100 words a day

It was seventy degrees outside today. When I packed, two weeks ago, I filled my suitcase with sweaters and sweatshirts. Today I wore a light sweater layered over a black wife beater. I was fine until I got to the airport. Walking around wearing my winter coat with a laptop strapped to my back, I nearly passed out. My forehead was moist to the touch. My back was drenched. I considered removing my sweater except that the one thing I didn’t pack in my fifty-two pound suitcase was a razor.

The follicles under my arms have never felt so liberated.

I can’t help but rethink my actions. It wasn’t that complicated really: pay cut = bad, potential pay raise = good.  I didn’t take the pay cut.  I’m “holding out.” They told they would know more about their budget in December. 

Meanwhile I’m terrified, anxious, and nauseous.  In my head I had already given notice and left the circus. Physically I’m still at work, mentally I’m miles away.  I can feel my resolve fading.  I constantly consider calling and accepting the pay cut.  Fortunately, my mother’s voice is stupidly strong in my head and she’s refusing to let me cave.

Random thoughts for a random Tuesday night:

• Tonight will be my ninth straight night away from home.
• Why has it taken me so long to discover the genius of “The Office?”
• I hope my car starts when I go home.
• Having a clean bathroom every day isn’t worth it.
• USA Today is the comics of print media, without the wit.
• Living in a hotel makes you realize that we take available and plentiful drinking water for granted.
• My grandmother wants to pay for her own 75^th birthday party and we can’t talk her out of it.
• I miss my pillow.

Why is that we have such short fuses with our parents?

Is it because they can’t help but parent us, years after we want?
Is it because around them we regress, become sullen teenagers, and ultimately blame them for our transformation?
Is it because we idealize them and get angry when they can’t meet our impossible expectations?
Is it because they’re the ones who damaged us?

Or is it because they are the only ones who allow us to? Even as adults we test their boundaries. Unconditional love can be intoxicating and turn the kindest among us into mean drunks.

After six months of my mother asking me, I finally sifted through all of the art that had accumulated in my closet.  The artwork included pieces from high school, summer programs, and college.  It was like perusing photo albums, only better.  Each piece sent me back to the specific time and place of its conception.  I could see the classes.  I could see my classmates.  I smiled when I remembered how much passion I used to have, how much fun I’d have with color. That was when drawing was a stress reliever, the only thing that would still my mind.

Finish what you start.  That’s not a doctrine with which I was raised.  “Try your best.”  ”Don’t be a follower.”  ”Stop fighting with your brother.”  Those are all ingrained refrains from childhood.   But the merit of completion wasn’t a part of my parents’ gospel.  Of course, it’s not all their fault.  Eventually you are responsible for your own credos, your own customized choruses to repeat in the rain.  And I do have my own, but my song needs to be revisited.

It’s time to focus on the finish: every essay, every story, every painting, every challenge.

Everything started must be ended.  

We played a dangerous game today, a round of “what if” about the accident:

What would life be like if the accident never happened?

My head spun as the image of my parallel universe crystallized and made me dizzy.

There were the facts:

The divorce still would have happened but it would have been different.
My father would have gone to my brother’s wedding.
The conversations with my father would reach past college athletics.

And then there are the uncertainties:

Would I have chosen to go home after graduation?
Would I have still developed an eating disorder?
Would I understand?

You know it’s not her fault.  She was programmed the way we all were except her programmers were… lacking.  If you were raised in a world where the sky is always falling you grow up afraid.  You know that every mistake will have catastrophic consequences so you live in fear of any deviation from perfection.   This creates worrisome and perfectionist children who become worrisome and perfectionist adults, not to mention parents.

So you can’t get mad at her, right? But you do, even though you wish you wouldn’t.  And even though you shouldn’t, you blame her programmers a bit too.

This year I will give thanks if I can:

1. Actually contribute to the cooking effort despite my grandmother’s best attempt to do everything herself.
2. Deal with my mother’s frantic and frazzled hostess state in a more constructive manner than screeching at her and storming out of the room (in front of company)
3. Abstain from indulging in thirds and fourths when I shouldn’t have even had seconds
4. Wait until all of the guests have gone home before scavenging among the leftovers
5. Refrain from delegating mother maintenance responsibilities to my brother because I failed miserably at #2

You never know when you’re going to be blindsided by a memory. When one will crystallize so clearly that you put your present on hold and slip within the folds of the past.

 Tonight I was with my colleagues, lost on country back roads, when we drove around a lighthouse, taking the curve a bit too fast.  Instantly I was in high school.  We were leaving Jones Beach, and as usual, Evan was driving too fast.   Allie and I were in the backseat.  Sean was up front.  We were all completely sober belting out “Fortunate Son” into the salty air.

