100 words a day

After six months, I finally decided that it’s time to get my tush back into shape. The gym has been uninspiring: the treadmills to nowhere, the futility of lifting weights just for the sake of doing so. I pictured myself shedding pounds, dripping sweat, and being challenged and in my mind’s eye it looked like…running. After my tortoise-paced (but amazingly rewarding) marathon in 2004, I thought my running days were over. My knees are showing their age and my running clothes are torn and faded. But every time I close my eyes I picture myself: running. Welcome back.

I’m a grateful recovering Catholic and I carry around all the guilt associated with it.  Catholics take their religion as seriously as any other believers, but have all sorts of rules, covenants and rituals which if not followed…well, they send you to Hell.

My Godmother, my Dear Aunt is a great Catholic. 

She taught Catholic school for more than half her life, raised a daughter, loved her family and treated everyone with care.

She also found a way to play poker, dance, have a drink, smoke some, anger a sister or two and make everyone’s life better.

I love her.  Hell will have to wait.

In the beginning I was concerned about the undeniable narcissism of it. Who do I think am? What makes me so important? I think every artist struggles with those questions. I can’t be the only one. If we allow ourselves to believe in our own meaninglessness, we cower. We end. We must believe in the value of our contribution in order to create. Even if no one else does, we must believe in ourselves. I don’t ponder these existential themes everyday, but they always linger in the background.

This became a test of endurance. Today, I exhale. Tomorrow, everything changes.

I don’t know why I resisted. Did I actually think I could survive in DC without air conditioning? In August?

I called a service guy today. He took a moment to confirm the contact information he had for me in the system. The first number he quoted sounded eerily familiar but it wasn’t mine. At least not any more. Then it came to me: it was from the office. With the great big window.

“Oh, that was my old work number. I have a new one now.”

“Excellent! It’s about time you got out of there!”

He actually said that.

I could go a whole day without looking out a window.  In a former life I had an office. With a great big window.  That was several lifetimes ago and that story’s been told.  Ad nauseam.

I believe you don’t need a window to know what it’s like outside.   Today it feels like it’s raining.  I don’t want to know if I’m wrong.  I don’t want to know that it’s sunny and beautiful.  I’d prefer to think it rainy and cold, perfect couch weather. Because that’s where I want to be, and I’d like the weather to match my mood.

Usually my apartment greets me with a refreshing waft of cool air when I get home. Yesterday, nothing. The temperature outside my apartment was exactly the same as inside my apartment. The thermostat confirmed my suspicions: 80 degrees. Not good. I could hear my air conditioner chugging along. I imagine it had been working hard (and ineffectively) all day. 

I don’t mind when little things go wrong in my apartment. That’s part of home ownership. I actually enjoy the occasional surprise project. But an HVAC system? Even with my out-of-control-superman-sized can-do attitude, I know when I’m out of my league.

Life would be easier if I were a duck. Or a goldfish. I get hurt and angry and I have this pesky little thing called a memory. It’s not a good one, but it works sometimes.

At times I can be as tall as the Empire State Building. And to be dismantled in a weekend is more than demoralizing. When I go home I look forward to leaving, then takes me a week to rebound to my fighting height.

I know it’s melodramatic to say I’m not going home again, but right now three hundred miles is still too close.

I cast my mother as a villain in a short story I once wrote.  I named her Doubt.  She crashed a party thrown by Joy and Merriment.   When she entered, Carefree scampered out the back.  I wrote that ten years ago.  Little has changed. 

The worst-case scenario is the only thing ever on her horizon.  That’s not the crystal ball I choose to use.  In that world there’s no leaping, no soaring.  There is no risk.  Why risk if you are doomed to fail?

That’s it for me. I am sick of acknowledging the caution; I just want to proceed.

What a difference a sleepless night can make.  Last night my mind was running faster than a sprinter in her final fifty yards.  I begged morning to come to I could stop pretending and I could continue the race.  But when morning did greet me, I had no energy to say hello.  

