100 words a day

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?

After biding my time for 2+ hours at the Starbucks across the street from the Toyota dealership, I went back to check up on my car.  

I approached the man behind the counter, identified myself, and asked about the status of my car.  He looked at me blankly and said, “You’re kidding, right?”

Apparently thirty minutes before he spoke to a woman in the customer lounge about my car.  (I assume that we drive the same car.)  She even asked for additional work, which they did on my month-old car!  She never even corrected him when he called her Stacy.

Apparently this entire time I should have been thinking of my social life like a garden.  I have to tend to it.  Or it will wither and die.  Who knew? And why didn’t they let me know?

I’m trying to turn it around.  I vacillate between berating myself for taking this long to do so and congratulating myself for being proactive.  When I think about it through compassionate eyes, I realize that all the steps I took before now were necessary.  They got me here.  Cliché? Sure. And I don’t know if I quite buy it, but I’d like to.

I got rid of my scale months ago (um. I put it in my closet).  I had a doctor’s appointment today, so I knew my day of reckoning was here.  I pulled the scale out of retirement so I could mentally prepare for standing on a scale in public.  I’d been keeping track of the weight loss in my head. By guesstimating.

I was wrong.  I am 7 pounds more than I thought.  I was disappointed, but fortunately, not devastated.  Mostly, I was confused.  But I guess if you don’t know where you started, all progress reports are pure speculation.

Usually I dread the girlie doctor.  Not this year.  This year I have an agenda, with two talking points: HPV and the grapefruit. 

HPV is an STD that can induce cervical cancer.  Almost everyone I know who’s single has it.  It’s more common than the cold.  They recently approved a vaccine that I am too old for, but I’d like to try sex again so I’m going to mention it.

The grapefruit is a lump that I occasionally feel in my lower abdomen.  Some nights I can’t find it. Other nights it’s so firm I nearly pass out from fear. 

Most jobs have a political aspect to it. As a new person, I’ve enjoyed being oblivious to the political environment around me. At my old job, I was politics. Every issue had two sides and if there wasn’t, I made a side. And then recruited others. I wasn’t trying to be mean; I just thought I was right.

Today I accidentally began a ricochet of snappy and defensive emails. I unknowingly pole-vaulted directly into a landmine. This is what happens when situations are not fully communicated and someone asks a question to the wrong person. That someone was me. Oops.

I love that moment when you first open in your eyes in the morning, that very first instant, when you’re awake but your cognizance isn’t.  It’s the moment when you wonder where you are or what day of the week it is.  This flash of pure peace lasts less than one millisecond.  And then it’s gone.  The dread that you fell asleep with rushes back to your side, and unwanted memories come cascading in: the inane argument you had with a friend last night, the loneliness that kept you busy over the weekend.  On this morning, I’d rather not know.

About two weeks ago I upgraded my version of Wordpress.  It…didn’t go as well as planned.  The upgrade eliminated my letterhead and had some fun with my punctuation.  Because of this, I have had to go back and update each post to clean up the errant punctuation. I’ve been trying to tackle this bit of housekeeping one month at a time.  

I rarely read old posts.  My mother sometimes references them by date and it feels as though she’s speaking about a fourth cousin on her father’s side who lives in London.  There’s a vague recognition but that’s about it.

My two favorite days of the year are July 6^th and July 7^th: the 6^th because it’s my birthday and the 7^th because it’s not. I do love the marking of the passage of time and it’s not that I mind the celebratory hoopla. I just don’t need it.

Here’s the thing that people don’t realize: everyday is my birthday. I can do whatever I want all of the time.

Until I am fortunate enough to live a less solitary life, to survive by slaloming through a course of compromises, having a day all about me isn’t special at all.

Today I was supposed to jump out of a plane.  Alas, it was too windy, and I could not. What a dramatic way to ring in my thirties! I hope to god this isn’t a portent of what this decade will bring: fantastical hopes followed by great disappointment.  

I think I need to stop seeking meaning in the little things.  Maybe everything isn’t a metaphor.  Sky-diving could just be sky-diving.  But I wasn’t seeing it that way.  I was seeing it as the dawn of a new era: a fearless and brave era. An era I could be proud of.

I write more often around my birthday. It’s not intentional, but it’s what I do.

“I can’t help but look back at 27 and try to summarize, review, evaluate it. It was, in one word, uneventful…. There was no huge drum solo that brought the house down… Do something that makes you proud. Break some barriers. Surprise yourself.” –July 5, 2005

“Every day that you do not change things is a day you’ve chosen to stay…. Not moving, Not changing, Inertia, are all decisions. Decisions made.  The worst decision of all is the decision you don’t make.” – July 6, 2006

I’m not proud to say that it was the hair. But… it was the hair. You don’t see many fairly clean-cut men with ponytails. When you do, you notice them. I noticed him. I notice the abnormal, and I can’t imagine I’m the only one. I’m inspired by their individuality and attracted to their confidence. Most people want to blend. I’ve always been interested in those who veer from the mainstream, who exist outside of the norm.

He cut his hair.  I wouldn’t notice him now if I saw him walking around. I’d recognize him, sure, but I wouldn’t notice him.

They didn’t ask me if I floss.  And thus, I did not have to lie.  I didn’t have to explain that I actually do floss; it’s just rarely more than once a month.  And by the way, my filling fell out when I was flossing, so, clearly: a) I do floss sometimes, and b) as I suspected, flossing is bad.   The last time I went to a dentist, she was quite stern with me.  I assume she was trying to scare me straight. When I left her office after my last filling, I knew I would never see her again. 

I am going to the dentist tomorrow.  Everyone I work with knows this.  They know this because I told them. I told everyone. Apparently I like to live out loud.  I enjoy it.  But I would be the last person to admit it. 

My identity relies heavily on the romantic notion of the reclusive introvert (I’m serious). But what happens when you can no longer deny that your self-image is simply not true?   

Years ago I mentioned to a roommate that I identify as an introvert.  Without skipping a beat, she asked me if I understood what that word meant. 

Tomorrow I will start in New York, stop in Maryland for a good eight hours, and then head home to Virginia.  I’m not looking forward to work tomorrow.  Many things were left open last Friday, only 25 percent of which I understood.  The people have finally noticed that my supervisor is on vacation and are looking to me to step in.

I’m more worried about my level of consciousness.  I plan on being on the road by 5 AM, hoping to be at work at 9.   I am already fantasizing about the coffee I plan on enjoying throughout the day. 

If my mother had her way, there would have been an orchestra, with no less than sixteen pieces.  Maybe there’d be speeches.  There’d be tons of people: those who know me, and maybe some who didn’t.  And of course, there’d be a rousing (and embarrassing) round of “Happy Birthday” sung to the blushing girl in the center (me).  I’d stand up and give a thank-you speech and a charming and perfectly timed anecdote or two.

Fortunately, it was my way: a party of five, an eclectic soundtrack, and a bottomless glass of wine.  How could it have been more perfect?