All I wanted was to put my shoes back on and gather my things, but something was wrong.   The TSA agent behind the x-ray machine had stopped the conveyor belt and was asking for help.   I quickly mentally scanned everything I had packed.  And then I remembered the eggs.  There were four hard-boiled eggs sitting in my laptop bag.  I didn’t know if I should be fearful or embarrassed. Surely they must see weirder carry-ons everyday?  The man finally resumed the conveyor belt and let me go without saying a word.  I left quickly, with my dignity and my eggs.

Why am I so sad that the Colts lost today?  I’m not really an Indy fan, just a Peyton Manning one.  For all of his celebrity, I find him to be very human.  He’s an uber-star whose Holy Grail continues to elude him. No sportscaster would agree with me, but I always think of him as an underdog.  To me he’s Charlie Brown and his bitchy sister Lucy keeps yanking away his Super Bowl ring dreams.

Again, why do I care? I guess for the same reason that people paint their chests and lose the voices screaming for their teams.

Silence used to unsettle me. Whenever I was home I would be talking on the phone, watching television, or listening to music. Recently my relationship with silence has changed. I noticed it last week on the road. There is something romantically sad about sitting in a dim hotel room in silence. Time seems to stand still. There is no plot development, no chorus. The only movement is within your mind.

Then, just when the silence approaches uncomfortable, add the taps of the stop and start typing that I do and voila - a tender quiet masterpiece at the Hilton Garden Inn.

I’ve decided to dye my hair red.  I know which color I want, I can find it in my old oil paints. I can’t remember if it is alizarin crimson or phthalo red, but I can see the exact pigment in my mind. It was my favorite color for years.

I’ve wanted to do this for years, but I was always worried about work. I think I’m done subscribing to others’ narrow definition of professionalism.  There’s a fine line between temporarily adapting to a situation and letting it permanently change you. I’m hoping that I haven’t crossed that line yet.

There are simple things in life that I need, that I look forward to.  They’re not big, not expensive, not flashy.  Since I’ve been on the road, I’ve had to make alterations in my regular routine.  The one I am missing incredibly right now is my daily breakfast glass of grapefruit juice.  Why is it so hard to find a single serving sized bottle of grapefruit juice? Everyone seems to prefer her sweeter citrus sister.  Orange juice is the pop music of the juice world.

I like my juice the way I like my music: slightly bitter and lesser known.

Imagine this: a world without hidden agendas, no ulterior motives.  What if people were forthcoming about their desires and honest about their motivations?  What would that world look like?

With all of the time currently spent replaying scenes to understand every nuance now freed, we could be more productive. Think of the novels that aren’t being written, the empty canvases left bare.

It’s all a game of chess.  We’re so busy studying the board, thinking four steps ahead to cover our king that we don’t notice when our opponent leaves the table.  Ultimately, the game we play is against ourselves.

It’s a bit unsettling and oddly exhilarating to have zero responsibility on an assignment.  For the first time in years I am only responsible for my piece of the larger jigsaw puzzle.  I don’t know what to do with myself.  It’s like I’m on vacation from my real work, taking a break from my career track.  It’s not entirely carefree; I vacillate between feeling very competent and utterly useless.  These people don’t know me.  They don’t know I could do and have done so much more.  I could tell them, but I find it’s always better to show than tell.

I usually avoid the family infighting, the scuttling, the skirmishes. That is, unless I start them. I don’t mean to.  I need to keep my mouth shut.  I should not run interference.  I try to fix things, to mend the fence separating injurer and injuree. Although in my family the injurer rarely realizes what’s been done.  The crime is never clear (and seldom intentional).  And unfortunately, passive aggression has become the standard text.

But maybe my actions were exactly what she wanted (except without the lack of grace).  I wonder: was I just the subject of some master maternal manipulation?

We’re all waiting.  There are documentaries to be funded, exams that need to be passed, casts that must be on for several weeks.  I guess the question is how do we spend our time while in the waiting room, this holding pattern on the ground that keeps us all in pause?

I feel that the most ambitious among us, the most successful, do not wait. They go out and create opportunities.  I need to figure out a way to do that.  I need to reach down inside and keep searching until I find something fierce to get me through this.

Yesterday, before the situation was fully illuminated, I was standing ten feet tall.  Today, I could fit within a thimble.  I hate that my self esteem could go from mammoth to miniscule in less than thirty seconds.   From desired to discarded in a single phone call.

I know I’ll rebound, eventually. That surge of self-confidence I ordered to replenish my depleted store is on back order and I don’t know much longer I can wait.

Clearly, the theme of fall of 2006 is patience: how to exercise it, where to get it.  Unfortunately, I don’t even know where to begin.

