Status Check November 17, 2009

Again, write as though no one is watching.

I find myself absolutely attracted to someone who, beyond any explicable means, intimidates me on multiple levels.  I am so used to dating men that I can charm in a heartbeat with wit, humor and flattery.  My “personality” is my barrier.  Even in high school, I remember a boyfriend remarking that I was nonchalant.  Positively unattainable in the distance I set.  This quality has, until now, 100% worked in my favor.  I am accustomed to deflecting attention onto a polished public persona, ensuring that no one gets too close.  I am comfortable, safe even, being defined by my facade.

My public persona is my moat.  My protection. 

So what is happening now?  I am supposed to be in my cyclical rebound mode, defined by frivolous flings with men that I enjoy, but do not covet.  Yet I’m thrown by a single individual who surprises me, more than I surprise him.  In a mere week, I find myself physically, chemically attracted to a man who isn’t my traditional fantasy.  A man who, unintentionally, makes me think to the point of silence.  And I’ve never been the quiet one.  I’ve always been the one who speaks her mind, the devil to who’s listening.  Ah, but the devil is thoughtful in silence. 

He is smarter, wiley-er than me.  I’ve dated lots of guys who are booksmart, cultured, respectful.  Typical arm-candy for the intellectual.  But I have never met a man who silences me with a single observation.  FF was on a soapbox today, a sociological observation about female firefighters who do the job because they have something to prove, which challenged feminism to a point where I, a non-feminist, was offended.  But his reasoning was entirely logical.  If your house, your home, your abode were threatened, you would certainly want someone fighting for you, and not fighting to prove their own merit.  Given the benefits offered to female firefighters — nine months of maternity paid in full, no questions asked; and reduced expectations if the woman is potentially pregnant — this social liberal/economical conservative is bent to question cost efficiency. 

As though that weren’t enough, I am then led to ponder union benefits.  I believe that unions are economically inefficient.  They drive salaries and cost-per-unit of labor above their natural equilibriums.  But metrics cannot put a value on the sacrifice of life.  Every time a firefighter enters the flames, they are putting their own lives on the line.  How can that be defined by traditional business metrics?  My moat has been breached!  Further, a case example on how Walmart is partnering up with firefighters to collect toys for underprivledged (not under-aged) children.  Walmart is historically, vocally steadfast in their anti-union views, yet about 98% of firefighters are union aligned.  And now Walmart is partnering up with a notoriously unionized profession?  Tres hypocritical!  How does society gain from a large business riding on social sympathies for marketing benefit?  I traditionally side with greater good, but take offense when there is clear manipulation.  Jeebus, have I become pro-union? 

Finally, and this is within the same half hour of exchange, I learn of a prior relationship.  The information is relayed to me with a tone of regret, a shade of wistful want, and now my emotional core is left confused.

It is  truly bullshit.  I have been unexpectedly thrown for a loop and am left speechless.  I have met someone who makes me think, intellectually and emotionally.  This state is maddeningly attractive, though it strikes me, unprepared, to the core.  I think my silence may have been off-putting, I’ve never found silence an attractive quality, but fuck.  I suppose it had to happen sometime.  If it works, if it doesn’t work.  I’ve learned more about what makes me tick.

To feel lost… December 7, 2008

Manan took his life this weekend.  He hung himself in his apartment.  Manish says he had so many things going for him, that he just didn’t see it.  I knew he wasn’t settled, but I didn’t really understand just how deep the dissatisfaction went.  I suppose he just wanted to quit everything.

But a part of it seems so like him.  I think he chose that route because he wouldn’t leave behind any mess for someone else to clean up.  Such a weird, yet practical thing to think of, and yet so “Manan-y.”

How will Mona explain this to the munchkin?  That Uncle Manan will never play bed monster with them again? 

What kind of scandal will erupt at his law firm, where he recently said he was going to “bust his ass” to make partner?

What will go through his mother’s mind, when they finally unseal his apartment, and they come face to face with his belongings?

Will Manish’s heart be strong enough, so that when he is able to grieve, he won’t fully break?

All these thoughts, all these questions, I can’t relate to.  I do know I’ve been through a dark phase in my life, but I can’t imagine what it would feel like if my entire life were dark.  My biggest regret is not being strong enough myself to at least provide a little light.  He told me once, just once, that he liked chatting with me.  That I helped ground him.  I didn’t realize that all these little dramas he had, held so much significance for him.  Girls from law school, life in California, moving away from home.  I thought, as smart as he was, as attractive he was, there was no way he could be lonely.  I wish we did go to Martini Park together so that I could be his wingchick.  He said he was shy, I so completely doubted him.

Manan, I really hope you are at peace now, and that your final thoughts were those of pain-free relief. 

