You, Me, and We

You know you know each other well when no one actually remembers when you started dating, but neither of you really cares, when people have exhausted themselves with pestering you about when you're getting engaged and still, neither of you cares. And contrary to how it may seem, this lack of care doesn't stem from some sort of insecurity, embarrassment, or emotional ineptness, but rather simply from the assurance that no matter what anyone says or asks or demands, in the end, it will go one being you two and that is the only perfection you will ever need.

And if I may say, it only becomes all the more delectable when you are married. The added comfort of coming home, truly, to one another, is by far my favorite aspect of this whole thing. Peace, solitude, and the fun of our space. This home has become a design project in many ways.  We both cock our heads as we consider where the couches should sit and whether they should be angled at 35 or 47 degrees, we banter over where to place all of my (glorious) books, we shop for home decor, and walk out of the store smiling and nodding in unison at our "really cool, modern choices." These details have become another way to express "us" in a language we've created together. No, it's not really about the throw pillows or the vase on the shelf, but yet it is, because it's what we're creating together.

And while everyone keeps telling me I'll have my days of being at my wit's end due to food left out, toothpaste decorating the counter, or socks haunting the floor, right now I must say that it's nice to have reminders of this person around...at least for a few moments, since that's all they last. Our mutual hate of clutter and disorder is another unspoken romance language all it's own.

At this time in my life, I can say with all my soul that I am truly loved. How did this happen? How long do we have to enjoy it?    

Today is fine with me.

aDogWalk4u.com

There he sits. The man with the hat, a boater style today, different from his regular cowboy look, leather coat, blue jeans, and brown loafers sits outside the Starbucks where I’m currently checking up on my routine very important websites. From my habitual opening and closing of tabs for my favorites in their own special order, I smile as I think of the profound impact I as a consumer am having of these sites. I’m sure they’re grateful.

In the midst of my revelry, I happened to look up and note this man pulling a cart to the “20 Minute” parking sign in front of the store. The cart sits in the parking spot, leaving considerable room on either side of its wheels. Does a cart count as a vehicle? That may be entirely dependent on what type of cart we’re talking about.

This one is especially notable. I noticed it right away the first time I ever saw it, and it’s grown no less eye-catching though I’m going on 6 or 7 sightings. It’s an odd cart. It looks like a big tricycle with regular sized bike tires, a horse cart-like seat, handlebars, and then, most intriguing of all, an odd pole coming out the front. This pole needs something to attach to in order to complete the apparatus, but there’s nothing there. The man with the hat has pulled the cart himself by this pole to its current resting place. It looks to me like it’s trying to be a stagecoach of sorts, minus the real coach, but as if a really small horse is supposed to pull it. While this is immediately less glorious than a stagecoach with John Wayne fighting off Indians (I mean, Native Americans), it’s also a lot harder to visualize. How small is this horse? Does it qualify as a horse?

Then a look at the three signs decorating the cart clarify what’s missing: aDogWalk4u.com.

A dog. A dog is supposed to be bridled to this cart and pull the rider around.

I must pause here and allow you to feel the space of silence that I feel every time I see this cart…

Do you feel it? Do you feel this apparent business venture sinking in? Do you feel yourself shaking your head first in disbelief and then with a kind of decisive “Oh, that’s just weird.”

I happen to have the good fortune to watch a father and son going through this right now as they sip their coffee, staring out the window in a sort of surprised confusion. What in the world…?

Just previously, a woman who’d been sitting outside with her lovely German shepherd watched him roll up, sat for a minute or two then abruptly left, pulling her dog along quickly, looking uncomfortable. “I would never allow Theo to go through that.”

And I understand. Because IT’S AWKWARD.

ADogWalk4u.com, really?

Before a distinct tinge of pity sets in, I always go through a few phases. First, what benefit could a dog possibly receive pulling its owner/s around? Is this supposed to be better exercise? “Hey honey, just look how Max is panting! Good boy!”

Second, what dog owners would want to convey the notion that they are in fact too lazy to actually walk their dog themselves? Has it gotten that bad? Have the midnight munchies, along with long work hours, and that foot surgery led to this moment? “You know, we’ve been cooped up inside all day, let’s go out so the dog can walk us!”

The last phase I wade through concludes at last that no pet owner is going to let their “who’s a good boy/girl?” parade around like that so that observers can shout at them, “Animal Cruelty, ever heard of PETA?!” Especially if it’s a cat.