I can’t believe I let myself think it was actually going to happen. Not only did I see the light at the end of the tunnel, I actually thought it was approaching.  Today, that light was turned off.   They say it’s only a temporary outage, but my cynicism disagrees.  My stay in purgatory just got extended by a month.  If I was entirely rational I would be understanding and patient. I know that December isn’t that far away. But there’s no guarantee that anything remarkable will materialize even then.  I refuse to allow myself to consider the possibility of it.

Today it’s not whether you have an addiction, it’s which one is yours? Be it alcohol, Starbucks, or Tivo, we all have that with which we cannot live without. Me? I’m an endorphin junkie. I’ve been a gym rat since I was 17.  Since then, the longest I’ve ever abstained was a month in college when I became dangerously close to being an exercise bulimic. Now I’m without my precious sweat-infused energy center, for most of the week anyway.  “Fitness Centers” at hotels are laughable replacements. When I found out I’d be away I knew I’d miss the gym most.

Still no word.

I haven’t spoken to anyone since Monday. I’m waiting as patiently as I can, miserably failing at attempting to put it out of my mind. In my fleeting moments of sanity I remind myself that it has only been a week since they made their decision and less than that since I refused their initial offer. Now they’re busy reworking the numbers, ‘getting creative with the budget,” and I have to wait. Patience has never been my virtue.

They say good things come to those who wait. Or was that just a Heinz commercial from my childhood?

I’m currently residing in a weird alternaverse. I’m driving a car that’s not mine, sleeping in a bed with a pillow that’s too puffy. I’m exploring (read: getting lost on) unfamiliar roads. I leave my place in the morning and when I return my bed is made and the towels are cleaned and folded. I have no dishes to clean, no newspapers accumulating faster than I can recycle them.

I know my honeymoon with the road is temporary.  I miss my friends.  I miss my gym.  I miss DC. But right now it’s new and I’m thoroughly enjoying this ‘verse.

Apparently two provisions in Virginia’s constitution against gay marriage aren’t enough to calm the fears of the homophobic majority of the state. Tomorrow’s ballot includes a statewide referendum for an amendment to the state constitution declaring that marriage is “a union between one man and one woman.”

Sometimes I consider what life would be like if I lived in a blue state. My vote would be marginalized, lost amid the cerulean, midnight, and navy blue hues. Instead I choose to reside in the red, where I enjoy being a rebel rouser, where I can hope (and vote) for real change.

I have no patience for rigid corporate SOPs that are illogical in nature. Tonight I needed to have a password reset. When I called the help desk I was told that my wait would be forty-nine minutes. I had no choice; I switched my cell phone to speaker, put my feet up, and settled in for the long haul.

Finally, I was “helped” by a woman who reset my password and then told me she would send my new password to my manager. It’s almost midnight on Sunday, how is an email to someone other than me going to help?

I never look forward to writing after a night of drinking.  My typing is horrid, my ideas insipid, my editing absent.  Tonight I will take my hair stylist’s advice: take a multivitamin and drink a whole glass of water before bed.  At the time she had shears in her hands and could have easily replicated the atrocious bang period of the early nineties that I rarely speak of, so I kept my mouth shut (not shout, which is what I originally typed “ damned apricot sour(s)!).  Aesthetically, she’s a genius, so maybe there’s something to be said about the multivitamin remedy.

One reason men are paid more than women is that they tend to negotiate more.  When I got my first job eight years ago I didn’t try.  I didn’t know how.  I didn’t realize I could ask for more.   I didn’t understand that it was a normal part of a professional courtship.   This time I knew.

I was a bit afraid.  I was worried that I’d appear greedy, that the number would be so high that I would have a moral dilemma about the customary negotiation. Luckily for me, the number they presented was so low I had no choice.

And now the fun begins: I get to fantasize. I sat on the plane this evening and cleared out all of the china in my mind and let the bull run wild. In my head I was buying computers and cars, new wardrobes and new hairstyles. I was deciding on how I should give notice to my current company: would it be a show stopping soliloquy or more of a muted monologue?

I had been so fearful of jinxing the opportunity I never let my mind get too far ahead of the current situation. And now I get to play.

Who am I to be vocally criticizing a company’s approach to interviewing? For some reason I feel compelled to be mouthy. I walked out of the interview satisfied with my performance, angry at theirs.  It made me reconsider if I even wanted to work there.

I may not get an offer from them. They may not have loved me as much as I loved myself.  But I learned more from that 2 hour interview than I have in the past six months.  I had forgotten that I have poise. And talent. I had forgotten that I can get another job.

I can’t remember the last time I was on plane.  I think it was over a year ago.  Not much has changed except now there are garbage cans overflowing with water bottles greeting us at the security area.  We’re all so hydration conscious that we bring our own beverages with us only to be forced to discard them before boarding.

The TSA agent looked at me in disbelief when I told him I didn’t have any liquids with me. No water? No lotion? No lip gloss? It finally comes in handy to have a no maintenance approach to my beautification.