list goes on.
More often than not, when a relationship with a boyfriend goes south and he claims a desire to still be friends I decline, saying something like 'I already have enough friends' before turning on my heel and heading back to my solo existence. But if this crazy little blogosphere has taught me anything, it’s that my flippant response is further from the truth.
In Philadelphia, blogging is about as popular as eating a cheesesteak topped with pineapple or pronouncing the Eagles any other way than d’iggles. Meaning, there are no networks or social gatherings like you might find in hipper cities like Boston and DC. We don’t have happy hours on Thursday after work or mingling brunches on Sunday before the weekend officially ends. In fact, up until recently, I never even read a blog by a fellow Philadelphian. Odd considering we’re one of the largest cities in the damn country.
As my corner in the blogosphere evolved, my interaction with other bloggers increased. I started to randomly email with Kris and Sean and Ryan and in turn I started to get to know these writers on a different level. It’s sort of like Match without the anxiety of being judged or liked. Plus I don’t have to shave or worry about putting out.
In the past year, I’ve had the chance to come face to face with a few bloggers. I threw back drinks with Kris, Stacy and Amie while attending BlogHer. Sean came to Philadelphia for a conference and after we agreed upon a detailed pact I had meticulously formulated – he would neither rape nor kill me and I would neither rape nor kill him - I gave him a grand tour of the city with a finale of beer, mussels and burgers at Monk’s. I roamed the halls of the Phillips with Ryan before settling in at a table in her neighborhood to have girly chats over ginormous cups of coffee.
There are a lot more people I’ve never met but feel like I know. So much so that I can confidently claim they’re friends. Like Theresa, a complete stranger who has graciously assisted me with my grad school crap, has offered her sofa if I ever work my way toward Fairbanks. And I know Kenneth would pop by my hotel in San Francisco if I attend BlogHer in July. KB would take me on a really tame biking trail if I ever land in San Diego. Preppy would happily show me the best of Vermont and I know MiniJonB would spin me some tunes if I ever passed through Michigan. And if I’m going to end up in that state, I might as well meet Croaker for some pizza. Inarticulate Fumblings & Marfs would most certainly show me around Vancouver, all the while making me laugh until I peed my pants. Carpe up in the Yukon would let me tussle her puppy and Desiree and Leisel would most definitely adopt me as their honorary sister if I passed through their part of Cali. And don’t even get me started about the damage Red or Ms. Dish and I could do in their respective home towns. And the list goes on.
More often than not, when a relationship with a boyfriend goes south and he claims a desire to still be friends I decline, saying something like 'I already have enough friends' before turning on my heel and heading back to my solo existence. But if this crazy little blogosphere has taught me anything, it’s that my flippant response is further from the truth.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Love Hate
In the last three weeks, I’ve ingested enough clementines to ensure I won’t ever be at risk for scurvy. Every morning, instead of eating some fat free vanilla yogurt enhanced with two teaspoons of wheat germ, I peel and eat three clementines. I dig my left thumb into the top and tug a piece loose before freeing the entire citrus orb from the protective shell. I love the sweet burst that awakens my taste buds, splashing across my tongue before sliding down my throat. But man oh man do I hate the fact that my left thumb is permanently tinted orange. If I keep this up I’ll be an Oompa Loompa by March.
There are only a few television stations I peruse when I’m hunting for a distraction. I click between HGTV, Bravo, E!, CNN, Headline News and VH-1. If I’ve been out of the loop, I usually settle on Headline News for one full rotation of the latest stories. I love their quick format of relaying the news because it’s both efficient and entertaining. But man do I hate when I get distracted by a bottle of wine or a pile of mail only to realize I’ve been listening to that arrogant fuckwit Glenn Beck. His baseless arguments and childish antics make my skin crawl and my head hurt.
