I love trolling through the Relationship, Psychology, and Self-Help Sections of the book store. Completely aside from the fact that I am a neurotic female and think that I can change everything that is wrong with me (even when it turns out that I am not the problem), it's fun to make fun of the titles.
For example:
There were two books that caught my eye: Why Doesn't He Call? and Why Doesn't He Propose? I made the lightning-fast observation that there needs to be a third in the series: Why Do You Give a Damn?
Another title: Loving the Older Man. I mentally noted that the more accurate title would be Loving the Creepy Commitmentphobic Older Man Who Has STDs and a Criminal Record of Domestic Violence. Ahem. Moving along.
Not surprisingly, the book that appealed to me the most was Bitter is the New Black.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
A strange victory
It's strangely cloudy tonight, cloudy and gloomy like it used to be back East, in a different land, in a different life. Under normal circumstances, I'd think there's a freakish change in the weather coming. But tonight, I'll accept it as the gift that I'd like to think it is...a birthday gift, of sorts. Three years ago today I came to California.
I keep typing sentences, inane sentences with these empty, vapid words that clutter up the page, kind of like the cheap trinkets and knick-knacks and cosmetics and accessories I buy that are actually worthless, just cluttering things up. I don't think there's any words I can really summon to effectively describe these last three years, and the hopes and disappointments and realizations and resignations that I encountered...there are no words that can effectively summarize the life--such as it is--that I have made for myself here.
It all simply comes back to that thing that my friend Deshka and I told each other, over and over, during that bleak winter and spring of 2006:
It is what it is.
And so it is just that--it is I, who sacrificed a good man to my stubbourn pride within six weeks of moving here. It is my life here, my life of work and not much else. It is the consequence of me trusting one too many of the wrong kind of man, the bad kind, one too many times. It is the friends I have made here, the younger-than-me girls that seem to have it more together than I do, the older-than-me women who talk (a lot) about plastic surgery, it is the harsh sunshine and relentless dust, it is the bird that sings every night, just after midnight, right outside my bedroom window. It is the stubbourn, dogged and ultimately fruitless commitment I maintained for two of those three years, commitment to a boy that didn't really want me that much. It is the gut-numbing, limb-freezing terror that siezes me every time I feel the floor tremble or hear the windows rattle. It is the Pacific Ocean, still freezing cold and foreign to me, it is the three-hour-time difference between me and those who know me and my life, it is the three years of priceless work experience, it is three years in which I can count on two hands the number of cloudy days we've had.
It is all of these things...until it just isn't anymore.
I don't know when that will be. A month ago, the thought of staying here for countless more years made me want to weep with frustration and fear. Tonight, as I drink a glass of Shiraz and listen to the fan hum behind me and keep one eye on the chick-flick I've got playing, and as I watch my cats fight each other, annoyed with the vigorous brushing I gave them both, I understand that it doesn't just happen right now, overnight, on demand. I don't know when it's going to happen. And right now, at this moment, I'm okay with it.
That feeling will pass. But it's here for now, and for that I am grateful.
Happy birthday to me.
I keep typing sentences, inane sentences with these empty, vapid words that clutter up the page, kind of like the cheap trinkets and knick-knacks and cosmetics and accessories I buy that are actually worthless, just cluttering things up. I don't think there's any words I can really summon to effectively describe these last three years, and the hopes and disappointments and realizations and resignations that I encountered...there are no words that can effectively summarize the life--such as it is--that I have made for myself here.
It all simply comes back to that thing that my friend Deshka and I told each other, over and over, during that bleak winter and spring of 2006:
It is what it is.
And so it is just that--it is I, who sacrificed a good man to my stubbourn pride within six weeks of moving here. It is my life here, my life of work and not much else. It is the consequence of me trusting one too many of the wrong kind of man, the bad kind, one too many times. It is the friends I have made here, the younger-than-me girls that seem to have it more together than I do, the older-than-me women who talk (a lot) about plastic surgery, it is the harsh sunshine and relentless dust, it is the bird that sings every night, just after midnight, right outside my bedroom window. It is the stubbourn, dogged and ultimately fruitless commitment I maintained for two of those three years, commitment to a boy that didn't really want me that much. It is the gut-numbing, limb-freezing terror that siezes me every time I feel the floor tremble or hear the windows rattle. It is the Pacific Ocean, still freezing cold and foreign to me, it is the three-hour-time difference between me and those who know me and my life, it is the three years of priceless work experience, it is three years in which I can count on two hands the number of cloudy days we've had.
It is all of these things...until it just isn't anymore.
I don't know when that will be. A month ago, the thought of staying here for countless more years made me want to weep with frustration and fear. Tonight, as I drink a glass of Shiraz and listen to the fan hum behind me and keep one eye on the chick-flick I've got playing, and as I watch my cats fight each other, annoyed with the vigorous brushing I gave them both, I understand that it doesn't just happen right now, overnight, on demand. I don't know when it's going to happen. And right now, at this moment, I'm okay with it.
That feeling will pass. But it's here for now, and for that I am grateful.
Happy birthday to me.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Waiting, waiting, waiting...
'Way back in the day, I was a born-again Christian. Hard-core. Went to church three times a week, sang in the choir, sat on the youth group board, certainly talked the talk, tried to walk the walk. For three years of my life, it defined me, my existence, my future. I loved Jesus, went up to the altar every Sunday morning, didn't drink or swear or do drugs or take god's name in vain or have sex before marriage. After all, that could lead to pregnancy or the clap or a broken heart or an irate Jesus.
