100 words a day

I’ve been coloring my hair consistently irregularly for over six years.  I’ve added highlights.  I’ve added lowlights. I’ve done it in my bathroom.  I’ve had it done professionally.

The last time I got my hair done I walked into my salon and said,  “I’m wants reds and violets but I need to be able to walk into an office on Monday morning.”

That was three months ago and the color is starting to grow out. Today I was looking in the mirror and was faced with an unpleasant reality: not only are my roots coming in - they’re irrefutably gray.

Dear NJ,

I want to thank you for taking it easy on me during my first month.  You made my transition back easier than I expected. Of course there were times I had hoped you would be more forthcoming, but that’s because I didn’t know you.   I understand it’s not personal.

Because of the freedom you’ve given me I’ve been able to broaden my horizons: I now consider both Thomas Friedman and Paul Krugman required drop-everything reading.  I’ve taste tested my way through several Starbucks drinks until I discovered caffeine’s response to crack: the hazelnut latte.

Thanks again,
Sincerely,
SP

Part of me has always liked that I hated my job.  I understood who that person was.  I was the feisty artist who tolerated her deplorable job because she wanted to eat and pay her own bills.  At least that’s how it started.  Actually, the job was never that deplorable it was just… empty.  I was doing no harm, but I wasn’t doing any real good either.

Now I’m not there anymore.  It’s funny, I always thought my identity was wrapped up in my job.  But now I think my identity was wrapped up in my hating my job.

Can your entire body blush?   As I found out today, yes it can.   In one moment my entire body became Netflix-envelope red and was blanketed with an immediate layer of sweat. Very Sexy.

And what prompted this magical, instantaneous transformation?   An introduction.   An introduction that I didn’t have to initiate.   I usually initiate.  I don’t often have people clamoring to meet me.

And the best part was that he didn’t ask my name.   I would have found that too forward and obtrusive (I’m just here for my coffee, thankyouverymuch). He just told me his name.  I automatically reciprocated.

He’s good.

Since I’ve begun to consider the possibility of maybe being open to the idea of vulnerability, I feel vulnerable all of the time. It’s not insecurity; it’s more of an almost primal awareness of my sensitivity.  My latest foe? Sarcasm. I react to it the same way I do as when I read an email written in capital letters.

But here’s the rub, I’m immersed in it.  My friends are dark and cynical and toss around sarcasm like a plastic Frisbee. Something has to change.

If a person changes and no one notices, has the person really changed at all?

Sometimes I don’t want to be noticed.  I just want to wear headphones and not come up for air until the day is done.

Today was one of those can’t-i-just-be-invisible? days.  I skipped my morning coffee because I didn’t want to faux flirt with the Starbucks boy.  I spent the morning sleepwalking in a caffeine-deprived, zombie-like stupor.  The guy I’d been eyeing finally upped the conversation to a bold “How are you?” and I barely mustered a response.

The lesson? I’m not wonder woman, I don’t have an invisible jet, and I can never, ever, go to work without coffee.

Friday afternoon I received a disturbing, disjointed, melodramatic email from my mother.  Unsure how to respond, I promptly sent it to my brother so he could commiserate in my befuddlement.

me: Um.. I’m sure she won’t love that I’m sending this to you but… wha???? When did our family enter crazy-land?

brother: I did not work out this morning.  I feel dormant.  I like fish. The capital of Wyoming is Cheyenne

me: Great - you live there too. I know what we need to get Mom for her next birthday - a big ol’ bunch of friends.

brother: Turkey Pastrami.

I’m starting to get the itch.  That itch that you can’t quite scratch by yourself.  The itch that makes you shave your legs more than once a month.  That itch that makes you think about shaving other parts too.

It doesn’t help that my apartment smells of sex.  I’ve been testing out different formulas of sandalwood incense and I’ve come across one that has a distinct… virile smell. It’s three parts sandalwood, one part men’s cologne. Each time I walk into my apartment I am greeted by a waft of sandalwood man and think, “Ahhh sex.”

I remember it well.

My father warned me to never make eye contact with anyone, “You never know who is crazy and will kill you.” Needless to say, I don’t talk to strangers. I don’t even look at them.

But lately things have changed. I look around now. I don’t avert my gaze. I make eye contact. And I’ve made a fascinating discovery. Men do this thing when they notice someone and make eye contact. It’s amazing. They don’t pull out a knife as my dad would have me believe. They smile. Sometimes, they even say hi. Apparently most people aren’t crazy.

Thanks, Dad.

Two months ago they were discussing children.  Today he was at home dividing up their CDs.

If I allow myself to think of them for too long I well up. It’s selfish, I know.   I learned so much from them; I wasn’t expecting the lesson to end.  Neither was she.  They were my spiritual guides.  Their existence proved that opposites can do more than attract - they can thrive.  I still believe that.