On a perfect Sunday, I exercise, shower and then head out to fetch brunch and the New York Times. Okay, perfecter would be sharing all of this, including the shower, with someone I adore. Anyway, as soon as I settle in at the table, orange juice to my right and napkin on my lap, I immediately yank the Style section free and get down to business. Through the course of the meal I flip between the rest of the newspaper, always ending with the Op-Eds. I love to soak in the brief brilliance shared by eloquent writers like Frank Rich and Maureen Dowd. Sometimes if it’s rainy or cold or if I’m lazy or sick, I tweak the perfect Sunday. Instead of going out, I crawl onto my sofa with a bowl of cereal and my laptop, alternating spoonfuls of sustenance with online Times browsing. It’s second best to an all time love. But man do I hate the higher ups at the magazine who for a stretch locked the online opinions behind silly fees. Because by charging a toll too few would pay, they all but destroyed the purpose and value of the Op-Ed section.
When it comes to Valentine’s Day, I’ve always dismissed it as unimportant; a holiday created by retailers to help offset the downslide that follows the Christmas boom. Men and women scurry around to find a generic gift to express their affection simply because Hallmark dictates such. But as much as I hate the superficiality of this force fed sentiment of love, I absolutely adore receiving things on Valentine’s Day. Perhaps it is because I shoo away the gesture? Perhaps because I always expect nothing? Regardless of the reason, I’m certain my therapist would have an orgasm analyzing this inner conflict. Anyway, Allison sent me a card earlier this week and I immediately propped it up on my desk for all my coworkers to see. And last year, last year was the best Valentine’s Day ever. At half past six someone tried the front door of the office. I shuffled to the window and peered out to see a delivery man holding a vase of flowers. I released the lock and stepped outside.
“Glad you’re still here,” he said with a sigh as he handed over the clipboard for my signature.
“Nowhere else I needed to be,” I admitted as I scribbled my name across the bottom.
“Enjoy ’em, Paige.”
“Wait, huh? These are for me?”
“Yeah, someone loves you,” he said with a wink as he exchanged the vase for the clipboard.
I went back into the office, locked the door and set the vase down on my desk. I pulled back on the cellophane, located the card and sat down to read the message. It wasn’t a sweet note from a boy I’d recently started dating. It wasn’t a warm sentiment of love from my dad or Leslie or some other obvious person. No, it was a note from a soldier in Iraq. Around six months earlier I had adopted him, sending mail and packages to help the days pass faster. Somehow in between dodging bullets and saving lives, he found the time to send me flowers. As I buried my nose within the blossoms and beamed a smile so big my cheeks hurt, I realized I love this holiday after all. Not for the expected but the unexpected.
There are only a few television stations I peruse when I’m hunting for a distraction. I click between HGTV, Bravo, E!, CNN, Headline News and VH-1. If I’ve been out of the loop, I usually settle on Headline News for one full rotation of the latest stories. I love their quick format of relaying the news because it’s both efficient and entertaining. But man do I hate when I get distracted by a bottle of wine or a pile of mail only to realize I’ve been listening to that arrogant fuckwit Glenn Beck. His baseless arguments and childish antics make my skin crawl and my head hurt.
On a perfect Sunday, I exercise, shower and then head out to fetch brunch and the New York Times. Okay, perfecter would be sharing all of this, including the shower, with someone I adore. Anyway, as soon as I settle in at the table, orange juice to my right and napkin on my lap, I immediately yank the Style section free and get down to business. Through the course of the meal I flip between the rest of the newspaper, always ending with the Op-Eds. I love to soak in the brief brilliance shared by eloquent writers like Frank Rich and Maureen Dowd. Sometimes if it’s rainy or cold or if I’m lazy or sick, I tweak the perfect Sunday. Instead of going out, I crawl onto my sofa with a bowl of cereal and my laptop, alternating spoonfuls of sustenance with online Times browsing. It’s second best to an all time love. But man do I hate the higher ups at the magazine who for a stretch locked the online opinions behind silly fees. Because by charging a toll too few would pay, they all but destroyed the purpose and value of the Op-Ed section.
When it comes to Valentine’s Day, I’ve always dismissed it as unimportant; a holiday created by retailers to help offset the downslide that follows the Christmas boom. Men and women scurry around to find a generic gift to express their affection simply because Hallmark dictates such. But as much as I hate the superficiality of this force fed sentiment of love, I absolutely adore receiving things on Valentine’s Day. Perhaps it is because I shoo away the gesture? Perhaps because I always expect nothing? Regardless of the reason, I’m certain my therapist would have an orgasm analyzing this inner conflict. Anyway, Allison sent me a card earlier this week and I immediately propped it up on my desk for all my coworkers to see. And last year, last year was the best Valentine’s Day ever. At half past six someone tried the front door of the office. I shuffled to the window and peered out to see a delivery man holding a vase of flowers. I released the lock and stepped outside.
