I read somewhere that, if you feel as though you are stuck, you should make a list of what you would like to do, what you would like to learn, what you would like to complete, and what you would like to say. Once the list is complete, you should label each item listed as "N", "L", or "NITL" -- now, later (with date specified), and "not in this lifetime." Then you should proceed to accomplish/complete the items on your list in the priority with which you designated them. The "not in this lifetime" designation is useful because it determines that that desire and/or that task, while acknowledged, need not be completed and thus moved off of the priorities list.
I am still working on initially compiling my list. Surprisingly, it is taking longer than expected. I am thinking, however, that I may have a little "in memoriam" moment for all of the items I end up listing as "NITL."
So far there is only one (query whether I am too ambitious, or too much of a perfectionist, to give up on any of my goals. Apparently the only quality I have that overrides the aforementioned two, is an unabiding fear of confrontation....): As such, my one NITL thus far is telling The Boy exactly how I feel about him coming back to town. But if I were to muster the courage (and, honestly, if I thought there was even a scintilla of a benefit at all -- to me -- I would) to tell him such things directly, this is what I would say:
I am so angry at you. I wish that I weren't because it means that, at some level, I still care. A lot. But the truth is I cared a lot for such a long time that just walking away from those feelings is impossible. They have to go somewhere. And so, with a brief stop at hurt, they caromed from caring to anger. You, on the other hand, feel nothing at all about this situation. Actually that isn't right. I know you feel something: Relief.
Relief that you didn't actually make eye contact when you passed me on the street.
Relief that I didn't stop right there and call your name.
Relief that, having ignored my last email (in response to yours), I have not attempted to contact you again.
Relief that you will never have to see me again.
Actually, I understand all of those things (I have been there myself). Well, except for the last thing. I do not claim to understand that at all, because, frankly, it is just stupid. If we did not live in the same neighborhood and share an (albeit extended) network of friends, perhaps it would not be so preposterous, but given those unavoidable facts it is the equivalent of a three year old sticking their fingers in their ears and yelling, "La, la, La, I can't hear you" when trying to avoid hearing a hard truth. Rational behavior for a toddler? Yes. For a thirty year old? Not so much. Again, stupid.
So now, in addition to having hurt me through your revealing the depth of the profound lack of respect that you have for me, you have also placed the burden of being the bigger person, the one to act like an adult, squarely on my shoulders. When we meet again, as in this small, small town we inevitably will, it will be my burden to smile and make nice. To keep things brief but civil. To wear a mask of conciliation, and to will it not to crack until the moment I am finally able to turn away from you. Maybe you will be alone. Maybe you will be with a significant other ("So nice to meet you. Really.") Worse still, maybe you will be with one of our mutual friends and then there will be no escaping. There will be no tears. There will be no screaming. There won't even be a snide backhanded comment. There will just be prolonged agony of the unspoken and the unsaid. And you will walk away unscathed and unrepentant. And I will be unwound. Tending to the wound -- the gaping hole in my chest that allows me to draw only intermittent rough, raw breath which serves only to punctuate the unceasing rush of pain -- which I had worked so hard to heal with acceptance and patience. Once again, freshly reopened.
I had wanted to try to avoid that silent melodrama with the "How's things" email I sent you, but you chose not to take that road. Again, I understand this too -- avoiding hard truths. It is certainly easier -- for you. Then again, for you every potential approach in this situation is weighted that way -- it is just in in your character. Unavoidable, really. And so I understand, but damnit, I hate you for it. And, in spite of it all, in my quiet moments, I will admit to myself that I miss you. And I hate myself for that. But it will be okay. Some day there will be no reflexive sting to hearing your name. Some day there will be total indifference.
I read the following sentence today, which says it all: "If you have judged someone's character rightly he or she is not likely to disappoint you." I am not hurting now because you misjudged me. I hurt because, clearly, I misjudged you. And that misjudgment leaves me feeling angry, and hurt, and embarrassed. And yes, disappointed.
But you know what? I will get over it, and I will do so precisely because I did misjudge you:
You may be exceptional, but, turns out, you are just not that special.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
Assets
In the spirit of taking good advice and, in that vein, trying to focus on the positive, I have a post that is not "oh woe is me" for a change.
