100 words a day

It always feels the same when I arrive in Chicago: like I’ve come home.  It makes me reconsider my permanent residence and wonder why I chose to stay in DC. I went there for the job.  I stayed for the same reason I still have the same job: just because.  I was distracted by nebulous (and meaningless) corporate ambition.  I never paused on my corporate ladder ascension to ask where the ladder led.  I kept my eye on the next rung and that’s it.  I’m finally willing to leap from this height but not until I know where I’ll land.

Dear Stacy, Age 29

What the heck happened to you? I’ve been reading your drivel and I’m embarrassed by your melodramatic themes and pity-me mentality. Okay your parents got divorced, we get it. I’ve got four words for you: So the f**k what? Last I checked you’re not the only one whose parents’ split. Take some responsibility for where you are and stop blaming ghosts and shadows. Be grateful for what you got from it, some f**king excellent material for a book and quit crying about it.

Buck up soldier, you’re stronger than that.

Get over it,
Stacy, Age 16

We used to call each other during 90210 to discuss every scene.  We were best friends for years.    Now I wonder if we ever had anything in common besides the bottom line of our addresses. 

After years at different colleges and summers apart we split up.  I gave her the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech but it probably came out more like “it’s you.”   In truth, it wasn’t her fault.  She was one of many casualties of my parent’s horrifically heartbreaking divorce.    I needed more depth and compassion than she could give.   Only someone who survived hell could suffice.

Lately I’ve been pondering the immutability of personality, the eternal question: can a person change? One part of me is completely positive of it, the other part isn’t convinced.

I’ve been told in the past that I’m too skeptical. At the time, I was suspicious of the assessment. In retrospect, the blatant irony is both laughable and maddening.

I’d like to be more positive, more trusting, more believing, but I’m not sure I have it in me. There was I time I believed, I trusted. I don’t know exactly when the switch was flipped, but I do have an inkling.

Today my kitchen is a dusty white with hints of greased yellow from unwanted cooking debris. Tomorrow it will be a combination of dark wine and rosé.

Before moving into my apartment, I enlisted a crew of friends to help paint my apartment. We painted my den-living-dining room and my bedroom. I avoided my kitchen and bathroom. I didn’t have a looming carpet installation to force me into picking out colors for those rooms. I still remember that time period when I was drunk with indecision and stumbling into the paint section of Home Depot every day for two weeks.

Another Christmas has come and gone.  Time has flown since I’ve been on the road and I’m still shocked that Thanksgiving has passed. Only a few more days remain on the calendar.  Soon I will be writing the wrong year on my checks and saying things like “Where did 2006 go?”

I love this time of year. I love the looking back, the reflecting, the pondering.  If only by myself, I love to reminisce.  I don’t even know where to start this year.  In a way I am in the exact same place, but in others I’m light years away.

I tried tonight, but I didn’t really. I got dressed up, put some makeup on, and drove into the city. But that was about it.   I danced. I made small talk with unfamiliar men. Men in their mid-thirties who assumed we were much younger than we actually are. I tried to mask my irritation at 35-year old guys approaching women whom they thought were ten years their junior.

Does it count that I went out even if I was going through the motions? Is that enough to signal the universe that I’m looking, even though my eyes are still closed?

I just returned home from my impromptu Las Vegas jaunt and am looking forward to the upcoming week at home.  There will be no suitcases, no airports, no long-term parking.  I will shop for groceries, go to my own gym, and talk on my landline. I’ve never had five six days at home with nothing to do before and I’m curious about how I will spend my time.  My plans range from ambitious (re-caulking my tub) to lazy (viewing the first two seasons of Battlestar Galactica without a break).

Either way, I’ll be home, until I head out to Chicago.

It has finally caught up with me. After three days of lackluster sleep, I walked around today aching and irritable. It feels like Vegas has planted its powerful foot in my gut which I guess means I’ve enjoyed the authentic Vegas experience. Of course, my condition didn’t stop me from gambling or having two many cups of coffee (and wine). It doesn’t help that my entire body is chapped because of the unreasonably arid desert air.

I leave tomorrow afternoon. I am looking forward to going home but will be sad to wave goodbye to this fair city of sin.

I think I know why I came to Vegas. There are certain lessons that you need to be taught multiple times. And although you listen patiently to these lessons, you still don’t learn.  So the cosmic powers decide to throw subtlety to the wind and submerge you into a world where you can’t help but see the lesson play out everywhere you look.

My difficult lesson: you have to take risks in order to win.  Having something at stake makes you hungrier, makes you try harder.

There’s nothing to win if you don’t play and you can’t win by watching.

4:15 AM: Alarm clock rings and is ignored

4:22 AM: Cell phone alarm chirps, causing temporary disorientation. I succumb to wakefulness.

