Making plans to change the world while the world is changing us

There she was. In a teeny-tiny Viking costume. I shouldn’t have clicked on her name but I did. Now I had an almost-naked visual to go along with his handful of stories about her. It didn’t matter how many times he told me she didn’t support his career or believe in his talent or care about his happiness. All I could focus on was how she made a lot of money and how tan she was and how below that picture of her in her teeny-tiny Viking costume was a comment: “TC likes this.” My stomach rose up in protest.

“We don’t talk,” he had told me once. “She texted me a couple weeks ago to come get some of my stuff and I told her to throw it away. Trust me, I have no interest in keeping in touch with my ex’es.” I had heard this same speech before from E. and then found out a year later he was telling his own ex that he loved her the whole time. And now here was my first red flag from TC. I couldn’t let it go.

“Are you home?”

“No, what’s up?”

“Just wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“It can wait, call me when you get home.”

“No, I hate that. What is it?”

I was trembling. I knew he would be so angry. Didn’t I trust him? Why would I snoop into his past? Why would I be digging on Facebook? How did I even know who she was anyway? But it didn’t matter. If I didn’t ask now it would bubble up inside of me, constantly marinating, churning, stewing until one night after a few drinks I’d scream out, “I know you’re still in touch with her! I saw her Facebook picture!”

I tried to explain as rationally as I could. “I clicked on your ex’s profile. I shouldn’t have, but I did and I saw this slutty picture of her that you liked. And it really bothered me.” He began his typically rational speech. They are not in touch. They had an amicable breakup a year and a half ago, and every once in awhile he gets a text from her saying hello. He saw the picture on Facebook of a cute girl in a tiny outfit and he clicked like. That was all. She texted him afterward to say she saw his comment and hoped everything was going well. “We had a good relationship. We broke up over my career, and we both knew it was the best idea. We’re different people now and I don’t really like the person she’s turned into. I don’t like how she treats me or who she’s become, and I’m not attracted her anymore; emotionally, physically, or sexually. At all. But I hope she’s happy.” I had nothing else to say.

When do I start to really believe in this? When do I start to feel secure in this, in us? When he says I’m different, how long until I actually hear it?

He called back half an hour later. I anticipated anger. You know, Lauren, this REALLY pisses me off! But instead I got a quiet voice.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” And I meant it.

The New York Clock

New York functions on a different clock. I’m sure of it. One year here is a month somewhere else. 30 years old here means 23 in another city. Time speeds up, slows down, and stops altogether when in other parts of the world it is just a constant.

TC and I have been together for just over four months. We were “dating” for three of those months, and now we’re “officially” together. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Committed and in love. What I didn’t expect was that once he committed, he would be really committed. All typical-boy fear of words like ‘marriage’ and ‘babies’ and ‘living together’ went straight out the window.

He had a roommate issue last week because I’ve been spending too much time there without paying rent. “If he gives me crap about it, I’ll just move in with you,” he said. My immediate reaction was, Oh no, you won’t!

But why? It’s the timing. Four months isn’t long enough.

Right?

I just went to the engagement party of my brother and his fiancée who have been dating since January of this year. They are perfect together. My parents, who dated for three months before getting engaged, were in attendance.

New York has tainted my relationship-brain. “We have to date for at least a year before we move in together and then another year before we get engaged and then another year before we get married.”

But why?

The rational part of me says it’s all way too soon. And the stupid-in-love girl part of me is looking up one-bedrooms on Craig’s List.

I want you so bad I'll go back on the things I believe

E. turned me into someone who has preemptively ruined everything that could be important to me in the future. I was a rebound. He had her the whole time, tucked away deep in his heart while I was chiseling away at the edges.

He creeps into every relationship I've had, as if I'm dating him over and over again. I let men take on his qualities and kill them for it when I start to get attached.

I can let him ruin me again.

Or I can let this be the time I say goodbye to him for good.

Date of Execution

Growing up, and even in my 20s, I had very few straight guy friends. I spent most of my time in dance and theater, where guys are few and far between or, although it is a stereotype, gay. My heterosexual male friends were kept close and valued for the advice they gave and the offers they extended to pummel any guy who treated me poorly.

