100 words a day

I just paid ten dollars to be humiliated. And ashamed. I saw Michael Moore’s new movie, “Sicko” tonight. Going in, I knew the movie was about the health care problem in our country. I assume it would focus on the uninsured. You know, people not like me. But it didn’t. Apparently, having health insurance is no guarantee that you’ll get medical care.

And he did offer a solution. He visited country after country with universal health care. Universal and free. He even spoke to a woman who was considering marrying a Canadian just to enjoy the coverage.

See this movie.

I can hear it when I’m talking - the frenetic energy, the constant self-deprecation, the hyper-spastic-over-caffeinated pace. I can be talking about a myriad of topics, but I’m always saying the same thing: “I don’t feel comfortable with the spot light, please take it from me. Now!” I am much better at listening, although, frankly, I’m a terrible listener.

Thus begins my twice-annual goal setting ritual. Just a week shy of my birthday, I begin looking back at the past year, and more importantly, gazing ahead. First order of business: calm the f*** down. Be present. Be mindful. Be happy.

Did I buy the dress because I liked it or because it was a size eight petite?   It wouldn’t be the first time I bought something just because I adored what size the label said.  Yes, I know.   My self-worth should not reside on a tiny black number stitched into the tag in the back of my shirt.    It isn’t.  Not entirely.  But I would be lying if the way if I said that the way I looked didn’t have an impact on my outlook.  I don’t think vanity is a bad thing.  It just shouldn’t be the only thing.

Roman”>If I had no shame, I would be playing solitaire right now. At least that would stimulate my brain more than reading snarky recaps of tv shows. Tomorrow I plan on opening my mouth to reveal the ugly secret that I am bored beyond words.  I haven’t figured out what to say, but I know my target, and I know the message. I just need to make sure my secret life of web-surfing for 7.5 hours a day doesn’t come out. It’s a lovely pastime that I might like to resuscitate every once in a while. Or once a week.

Can you call it an epiphany if you didn’t come up with the thought on your own? If was someone else’s thought that was so marvelous that you want to spray paint it onto a banner and hang it from your balcony?

Here’s the magic concept: Maybe it’s not me. Me, the girl who strikes up conversations with strangers in elevators, elevator banks, the locker room at the gym, the line at Starbucks. Maybe it’s not me who’s shy and anti-social at work. It’s THEM. They who are not friendly, they who are not inclusive, they who are not welcoming.

Little did he know my painfully high threshold for awkward silences.  Especially in situations when I’m unsure if we’re actually in a conversation.

Everyday you learn something new.  My lesson from last Friday:  If you strike up a conversation in the elevator bank, said “conversation” could last well beyond the three minute elevator ride.  It could last past the security gates, out the front doors, and all the way to your car.  On a good day the walk takes ten minutes.  On a bad day, walking uncomfortably with a nameless guy who might be 23 it could take eighteen hours.

Last night I hung out with a group of women I didn’t know. I knew the hostess but that’s all. Meeting new people is always a crap shoot. You never know where they’re coming from or where they’re going. The woman next to me was telling a story about her upstairs neighbor and the sounds she hears coming from his apartment. Then she paused and said, “I think he’s bisexual.” She then looked around expectantly, like she just delivered a whopper of a punch line. The hostess just looked at her and said, “Yeah, and?”

I could have kissed her.

When I started at my first real job I was bored. Fortunately, my back was to a window and I had a fairly private work space, so I had no qualms about getting creative. I didn’t think I’d last six months, so I worked on my Plan B.

That was when I created pendulumpublications. It was supposed to be the entity that would produce anything I created. I spent hours coming up with a logo that never got used.  Pendulumpub lives on but only in a mostly-spam email address.

And here I am, bored again. What shall I do next?

I’ve never been good at talking to adults. It’s a holdover from a shy childhood, and unfortunately, I’m still not completely comfortable with it. Years ago, my grandmother called to sing Happy Birthday to me. When it came to the third line, she proudly sang, “Happy birthday Dear Tra-acy.” Tracy? I never corrected her. I was embarrassed. Or maybe I was embarrassed for her. Who wants to tell your own grandmother what your name is? Dejected, I simply handed the phone over to my dad after politely saying, “Thank you.”

It happened today at work. This time I corrected them.

I wouldn’t call myself a health nut, but I am health-conscious.  Even though it’s not rampant in my family, I’m terrified of the big C. (My hometown has one of highest rates of breast cancer in the country. My childhood friend says it’s not if we get breast cancer, it’s when).  I gave up meat over ten years ago partly as a way to prevent it.