“Glad you’re still here,” he said with a sigh as he handed over the clipboard for my signature.
“Nowhere else I needed to be,” I admitted as I scribbled my name across the bottom.
“Enjoy ’em, Paige.”
“Wait, huh? These are for me?”
“Yeah, someone loves you,” he said with a wink as he exchanged the vase for the clipboard.
I went back into the office, locked the door and set the vase down on my desk. I pulled back on the cellophane, located the card and sat down to read the message. It wasn’t a sweet note from a boy I’d recently started dating. It wasn’t a warm sentiment of love from my dad or Leslie or some other obvious person. No, it was a note from a soldier in Iraq. Around six months earlier I had adopted him, sending mail and packages to help the days pass faster. Somehow in between dodging bullets and saving lives, he found the time to send me flowers. As I buried my nose within the blossoms and beamed a smile so big my cheeks hurt, I realized I love this holiday after all. Not for the expected but the unexpected.
Monday, February 11, 2008
From Within
For the most part, whenever people hear I went to a women's college, they offer a perplexed expression and ask me why. My pat answer, coined many years ago and utilized ever since is this: I had the rest of my life to deal with silly boys so I might as well enjoy a four year reprieve while I could. Women nod in agreement and men shyly retreat. Simply put, it works like a charm.
To be honest, the real reason I went to a women's college was because it felt safe. That isn't to say I suck my thumb or sleep with my baby blanket. It just means that the challenges I found in a coed environment felt less present in a single sex one. So it felt like a good idea. Turns out it was a great one. It was at Smith that I evolved into a woman with confidence and self worth. I embraced the concept of independence and more and more started to believe I could do anything my little heart desired.
If you asked anyone who knows me today, they'd tell you I'm confident. I'm outspoken and opinionated, rarely if ever shying away from debate or discussion. And I walk with my chin held high and my posture upright. But deep inside me, there's a demon.
"What's up?" I asked my friend S, a fellow Smithie now living in Los Angeles. She'd IM-ed me earlier asking to talk.
"Just having a hard time," she confessed.
She shared details, intimate words about relationship struggles that she was trying to work around or hurdle or do whatever it is one does when they feel stuck. I patiently listened to her speak and as her words passed through the wires, I tried to offset her uncertainties. But it all felt so hypocritical because what she said aloud were thoughts I so often quietly pondered.
I know it's silly. I can rattle off a list of characteristics and traits that make me worth fighting for. I can note my strengths and admit my weaknesses. But at the end of the day, I think a man would settle to be with me and most certainly believe that he'd eventually see what I see and move on. I'm not pretty enough or thin enough. My arms could be more toned, my stomach could be more flat and my thighs, well, I don't even want to go into a discussion about my thighs. Put me in a room with twenty other women and I know I can outshine them all on many different levels. I can out-wit, out-brain and out-logic the lot of them. But if they were all a size 6, I'd think less of myself.
Whenever I drift into this downward spiral of body blech, something I do less today than yesterday but still do often enough, the people around me try to pick me back up. They offer compliments and kind words, sentiments that I know they believe but I refuse to accept as true. She's just being a good friend. He's just saying what I need to hear. The words merely ping the hardened shell I hide within.
I remember exactly where I was when I told Alaska that if he ever got on my list, the secret escape was to tell me I was beautiful. He laughed. He found it funny. But it was truer than true. And the few times that simple word exited his mouth, my breath halted. Same thing with Ex. Like when he saw me for the first time before we headed to a special dinner, standing in a black dress with pumps and pearls, he told me I looked beautiful and I just about collapsed in a heap of tears.