Frankly, I don’t know if they ever quite met in the middle.  It’s like they played one round of Red Rover: she went to his side and stayed.

Remember the boy who cried wolf?  At the end of the story the boy encounters an actual wolf and when he cries for help no one comes to his rescue.  Then the wolves eat him. I think.

Sadly, my mother has become that little boy.  Everything is a catastrophe.  When I don’t call, it’s because all my fingers are broken and I’m lying in a ditch.  There is no bucket of perspective to keep things in.  And because everything is a crisis, I believe nothing is.  I give her stoic, disinterested responses. When I’m at my most annoyed, I yawn.

My dad and I discovered roller-blading together.  An avid hockey player in his youth, he was more comfortable in blades than shoes. We skated together often, mostly to the beach.  When I left for college his training became his religion.  He entered us into a race for the summer; our ensuing smack talk could rival professional athletes. Race day was embarrassing. I was sucking wind and he skated slowly.  Backwards.  When we got to the finish line I refused to go first, he had clearly earned the victory.  He skated behind me and pushed me forward so that I’d win.

You think I should be hurting more, that I should be aching as much as you are right now.
I have.
For a very long time I was an open wound, blood and bone exposed.
I can hear you smirk over the phone when I say I’m done.
My wound has been covered by an ugly, scaly, purple scar.
It’s in my eyes when I look in the mirror, in my lungs when I breathe, in my brain when I think.
I’ll never forget that I have it, but it simply doesn’t hurt as much as when I got it.

Yesterday a friend of mine described me as a go-getter. Hm. That is a word I’d ever use to describe myself.  I see myself as this self-pitying artist who has become creatively paralyzed and shields herself with her mantra-cum-whine of “what does this all mean?”

Tonight, I was talking to a different friend about my new job.  Things were going better than they were initially.  I actually said, “I’m the youngest person there; I can’t wait to take over!” Then I giggled for a good minute and a half.

Guess the old bag still has some ambition in her yet.

There’s nothing wrong with being over 30 and living with your mother.  I just don’t want to date you.  I know it’s a judgmental sentiment.  The truth is there might be extenuating circumstances.  Maybe the mother is ill and he’s a doting son.  Maybe he’s perfecting his first novel and doesn’t want the distraction of a day job.

Usually the truth is less compassionate or glamorous.  Maybe he’s a chronic underachiever who can afford to eat because he doesn’t have to pay rent.  His mom probably stays out of his way because she not-so-secretly loves that he still lives there.

I’m not sure which scene I witnessed today was more unsettling:  seeing a man reject his Starbucks order seven times or hearing a woman screech obscenities at her little girl when I was grocery shopping.   Actually, there’s no question, the latter was severely disturbing.  As I left the store I could hear her yelling outside.  Apparently she had toned it down inside.

I wasn’t sure if I should call the police to report verbal abuse.  I didn’t call and my inaction still haunts me.

I just put the non-emergency police number in my cell phone.  Next time I will call.

Diversity in age. Novel concept. I’ve never worked with anyone more than ten years older than me.  I never thought that was strange.  You exist comfortably with what you know and never question it until you experience something else.

I went out to lunch with my new colleagues.  They have a very jovial relationship with each other and they get along really well. They were teasing one of the guys, claiming he was too young to know what they were talking about.  The oldest guy said, “What, were you born in the 70’s?” and then everyone laughed uproariously.

Except me.

In my former life I was a manager. I brought several new people onto my team and I was usually too busy to work with them. Now I am those people.

I am every person whose meeting I postponed. I am every person I underutilized. I am every person I neglected.

Whenever someone would tell me they were bored I would be embarrassed because that meant I wasn’t doing my job.

I am trying to be understanding about her lack of attention. She’s busy, I know. But there is an ethical dilemma of being paid to read tvsquad all day.

Ugh. Not even a grande hazelnut latte can bring me out of this funk.  It’s one thing to be an unproductive member of society when you’re sitting braless on your couch, watching a marathon of Ellen episodes from your DVR with your lunch on your lap.  It’s another thing to be unproductive while sitting in a cube farm, wearing shoes, silently surrounded by unfamiliar (and not-so-friendly) colleagues.  Each day I take strides to finding work, but without the right tools it’s dreadfully dry.

Right now I’m sitting on the sidelines and I’m so bored I’m not even facing the game.

You always seem to get the validation you thought you needed well after it’s relevant. But what would it give you if you got it when you were desperate for it? Satisfaction? Solace?

I know there is no truth, just overlapping perceptions that never quite align right. I’ve sung our story so many times yet none of the songs sound the same.

So what really happened? I can’t remember the plot points, but I remember the themes. We were both angry. We were both hurt. We stopped and that hurt too. Then we healed.

Everything else is just boring exposition.

If I had to choose between being at peace and being a tremendous artist, I don’t know which I’d choose.