I thought coffee would work. But it was no match for the stifling suffocation of a hundred degree day.  Any energy transference was quickly halted by the heat.  And now I can’t remember what it was like to have a spring in my step. It was only yesterday.  

It couldn’t have been scripted more carefully. Two weeks ago I told him I used to be a manager. He was surprised and asked me if I had liked it. I did. I really missed it. Foreshadowing.

Last week I helped him out with his work and his respect deepened. He applauded some of my methods and began using them as his own.

I found out today I will soon become his boss. This promotion came out of nowhere and presented itself like an early morning earthquake. It woke me up and left me shaken the rest of the day.

The irony is not lost on me.  This morning I discussed finding inspiration everywhere.  I spoke with such authority of cultivating those fleeting thoughts that show up unexpectedly throughout the day. I recommended keeping a notebook around to capture the random ideas so they are not at the mercy of one’s memory.  

And, of course, tonight I have nothing.  Nothing to say, nothing I’d like to dissect.   I write less (and worse) when I’m content.  It’s the artist paradox: we yearn for the end of our suffering, but once we glimpse happiness, we don’t know what to do with ourselves.

Right now I’ve accepted the fact that there are certain things I do for income and there are other, more interesting and exciting things, I do for free.  As long as I have (and take) the time to do those other things, then I am in no position to complain.

For now, my two selves seem to have met each other in the middle. My rational self has allowed my creative self to commit to a daily practice. My creative self has continued to be vigilant in ensuring that my rational self never sneaks out and enrolls in law school.

When I was little I decided to write a book. I settled in with my brother’s loose-leaf notebook paper and a pen. (Look at my seven year-old self tossing her hat in the ring. Sigh.)  I understood the basic structure of books and began writing with fervor. I started with the title page. Done. Easier than I thought. Then I wrote the table contents. With page numbers.

I had no concept of plot, themes, characters, or anything else upon which one could construct a story. But I had chapter names. I laugh, but I fear my approach hasn’t changed much.

This thing I do, it’s quite Seinfeldien, actually. “What’s your blog about?” “Nothing, really.”

Then I listen to love songs. Something always happens in love songs. Hearts collide, explode, then depart. Who knows if the stories behind the lyrics are true. Some of them must be. It doesn’t matter.

What if I wrote love songs? What if there was always something going on? And when there wasn’t, I could just spin a story that would draw tears. I could invoke my heart’s muscle memory to create an achingly beautiful tale to bide my time until the next true thing happened.

What is it that makes manual labor so enjoyable? Is it the feeling of accomplishment, of being about to point to something tangible that you’ve completed? Or is it that it requires little brain power, so the mind is free to roam aimlessly for hours on end?

I am re-caulking my tub. It requires thoroughness and cleanliness: two qualities not found in my toolbox. I am mostly a sloppy person with quirky spurts of anal retention. I was fantastically organized when I bought my home. And my car. But everything else I own is currently lying on my bedroom floor.

What if I didn’t edit?
What if I didn’t count?
What if I wrote with abandon?
What if all of the words that tumbled onto the screen left an indelible mark? Would I stop mid-sentence? Leave a thought unfinished?

It’s day four of an alcoholic spree. It’s been the perfect storm of birthdays, barbecues, and dinners out. I’m sitting on the metro concentrating on not getting sick. If only it didn’t shudder this much. I’m counting the remaining stops before I get home. Ten. Nine. Eight. …. I know I can’t drive. Guess I’ll be napping in the car tonight.

I loved my family. I love who we are now as well, but we’re different. We’ve added and subtracted, divided and multiplied. But there was something absolutely magical about that original foursome. It’s easy to recall the cold and distance, but more than anything there was laughter.

When I think about what I want now, I revert to the stereotypical artist’s answer: a man of depth and darkness who’s comfortable apart from the crowd. But honestly, I just want someone who can make me laugh. I too easily slip into the melancholy; it would be nice to be rescued sometime.