I also have an addictive personality, so I’m a bit wary of chemical substances. My current weak spot? Coffee: the magical delicious potion that kick-starts my day.  How will I ever let you go?

About three months ago I found this beautiful inner peace. I’ve since misplaced it. Peace and tranquility shouldn’t be difficult, in theory. But for someone who could never stick with an instrument for more than one week, practice is torture.

Being vulnerable is near impossible. Constant compassion takes a boundless supply of patience that I don’t possess. And kindness, well, I don’t know why being kind is hard, it just is.

I am reading a book right now that talks about needing a teacher, a Guru, for guidance. I guess I’m not the only one who has struggled with this.

I forgot my iPod in my car today. I tried to work without it but by noon I caved and went to retrieve it. It’s a ten minute walk that involves an elevator, two security doors, two cheerless security guards, and a detached parking garage.

Back at my desk I happily settled in, only to realize that my headphones were still in the car.

Not wanting to repeat my walk of shame, I decided to tough it out. Needless to say, I did next to nothing today.

I can’t work without music. The silence is too distracting.

I know that I am going to have to get over myself.  I’ve never really been the center of attention. I make a living finding fun with numbers, sitting behind a computer. I enjoy writing, painting, running, reading, and cooking, basically, any solitary activity you can think of.

I can do anything alone. It’s the people part that I seem to be stumbling over.

It hasn’t always been like this.  I remember a time, towards the end of my last relationship, when I knew it was ending.  I was terrified of being alone.  I nearly threw up at the thought.

I know she doesn’t mean it. And I don’t take it personally. But she can’t seem to hold back her surprise when I actually put myself together. A comment always ensues.

Today’s was, “And you’re hair still looks good!?!?!” (after I showered and changed for the party.) Subtext: You’re normally an unkempt monkey; I didn’t know you owned a brush.

This was followed by the retched sounds of her regurgitating the foot she just swallowed.

I’m always stunned silent by these comments because in my normal life I’m unaccustomed to being so overtly judged.

Maybe I did take it personally.

I’m very aware that I inhabit two selves: Work Stacy (WS) and Non-Work Stacy (NWS). WS is a beast. She’s confident, loves a challenge, and yearns to be tossed into the deep end of a pool. Heck, she’s running an unannounced campaign to get an office within the next two years.

The differences couldn’t be starker.

NWS is much meeker, more timid, and almost downright shy. She won’t even stick a toe into the shallow end of a pool without swimmies. Her main objective seems to be going through life unnoticed.

I wish I knew what she was afraid of.

Evolutionarily, the part of the brain responsible for emotional responses is light-years older than the part in charge of logical, rational thought. In the ring, rational thinking is no match for the feelings.  Logic is an amateur; Emotion is a sophisticated aged prize fighter. It’s not even a fun match to watch, the underdog won’t make it to the second round.

And yet I can’t seem to stop trying to fight my gut.  I categorize my feelings into wrong and right, and then try to banish the ones in the “wrong” column. Silly me, tenant eviction is never that simple.

I’ve often wondered if we are destined to date the same people over and over again. Will I always be drawn to the extroverted loudmouth? To the seeming womanizer with a monogamist heart?

I can’t be the only one noticing this relationship reincarnation. It seems as if we are doomed to relive the same dramas over and over until we get it right. Until we finally learn

And if we keep dating the same person over and over again, what does that mean about our exes? Honestly, it’s getting beyond strange watching mine date (and marry) carbon copies of myself.

Seattle. She’d never admit it before. She still might not. But I think it might have been the best decision she ever made. That emerald city might just be her pot of gold at the end of a long and twisty rainbow. Of course, I don’t really know what I’m talking about.  I only get snippets, jigsaw pieces that I am fitting together to make a puzzle. I know I tend towards optimism and hope, but the puzzle certainly appears picturesque. Years ago, we didn’t know. It was the unknown. At times, it was torture. Our puzzle was not so pretty.

I’m not used to a navigation system. I turned it on on my way home to experiment (and so I could see me how many miles I had to go, which, for some reason, I find oddly comforting). But she just kept talking. Blah Blah Blah. Can’t she see I’m enjoying my music AND that I know where I’m going? And predictably, I miss my old car. I knew her dimensions like my own. Granted, I learned her dimensions by hitting inanimate objects, a practice I do not wish to repeat. Maybe if I named her she’ll seem more familiar.