Since I turned thirty, about 7 months ago now, I have not notice a lot of physical changes. It is not as though I woke up in this new decade and found my physical landscape had totally gone to hell. Just as when I woke up on the day I turned twenty one, I did not feel that the mantle of adulthood was firmly affixed to my breast. All of that being said, in the intervening seven months since the "thirty" milestone, I have noticed a few differences. There have been the sudden uninvited appearance of gray hairs (which even regular six week highlight appointments cannot wholly stay in front of). Likewise, I have seen the beginning of the dreaded phenomena that is cellulite popping up in various "problem" areas -- a cruel genetic disposition I was not aware of. But lastly, and most significantly, I have become aware that, unlike prior years, regardless of how rigorous my workout regimen, my posterior -- the proverbial boo-tay -- does not change in size. Or as my sister rather inelegantly noted recently to a cab driver of ours, "She has a *big* ass. Like J.Lo/Beyonce big! But it's only because her waist is so small. Really." In a former life I would have taken such offense I would not have spoken to her for a week, and I would have stopped eating for two. But today, being older and wiser, I knew it was true.
My bottom, such that it is (along with my thighs) has been the bane of my existence for the better part of half my life. It is what I was always running miles and miles and miles to get away from. I wanted it to shrink. To retreat. To give up its relentless pursuit. Always there, in my rear view mirror, right behind me. On a select few occasions over the years, I succeeded. But only when consuming 600 calories a day and running 6 miles as well. Need I mention that while my ass my was small, my head looked like a lollipop, and I was, well, nothing short of insufferable, because, frankly, I was damn hungry.
So today, I am still pretty fanatic about my workouts. I am less disciplined in my eating -- partly by design, as I am working with a nutritionist to regulate my eating patterns (though she, and I, frown on my York Peppermint Patty and Starbuck's pastries habits) -- but overall, I eat in a healthier manner than the average bear. Maybe not the average sorority girl, but better than a super-majority of the populations. And in the end, there it is -- the end. My end. The rear end. Following on as always.
The only way to describe it is as my sister did, in the the pop culture vernacular: It is J. Lo, Beyonce, and Kim Kardashian all rolled into one. It is most like these pop culture exemplars because I have a smaller frame on top (though unlike Kardashian, and perhaps Beyonce, I am not all that well endowed).
I am not going to lie. It does -- as it always has (and probably, to some degree, always will) -- vex me. I wish for it to disappear, to make itself less apparent, to take on the cloaking qualities of Wonder Woman's plane. But of course, it does not (though I am not fully convinced that it cannot) take on the aforementioned qualities. It is nothing if not persistent (and more than a little recalcitrant). Behind me, full and round and buxom (if such an adjective can be attributed to the derriere) it remains. I should appreciate it, for in this life, it is rare, beyond the exceptional friends and the ocassional family member, to find someone or something that always stands behind you.
My bottom -- such that it is -- is a key, I think. If I can truly accept it, it would be a gateway to accepting all of my other endemic flaws. Er, quirks. It, too, useful as a gating item. "Sir, do you mind girls who went to Harvard? Who have graduate degrees? Who are well-beyond self supporting? And who have ample bottoms?" I think it really could be a victory-squared (win-win-win) situation.
So we shall see what comes of this rocky relationship between me and my bottom, but, I am happy to report, I am willing, for the first time, well, ever, to sit down (on it) to have talks (with it). Wow, that seems like it will be a bit awkward, doesn't it? Well, let's put it this way -- accommodations for talks will be intimate and the parties will therefore be highly incentivized to come to agreement.
Since I turned thirty, about 7 months ago now, I have not notice a lot of physical changes. It is not as though I woke up in this new decade and found my physical landscape had totally gone to hell. Just as when I woke up on the day I turned twenty one, I did not feel that the mantle of adulthood was firmly affixed to my breast. All of that being said, in the intervening seven months since the "thirty" milestone, I have noticed a few differences. There have been the sudden uninvited appearance of gray hairs (which even regular six week highlight appointments cannot wholly stay in front of). Likewise, I have seen the beginning of the dreaded phenomena that is cellulite popping up in various "problem" areas -- a cruel genetic disposition I was not aware of. But lastly, and most significantly, I have become aware that, unlike prior years, regardless of how rigorous my workout regimen, my posterior -- the proverbial boo-tay -- does not change in size. Or as my sister rather inelegantly noted recently to a cab driver of ours, "She has a *big* ass. Like J.Lo/Beyonce big! But it's only because her waist is so small. Really." In a former life I would have taken such offense I would not have spoken to her for a week, and I would have stopped eating for two. But today, being older and wiser, I knew it was true.