I hate turning down additional insurance.  I do it, but I always feel uneasy about it.   I always wonder if I am being offered it at this particular moment because the universe is trying to tell me something.  And if the universe is talking to me, I will turn my music down.  Luckily, my rational frugal side is stronger than my confused spiritual side.

When I got my new car the finance guy spent thirty minutes trying to sell me additional coverage.  He was wearing an eye patch from a car accident.  That was a hard pitch to turn down.

Just as I planned, I crashed the meeting today. And I got an assignment out of it, with a new “client.”  It’s easier to get work when you’re sitting front and center in a crowded meeting than when you’re hiding in your cube.  Lesson learned.  Is this work I am taking away from somebody else on my team? Technically, yes.  Do I feel bad about it? Not particularly.  I know that person is completely swamped. I’m not. So I win.  

I feel like I’m finally beginning to hit my stride.  I’m happy about it, but I still don’t really care.

Boss, just back from vacation: So what did I miss?
Employee: We had that meeting you wanted me to have.
B: Great! How did was it?
E: Well. It didn’t go exactly as planned.
B: Why not?
E: They changed the topic of the meeting.
B: But you were supposed to lead the meeting.
E: I know, but it changed directions.
B: You’re going to have to reschedule it. To have the meeting you were supposed to have.

Silence.

Me (Noticeably cringing, wishing desperately my chair was equipped with an eject button. Or arsenic.)  Did you have a nice vacation?

I’m not proud of this: whenever I spend time with a married man whose age is reasonably close to mine, my thoughts invariably wander to the weird: what would life be with this man? Would I be happier? 

Usually, I am relieved.  I thank heavens that some woman mercifully fished him out of the sea.   

There have only been two men in recent memory that I actually got wistful over.   But then I consider the lives they’ve built with their wives.  There’s undeniable envy.   But their contentment, their peace, I couldn’t have it with them.   It’s not me right now.

“Do you parents still live in

It was an innocent enough question. But I noticed a flicker of pain in his split-second pause.

“My mom still does”

That could mean divorce.  Or death.  I chose not to clarify.

We sat at his dining room table and took turns synopsizing our last seven years.   Yes, it really had been that long.   Then he told me his father had died.  Five years ago.  My heart just dissolved. THIS is the stuff you come out of the woodwork for. There is absolutely nothing more important.  And I was nowhere to be found.

Here’s my new plan: I am going to start going to meetings I haven’t been invited to.  I don’t mean tiny meetings on obscure topics where my crashing would be obvious and my presence irrelevant.  I’m talking about meetings big enough for me to blend in but small enough to be noticed if I choose. I’m finally figuring out that these meetings are my organization’s men’s locker rooms and golf courses.  They’re where discussions are occurring and deals are being made.

To be in the right place at the right time, you must start by being in the right place.

Today marks my two month anniversary with the new car.  One would think I’d be able to park it by now. My getting-to-know-you period with my last car consisted of hitting things: curbs, gates, other cars.  But that’s how I learned.  I knew exactly what my car could do. 

I have no idea what this bubble-mobile can do.  And because I’m keeping it clutter-free, it feels like a rental.  And try as I might, I cannot park it.  It’s become a bit of a joke.  Now I just shake my head as I walk away from it.  Every single time.

Today I was reminiscing about my arthritic knee. She was better than the weather channel. This afternoon the sky was so ominous people came out of their offices to see the impending storm. My knee was strangely silent. I wondered when she lost her voice. Where was I?

Tonight I played volleyball for the first time in a year. When I pulled up to the familiar brick building, I finally understood. It wasn’t the running that destroyed my knee. The abrupt stopping and starting, changing directions, and sliding on my knee pad-less knees probably had something to do with it.

