Crimes of the Heart

It occurred to me this afternoon, as I was feeling all bouncy and clear-headed after 90 minutes of sweating my arse off at Bikram yoga, that for all the bitching and moaning I do about the men who've treated me badly--and lord knows there've been a few--bemoaning my fate and wondering what, precisely, I'd done to deserve such treatment, well... Perhaps, just perhaps, I myself have not always done right by the opposite sex. Which brings me to my first blog entry in ages:

Open Apologies to Guys I've Treated Poorly.

* * *

I cheated on a guy. Once. In the 9th grade. I only started dating him at my friends' encouragement. It was a chilly night at a football game, high school hormones were running high, and, in all honesty, I liked the idea of having a boyfriend better than the idea of not having one. Never mind that, aside from the passing notion that he was kind of cute, I had no interest in this guy. Or that I was already set to go to Homecoming with a guy I actually did like, and who obviously liked me or he wouldn't have asked me. But I was still theoretically "single," and so gratified that somebody, anybody wanted me to be his girlfriend, that when he asked, it only took a minimal amount of encouragement from my gathered girlfriends to say "yes."

When I think about it, this is probably worse than the fact that, less than a month later, I made out with another guy. I did try to break up with my nominal-boyfriend first, but he wasn't home when I called. Also not an excuse.

True, I do believe I got my comeuppance a thousandfold when, little more than a year later, the guy who took my virginity cheated on me by sleeping with his ex less than a week after said virginity was lost. Ouch. But this example of karmic retribution in no way excuses my behavior.

So, to the guy I only dated to boost my own self-esteem and then proceeded to cheat on--which you found out about via the rumor mill that decided we'd apparently had sex on his kitchen counter (not true), I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that.

* * *

Though I was unaware of it at the time, I used to be completely and utterly terrified of commitment, likely because the last person to whom I'd been truly committed had used my devotion to wreak havoc on my general well-being. (See virginity story, above. I stayed with him for 3 years after that. Yeeeeah... I know.)

When I first moved to NYC I worked with a guy who was my age, a year or two older at most, and had a son. I respected his taking responsibility for a child that had been the result of a one night stand with an ex. More than taking responsibility, he was a doting father. He was, put simply, a good guy, and I told him as much during a few drunken evenings after work.

We flirted, kissed chastely a few times, and essentially brought the situation to a point where he was very clearly interested in me, and I had shown myself to be interested in him. And then...

... I fucking panicked.

This guy had a kid! I was only 22, and in no way ready to be a mom! What the hell was I doing? I didn't want to get locked into a relationship that came with that sort of drama, etc, etc...

Worse than my panic, however, was my complete and total inability to go to this guy and say "Look, you're great, but I don't think we should date..." Instead, I avoided his phone calls and suggestions that we hang out until my best friend, who also worked with us, got sick of the whole thing and told him I wasn't interested.

Ouch.

So, to the nice guy I couldn't let down easy: Sorry you had to hear it from someone else. That was really shitty.

And to the best friend who unwillingly did my dirty work for me: Sorry. You were right to be pissed at me. Sometimes, I kinda suck.

* * *

At the same place I worked with another guy on whom I had an ENORMOUS crush. He was a sweet rasta boy who used to sing to me while we broke down at the end of the night, and gave me a GIANT teddy bear for Valentine's Day.

When he finally asked me out, I, like a moron, said No. After the behavior outlined above, I was convinced that this nice, sweet guy was too good for me, and that I would only hurt him. I told him as much, and, like the sweet guy he was, he let it go.

To you, sweet, sexy, rastafarian boy, I'm sorry. This one is definitely my loss.

* * *

Several years ago I knew a guy. We hung out in the same bar, I always thought he was cute and had a bit of a crush on him, and one day, I'm not sure how, we ended up on a date.

Theoretically the date went well, but I couldn't stop focusing on little things that were turning me off. Dark spots on a few of his teeth were all I can now remember. Then I got stoned and made out with him anyway.