R. is one of those incredible, reliable guy friends that I’ve stuck close to since high school. He is a serial monogamist and, not surprisingly, proposed to his longtime girlfriend last year. They set a date for August and sent out ‘Save the Date’ cards soon after. I wrote the date in my planner: August 21. But something inside of me knew that I wouldn’t be attending.

R. is marrying B., who has a drinking problem. At one point, her problem got so bad, that R. and B. split up. “I can’t handle her when she gets blackout drunk,” R. said once. And every time B. drank, she binged to the point of blackout. During their split, she worked on “giving up hard liquor” and once she did, they got back together. “It’s only hard liquor that makes her black out,” R. said. This past January, on B.’s 25th birthday, she got blackout drunk off of beer (what happened to that hard liquor rule?) and kissed another guy. She never told R.

Up until this point, I have been elated for all of my friends who have gotten married or engaged. Everyone has seemed to fit so perfectly together, to complement each other, and really benefit from their unions. Except for R. and B. I can not go to a wedding and pretend to be happy for my dear friend and the woman he is settling for.

That little RSVP card sits on my dresser, asking far bigger questions than “Yes” or “No.”

The Heart Wants

"So, I'm calling because I'd like to move back home the last week in June. And I need to know if you're okay with this so I can start putting things in motion."

A pause. A long pause. There is never a pause in conversation with my mother.

"Well, yeah, you know we're always here for you! But... what will you do if you can't find a job?"

"I'll have saved up enough money as a cushion and then I'll move to Seattle at the end of August."

"Without a job? Without health care?"

I felt my confidence deflating, slowly, slowly. My chest tightened. My eyes threatened tears.

"I have to do something!" I proclaimed, my voice wavering only slightly. "I can not stay in this job, I can not stay in this apartment, I can not stay in this city. I have to do something!"

I feel so helpless. I feel trapped in technicalities like money and health care when my entire heart and soul is telling me to go.

"I don't think it's that crazy!" I exclaimed, trying desperately to pull her to my side. It's not crazy, you're not crazy, this is not crazy. Maybe it is crazy. Maybe I will get to Seattle and have a break down and think to myself, My GOD, what did I do?!

Or I will stay in this dirty, overpriced apartment, in my dead end, brainless job, in this cruel and soulless city, and I will break down in a different way.

It shouldn't be so hard but it's the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

Maybe you might have some advice to give on how to be insensitive

I have this problem. I blame it on being born under the Cancer sign, and developing deeply emotional relationships with everyone and everything in my life. I cannot throw things away. In any sense. I have a difficult time breaking up with guys, no matter if we’ve been together for a week or a year. I’ve only quit one job in my whole life and I cried like a baby when I told my supervisor I wouldn’t be returning. I have t-shirts in my dresser that I haven’t worn in ten years, but they were gifts and I cannot chuck them. I feel deeply. I don’t know any other way.

I know my time at this job is up. The company is hurting and they can offer me no more money. I cannot be promoted. There is nothing left for me here, but when I imagine myself walking into my boss’s office, giving her an ultimatum and telling her that I deserve to be paid more or I’m quitting, I get nauseous. She hasn’t always been the best boss: she gives me time off when I need it, but wants to keep me chained to this position, sending her UPS packages and helping her fix computer glitches. I am the model assistant. I anticipate needs, I am efficient and upbeat, and I rarely complain about anything in the presence of my superiors.

But I am more than the exemplary assistant, and in staying here I am stifling everything I spent my whole life developing. I am rational in my thought process, bold in my statements, but I am a coward in the follow through. I don’t want to care deeply for my boss, but I do. She has invited me to dinner at her home and cried with me when I was sick and needed surgery. Quitting this job feels like letting her down.

This is just a job. It is a step on my path, and a small one at that. But it has become a part of me and I don’t know how to let go.

She's Got a Way

When I was 18, I hated her. She was comfortable and familiar, and I got used to her but in the way that you get used to a limp. I wanted to leave her so badly, and when I finally got a break at college, I couldn’t wait to come screaming back. “Remember me?! I’ve changed. I’ve outgrown you.”