You know you’ve overreacted when you’ve finished recounting the story of a gross offense inflicted on you, and your friend looks at you, expectantly, waiting for the real shoe to drop. And it’s only after she sees your wide-eyed anxious nod, does she realize that you’ve finished.

At that point you might as well change topics. There’s nothing she can say that can drown out her moment of silence. Apparently the felony you’ve described wouldn’t even warrant a minor parking ticket. The fact is, maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal.

And maybe you were the ass who overreacted.

I ask for work.  I volunteer for everything.  If it wasn’t 105 degrees outside I might offer to mow the lawn.  I’m not usually this eager, I’m just unusually bored.

I am too reverent to go to the movies or leave for a long lunch and return with a manicure.  Instead I quietly sit in my cube and read junk online.  Sometimes what I read is unexpectedly hilarious.  The biggest challenge I face each day is stifling my laughter.  Today I lost the challenge.

I spit out what I was drinking.  When my neighbors were on a conference call.

Does absence makes the heart grow fonder? I’m starting to think that overused expression is mean. Isn’t the subtext actually, “I liked you much more when you weren’t here. I don’t remember you stinking this much.”

Cynical? Sure. But why do we remember people better than they are? Is it our natural inclination to want to give others the benefit of the doubt? Do we second-guess our initial impressions or do they fade with time? And then how often are we disappointed when we realize our original estimations were accurate?

It sounds more like amnesia makes the heart grow fonder.

Is it possible we only grow in the presence of others? And if we don’t see people they’ll forever be the age we left them?  In the past ten years, I think I’ve spent a total of six months with my mother. In her eyes, am I still twenty?

I understand that her tightening grip on motherhood has more to do with her ambiguous future than me.  If I needed her more, would she still cling? Or would she demagnetize?   Ultimately, she is reaping the benefits of a job flawlessly done.  And I think part of her actually regrets it.

I wonder if I’m too old to enjoy musicals. Tonight my mother and I took in a Broadway show. After each act, we looked at each other and counted down how many were left. The show wasn’t terrible and you could tell the actors were working very hard, but it just wasn’t very good.

Maybe musicals aren’t easy for anyone. I spend my time listening so hard, trying to discern the lyrics over the orchestra, that I don’t remember to enjoy the show.  Tonight, I gave up. I let my mind go. And when people stood for ovation, we ran.

They say that the sky is bigger out west than it is here. They say our skylines have stolen our skies. I didn’t understand until I visited Colorado.  Then I agreed.  Until tonight.  For the final two hours of my drive to New York I was entertained by a stormy summer show.  Streaks of orange and white lightning ran races from their starting blocks in the east to the finish line in the west.  Their tracks illuminated the entire sky until the next race.  Giant trees of light exploded above the horizon.

On nights like tonight, eastern skies can compete.

There are certain things in life that I want to take for granted.  Bridges, for example.  I drive a lot.  I want to have so much confidence in bridges that I don’t even notice when I’m using them. Actually, add tunnels to that list as well.

Sadly, that is not always the case.  The collapse of the bridge in Minneapolis is affecting me on a level I didn’t expect.  All day websites and newspapers featured surrealistic photos that looked more like movie stills from an action-adventure film.  Then came the headlines: “The country’s crumbling infrastructure.”  The whole thing is terrifying.

I don’t appreciate unearned flirting. I should have to work for it. Maybe I want him to work for it. I believe there should be a period of time where messages are exchanged, be it glances or emails, before the buttering up begins. This wasn’t butter; this was margarine.

There is no virtue in describing my “sweet green eyes” if I’ve just told you that I have green eyes. I am not flattered by dolled-up mimicry.

Maybe I am making this more difficult than it needs to be. Apparently I’m ornery. This might have something to do with my status.

Lately it seems everyone has a blog.  Except for you.  How would you like to write for one without the headache of maintaining it?

I’ve been writing mine for the past year ( www.100wordsaday.com).  The premise is simple but strict: every day I write one hundred words, no more, no less.  It originated as a one year writing project.  I’d like to continue, but I’m over the nuisance of a daily deadline.