I’ve never really considered myself sentimental.  But today, while sitting in a finance office, about to trade in my old car, I started to well up.  I don’t know why I’m so damn attached to that car. I’ve never really considered it an extension of my personality, but without it I don’t know exactly who I am.  I’m the girl who drives the green mess-mobile, the eight-year old civic with no pickup, whose cup holders are lined with a sticky substance of unknown origin, that smells oddly like pee in extremely hot weather. I am really going to miss her.

“Hi, I’m interested in a Prius, Package 2 or Package 5.”

“We don’t have any Priuses in Package 5, but we do have the some Package 4″

“I really don’t want a Package 4, but I would like a test drive.”

“Okay, we’ll take a Package 4 out for a spin.”

Test Drive occurs. Number crunching begins.

“Well, whaddayaknow, we DO have a Package 5. But let me also tell you about our Package 6.”

“I dont want a package 6.”

“But it’s very nice. It has leather.”

“Yes, I know. I’m a vegetarian.”

“You aren’t going to eat it.”

Tomorrow is appointment number two with the hypnotherapist.  Appointment number one was last week. There were parts I enjoyed and others that I took issue with.  It was what it was.  I walked out only a tad less skeptical than when I walked in.

But here’s the thing: I had a fantastic week.  Coincidence? I don’t know.  I’ve felt calmer and clearer than I have in a long time.It’s too soon to adorn it with a value judgment, much less a final assessment, but if this week is an indication of the future, I am going to be okay.

My work phone rang yesterday. That’s weird. I don’t give out my work number. It was my brother.

“I don’t remember giving you my phone number.”

“You gave me your business card.”

Oh right.

He had an idea of conference calling our mom who’s on vacation in Japan. When he wants to, he can be a very good son.My mom was audibly ecstatic to hear from us. Despite the time difference, she was full of energy. Then she started repeating herself.

“Mom, how much have you had to drink tonight.”

She paused to recollect, ”Well, at lunch…”

Oh dear.

There’s a blog I read religiously.  I’ve been reading it for years.   I know the author. Or at least, I used to.   He used to date a girl I knew, well, he also used to be a girl I knew.   He came out as trans just after we graduated college.

I started reading his blog when he was fairly along in his journey, when he was more he than she.   But it was still a very eye-opening journal to imbibe.

He turns thirty about a week before I do.  It’s nice to know I’m not alone in my wide-eyed curiosity.

I contacted my best friend from high school yesterday.  We had a textbook teenage girl best-friendship.  We talked on the phone, several times a day, about boys, music and 90210.

Years later I broke up with her.  I told her I didn’t want to be her friend anymore.   I was going through a tortured, angst-ridden phase (when am I not?).

Several years ago we reconnected.  She found me online and reached out. Now we email about once a year.  I shot her a note yesterday about our upcoming entry to our thirties.   One month left and I’m still in denial.

Ever since the idea of a new job and a new commute has entered my realm of possibilities, I knew my days with my beloved car were numbered.   And now the time has come.  Or at least it will, hopefully, very shortly.

Three years ago I bought my home.  It was probably the sheer terror of entering a 30-year commitment, but I became a vigilant, organized, highly efficient machine. I did daily research online, pored over the paper, and became an utter nuisance to my realtor.  I had so much fun.  Looks like I get to play again. Game on.

My inner-ten year old came for a visit today.  I had an unusual craving for the Disney movies of my youth, specifically, The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast.

Today, if you desperately want to hear a song or two, iTunes is only too happy to indulge any whimsical or passing fancy.  For music junkies like me, iTunes is dangerous.

As I listened to the main themes of the two movies, I was struck by the common characteristics of the heroines.   Belle and Ariel were both unsatisfied women in search of grander destinies.  Doth the lady project too much?

I have been going to family events by myself for… ever.   I’ve never brought a date or even a friend.   It never occurred to me to bring friends because they live here and my family lives there.  It’s not often that I complain about my singlehood, but family functions always make me painfully aware of my table-for-one existence.

Six years of being around his friends doesn’t make them my friends.    Today I finally asked if I could bring a friend.

The response: one thousand words to say, “It’s completely fine.”

Looks like it will be another solo mission for me.

My mother once had a piece-of-work kind of boss.  I was too young to remember and way too innocent to be told the truth, but apparently he was quite the bastard.  He made my mother more than a bit miserable. I never really new much about him except for the expression that has become part of my family’s vernacular. He apparently used to say, “You don’t ask, you don’t get.” My mom still attributes it to him when ever she says it. Now, you don’t even have to utter the phrase, all you have to do is mention his name.