5:30 AM: Arrive at Dulles, check bags, and wait on eternal security line

6:25 AM: Enter airplane with ten minutes to spare

8:30 AM: Arrive in Chicago, wait an hour, board another plane

12:00 PM: Arrive in Vegas, starving, still disoriented.

– Attempt to explain to body that it’s actually three hours earlier–

10:00 AM (PST): Eat Lunch, walk around for hours

4:30 PM (PST): Shower, eat dinner

8:30 PM (PST): Eke out 100 words, begin much needed hibernation

Last night I slept two hours. The entire night. I tossed and turned for a couple of hours, and then angrily tried to finger the perp who stole my sleep. The most likely candidate I identified now sounds a tad ludicrous: mushroom ravioli deviously laced with caffeine.

I was then lulled into a more serene state by the subtle peaceful undulating sounds of the night, until I realized it was the sound of someone snoring.  Someone who wasn’t in my room.

I could hear my neighbor snoring. If I could hear it, how loud must it have been in there?

Every day at one
We walk together.
Solemnly,
Unintentionally,
In single file.

We each gather our food,
Fill our trays,
And continue to the cashier.

We seek each other out and sit.
Eating to the score of the clanking of our
Silverware and the rearranging
Of paper napkins.

An attempt at idle small talk,
Two hundred seconds later, we’re done.
Left to the silence of
Averted gazes.

But tonight,
A dinner to celebrate the season.
Complete with libations
And the conversation
Flows Like waterfalls and jet streams.
Wine refines
Our imperfect edges
And we fit together,
A drunken jigsaw puzzle.

I had a dream last night that a guy I’m attracted to turned out to be a total moron.  He wasn’t necessarily unintelligent, just dorky, in an incredibly un-endearing way, in a way that made me lose whatever respect I had garnered for him in my waking life.  I woke up sad this morning and haven’t been able to shake it.  I’ve seen him for years but have never spoken to him, until last night, when he was a total tool in my dream.  I know I shouldn’t hold it against him, but the subconscious self is a powerful foe.

I am approaching a pivotal moment.  I’m tired of pointing to a photograph of a painting I made almost ten years ago to prove my talent. The feelings of sadness and disappointment I feel from being an ex-artist are completely my own doing. Only I have the power to banish them.

The photograph is of the last realistic portrait  I’ve painted. I haven’t even used oil paints since her. She was my opus, at age twenty. She’s on loan at my mother’s house, but I won’t get her back while my mother is alive.  I couldn’t bear to part them.

Tonight I went to a party at a friend of a friend’s.  It was full of new and unfamiliar men, most of whom were married.  All night I kept having the same recurring thought: I’m so glad I’m not with any of these guys.

I don’t deny that I have a specific type.  I’ve tried to broaden my horizons but that hasn’t been fruitful.  Who we are drawn to is a reflection of who we are.  Changing your “type” is tantamount to changing yourself.   I know that it’s not a coincidence that my exes had a fair amount in common.

I’m working on borrowed time. I just completed my sixth week on a project that should have taken me three. I’m elongating the work, stretching out fairly simple tasks for my own purposes. The truth is I didn’t win the race.  There will be no spoils for me.  I had a good run, I made a good showing, but it’s not mine to lose anymore.  I still want to finish, but now I’m taking my time.  I’m doing cartwheels and forward rolls right up to the finish line.  The only problem is some bastard keeps pushing back the finish line.

I haven’t taken a vacation in over a year.  Right now I have two vacations planned in the next three weeks.  I forgot how fun it is to have a vacation on my calendar.  It’s something to look forward to, a distraction, something to daydream about.

I only have three days left in the office and then I am off until the beginning of next year. First I’m heading to Vegas and then Chicago.  If I win big in Vegas I will treat myself to a Barry Manilow show and pay for my friend to drink her way through it.

Today I gave official word that I would not be returning to the nest, that I will continue to fly for the foreseeable future. But I was a coward.  I was not completely honest and I left the door open. It was a diplomatic and pragmatic approach, one that leaves bridges intact and sturdy.  At this point, complete authenticity would have been cruel and needless. It’s hard to explain why I had to leave to those who’ve chosen to stay without appearing judgmental.

So I will continue in the air, suspended in the wind. Who knows, maybe I could soar.

Every December my company forces each of us to write a year-end summary of our performances.  It’s a “best of” montage that documents our contributions to the company.  Previously it was quite simple, this year I’m at a loss.  Thinking about the year makes me dizzy and slightly nauseous.  First, I left the nest and swan dove into a pack of friendly wolves. The jig was up when I spotted my bloody lifeless limbs scattered on the ground.  After that, it took a turn for the worse.