I’m looking to add a handful of new writers.  The only guideline is the word count.  And no fiction.

Curious? Interested? Contact me, I’ll send you information directly.

This morning my company changed its name.  The office was abuzz.  I was greeted by three uniformed girls in shades handing out complimentary Wall Street Journals.  Sellllll-a-brate good times! C’mon!  Free WSJs for everyone!  

Seriously.  How did I get here?  

Who am I kidding?  I know exactly how I got here.  I chose the safe, easy, well-paved path before me.  I never once consulted a compass, I never once sought advice, and I never once looked more than two steps ahead of me.  I always know my immediate next step, but it’s the one just beyond that constantly eludes me.  

There is only one thing standing between me and my bed. This. One hundred words. What would happen if I missed one night? Probably nothing. The sky wouldn’t fall, the earth wouldn’t shake, the sun would still rise. Tomorrow would look just like tomorrows do.

It’s more the principal of the thing. I’ve come this far, why would I throw the whole thing away because of a measly (and hopefully temporary) case of writer’s block? I will make myself sit here,  stare at a blank screen, and will my fingers to find the final thirty-two words.

There. I’ve done it.

Sometimes I am not strong enough to overcome the gravitational pull of my couch.   A completely lazy day sounds nice in theory.  I eat too much and move too little. The sun sets and I don’t notice.  And all the mess in my apartment at the start of the day is still here at the end.  My mess is like matter in that it cannot be created nor destroyed.  Except of course, that it has been created, I just can’t remember when. 

When I’m busy, I yearn for a quiet idle day. When I get it, I pine for chaos.

I stumbled upon a retirement party today.  The honoree was leaving after thirty-eight years.  Thirty-eight years yet she sits in a cubicle.  I might be new, but even I could tell somewhere along the way there must have been an ugly political departmental shakedown.

One of the big cheeses stepped up to give up a speech and pulled out a 20-year-old org chart.  He proudly pointed out that her name was actually on said chart, “And that’s really a testament to your longevity.”

What??????? Maybe you meant loyalty? Or dedication?  Instead you commended her on her age.  I nearly guffawed.

I see stars sometimes.  Like Daffy Duck.  It happened today at work out of nowhere.  I was fine, and then I wasn’t.  I tried ignoring the stars but they persisted.  I couldn’t type.  I couldn’t read.  Actually, I could see the words but I couldn’t comprehend them.   I’m not entirely sure what caused the ensuing nausea: whatever it was that caused the stars or trying to see through the stars for an hour.

It was reminiscent of past migraines, except I didn’t get a headache.  After consulting the omniscient google, I learned it was called a silent migraine.  Who knew?  

Isn’t this exactly where I started?   Eleven months later and I’m still tripping over the same cricks in the sidewalk.   This is embarrassing.  I would have hoped to not be here anymore, but alas, here is where I stand.

Almost 3,300 words used to describe the inane and the minute, and I still can’t choose the final few to describe myself.  I can’t narrow it down, there are just too many.  I’m finally considering the social experiment that has become the “normal” way of meeting people and I can’t get past the first checkpoint: my headline.  As if I’m news.  

Writing every day deprives you of the liberty to revise your own history.  It’s not the writing, per se, but the reading of it.  Memories, blurred by time, instantly reappear as if they were created only moments ago.  

I’ve long since given up on the credibility of my memory.  It has deceived me more than any friend I’ve given up. But this year, this incredibly well documented year, will stay with me permanently.

People have tried to remind me of things I’ve said.  Who cares what I’ve said?  I say a lot of things.  What I write is the truth.

I did some research today. I learned that I don’t have to pay taxes on capital gains from my home. I could sell my place, throw the profits into savings, store my stuff in NY and head out. It sounds delicious.

The market is fairly soft right now, so if I put my place up now, it could take several months. And all I’d have to give is two weeks at work. Several months is might be enough time to figure things out.