The last time I tried to conquer this once and for all, I fired my therapist. Really now, daily affirmations in a mirror doesn't cure distorted body image. And I don't always think this way. I don't shuffle through life questioning myself. Some days I even think I am beautiful. My hair lies just right, my pants drape flawlessly and the twinkle in my chestnut brown eyes hints at my soul. I do love who I have become. I love that I give without taking, I trust without hesitation and I am a person friends can rely on. I love that I can make Leslie pee her pants from laughter or I can rile Chad up in a debate about ethics. I love it all. I just hate the inner demon that can sometimes override everything.
To be honest, the real reason I went to a women's college was because it felt safe. That isn't to say I suck my thumb or sleep with my baby blanket. It just means that the challenges I found in a coed environment felt less present in a single sex one. So it felt like a good idea. Turns out it was a great one. It was at Smith that I evolved into a woman with confidence and self worth. I embraced the concept of independence and more and more started to believe I could do anything my little heart desired.
If you asked anyone who knows me today, they'd tell you I'm confident. I'm outspoken and opinionated, rarely if ever shying away from debate or discussion. And I walk with my chin held high and my posture upright. But deep inside me, there's a demon.
"What's up?" I asked my friend S, a fellow Smithie now living in Los Angeles. She'd IM-ed me earlier asking to talk.
"Just having a hard time," she confessed.
She shared details, intimate words about relationship struggles that she was trying to work around or hurdle or do whatever it is one does when they feel stuck. I patiently listened to her speak and as her words passed through the wires, I tried to offset her uncertainties. But it all felt so hypocritical because what she said aloud were thoughts I so often quietly pondered.
I know it's silly. I can rattle off a list of characteristics and traits that make me worth fighting for. I can note my strengths and admit my weaknesses. But at the end of the day, I think a man would settle to be with me and most certainly believe that he'd eventually see what I see and move on. I'm not pretty enough or thin enough. My arms could be more toned, my stomach could be more flat and my thighs, well, I don't even want to go into a discussion about my thighs. Put me in a room with twenty other women and I know I can outshine them all on many different levels. I can out-wit, out-brain and out-logic the lot of them. But if they were all a size 6, I'd think less of myself.
Whenever I drift into this downward spiral of body blech, something I do less today than yesterday but still do often enough, the people around me try to pick me back up. They offer compliments and kind words, sentiments that I know they believe but I refuse to accept as true. She's just being a good friend. He's just saying what I need to hear. The words merely ping the hardened shell I hide within.
I remember exactly where I was when I told Alaska that if he ever got on my list, the secret escape was to tell me I was beautiful. He laughed. He found it funny. But it was truer than true. And the few times that simple word exited his mouth, my breath halted. Same thing with Ex. Like when he saw me for the first time before we headed to a special dinner, standing in a black dress with pumps and pearls, he told me I looked beautiful and I just about collapsed in a heap of tears.
The last time I tried to conquer this once and for all, I fired my therapist. Really now, daily affirmations in a mirror doesn't cure distorted body image. And I don't always think this way. I don't shuffle through life questioning myself. Some days I even think I am beautiful. My hair lies just right, my pants drape flawlessly and the twinkle in my chestnut brown eyes hints at my soul. I do love who I have become. I love that I give without taking, I trust without hesitation and I am a person friends can rely on. I love that I can make Leslie pee her pants from laughter or I can rile Chad up in a debate about ethics. I love it all. I just hate the inner demon that can sometimes override everything.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Read Between the Spoons
It’s been a rather mild winter in Philadelphia. All of two inches of snow has fallen and they melted well before I could fetch a shovel out of the garage. But every so often, the temperature dips low enough to warrant a winter coat and scarf. Last Tuesday, while it didn’t get that chilly, there was a nip in the air that left me craving soup for dinner.
“It’s a good night for something warm,” the man to my right said as he ladled some vegan split pea into a container.
“No kidding,” I offered back as I plucked a cup free and lifted the lid on the mushroom barley.
“This stuff’s the best,” he swooned with a little glimmer in his eye and a nod to the ladle in his hand.
“Especially on a night like tonight,” I responded with a half smile.
“No, you really should try the split pea,” he suggested.
I leaned over and peered into the vat of green guck, thick mossy soup I’ve eaten plenty of times before. It is good. It’s really good. But last winter I indefinitely shelved all split pea indulgences. It makes me fart. Like so badly that when I’m in my car alone and it’s raining, I won’t even let a squeaker out for fear of self asphyxiation.