The situation descended rapidly into awkwardness as I couldn't find a way to reconcile my behavior (making out with him in my kitchen), with my complete lack of desire to date him (dark spots! dark spots!). It seems that once I had what I thought I wanted, I didn't want it anymore... so I fell back into bad habits and just hoped that if I ignored the situation, it would go away.

And it did, but not without my feeling like a total bitch.

So, to you, guy who probably has NO idea what happened there, I'm sorry. Hope you've found yourself someone less shallow than I, apparently, can be.

* * *

And there you have it. I'm not sure what I meant to accomplish by this post. Certainly not to paint myself as a horrible person, I don't think that, at least, not often... but we all make mistakes. Some little, some big, we all make them, and we all occassionally hurt people while navigating the unpredictable waters of interpersonal relationships.

There are likely people I've forgotten in writing these little notes, and likely still more people that I've hurt without even realizing it. So, to all of you who've been hurt by something I've done, I'm sorry.

And to those who've hurt me? Well, I'm not going to say that you're all forgiven, because many of you damned well aren't... but at the very least I can say that I understand. Nobody's perfect.

Certainly not me.

A Thought...

Maybe it's the two French Martinis talking, but...

For all the bitching and moaning about the shit that's gone wrong, things that have happened or haven't, where I wish I was and where I'm not, the shitty job, my farce of a love life, the money spent on a degree that I'm glad I have but isn't getting me anywhere...

A minute ago I was hanging out the living room window of my fifth floor walk-up smoking a cigarette (which, yes, I really shouldn't be doing), listening to guys on the street shout at each other in Spanish, and I realized...

I really fucking love my life.

Funny how it just hits you sometimes.

Jiggity Jig

Is it wrong that I want to have lunch at Panera tomorrow for the sole purpose of scoping out my ex boyfriend, and potentially making him very uncomfortable?

Okay, okay, maybe it's not the sole reason... I am rather fond of their bread bowls.

I just got back from the Best Friend's house, where I watched the Sex and the City movie with her and her remarkably acquiescent husband (who had his ACL replaced today and was therefore doped up on percoset). In the course of providing me with all the local gossip, she mentioned that my First Love served her coffee at Panera yesterday, where he is the manager, and skeezily hits on all the teenaged girls who work there.

It seems that my stellar taste in men stretches all the way back to the tender age of 13. Hooray for me!

Doesn't stop me from wanting to go check him out. What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment.

The holiday has been lovely, if a bit of a whirlwind. It seems as if I've spent more time in transit than I have in any one place, and tomorrow evening it's back to the big city to work a double on Wed, and then I'm off again through January 3rd. I'm hoping that on at least one of those days, I get to sleep in.

Two of my four grad school applications have been submitted and my MFA auditions are scheduled. I've finally unearthed my writing sample for the PhD applications, which needs to be re-typed, as well as another contender that needs a little work, but if I have time, I may spruce it up and submit it instead. I'm also waiting on two letters of recommendation, which has me more than a little edgy as the deadlines are fast approaching and I can only send so many reminder emails before my head explodes. Contemplating combing the Baltimore newspapers to see if one of my recommenders has died or is in a coma or something, which are the only reasonable excuses I can think of for agreeing to write a letter back in September, and not yet having done so.

At least I survived the GRE and my scores, it has to be said, are stellar. 740 Verbal, 730 Math, and a 5 in Analytical Writing (which, okay, could have been better, but I'll live), just in case you were wondering...

I've also been cast in a play which will be rehearsing throughout January, in addition to getting ready for my MFA auditions, and figuring out how to rearrange my work schedule around all of the above so that I can still make enough money to pay my rent. I will hopefully be worked into an egg donation cycle early in the month, which will take care of my financial concerns, but seeing as I've been waiting since September, that can hardly be counted on...

In other words, life is about to get intensely crazy... but at least it will be interesting.

Happy Holidays y'all!