Should I leap for before I look? Should I call my realtor? Should I commit to leaving?

He followed me into the supply closet.  And didn’t say a word.  If I was in Grey’s Anatomy we’d had sex, but alas, my life is less dramatic.   I turned around, surprised to have someone join me, doubly surprised to see it was him, and triply surprised that he didn’t say anything.  He was just looking at folders.  I have a fairly high threshold for awkward moments, but it was ridiculous.  How do you follow someone into a small confined space and then not say anything once you get there?  I greeted him, initiated uninteresting small talk, then ran away.

I wonder if I even want to know what I want to do when I grow up.  It doesn’t appear that I do.  If I never decide does that mean I don’t have to grow up?  That plan hasn’t seemed to work, but clearly it isn’t for lack of trying.

Maybe I prefer to wander, to enjoy the scenic route without a map.   I think this sounds good, and I could get behind the idea, if I actually was doing it.   Am I enjoying it?

I believe I am taking the scenic route; I’m just not sure where it’s leading.

Now that time has elapsed, I can see certain facts that were completely invisible to me then:

1. I was so miserable in my old job that I would take anything, even a demotion.
2. I took a demotion.

Sure, it was a demotion with a trivial raise, but a demotion nonetheless.  I was so starved for change I bit at the first thing I got.  I was concerned that I’d aim low. At the time, I honestly didn’t think I was.

Damn you Hindsight and your conveniently perfect vision! Where were you when I needed you?

I accidentally bought a house last night.

It was during one of my it’s-so-lucid-it’s-scary dreams. Throughout the dream I kept thinking, “I wish this were a dream, it would make my life so much easier.”

I wanted to look at a condo, so I put a bid on it (naturally) and won. Apparently this wasn’t the first time I accidentally purchased a place (fool me twice). Last time I cried my way out of it. I was very insistent about not doing that again. I actually had the wherewithal to consider using ‘the lawyer mother’ card as a last resort.

HOW LONG CAN SOMEONE CLIP HER NAILS AT WORK???? And… how you do you ask your supervisor to stop?

I can hear the clipping over my headphones, even after I made it louder than ear-splitting. I left my desk and sought reprieve in the bathroom.  When I got back to my desk she resumed. Again, WHY????? She must have thirty nails on each hand.

I have NOTHING against nail clipping. We should all have the freedom to clip our nails as we please. AT HOME. If you must clip all of your nails at work, go hide in the bathroom!!!

I’m sick of writing about work.  I’m tired of the angst and malaise.  It’s boring. I need a radical change. At this point, everything is up for consideration: grad school, a year sabbatical at an ashram, online dating, moving.  I just need something extraordinary to jump start my system.  

It’s not that my system is completely malfunctioning, or even dormant.   Truth be told, things are actually going quite well. For some reason, I seem to keep forgetting that fact.

I often wonder why I find it so hard to be happy.  It’s almost like I’m not happy unless I’m miserable. 

Do we all take our majors with us after college?  Or am I the only one? I still strongly identify with mine.  My majors continue to be the lenses through which I view the world.  Art and Economics: it’s hard to find a more dichotomous course of study.  Almost ten years later, I still know the names of every art major in my graduating class.  The economics department was much larger, less personal, yet left an equally defined fingerprint on me. 

I feel like an artist, but I think like an economist.  I wonder if ever the two shall meet.

When the surprise plan to take me sky-diving for my 30^th birthday was revealed, I discussed it with my mom. She had actually known about the plan for a while and had been sick ever since. I reminded her that sky-diving had been one of my childhood dreams. Her response? “So? Dreams are just dreams! Maybe my dream is to go to Timbuktu; you don’t actually see me going, do you?”

Mom, actually, I’d like to accomplish my dreams.

Can you think of a more heart-breaking thing to say to your child? What lesson, exactly, is that meant to impart?