My bottom, such that it is (along with my thighs) has been the bane of my existence for the better part of half my life. It is what I was always running miles and miles and miles to get away from. I wanted it to shrink. To retreat. To give up its relentless pursuit. Always there, in my rear view mirror, right behind me. On a select few occasions over the years, I succeeded. But only when consuming 600 calories a day and running 6 miles as well. Need I mention that while my ass my was small, my head looked like a lollipop, and I was, well, nothing short of insufferable, because, frankly, I was damn hungry.
So today, I am still pretty fanatic about my workouts. I am less disciplined in my eating -- partly by design, as I am working with a nutritionist to regulate my eating patterns (though she, and I, frown on my York Peppermint Patty and Starbuck's pastries habits) -- but overall, I eat in a healthier manner than the average bear. Maybe not the average sorority girl, but better than a super-majority of the populations. And in the end, there it is -- the end. My end. The rear end. Following on as always.
The only way to describe it is as my sister did, in the the pop culture vernacular: It is J. Lo, Beyonce, and Kim Kardashian all rolled into one. It is most like these pop culture exemplars because I have a smaller frame on top (though unlike Kardashian, and perhaps Beyonce, I am not all that well endowed).
I am not going to lie. It does -- as it always has (and probably, to some degree, always will) -- vex me. I wish for it to disappear, to make itself less apparent, to take on the cloaking qualities of Wonder Woman's plane. But of course, it does not (though I am not fully convinced that it cannot) take on the aforementioned qualities. It is nothing if not persistent (and more than a little recalcitrant). Behind me, full and round and buxom (if such an adjective can be attributed to the derriere) it remains. I should appreciate it, for in this life, it is rare, beyond the exceptional friends and the ocassional family member, to find someone or something that always stands behind you.
My bottom -- such that it is -- is a key, I think. If I can truly accept it, it would be a gateway to accepting all of my other endemic flaws. Er, quirks. It, too, useful as a gating item. "Sir, do you mind girls who went to Harvard? Who have graduate degrees? Who are well-beyond self supporting? And who have ample bottoms?" I think it really could be a victory-squared (win-win-win) situation.
So we shall see what comes of this rocky relationship between me and my bottom, but, I am happy to report, I am willing, for the first time, well, ever, to sit down (on it) to have talks (with it). Wow, that seems like it will be a bit awkward, doesn't it? Well, let's put it this way -- accommodations for talks will be intimate and the parties will therefore be highly incentivized to come to agreement.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The Peppercorn
Admittedly, my first day as a law student was not a distinguished one. I found my way to class (an easy enough task when there are 50 other people who share your schedule and, thus, gazelle-like pivot in the right direction, eventually). I even had managed to purchase the proper books ahead of time and to read the assigned cases (though my relative comprehension may have been dubious as I did wonder why certain paragraphs at the beginning were preceded by keys and seemed extremely repetitive). No, my lack of distinction became inescapable in the first 10 minutes of my first class on my first day as a first year law student, as my contracts professor began a lyrical meditation on the essential parts of the contract: "First, one must have an offer -- the bridge to formation of a contract. Second, one must have acceptance -- the car to drive across that bridge. And last, but certainly not least, one must have the essential ingredient for formation of a contract -- that which seals the deal -- the oft-touted, much beloved, supremely utilitarian Peppercorn. Or as it is more conventionally known.... Ms. [______]?" Roused from my shell-shocked stupor by the sudden mangled mispronunciation of my last name and the realization that my attempt to wear nothing but neutrals was not going to save me from whims and vagaries of the Socratic method, I dissembled. Actually, more accurately, I spluttered in what I imagine was a keen, yet undecipherable, imitation of Porky Pig: "I, I, I, I.... ddddon't kn-kn-know." Two beats. Seamlessly, the professor continued: "Well, Ms. [______] that is a shame. A peppercorn is the legal metaphor for the concept of consideration. It is the payment of the toll to drive your acceptance car across the offer bridge. If you act without consideration being extended to you, in the end, there is no agreement. I hate to inform you, but Ms. [_________], if you act without consideration, then no matter what was initially offered, you are on your own."