I lifted my eyes from the soup and looked at the man to my right excitedly awaiting my willingness to play along with the subtle flirtation, playful banter between two people over the soup bar at Wholefoods. My eyes cast one last glance into the split pea vat as I decided how to respond. Like do I dip a finger into his cup and lustfully lick it clean? Do I suggest we have a soup off, crawling into a banquette at the front of the store to further discuss the finer points of our selections? Or do I boldly announce to a perfect stranger that split pea makes me a toxic farting machine? I looked up to see his eager eyes, chestnut brown eyes that offered warmth and comfort. Then I answered.
“Maybe next time. Enjoy your soup,” I said as I filled my cup with mushroom barley, clipped the lid on and pressed my palm down to make sure it was secure.
“Maybe,” he offered with a nod before returning the ladle to the tub.
I scooped up my dinner, offered a gentle smile and meandered toward the front. And as I exchanged a crumpled five dollar bill for my container, I started to wonder if the conversation really had anything to do with soup.
“It’s a good night for something warm,” the man to my right said as he ladled some vegan split pea into a container.
“No kidding,” I offered back as I plucked a cup free and lifted the lid on the mushroom barley.
“This stuff’s the best,” he swooned with a little glimmer in his eye and a nod to the ladle in his hand.
“Especially on a night like tonight,” I responded with a half smile.
“No, you really should try the split pea,” he suggested.
I leaned over and peered into the vat of green guck, thick mossy soup I’ve eaten plenty of times before. It is good. It’s really good. But last winter I indefinitely shelved all split pea indulgences. It makes me fart. Like so badly that when I’m in my car alone and it’s raining, I won’t even let a squeaker out for fear of self asphyxiation.
I lifted my eyes from the soup and looked at the man to my right excitedly awaiting my willingness to play along with the subtle flirtation, playful banter between two people over the soup bar at Wholefoods. My eyes cast one last glance into the split pea vat as I decided how to respond. Like do I dip a finger into his cup and lustfully lick it clean? Do I suggest we have a soup off, crawling into a banquette at the front of the store to further discuss the finer points of our selections? Or do I boldly announce to a perfect stranger that split pea makes me a toxic farting machine? I looked up to see his eager eyes, chestnut brown eyes that offered warmth and comfort. Then I answered.
“Maybe next time. Enjoy your soup,” I said as I filled my cup with mushroom barley, clipped the lid on and pressed my palm down to make sure it was secure.
“Maybe,” he offered with a nod before returning the ladle to the tub.
I scooped up my dinner, offered a gentle smile and meandered toward the front. And as I exchanged a crumpled five dollar bill for my container, I started to wonder if the conversation really had anything to do with soup.
Monday, February 04, 2008
All Paths Lead Here
I don’t want to go into details. I can’t go into details. For various reasons. But mostly because I just don’t feel like being on the receiving end of commentary. And yes, I can write and not make the piece public. Or I can post the piece but disable the comments. None of it is me. And these days, I’m all about me being me. Good or bad, here I am.
For a few weeks now I’ve been tossing around an idea, something that will involve time and money and effort that all works toward an uncertain outcome. Maybe I’ve talked about it, maybe I haven’t; the it isn’t important. You just need to know that what I’m talking about runs deep. It aches my bones and sours my stomach, it consumes my mind and curls my toes, and no matter how I tear it apart, it always gets put back together the same way.
It’s as if I dumped out a box of Legos - some red and others blue, some small and others large. Every day I parcel them out according to size. Every day I mix them back up and make piles according to color. I then swipe my hand across it all, an open palm and splayed fingers tossing the bricks in different directions Then I build. I snap them together. I pull them apart. And no matter how I adjust my creation, it always looks the same.
My biggest struggle is to understand why I’m putting it together to begin with. I mean, they’re fucking Lego’s. Mere pieces that are nothing if left to linger in a pile. And even when they are clicked together, are they anything more than what they were before? Perhaps, yes. Most definitely, yes. But in the end, does it matter? I mean red is red, blue is blue. Does it change one bit if connected to a larger being?