*grumble*

Sorry, just need to get this one off my chest:

I just received an email forward from a very Republican friend of mine that contained a link to some congressman bashing healthcare reform, likening it to "punishing" those Americans who have "earned" healthcare from their jobs in order to insure those who have not.

Now, first of all, there's the very simple argument that not every job out there offers healthcare, period. So if you want to be able to go out to a restaurant, see a movie, get your nails done, go shoe shopping, buy groceries, or even simply wash your car, well... those industries are all, ALL, staffed by people who, according to this fellow, don't deserve healthcare because they haven't "earned" it.

But all that is, believe it or not, beside the point.

What really gets me is that the woman who sent this email to me has never spent a single second of her life uninsured. She has absolutely NO frame of reference for what it's like to cross your fingers that your cold is just a cold and not bronchitis, because you sure as hell can't afford antibiotics.

First, she was covered by her parents. Then, she got married and is covered by her husband's medical insurance, which--because he is in the Air Force--is pretty freaking fantastic.

She never went to college and has held perhaps one job in her life, but when she needed to have major surgery at 25? The US Government ponied up 100% of the cost. Which is totally okay, apparently, because her "job" is being married to a serviceman.

I, on the other hand, have a Bachelor's and a Master's degree, and have been employed by numerous employers, a few of which provided health insurance, but the majority of which did not. I pay my own rent, pay my own bills, and have an exorbitant amount of student loan debt to qualify me to work in a field where, thanks to the complete and utter fuckwittedness of our last (Republican) president, there are currently very, very few jobs. So here I am, waiting tables and praying nothing bad happens to me, while I keep on looking for a job that will allow me to bring a little educational diversity into the classrooms of under-served New York City students, which, while rewarding to me and invaluable to the students, STILL won't provide health insurance.

So... you tell me: which one of us has fucking earned a little healthcare coverage?


Thank you. I feel ever so slightly better now.

The End.

Head First

I am diving back into Real Life.

Or trying to, anyway. You know, in the moments I can tear myself away from looking at other people's camp photos on Facebook.

DM came over on Monday night and I made dinner. Aside from my elation at eating something that did not originate from a can, seeing him again was great. All the chemistry is still there. We had a bit of a stilted heart-to-heart in which I discovered (somewhat to my relief) that he is not perfect--that he in fact shares many of the same flaws inherent in pretty much every guy I date--but it's early days... we'll see if those flaws turn out to be of the emotionally crippling variety. Fingers crossed that they do not, as (though I am loathe to admit it for fear of jinxing myself) I am actually excited about this one. It's been awhile since that has happened, and it would be a pleasant change of pace if that excitement didn't blow up in my face.

You hear that Universe? Just sayin'...

After a greasy diner breakfast-for-lunch the following day, I bid him adieu at the subway (he kissed me on the sidewalk and I didn't squirm! This is progress people!), then decided to plunge feet first (head first would be a bit painful) into my Avon Walk training (go here! give me money!! only $440 left to raise!!) by taking 10 mile walk down the Hudson River Greenway, which--barring a slightly smelly stretch under the highway around 135th St--is just beautiful! I fully plan on making this a regular route. This time I just walked to 135th and back (about 8 miles total) and then hiked up and around Fort Tryon Park. Next time I might take the subway down to Battery Park and then walk the 11 miles back. I am excited!!

After my walk I stopped on my favourite lawn in the Park for a stretch, with the result that I'm not as stiff as I thought I'd be today. Still, I'm heading out to Bikram Yoga in a few for some deep stretching and a whole lot of sweat. Again... excited!!

I've updated my resume and am once again on the hunt for teaching work. I start back at the restaurant next week, but would love to be able to stop waiting tables entirely. I also need to get in gear and start studying for the GRE as I only have 3 months to compile my PhD applications, and if I hope to get into Ivy League School That Only Accepts Two Applicants Per Year, I had best get my arse in gear!

Like I said. Head First.

It's the only way to go.