I’m twenty-five now, and I miss her. I remember her familiar curves, her radiating warmth and her distancing cold. I don’t want to go back to her. But my heart breaks when we’re forced apart.

On Tuesday morning, I sat at my parents’ breakfast table, far away from my childhood home, but not so far that her hold on me wasn’t achingly apparent. My mom packed up her bag for the day and I spooned cereal between my quivering lips. I started to cry. "I feel like I'm in third grade again," I whimpered. "Don't make me go to school, mom, I want to stay home."

I know that there are great things waiting for me out there. I am destined to be successful, as a chef, as a writer, as an eater, as an editor, or maybe as something I haven’t even considered yet. But part of me wants to slink back home to the predictability and comfort of friends who have known me since I was ten years old and love me whether I am an exacerbated version of myself, or not myself at all. Part of me wants to buy a car and move into a cheap apartment in the middle of streets I could traverse with my eyes closed. I want to sink down into the cushion of home.

I used to tell myself that there was another home out there for me. I’d learn to love a different city with different people, and I’d create a better life of my own, instead of claiming one that had already been created for me.

I’m not sure why I want her back. All I know is that I do.

Packing

T-shirts. Jeans. Pajamas. Dressy tops. Socks. Dresses. Skirts. Jackets. Purses. The piles grow higher as I sort through everything. The bags are open on the floor, empty, waiting for my life to be filled into them. These tights have seen their last days, I decide, adding them to the pile of "to-gos" on the floor. Those shoes have served me well too, but unfortunately they too must go.

I find the corners of my mouth drooping silently. I fold up shirts and socks.
I find my eyes getting heavy. I place a pair of jeans on top.
I find myself sitting there staring. I handle a soft dress delicately.
I shake my head. These bags have got to be packed.

My photographs come out of their frames and into a notebook for safekeeping. The cards that lined my shelf in the living room get tucked away as well.

I make a list: pick up dress, buy macarons and chocolate and cheese, mail my box of things that won't fit, buy a book for the plane.

I sit on the sofa then, suddenly tired.

I pad over to the desk where D is studying for his exam. I kiss his shoulder. I shake my head when he looks up. I wish this hug would never end.

My bright orange living room smiles at me reassuringly. You'll be back, it seems to say. But not to live - at least not soon, I cry back. And silence.

I don't have any music as I pack. I find it makes me too sad. The happy upbeat tunes seem out of place and the melancholy ones feed into my mood too much. Me and my thoughts, then, folding, placing, stuffing, closing.

My bags are almost filled. And yet somehow my life seems to be flitting around, evading my reaching hands, refusing to be packed away just yet. Come on, I say. We've got places to go. We'll do brilliant things and have some fun. It's been a good ride, I think to myself. I just wish it didn't have to end just yet. I know exciting things await, but. Some part of me, it's here to stay.

Why Not Me

This weekend I went to spend some time with my best friend. She was my very first best friend, the one who packed a bag full of books and stuffed animals and “ran away” with me when I got mad at my mom, the one whose house I ate dinner at almost as much as my own. She is the one who knew me from diapers to braces to crutches to heartbreak. There were times when we drifted, but then we grew up and drifted back together again. We only live three hours apart now but we don’t talk as much as we should. I drove up to Albany on Friday, mostly to visit her and catch up, but also to get to know her boyfriend, the one she tells me she’ll marry someday soon.

My last morning in Albany, over far too much breakfast meat, I regaled her with stories of the men in my life. It almost seemed trite. She’s been dating her boyfriend for almost two years, living with him for six months. And here I was, whining about a first date gone wrong or a crush I had on someone in another state.

But then I remembered why she is my best friend, why I tell her any of this in the first place, and why I will continue to seek her advice long after our own kids are packing their stuffed animals and heading for the next block.

“It’s weird,” I said. “Even though you know the relationship wasn’t right, you know you weren’t meant to be together, you still watch him with someone new and you think, ‘Why not me?’”
“But then you meet the right person,” she said calmly. “And you’ll be completely over everything that happened to you in the past, and you’ll be happy again, and then that Ex will look at you and think, ‘Why not me?’”