My nose vibrates "Om." January 22, 2008

Interesting new experience today, I signed up for a “gong bath” with Yoga Now Chicago. I’ve started taking weekly yoga classes in an attempt to reconnect with myself both emotionally and physically. It’s been a really nice way to start my weekend, and a constant reminder to keep life and its priorities in focus.

The Gold Coast studio is beautiful, warm…the best way to describe it is “harmonious.” I showed up for the gong bath about 10 minutes early and the studio was packed. Imagine yoga mats within inches of each other, and about 35 men and women of various ages and ethnicities camped out with pillows and blankets. I had somewhat expected a ton of granola, and instead was treated to a hip, urban retreat. There was a huge gong in the center of the room, and we were encouraged to place any stones or bits of paper with names of loved ones in front of the gong, so that the objects would capture the healing energy of the vibrations. Sounds kitschy, right? I didn’t do it, too self-conscious still, and am just a little regretful that I didn’t.

So here’s the idea. The gong is engineered to emit a sound at the same frequency of primordial “om,” the universal chord. If you’ve ever chanted, it’s that communal sound acquired when a roomful of yogis reverberate together. It’s a beautiful physical experience, feeling the vibration through your temples, your lips, your throat and your heart. For the past month, I’ve become more comfortable vocalizing “om,” and because of that, I thought I’d give the gong bath a go.

The gong bath was led by Richard Rudis, an engineer-turned-Vietnam vet-turned Tibetan Buddhist. Though if you saw him, you’d think he ran some hip cafe/restaurant in Seattle and spent his weekends mountain biking or climbing trees. Goes to show, even Buddhism has its stereotypes, and they’re not accurate either.

As I laid on my mat, on a hard, hard, hardwood floor, I started off very aware of my surroundings. I was aware of coughing, of the street noise, of the stiffness growing in my lumbar region. I was aware of all my thoughts, which were running, running, running everywhere. I consciously tried breathing exercises, I tried acknowledging my thoughts and letting them go, I tried scratching my nose. The Tibetan prayer bowls sounded pretty, but it was not enough to distract me from my noisy mind. Then I reminded myself that meditation is not easy. It takes practice to slip into that heaven of un-mindfulness. Shortly after that, I had what can only be described as a vision. A friend of mine, who has caused me much emotional distress over the past year because, I think, he has issues of his own to work out, came to mind. And behind him was a white, faceless Buddha. Not the big, jolly Chinese one with the belly full of jelly, but the other one, with the pointy hat. One long-fingered hand rested on my friend’s shoulder, and the other hand was raised in abhaya mudra, the gesture of protection, peace and fearlessness. At that moment, I realized that love is, quite simply, loving.

And then the gong started. Holy cow tamales. It wasn’t gentle and melodious. It was not even really, a sound. It was more the feeling of being caught in the draft of a fighter jet as it flies low to the ground. And it felt amazing. All the noise in my head was replaced by the reverberation. My ear drums vibrated, my teeth vibrated, the tip of my nose vibrated. All the bits and pieces of my physical body vibrated together as though I was violin string. All of which makes sense, and can be expected. What really surprised me were the other effects. My sinuses popped and cleared. My stomach turned, and I really felt as though I was undergoing some type of detoxification. In fact, when I sat up at the end, my throat produced a huge (this is gross, but it’s another indication of my body ridding itself of nasties) lugie. I just had to laugh.

And then, Rudis said something that made absolute sense. “Enlightenment can be postponed, but it cannot be avoided. We are all on the path toward enlightenment.”

Last Few Moments with Vestka September 12, 2007

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 12. 2006 and is filed under General Musings.

Came home today and first thing I heard were plaintive, desperate meows coming from Vestka.

She’s so weak now, she can’t even walk straight, or jump up to a comfy spot. When I moved her to the litter box, she just collapsed and laid there looking at me. Clearly, the last thing she cared about was where her shits landed. Tried feeding her the nutrical I picked up minutes before. Dabbed it on her nose, nothing. She didn’t even lick it off. Which is bad news for a cat. You put anything on their sensitive little noses, and they lick it right off. Pate, cheese in a can, cheese in a tube, arsenic, anything, comes right off. So when Vestka just didn’t care, I knew this was it. We laid on the couch a bit, then she rolled off me and moved to the window sill. That’s where she lost control of her bowels. She started coughing and spitting up white mucus. I grabbed the baby wipes, cleaned her off, and she tried to run away, but fell. She laid there motionless, not even meowing. At this point, I knew this was it. I picked her up, put her on the wool blanket I got in Prague (same place she was born). Called Loxly to see if I should have her put to sleep. “No, just be with her and pet her. It’ll be better than having her die on the way, or of a heart attack. Trust me.” I trust her, and I needed to hear someone say that to me. Because now is the hardest time, waiting next to her. Wondering if she’s comfortable. Afraid that the very next second, I’m not going to hear her breath anymore. Hoping to God she falls asleep, and dies without fear.