Perspective.

17 YEAR OLD COWORKER

I hope it's not busy tonight.

ME

I hope it is. Me and my bank account need it to be busy.

17 Y/O

Right.

(Beat)

So are you saving for anything in particular? Or just because?

ME

(Pause)
Um... my rent?

17 Y/O

Oh.

ME

My $100,000 in student loans for grad school... my credit card debt...

17 Y/O

Uh huh.

ME

Yeah.

(Pause)

Getting old sucks.

(Beat)

So... you going to college in the Fall?



----
To those using readers, sorry about the blank post. Clearly, I am a wee bit tired.

Bad Frog

As you are most likely aware, I have some bad habits.

One of them is smoking.

Another is spiraling downward into an uncontrollable panic at the drop of a hat.

I try not to let them get the best of me, really I do.

Unfortunately, these two tend to go hand in hand.

Yesterday, I saw an apartment. A really great apartment. The kind every New Yorker drools over for the simple fact that it is WAY below market value, due to being classified as a low-income apartment. As in, there is a maximum allowed income for the occupant.

Score!

Or so I thought.

So today I rushed over to the broker's office to drop off my application, secure in the fact that, for once, my poverty would prove to be a boon rather than a burden.

He called me a few hours later as I sat in a hairdresser's chair with bleach searing my scalp, and lo and behold, in addition to there being a maximum income requirement, there is also a minimum.

Which is about $2000/year lower than the max.

And about $6000/year more than I can prove that I make.

Fuck.

So I'm scrambling... oh lordy am I scrambling... to try to find a way to make this work.

But somewhere around 9:30pm, after submitting a resume to a job I could totally do (elementary level textbook editor), but am theoretically not at all qualified for, the panic hit... and I found myself sitting in the middle of my diningroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably, while my cat sat next to me, purring contentedly, clearly too senile to comprehend the difference between Happy Mommy and Wigging-The-Fuck-Out Mommy.

Ahhh... pets.

25 minutes later I had relocated to the couch and was attempting to watch South Park, but every 30 seconds or so another sob would break through.

So I did the only thing I could think of that would calm me down.

I went around the corner and bought a pack of fucking cigarettes, and smoked one on my stoop.

Then I came inside and bookmarked a zillion Craigslist ads, which I will apply to tomorrow.

Now I'm going to go smoke another.

This bad habit may make me feel guilty... but a least it keeps me off the floor.

The Hardest Part

The first half of my day was disarmingly quiet.

I pulled my lazy ass out of bed before 10am, which is a vast improvement over recent days, especially considering that I was sleeping with Prince Ambien to help curb the relentless insomnia that's been plaguing me as of late. Spent some time on the phone with my phone company, figuring out my ridiculous bill, only to discover that I was being charged $15/month for the past 3 months for a service I never asked for--with the resultant refund dropping my current cell phone bill to 68-cents. I should have asked for a framed copy, it will never be that low again.

Spent some time tackling the massive task that is catching up on all of your blogs--some of you will notice an enormous slew of comments as I read everything from September. Sadly most of the Summer will have to rest in the archives, waiting for a rainy day--I simply don't have enough time! To those who have not yet received the comment influx, don't feel bad... it's coming! And my selection of which blogs to read is entirely arbitrary and has nothing to do with... well... anything. I'll get to everyone in due course.

Something that I've seen several of you mention, however, is some sort of Bloggy Bridal Shower for the lovely Jess, which my out-of-the-loop self knew nothing about... so Congratulations Jess!! My shower gift will be to make your blog next on my to-read list. I know it's not much, but I do it with love :)

The day picked up this afternoon, which marked my first venture into my new internship... and I looooved it! Working with high school kids on Shakespeare is already proving to be a fabulous experience and I can't wait to continue. I do have to laugh because the girl who is playing the role I played in this show in high school was annoying me at times... and then I realized that what was annoying me was absolutely something I would have done at her age. So I had to suck it up and face my own demons, so to speak.