It is a struggle between want and need, two things that I see as the same. But what if I already have what I need and it isn’t what I want. Or if what I want isn’t what I need? That’s when I melt inward. That’s when I stand in the dairy aisle and shop for milk even though I have no cereal. My eyes glaze over and I glide the tip of my tongue up and down against the back of my bottom teeth. I do it without thinking and I have to will myself to stop. Half of the time I just keep at it, the soothing sentiment of soft flesh against hard enamel calming my nerves, offering a moment of peace.
I know I’m making no sense. I know you want details and explanations. You’re wondering if the red stands for a steady stream of blood or my guarded heart or an apple. Maybe blue is the way I feel or the color of the pants I’m wearing or my political slant as the primary nears. How funny would it be if all I am talking about is a bag of M&M’s and the two colors I eat last? Read it how you wish. Attach meaning however you desire. Give it a go or let it just lie; doesn’t really matter to me. Like I already said, I’m not here to discuss the intimate details.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll get an acceptance letter from one of the programs I applied to. Maybe the day after I’ll stub my toe on the treadmill eating up the space in my dining room. And on Wednesday, oh I totally know that on Wednesday I’ll harmonize with Kanye West as I scream the lyrics to Stronger, my car idling at a red light and the people next to me watching in awe through the two panes of glass that protect us from one another. Maybe on Thursday I’ll stumble through the door at half past ten, pour a glass of wine and listen to Diana Krall’s A Taste of You. And without a doubt I’ll cry. I always do. Some things I understand while others I question. None of it stops me from doing it. None of it. I build it up. I knock it down. It always comes out the same.
For a few weeks now I’ve been tossing around an idea, something that will involve time and money and effort that all works toward an uncertain outcome. Maybe I’ve talked about it, maybe I haven’t; the it isn’t important. You just need to know that what I’m talking about runs deep. It aches my bones and sours my stomach, it consumes my mind and curls my toes, and no matter how I tear it apart, it always gets put back together the same way.
It’s as if I dumped out a box of Legos - some red and others blue, some small and others large. Every day I parcel them out according to size. Every day I mix them back up and make piles according to color. I then swipe my hand across it all, an open palm and splayed fingers tossing the bricks in different directions Then I build. I snap them together. I pull them apart. And no matter how I adjust my creation, it always looks the same.
My biggest struggle is to understand why I’m putting it together to begin with. I mean, they’re fucking Lego’s. Mere pieces that are nothing if left to linger in a pile. And even when they are clicked together, are they anything more than what they were before? Perhaps, yes. Most definitely, yes. But in the end, does it matter? I mean red is red, blue is blue. Does it change one bit if connected to a larger being?
It is a struggle between want and need, two things that I see as the same. But what if I already have what I need and it isn’t what I want. Or if what I want isn’t what I need? That’s when I melt inward. That’s when I stand in the dairy aisle and shop for milk even though I have no cereal. My eyes glaze over and I glide the tip of my tongue up and down against the back of my bottom teeth. I do it without thinking and I have to will myself to stop. Half of the time I just keep at it, the soothing sentiment of soft flesh against hard enamel calming my nerves, offering a moment of peace.
I know I’m making no sense. I know you want details and explanations. You’re wondering if the red stands for a steady stream of blood or my guarded heart or an apple. Maybe blue is the way I feel or the color of the pants I’m wearing or my political slant as the primary nears. How funny would it be if all I am talking about is a bag of M&M’s and the two colors I eat last? Read it how you wish. Attach meaning however you desire. Give it a go or let it just lie; doesn’t really matter to me. Like I already said, I’m not here to discuss the intimate details.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll get an acceptance letter from one of the programs I applied to. Maybe the day after I’ll stub my toe on the treadmill eating up the space in my dining room. And on Wednesday, oh I totally know that on Wednesday I’ll harmonize with Kanye West as I scream the lyrics to Stronger, my car idling at a red light and the people next to me watching in awe through the two panes of glass that protect us from one another. Maybe on Thursday I’ll stumble through the door at half past ten, pour a glass of wine and listen to Diana Krall’s A Taste of You. And without a doubt I’ll cry. I always do. Some things I understand while others I question. None of it stops me from doing it. None of it. I build it up. I knock it down. It always comes out the same.
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