How true. In every respect.
******
Embarrassing as that episode was, it instilled in me a lifelong respect for the peppercorn. Or the "mere peppercorn" as it is so often lovingly referred within the halls of the legal academe. An appreciation which is only tempered by my continued amusement at the ridiculousness of the term "consideration" to describe the inducement to enter into a contract (usually money, but can be as amorphous as a promise to do or even not to do something).
But at the juncture of here and now which is my life today, the concepts -- arcane and silly as they may have seemed at first blush -- take on a new meaning and singular importance. I should have known. I have always had a love for the supremely absurd.
******
I have been attempting throughout my life to have romantic relationships in which no peppercorn -- not even a mere one -- was exchanged. There was no consideration. In any sense of the word. And everything, inevitably, would fall apart. I had no recourse. But that is as it should have been. In truth, there was no agreement.
******
No bargain, no benefit.
******
My struggle has always been that I did not know what to bargain for. I did not think I was entitled to consideration, let alone to think about defining what form of consideration would be best for me. Whither my peppercorn?
Recent events, from my Goodbye to All That moment to Client No. 9 making a splash in the news to my new appreciation for St. Patrick's Day, have led me to a greater understanding of what that peppercorn might be. Or at least now I am fully cognizant of what it is not. It will not be someone who dazzles but holds me at arms length. It will have to be someone who leads with their heart. It can be a confused heart, it can be an unknowing heart, it can even be a frightened heart (mine is certainly all those things and more), but it must be an earnest heart. All the rest is just meaningless noise.
******
So I have discovered the peppercorn. And I am, without a doubt, utterly beyond terrified. Knowledge which I would have assumed would bring me comfort instead fills me with dread.
I know the truth now, so to the extent that things do not work out from here, there is only one target upon which blame can be placed: It is my fault. Every additional day that I am alone -- continuing on that relentless march into spinsterhood -- another indictment: Broken. Irreparably broken.
A singular life as damaged goods.
******
I will never be confident enough. I will never be laid-back enough. I will never be thin enough. I will never be interesting enough. I will never be put together enough.
I really am at a loss for how to fix these things. If I could snap my fingers and make them so, then it would be done. If I knew what book to read or what course to take or what service to enlist so that I could work my way toward the solutions for these things, I would be well on my way. But I really have no clue. Obviously. It shows.
*******
Every day, I try not to care. To be indifferent. To laugh at the oddities of my life. To chant silent internal cliched mantras about life working itself out and things being for the best. To harden my heart and prepare for a life ahead that looks very much like the life behind, and to negotiate a peace with that.
Every day I fail.
Perhaps my efforts are not entirely wasted. Perhaps, I am getting closer by fractions of millimeters to such goals. And such movement, as minute as it may be, is a victory. But I cannot see it. Mostly because I find my eyes blurred by the ever-welling tears because as hard as I try to toughen it and make it impervious, there is no escaping my heart and how much it hurts. All of the time. Every hour. Every day.
******
It is funny. It has never been about getting married. More so when I was younger and did not know any better. Now, much less so, as it seems so inconsequential to the real point: All my life, all I have ever wanted is that enduring love. To have someone love you, and you them. I just can't imagine anything more precious or more amazing. I really cannot imagine it. I have no idea what such a concept would look like when I am part of the equation. My actual involvement in interpersonal relations of the romantic kind is always a swift precursor to rejection and pain.
******
It bothers me that I am so weird. That I am horrifying to men across the spectrum. Tolerable enough to sleep with on occasion, but daylight is out of the question. In my quieter moments, I dare to ask why they think me so monstrous, but as I don't have an answer, I am back to welling with tears. Of course, the fact that I ask the question is probably a good one -- indicative of the fact the in my heart of hearts I must not believe I am a monster. And so that is a victory.