Huzzah

I just submitted my first (of six) grad school applications a few moments ago, and so, here are the openers to the personal statements that will never be (and one that was)... enjoy?

My grandmother is the most beautiful woman in the world. She is particularly luminous in a photo from 1961. Her wavy short brown hair is pinned back to reveal chunky gold hoop earrings, her makeup impeccable. Surrounded by her three young children with a baby in her arms, she wears a sleeveless white top and a skirt dotted with stars and moons flows around her. Her legs are crossed at the knee with towering white peep-toe pumps at her feet. This photo was taken in Kabul, Afghanistan.


One tugged at my arm to show me her schoolbooks, another pulled me in the direction of her dolls. Each wanted to exhibit her treasured object. "Didi didi! (Sister sister!)" the girls called after me, mischievous eyes twinkling. We played hand clap games and peekaboo and munched on biscuits. A fidgety group stood up to sing a nursery rhyme in English, perfectly, and all giggled at my Hindi accent. Some were former street children, some were turned over by parents who could no longer support them, and yet at Udaan Ghar, a shelter home for street girls just outside of Mumbai, everyone was family, including me, the visitor from abroad.


Over the past five years, each kid has left his or her mark on me. A quirk, a gesture, a surprise gift.

EJ lacks the coordination to carry his lunch tray and open door to the library simultaneously. He knows an awful lot about transportation systems for a third grader, shreds ketchup packets, and throws his arm around me whenever I'm particularly animated while reading to him. Edvin, the Energizer Bunny, liked to be chased. We built flying Lego monstrosities, and each tried to shoot the other's spaceship down. Our down time had me judging his singing abilities a la American Idol. Emmanuel often played me inappropriate hip hop ringtones on his cell phone. We fought epic Connect Four battles, him chanting, "I'm gonna win you!" and me correcting, "No, you're going to beat me." For Valentine's Day, I brought him his favorite candy and iced tea, and the following week, he gifted me with a chocolate Easter bunny. The only girl, Chelsea, had the smallest voice. After the requisite homework help hour, her face would light up for arts and crafts. I pulled out everything I could remember from grade school: stencils, paper bag puppets, construction paper cutouts, and I always left our sessions with a token from her.


He didn't answer my question. Although, it was to be expected.

The "he" in question was a lieutenant general at the German Ministry of Defense who gave a group of American Marshall Memorial Fellows a talk about the German effort in Afghanistan. Despite my staff status, after all this discussion was not intended for me, I piped up during a lull in the question-answer round. I made the comparison between a divided Germany post-World War II and a currently segmented Afghanistan. Japan, solely occupied by the United States, has proved itself to be a great power in the region and in the world, while parts of east Germany still struggle with development-related issues. Given the recent discussion in the news about an "Americanization" of the Afghan war, what was his opinion on the future of the country?

Secrets to Happy

I've been having a rough time lately. I'm torn between a happy, safe life in a small town with old friends and stability, and a fast-paced life of passion and turmoil and lofty dreams that'll carry me somewhere unfamiliar. But after going to a friend's wedding last weekend, I do feel optimistic about love. And then I found this:

Pancakes for breakfast are the secret to a happy marriage. (Pancakes for breakfast are the secret to a happy anything actually.)

And I felt even better.

Pause. Step.

Look before you leap. Sound advice for anyone. But what if you cannot look ahead? What if there is a mist, shrouding the path? How do you decide whether to take a step in one direction or the other when both are equally hidden in the billowing fog? A step in one direction could either lead me onwards and upwards or plunge me into a ditch where I would find myself in over my head. A step in the other direction could either be one of safety and cautiousness or one that eventually ends up retarding my progress. How do you pick? How do you decide? At what point do you make a leap of faith when you cannot look ahead?At what point do you decide to take the next step, and when is it more appropriate to rein things in, and say: not yet?

Speak easy

On this, the seventh day of April, I woke up thinking winter was a thing of the past - after all, didn't I walk around in flats and no jacket just a few days ago? It was spring. I snuggled deeper into bed wondering why my apartment felt so chilly today. Must be because I threw off my blanket. I sleepily shuffled into slippers and prepared to squint as I opened the blinds to let the sunlight in.