On the edge, about to topple over… September 3, 2007

It’s very odd to be where I am now. This time last year, I was an emotional puddle. Unsure of my mind, and more than anything, insecure in my heart. Today, several dreams are underway. I taught, at the college level, and loved it. I’ve made progress on UrbanEpicurean.com, a herculean culinary task that originally started as a gift to my non-existant offspring. And, in just over one month’s time, I will be running the Chicago Marathon.

It’s as though last year was non-existant…or perhaps it is the failure of last year that drives me.

In terms of heart, I’m still struggling. I’m with a man who clearly sees my weaknesses (impatience, perfection, short-temper, indifference), and yet, he’s still here. He seems to think those are acceptable faults. Yet, the more he dismisses them, the more my angst builds. It’s as though I’m looking for someone to put me in my place. Per a close friend of mine, “He has an interesting strategy.”

Perhaps his strategy is correct. Yesterday, we ventured out to the burbs, for a wedding shower. It was absolutely, positively mortifying for me. I was surrounded by family not my own, and more children than a pre-school. I love kids, but when there are that many of them jazzed up on sugar, it’s overwhelming. Considering that I’ve enthusiastically taught tennis clinics and ski lessons to 1st and 2nd graders, I was absolutely blindsided by my reaction to suburban spawn.

Returning from the ‘burbs, I had a physical, actual headache. I was nauseous. My teeth hurt from clenching. My skin felt grimey from ignorant sweat. All I could think of was, “This is not possible. This is not what I want.”

And then, thank God, the lights of the city. As we drive up LSD, fireworks crack over Navy Pier. Cars are parked illegally along the Drive, and Neil and I laugh at the impossibilty of their positions. “City drivers!” we joke, with tones of shock and pride. Back at home, we unwind with a glass of wine and watch a movie. The horrid anger in me dissipates without a surface appearance, and I’m stunned. When I’m angry, I’m at times obsequious, but I never let an issue drop. Yet somehow, this familial stint in the suburbs…became…a non-issue.

I still needed a few moments of quiet. I still needed to see the moon’s reflection over the lake. I still needed to bask in the glow of skyscrapers. But I was okay…I was actually okay with it.

Am I breathing? August 1, 2007

It’s amazing how much of myself I’ve found, and lost, in the past month. The teaching gig is spectacular, beyond my wildest fantasies. I was somehow blessed with a phenomenal group of 18 students. I’ve had guest speakers in from heavy hitters such as Metromix.com and CoolSavings.com; inspirational, entrepreneurial truthtalkers (CondoPerks.com); and a teen expert and Google.com still to appear.

I think what was most surprising to me though, is you really can see the student’s strength right off the bat. The smartest kid in my class is a little shy, so might not make it as far in the real world as the girl who’s not as booksmart, but definitely streetsmart. You can see the spirits that haven’t been broken yet, that haven’t tasted the hard knocks. I don’t think I ever realized how much I fought to get to where I am until I taught this class. Those eager, excited, fearless faces…that once was mine. I see now, in hindsight, that I’ve lost that innocence.

I’ve learned that people will disappoint you. That failure exists. That sometimes trust is false. That loyalty is fleeting. That dollars mean nothing…

And I really feel that I’ve come out richer. As tired as I am, as worn down to the bone and isolated as I’ve been this past month, I wouldn’t trade teaching for the world. I was hoping that I would re-discover who I once was…only to find out that I’m great with who I’ve become.

And I ran 13 miles by myself. At noon. With no support. Goddamn. If I can do that, I can do anything.

I stand by what I said when I was 16. I want to die with the most stories.

"I want somebody who cares" April 13, 2007

Do you ever have that moment where you look for nightfall?  That moment when you don’t have to hide, be ashamed, or feel guilty about your weaknesses?  Where the darkness shields your sadness?  I feel like the whole entire body of me fights to get there.  I trudge forward to get lost in unconsciousness.  I live to shed the costume of success.  I am so tired.  I sleep, only to awaken to a life I do not want to live.  One in which there are expectations associated with superficial success.  I have taken care of myself for so long, I have fended for myself, built a dream.  I am absolutely independent, taking nothing from anyone, and the only thing I want is to love and be loved.  All the money in the world, all that is valued, I have earned.  Beauty, intelligence and humor, the trinity of desire.  But with it comes absolute self-doubt.  I am always second-guessing the motives of others, and all I’m left with is tears.  One of my friends said that is the fate of the “beautiful, smart woman.”  Potential partners will always one value or the other, and my self-destructive nature will answer to what they are calling.  For the man who seeks beauty, I will be seductive.  For the man who seeks enlightenment, I will provide challenge.  But who will nurture me?