Pyrrhic. But victory nonetheless.
******
I know there are other things to be concerned with in this world. All so much more important and consequential than this. And I want to turn my attention to them. I just need to get my damn heart to stop hurting.
How true. In every respect.
******
Embarrassing as that episode was, it instilled in me a lifelong respect for the peppercorn. Or the "mere peppercorn" as it is so often lovingly referred within the halls of the legal academe. An appreciation which is only tempered by my continued amusement at the ridiculousness of the term "consideration" to describe the inducement to enter into a contract (usually money, but can be as amorphous as a promise to do or even not to do something).
But at the juncture of here and now which is my life today, the concepts -- arcane and silly as they may have seemed at first blush -- take on a new meaning and singular importance. I should have known. I have always had a love for the supremely absurd.
******
I have been attempting throughout my life to have romantic relationships in which no peppercorn -- not even a mere one -- was exchanged. There was no consideration. In any sense of the word. And everything, inevitably, would fall apart. I had no recourse. But that is as it should have been. In truth, there was no agreement.
******
No bargain, no benefit.
******
My struggle has always been that I did not know what to bargain for. I did not think I was entitled to consideration, let alone to think about defining what form of consideration would be best for me. Whither my peppercorn?
Recent events, from my Goodbye to All That moment to Client No. 9 making a splash in the news to my new appreciation for St. Patrick's Day, have led me to a greater understanding of what that peppercorn might be. Or at least now I am fully cognizant of what it is not. It will not be someone who dazzles but holds me at arms length. It will have to be someone who leads with their heart. It can be a confused heart, it can be an unknowing heart, it can even be a frightened heart (mine is certainly all those things and more), but it must be an earnest heart. All the rest is just meaningless noise.
******
So I have discovered the peppercorn. And I am, without a doubt, utterly beyond terrified. Knowledge which I would have assumed would bring me comfort instead fills me with dread.
I know the truth now, so to the extent that things do not work out from here, there is only one target upon which blame can be placed: It is my fault. Every additional day that I am alone -- continuing on that relentless march into spinsterhood -- another indictment: Broken. Irreparably broken.
A singular life as damaged goods.
******
I will never be confident enough. I will never be laid-back enough. I will never be thin enough. I will never be interesting enough. I will never be put together enough.
I really am at a loss for how to fix these things. If I could snap my fingers and make them so, then it would be done. If I knew what book to read or what course to take or what service to enlist so that I could work my way toward the solutions for these things, I would be well on my way. But I really have no clue. Obviously. It shows.
*******
Every day, I try not to care. To be indifferent. To laugh at the oddities of my life. To chant silent internal cliched mantras about life working itself out and things being for the best. To harden my heart and prepare for a life ahead that looks very much like the life behind, and to negotiate a peace with that.
Every day I fail.
Perhaps my efforts are not entirely wasted. Perhaps, I am getting closer by fractions of millimeters to such goals. And such movement, as minute as it may be, is a victory. But I cannot see it. Mostly because I find my eyes blurred by the ever-welling tears because as hard as I try to toughen it and make it impervious, there is no escaping my heart and how much it hurts. All of the time. Every hour. Every day.
******
It is funny. It has never been about getting married. More so when I was younger and did not know any better. Now, much less so, as it seems so inconsequential to the real point: All my life, all I have ever wanted is that enduring love. To have someone love you, and you them. I just can't imagine anything more precious or more amazing. I really cannot imagine it. I have no idea what such a concept would look like when I am part of the equation. My actual involvement in interpersonal relations of the romantic kind is always a swift precursor to rejection and pain.
******
It bothers me that I am so weird. That I am horrifying to men across the spectrum. Tolerable enough to sleep with on occasion, but daylight is out of the question. In my quieter moments, I dare to ask why they think me so monstrous, but as I don't have an answer, I am back to welling with tears. Of course, the fact that I ask the question is probably a good one -- indicative of the fact the in my heart of hearts I must not believe I am a monster. And so that is a victory.
Pyrrhic. But victory nonetheless.
******
I know there are other things to be concerned with in this world. All so much more important and consequential than this. And I want to turn my attention to them. I just need to get my damn heart to stop hurting.
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