Snow.

I have to say a few words tomorrow. I nominated someone for an award and they won, and now they've asked me to say a few words of introduction tomorrow at the awards ceremony. I was about to respond, but as I stared at the blank email window, I paused.

I first learned to be afraid of public speaking in middle school. Everyone always seemed to wish you luck or say 'you'll do fine' or make big eyes if you had a presentation or had to say something on a stage. And so I started looking at the audience, no matter if it was just a classroom full of my own peers, and getting faint tremblings in my heart. Of course before middle school I would get that nervous anticipation, that adrenaline rush, before going on stage, but this was something new. This was that fear of public speaking that everyone talks about. And often what everyone talks about becomes real. And so I, along with, I suppose, 99% of the population, developed a fear of public speaking.

It never got so bad that I couldn't control it, but it did make me shy away from things that would entail public speaking. When I was little being the center of attention was super. What's wrong with everyone looking at you? Wasn't that what I had cried for when I was a wee little babekin and my mom looked away from me and towards my sister? From the time I was a baby until I was about twelve I would take part in at least one play or performance a year. From the age of twelve...well, let's just say my acting career is so far by the wayside now that it's pretty much dug its own grave and shriveled up into it. But I missed it. There's something about being the center of attention that just entices me, attracts me - but still I shy away from it. Talk about inner conflict! I fought against this in college then. I decided it was alright to put myself in positions where I'd have to talk in front of an audience now and then. I joined clubs, I introduced speakers. I still hesitate before taking on things like moot court, but at least I wholeheartedly sign up for classes where I know I'll be required to make a couple of presentations. I ended up where I had been before middle school - still that same jolt of adrenaline, that anticipation, but not fear. Not exactly.

And today, when I thought the winter had said its fond farewells, there it was again on my window pane. And there was that fear of public speaking in the email window on my computer. Swirling down all around, pull out your winter coat, clear your throat, which scarf to wear...

I pulled on my boots and gloves. After all, this snow, whether it's just visiting or here to stay, there's not much I can do about it except to suit up.

I typed "Sure, I'd love to!" That fear of public speaking might surprise me from time to time, but damn it, it isn't here to stay.

hooking up

I was going to write about my recent first experience with dating. In the formal sense - spending time one on one with a person (one you may not know very well yet), in order to size up each others' potential as a romantic partner.

I just graduated from college last year, and for me this was a Strange Thing about Being a Grown-Up. The way this experience (this brief connection with another person, who I really kinda liked) ended made me realize that I have no clue what the social conventions here are, aside from what I've distilled from romantic comedies, Cosmo, serious artistic meditations on love, etc.

While I was composing a story about this, I got sidetracked revisiting articles I'd seen in the Times about how the kids these days "hook up" (the accepted term among those who study the mating habits of adolescents), instead of the previously described dating.

I found this pretty recent column... pretty straightforward. I also came across this article from the Style section in March 2007, on a book by a Washington Post reporter about, well... the title: "Unhooked: How Young Women Pursue Sex, Delay Love and Lose at Both."

By paragraph 4 I'm reading about how girls are the "victims" of this practice (which I admit I had previously perceived as a victimless crime).... and about how it's a symptom of female sexual aggressiveness.

The article is critical, but most explicitly of the author's conclusion that hooking up hurts girls, not her identification of this cultural habit as solely a consequence of changed female behavior. Also, the author's response to critics:

"I understand their anger because in this current political climate women’s choices are being threatened,” she said, “the right to choose an abortion, the right to live with a same-sex partner.”

It has led many women to be wary of any suggestion of limits on their lifestyle choices, she said.

Not that she's interested in my opinion:

Ms. Sessions Stepp said that she welcomes criticism, though not from people who have not read the book or who have never conducted research.

“This is what I love about the bloggers,” she said. “They haven’t been out there interviewing young people for 10 years. They’re talking about their own college experience. Everyone’s had some sort of sexual experience and they all think they’re experts on it.”

Still ... what I'm hearing is that boys will behave themselves exactly as much as we force them to, and if they expect to get in our pants without buying us dinner first, we have no one to blame but ourselves.