One of the most tangible pieces of evidence that remain from that time in my life is my chastity ring. Yes, that's right, you read that right, my chastity ring. Not quite a chastity belt, sure--it was 1996, after all, not 1396. They presented the rings (subsidized by my doting, if somewhat misguided, grandparents) to me, during a church ceremony in which I, along with several other earnest young ladies, pledged to remain virgins until our wedding night.
Shortly after I turned 16, I became a "recovering Christian." Slowly, gradually, I fell away from the church as I experienced a crisis of faith, withdrew from my religious activities, and...well, grew up. Opened my eyes. I began to cuss like a sailor. Socially drink, even. The last thing to go was my pledge of chastity, but even that went out the window, a little later than most, when I was 19.
And life carried on. God (if s/he exists) and I left each other alone. I became more secular, more "of the world", and so I remain, to this day. I retained my honesty, my sense of justice, my code of ethics. I retained my sense of self, even as my self changed so vastly from what I once was. But even as I remained constant in some ways, I strayed very far from who I once was in others.
Best example: within the past year, my friend started dating a new guy. They...waited. Or, rather, he wanted to wait. And so they waited. And waited. We debated why. Was he gay? That was just weird, waiting six damned months.
And it's not a complete anomaly. Another friend is seeing a guy--they've been seeing each other for half a year, and they haven't (to borrow an old phrase) "gone all the way". They are both fine with that, and choose for it to be this way.
Baffling. Or so I thought.
See, I am, at heart, a historian. And I have an eye for how things once were. And I know that once, it was considered weird, freakish, inappropriate, abnormal, or at least taboo, to go all the way. People--especially women, mainly women--were ostracized if it was known that they did. Not a good way to live and love. But yet--we've done an about-face in recent decades. Now it's considered weird and freakish if people don't go all the way before marriage, and fairly soon after they meet, too...and somehow, I've internalized this. I got on board, and apparently, I had forgotten my 16-year-old self, in which I said, "If he loves me, he'll wait."
Now it's sexsexsex nownownow, and those who don't do that are not quite right.
Neither extreme is good or right or cool. But less cool is the fact that I bought into both extremes at different times in my life. Neither particularly helped me. Neither guided me down the right path. And I won't say that I've learned my lesson (how trite would that be?)...but I have learned that there is some wisdom in my friends' caution. And not only that there is wisdom, but that it's acceptable. Maybe not socially celebrated, but that caution, that waiting exists. And there are people in my age group who are wise enough--and comfortable enough with themselves--to wait and not need to validate themselves through quick sex.
If I get around to dating again--right now, not particularly high on my list of priorities; it comes right after getting leprosy of the eyeballs--I'm going to wait. A lot. At least six months. And I am only going to go for it if the person and I love each other.
And I am going to know that it's okay.
One of the most tangible pieces of evidence that remain from that time in my life is my chastity ring. Yes, that's right, you read that right, my chastity ring. Not quite a chastity belt, sure--it was 1996, after all, not 1396. They presented the rings (subsidized by my doting, if somewhat misguided, grandparents) to me, during a church ceremony in which I, along with several other earnest young ladies, pledged to remain virgins until our wedding night.
Shortly after I turned 16, I became a "recovering Christian." Slowly, gradually, I fell away from the church as I experienced a crisis of faith, withdrew from my religious activities, and...well, grew up. Opened my eyes. I began to cuss like a sailor. Socially drink, even. The last thing to go was my pledge of chastity, but even that went out the window, a little later than most, when I was 19.
And life carried on. God (if s/he exists) and I left each other alone. I became more secular, more "of the world", and so I remain, to this day. I retained my honesty, my sense of justice, my code of ethics. I retained my sense of self, even as my self changed so vastly from what I once was. But even as I remained constant in some ways, I strayed very far from who I once was in others.
Best example: within the past year, my friend started dating a new guy. They...waited. Or, rather, he wanted to wait. And so they waited. And waited. We debated why. Was he gay? That was just weird, waiting six damned months.
And it's not a complete anomaly. Another friend is seeing a guy--they've been seeing each other for half a year, and they haven't (to borrow an old phrase) "gone all the way". They are both fine with that, and choose for it to be this way.
Baffling. Or so I thought.
See, I am, at heart, a historian. And I have an eye for how things once were. And I know that once, it was considered weird, freakish, inappropriate, abnormal, or at least taboo, to go all the way. People--especially women, mainly women--were ostracized if it was known that they did. Not a good way to live and love. But yet--we've done an about-face in recent decades. Now it's considered weird and freakish if people don't go all the way before marriage, and fairly soon after they meet, too...and somehow, I've internalized this. I got on board, and apparently, I had forgotten my 16-year-old self, in which I said, "If he loves me, he'll wait."
Now it's sexsexsex nownownow, and those who don't do that are not quite right.
Neither extreme is good or right or cool. But less cool is the fact that I bought into both extremes at different times in my life. Neither particularly helped me. Neither guided me down the right path. And I won't say that I've learned my lesson (how trite would that be?)...but I have learned that there is some wisdom in my friends' caution. And not only that there is wisdom, but that it's acceptable. Maybe not socially celebrated, but that caution, that waiting exists. And there are people in my age group who are wise enough--and comfortable enough with themselves--to wait and not need to validate themselves through quick sex.
If I get around to dating again--right now, not particularly high on my list of priorities; it comes right after getting leprosy of the eyeballs--I'm going to wait. A lot. At least six months. And I am only going to go for it if the person and I love each other.
And I am going to know that it's okay.
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