I spoke about with a friend tonight and she said if she had to choose she’d give up writing. Just like that. She’d clearly already given the matter some thought. (She is much further along on her path that I am. I know. It’s not a competition.)

I am not ready to commit to a life of peace. I like the fire. I like the passion. But I also like the stillness. There must be a way to have both.

I remember studying for finals my senior year of high school.  I was more stressed out than a person should be for someone who is preparing for exams of no consequence.   My mind was zigzagging in multiple directions and I couldn’t stop it.  I closed my books and picked up a piece of charcoal.  I began drawing furiously.  I drew two pieces that now hang in my mom’s house.  That was the only way I could still my mind.

This month I’ve actively worked towards living in that calm.   I worry about what that means for my return to painting.

There is no longer hour than the one between four and five o’clock on a Friday afternoon.  

I know work would make the time pass faster, if only I had some. 

People seem very open to answering questions, if only I had any.

Imagine walking into your first day of an astrophysics class and your professor says, “Feel free to ask me any questions,” and then sits down and reads the paper.   You haven’t even been given enough material to ask questions. 

I guess should be thankful.  My transition back to work has been more wading pool than tidal wave.

I love television.  I don’t watch as much as some, but I watch a lot more than others.  I will be the first to admit that I’ve learned a fair amount from shows I’ve watched.

Yesterday I saw a rerun of Scrubs.  Elliot was reconsidering her choice of mentor because she caught a glimpse of the shambles that was her mentor’s personal life.  The ultimate lesson was that it’s possible to have a healthy professional life despite an unhealthy personal life.

Today I got a bit smug about work.  Then I remembered just how much further I have to go.

I knew my frugality would get me in trouble. Last week my mechanic had my car and I could have mentioned the window. But of course I didn’t.

My driver’s side window makes horrible grinding noises when it descends and is reluctant about ascending.

Today I parked in the office garage. I considered not parking there because of said window problem. But it’s snowing. And my hair was cute. Long story short: my car is in the garage with the window open.

I need to fix it soon but I have more pressing needs. Did I mention it’s still snowing?

My new office has a lot of men.  They’re everywhere: in the hallway, on the elevator, getting coffee.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.    My work world has, in the past, been mysteriously void of competent men.  Where I’m from women have dominated all levels of management.   The people I’ve most enjoyed working with and for were women.

I in no way think that has anything to do with men.  It has to do with me.   I understand that we create our own realities.  So why is it I continue to create realities without competent men?

It’s called a training schedule.  Any kind of training at all would have been nice.  Give me a little bit of background, a tad of context, perhaps a glimpse of the bigger picture.  Anything!

I couldn’t tell if they were horribly disorganized or simply unprepared.  Or both.  Calling their non-existent ‘on-boarding’ procedures inadequate is quite an understatement.

The day wasn’t a complete loss.  The commute is much better than I’d feared, there’s a cafeteria on-site which is oddly comforting, and there are nightly semi-interesting exercise classes.

All in all, I’d give today a B-.  Tomorrow, I’m hoping for a B.

I am eerily calm about tomorrow.  It’s the night before my first day at work at a new job.  I should be panicking, I should be anxious.  I should be trying on the outfit that I should have picked out a week ago.  Better yet, I should be laying out the ceremonial “first day” outfit that I should have bought for this occasion.  Instead, I’ve printed out directions.

I told my mom I wouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting this week.  She took me literally.  But I know what first weeks at new jobs entail. I expect to be… bored.

I’m not ready to take full responsibility. Partial? Absolutely, but this was not a solo mission. I did not arrive here by myself. I can see that I am the eggshells that you walk upon in your red stilettos.

I’m sorry that you feel that you must interpret everything I utter. At some point you will see that I actually mean what I say. I am not infusing volumes into each word.

And I will not be goaded into a fight.  Maybe I used to take some sadistic pleasure in going ten rounds with you.  No more. That’s done.

I don’t know when I began confusing strength with invulnerability.   It wasn’t a lesson my parents imparted, but it is a belief that is as innate to me as my breath.   I never thought I could be strong and vulnerable at the same time.  I always believed they were mutually exclusive.  It’s something I’m dissecting lately and trying to understand.

Years ago I wrote:

One day I hope to learn to art of vulnerability, and open myself to the possibility of pain again.

I got it wrong.  The art of vulnerability would open myself to the possibility of love again.

I’ve decided to start with the symbols. Objects that, in of themselves, exist for a basic purpose, yet to me are landmines of meaning. I started with the clock.

Yesterday, I put my scale away. I hadn’t used it in months, but it’s greeted me with its passive aggressive sneer whenever I entered the bathroom. I don’t need it. I know when I’m losing weight because I begin noticing men’s backs. And shoulders. And hips. It doesn’t matter where I start, if I lose five pounds, it’s as if men, all around me, are removing oversized rain coats. In unison.