A Violation of Security and Self-Possession January 14, 2007

Today started off as one of those happy-go-lucky, two-ponytail kind of days.  Woke up early, got some work done and headed to the grocery store to pick up nacho fixins for the Bears playoff game.  But within a matter of seconds, that glow disappeared.

As I headed up Berwyn past Kenmore, a short, teenaged skinhead staggered just ahead of me along the curb.  Black fatigues, black boots laced over his pants, shaved head with a scraggly dirty blonde tail.  Normally not cause for a second glance, until you got to the raised battering stick he held in his right hand, and the taser peeking out of his back pocket.  The hair on the nape of my neck stood up and everything in my body went on full alert.  I mentally cursed myself for not bringing my phone with me.  He had to have been high on something.  The way he walked, it was clear he was disoriented.  Perhaps he wielded the battering stick as a form of self-defense, but regardless of intent, the appearance was aggressive.  I felt ashamed as I scurried around some construction and scooted quickly ahead of him toward the populated el station.  I didn’t have the guts to look back and to see his face.  Part of me thought, I’m better than he is.  I’m educated.  Self-supporting.  Charitable.  So what gives him the power to make me feel afraid?  Additionally, what do Caucasians feel when they encounter a skinhead wielding a battering ram?  There are many things we take for granted.

I had a similar experience when living in Prague.  A gang of about 10 supremacists descended into the subway stop where I waited for my train.  Seeing that I watched them apprehensively, the stranger next to me said, in halted English, “Don’t worry.  You’re Chinese.  They think you must know kung fu from all the movies.  Hiyah!”  I smiled, and he moved to protectively stand a bit closer to me.  All of a sudden, they spotted a gypsy and a group  of them took off in hot pursuit.  This was the first time I’d ever witnessed clear racism first hand, and it was horrifying.  Part of me wanted to do something about it, but the bigger part of me wanted to hide.   The result was shameful non-involvement.  Not that I was entirely excluded.  When my train arrived, three of the skinheads got on the same train car I did, and took their seats an arm’s reach away from me.  I stared at my hands the whole way.  When my stop hit, I waited until the doors started to close before I lept up and off the train.  I ran the rest of the way to my apartment.

To this day, I still don’t understand why skin color inspires hatred.  I hear people pass judgement based on their own personal experiences, but to the extent that such beliefs spur derogatory action…that’s when all the goodness and wisdom associated with freedom of speech and belief is violated.

Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow…. December 2, 2006

Caved in to peer pressure today for the first time in many, many, many years.  I had a Mario Tricocci $100 gift certificate rotting in my desk at work, and with a bith of impetus, it miraculously morphed into a vichy shower and a Brazillain.

(Shocked yet?)

(I am.)

My beautiful day of pampering starts out with a trip to the spa.  I get to Tricocci’s and am almost immediately slotted into a vichy shower room, where I get sloughed off with salt, a towel laid “diaper-style” between my legs.  It is remarkably more relaxing than expected, an olive-oil scrub that leaves me feeling sleek and smooth all over.  Tiny granules of sandpaper all over my body, followed up by a spritzing of oil and I’m sure anyone would want to touch me.  I had heard many reviews of the vichy, and here’s mine.  If you fantasize about lying butt naked on a field in a rainshower, you will love the treatment.  If the very thought of being rained on throws you off, you will hate it.  Me, myself, I love the feel of piercing rain on my skin, and this was the ultimate in heaven for me.

Post vichy, I was escorted into the “quiet room.”  Along with three other women, I curled up in fetal position on a chaise positioned for privacy.  Soon, a woman’s voice calls, “C?”  Reluctantly, I pull myself up, slip my feet in the plastic molded slides, and follow her to the wax room.

I have never, ever considered trimming the muff.  Ever.  Yet I have many spa dollars to burn, and I had a massage last week.  So, typical of me, I dive in 100%.  Take it all off.  Why not?  I haven’t seen Miss Missy in 17 years or so, time to get reacquainted.  The first strip, nothing.  It truly feels like a rip-zip, nothing.  My cosmetician and I find out we have a connection to my hometown.  It’s like we’re bonding.  Oh, but the bonding only lasts for minutes as my body realizes she’s yanking out my pubes.  With no remose and only professional mumblings and tappings.  Oh my God, brazillians are certainly not as painful as I expected, but they are maybe more violating.  The bit that still stings is the tender nubbins to the right and left of my bone. I dropped another $25 to buy some miracle salve.  I am sure it was an upsell, but upon application I am much relieved.  I am assured that the worst is the first.  Visual appeal is 150% improvement.  Post-mortem, I headed to VS to see if my POV has changed.  Indeed.  At home, I may not feel more sexual than I am, but visually I am.  I no longer worry about stray hairs poking out the bikini side, and I just feel cleaner.  I am still red and irritate where my pubes used to be, but as a friend pointed out last night, if you’ve had them for 17 years, isn’t it about time to get them trimmed?

Dear goodness.