Which isn't to say that I didn't tell her to knock it off... but I said it much more nicely than I might have otherwise :)

I returned home this evening and putzed about, trying not to freak myself out before the Skype interview I was having (had) at 10:00... with Japan.

I've been in the process of applying for a job teaching in Japan, using Drama to improve the English language skills of elementary school children. Or so I thought. What became clear during the interview was that my perception of what this position entailed was not correct. I had thought it would be in a day school setting, working in conjunction with an English teacher and teaching Drama classes to enhance what was being learned in the English class. That is, apparently, not the case.

The school is actually an afternoon/evening school that is just for English. And I would be the only teacher. Head Teacher, if you will.

This, in effect, terrifies me. Which is not to say that I've been offered the job. I haven't. But I am now seriously questioning whether or not I am actually qualified for it. The school seems to think I am, obviously, or they wouldn't have interviewed me. But I still worry.

There is also the whole idea of moving--for a year--to a country where I do not speak the language. The woman interviewing me even told me that they've had teachers in the past--particularly the women--who got intensely lonely and/or homesick and left after 3 months. I understand she's just covering her bases by telling me this but it's not exactly comforting.

All of my friends whom I've spoken to about it are so wonderful and encouraging. They all say "if anyone can do it, it's you!" Sometimes, however, I find it difficult to maintain the faith in myself that others find so easily. It's amusing, in a way, that others carry such conviction about an aspect of myself I often doubt--namely, my independence.

I shouldn't get myself so worked up over a job I haven't even been offered. I suppose I'll just have to wait and see. But as Tom Petty says... The waiting is the hardest part.

The Experiment

I was debating about whether or not to blog about this, but then figured... what the hell? That's what a blog is for, right?

In what I have dubbed The Great Hair Experiment, I have temporarily stopped shaving. While doing research for Research Project From Hell (on which I got an A, by the way! Hoorah! I will post part of it for y'all when I finally figure out how to get it formatted for the blog so it doesn't look like a giant mess), I came across several essays on body hair and shaving--mostly from the "Oh, this is an evil social norm imposed by men! Hairy sisters unite!!" standpoint which, I gotta say, is not really my bag.

But it did get me thinking.

Throughout our early adolescence we (girls) eagerly await the arrival of body hair... just so we can shave it off. While it's the hair itself that signals the biological entry into womanhood, it's the removal thereof that makes us feel like women. The more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. And so I decided to give it a shot, this whole au natural thing.

So far the results are mixed.

First, the legs. That's easy. I know I don't like having hairy legs. I went through a phase when I was about 16 where I stopped shaving (yes, it was a hippie phase), and all was fine and dandy until one day I was out hiking with Highschool Boyfriend and I kept swearing I was walking through spider webs! Yech! I was totally bugged out and couldn't figure out why it was only me that kept running into them.

Then I realized that that tickly sensation was the wind ruffling my leg hair.

I went home and shaved that night.

(Ironically, in one of the essays I read the woman described the exact same sensation as "sensual." I definitely think "creepy" is a more apt description.)

So in the spirit of The Great Hair Experiment I'm letting the legs get fuzzy once more. But I'm not happy about it. At least it's Winter and I'm wearing pants.

Then there's the, er, bikini region. In the interest of full disclosure (because really, if you're still reading at this point, you obviously don't have TMI issues), I have been a Brazilian kinda gal for many, many years. So suddenly going in the complete opposite direction? Was maybe a bit traumatic.

But now that it's been about a month? I'm wondering why the hell I ever did that in the first place.

Actually, no, that's not quite true. I know why... in a sense. Honestly, at first I was just bored and wondered what it would look/feel like. Then it was a sensory thing--I liked the way it felt. But, I always sort of had an issue with the aesthetics (i.e., looking like I was 8 years old).

Now I can honestly say that I feel so much more female, more like a grown, adult, woman. Not a girl.