In truth, I do miss the nest, but I don’t regret the dive.

Therapy. Conceptually, I am 125% behind it. I admire people who go.  I tried it once but it didn’t take.  I think I need to go back. But for all of the reasons I need to go I can’t get myself there:

I don’t ask for help
I need to do everything myself
I’m too independent

Rationally, I know there’s nothing wrong in needing people.  I actually think there’s actually a certain nobility in it.

At the end of this marathon that we’re all running, do I really think it will matter if I trained solo or had a coach?

I reentered my kitchen today.  Because I’m only home three days a week, I haven’t gone grocery shopping in weeks.  I often eat out when I’m home, catching up with the friends I’ve missed during the week.  I’d forgotten how soothing and therapeutic the act of cooking is.  I love all of it: the cutting, the cleaning, the calculating.  As long as I have a steady influx of music, a well-lit kitchen, and my knives, I can go for hours.  I get lost in it, that sweet spot of creativity that every artist craves. I used to know it well.

So here it is. I’m rejecting the path of least resistance.  Today I went back and was swathed in love and I decided it just wasn’t right for me.  I glimpsed what my future could be and was bored to tears.  I knew it well because I lived it for years.

In truth, I think about the person I want to be, who is very much not the person I am today and I think, what would that person do? And then I try to do that. And that person wouldn’t go back. That person would forge her own path.

It’s not often that I’m confronted by the aging process.  I’ve been hoping to outrun it.  I’m not noticing the laugh lines I’m developing or the tiny spots of I-don’t-know-what on my face. But there are some things you can’t ignore.  Today I no longer find turbulence fun.  I used to consider it the exciting part of a tame ride.  But after ten flights in five weeks I’m over it.  I now experience momentary nausea and today I had to close my eyes until we stabilized.

Maybe next week they’ll allow me to pre-board with the rest of the seniors.

Apparently even the most rigid mental landscape can shift.  Last month when I learned that I would have to wait for a final offer I cried.  A lot.  And then I cried some more.  I may have been hormonal.

Yesterday I was told that it might be another month.  Today I am considering planning a trip.

My effort to translate unused vacation time into a healthy parting gift has been for naught since I won’t be parting before the time expires.  So I have vacation time to burn and a project that doesn’t mind me extending my stay.  Vegas anyone?

Over the years I begrudged him. He had four years of the pristine debauch college experience, unfettered by the stress of a concurrent divorce. He didn’t have to worry how his tuition would be paid.

When the damage was done he was fully formed, I was still being set.

Tonight my mother nonchalantly mentioned an anecdote that I’d never heard. After the accident my brother and father were out to dinner. My father didn’t remember that his own parents were dead. It was my brother who told him. As much as I complain, I’m glad I’m not the first born.

I always swore I’d never go back.  Just like failed relationships, there are valid reasons why you end them, and those reasons don’t disappear simply because you miss the good times.

They asked me to come back, dangled two sweet deals before of my homesick eyes.  I know exactly what I’d be going back to: an easy commute, a job where I could excel, kind clients, and reasonable, competent managers.

But.

I know that job.  I wouldn’t learn anything new.  How would I be advancing my career if I pressed rewind on my resume and replayed the past two years?

I can’t be accused of not trying.   Last night, against my better judgment, I struck up a conversation with a guy I barely knew.  I kept asking him questions, trying to understand what he did for a living, while at the same time attempting to maintain a normal conversational rhythm.  In twenty minutes he didn’t ask me a single question. Then he kept confusing Michigan and Michigan State.  Finally he got up to refill his wine glass and offered to refill mine.  Spying my out, I exclaimed “I need water!” and escaped from the conversation, never to revisit it again.

Everyday I am forced to reckon with myself.   For at least thirty minutes, I sit down with nothing but my thoughts and try to make sense out of the debris cluttering my mind. I’m unsure whether this is a writing exercise or cheap alternative to therapy.

Some days I dread it, others I don’t.  Those days I write what I’ve been composing all day. The worst days make for the easiest nights. Those are the nights that write themselves.

It’s not surprising to me that there’s a correlation between art and insanity.  The sane have less debris to sift through.

My sister-in-law was describing her most recent trip to her alma mater. She had run into her sister’s ex-boyfriend and was surprised by who he became.  He used to be zany, constantly zigzagging between capers and pranks. Years later he’s working at a tech job in suburban Jersey, living with his girlfriend, and duller than a dishrag. She couldn’t believe just how boring he’d become.  She was surprised; she couldn’t understand how he’d become such a different person.  I could.  I quickly did the math. Yep, that’s about right: seven years in corporate America. That’s enough time to be broken.