Once again it just takes me back to the whole idea of the ritual--the shaving, plucking, waxing, Nair-ing, etc.--being the mark of womanhood, rather than the actual biological mark of growing hair in certain places. It makes me wonder how we got here as a culture, how this became part of our gendering process.

And then, finally, the area of perhaps the most contest for women--the pits. This one is exceptionally strange. There are days when I love it, and days when I think "yech! gross!", and I can't figure out what triggers either reaction.

A few days ago I was in a bathroom at school, dirty and overheated from working in the shop (which is possibly the hottest room on earth), just wearing jeans and a tank top, having a good (head) hair day, and as I glanced in the mirror I caught sight of a hairy armpit and in that moment I felt so goddamned sexy! I can't explain why, or how, but I did.

The next morning I was in the bathroom blowdrying my hair, arms over head, and it was back to "yech! I don't know how much longer I can keep this up...".

In other words, the jury is still out.

I don't know how long The Great Hair Experiment will last. I'm fairly certain the legs will be the first to go. I am going to a party this weekend and plan on dressing up--will the underarms make me feel sexy in my spaghetti straps, or not so much? I suppose we'll see what kind of day it is when it gets here.

No matter how it ends up--whether I go back to baby-baldness, become a permanent hairy-sister, or reside somewhere in between--it's definitely been interesting.

I think that, in our own way, we all need to explore our own ideas of femininity. If the packaged, commonly accepted variety works for you... more power to ya! If you prefer to wander a bit (or a lot) farther off the beaten path... just be sure to bring a compass and plenty of water, and have fun!

I think a lot of our body image issues come not only from packaged ideas of what is attractive (super-skinny, big boobs, long hair), but what is feminine (lip gloss, high heels, stockings). The more we allow ourselves to create our own definitions of femininity--and accept those definitions created by our peers--the more comfortable and happy we can become in our own skin.

Not one of us is more woman than the other, high heels, socket wrench, or hairy pits be damned.

Searching for the past

So yesterday during a slow moment at work I finally caved and joined Facebook

I initialized the account, accepted the 2 pending friend requests that immediately popped up, and then...? I immediately ran a search for my 8th grade boyfriend.

Nothing.

I did the same thing when I joined both MySpace and Friendster, which begs the question: why am I so fascinated with tracking down this boy (man)? Generally when I imagine the people I knew "back then," I imagine them fat and miserable, married to losers and with shitty jobs.

Clearly, I did not have a good relationship with many of the people I went to high school with.

Yet for him it's a giant question mark. Is he married? Happy? Successfull? And for god sake did he ever learn how to kiss properly?? (Much as I loved him, he was woeful in this department).

I can't quite pin down why he continues to crop up in my thoughts. Perhaps because he was my first love. That first boy you talk about marriage with, even though you are both far too young to have any idea what that really means. The first real kiss. Why does he still show up in my dreams from time to time, like he did a few nights ago?

I think maybe I yearn for a time when relationships were so much simpler. Where if two people each decided the other was "cute," suddenly they were "going out." You got the committment out of the way early and then worried about getting to know one another. And as much as I love sex, relationships were a hell of a lot more simple when your biggest concern was whether or not to let him put his hand up your shirt, and if you did, how much trouble would he have with your bra?

Obviously we can't go back to that. And as adults I suppose our relationships are much more fulfulling than their predecessors. I say "suppose," because I can offer no expert opinion here. My adult relationships, such as the are, have all been fairly shallow.

I just wish that, as adults, we could retain some of that wonder we felt in our youth. When it was all new and exciting, and holding hands at a carnival in the parking lot of a middle school was the height of romance--sneaking out of a dance to make out in the darkness the ultimate danger. We've become so caught up in the "adultness" of our relationships that we've forgotten why we used to want them in the first place.

Clearly I'm feeling confessional today, and more than a little nostalgic. For all I know my 8th grade love is now fat and bald and not at all the sex symbol of a 13 year old boy that he once was.

But if you see him, tell him to look me up.