Of course as soon as I form this opinion, I inevitably find myself part of a mental debate over which animals it’s okay to have pull me around. A horse is obviously allowed. But what about a donkey? A goat? A cow? But not a calf? Probably should avoid the pig. Yet, something about a fluffy, panting poodle dragging me around seems equally as wrong.

But the man with the hat clearly doesn’t agree. In fact, he’s advertising. Now, I have never actually seen a dog attached to this cart, Thank God, which could mean a few things. Perhaps he doesn’t actually own a dog and therefore doesn’t understand the ethical dilemma at all. Or maybe he does own a dog, recognizes the truth, and wouldn’t dream of using it himself, except to make money off other people.

I’ve seen him inside the Starbucks on other occasions, cart sitting ominously outside, and while I go through my mental debating, he just sits in one of the comfy, leather chairs and fiddles away on his computer (like me). Is he working on aDogWalk4u.com? Is he putting the finishing touches on his new business venture? How is that going? However it’s going, he appears to need the time to hash this all out—I overhear him saying he’d been there till closing the previous night. Then I think, does he live alone? Does he have a family? I mostly just really want to know if he has a dog.

So far, everyone else I observe as they observe this cart seems to find themselves suddenly a part of their own ethical dilemma. Should we despise this man? Should we feel sorry for him? Should we laugh? Most passersby simply try to ignore the whole thing with only a quick glance there and away. They block it from their minds because no one really wants to have to think about it.

Today, midway through my conflicted thoughts, all at once indignant and mocking, with that hint of pity, I watch the man with the hat get up from his iron chair outside the coffee shop. He walks slowly to the cart and examines it from the side. He reaches down to adjust the sign. He looks at it a little longer, then undoes the tie to the “20 Minute” parking sign. I see the tie is a dog leash attached the pole. He backs the cart out of the spot, pulling it along by the leash, and walks out of my window. The back of the seat proclaims as it goes, “aDogWalk4u.com!”

27 years old...for two more months.

March 24, 2012.

27 years old for two more months.

When someone turns 28, that means they are only 2 years away from being 30. Two more years of enjoying the latter side of those romantic "20s," before it's old news and that person begins to identify with this description as well.

In two months, "that person" will be me. And if you'll allow me a moment of being a grammar nazi, the demonstrative adjective "that" in modifying "person" is quickly sliding towards "this" every second that goes by. "That distant person" will no longer be far away and will instead become the very terrifying "this person," as in, "me right now." NOW. Almost, in two months.

Can you tell I'm clinging to the last vestiges of the time frame I have before the inevitable hits? The only comfort is knowing that at least when 28 happens, I will still have 2 more years to cling to more vestiges, like debris after a shipwreck.

So what am I so afraid of? Is aging really that bad?

I think so.

And I also think anyone who says otherwise, particularly if a woman, is a sad liar. Let's face it, we as women all fear those telltale signs--the minute beginnings of what will become visible wrinkles around the eyes (yes, I have these featherlike stokes even now, I've seen them in my neon-lit magnifying mirror), those course gray/white hairs corkscrewing out of the scalp (reaching for the tweezers...), the lack of one's body to "bounce back" after late nights and busy weeks (where's the couch? and 20 uninterrupted hours to recover?), and of course, that inability to "eat whatever I want!" You know what I mean. I know you do.

Though my process is just beginning, I do not pretend to be immune. In fact, as I see the light touches, I realize all the more that "I too am mortal." My loving fiance simply shakes his head at my "exaggerating" and assures me I'm am just as smooth and soft as a baby...but wait, is that a good thing? Where exactly? ...he sighs again.

Yet, how much does this terror actually affect my daily life? Well, let me tell you.

I faithfully dab on anti-wrinkle cream to my eyes morning and night. I drink water as much as I can remember to cleanse my body, my skin, my conscience, and my soul. I know sleep is important so I get angry when I "have" to stay up late. I run at least 4 times a week to stave off the haunting thought that I've not done my due diligence. I stay tuned in to the latest trends in beauty products and styles to flatter myself. And...isn't this pathetic?

I think hearing myself sound so proud of my efforts is almost as painful as the very thought of aging itself. Why the worry, why the time spent fretting, why the bombardment of questions to a poor supportive man who honestly finds me sexy beyond perfection?

There now, that feels better. Because it is. Knowing my capacity for obsession, at the end of the day, taking a chill pill and a dose of optimism is, after all, the best remedy for aging.

To tell you the truth, I actually think my wisps of white, streaking through my dark hair on the right side is kind of cool--does it symbolize my wisdom or bad-ass self? I say both.

Religion, for real.

This is took place two years ago, but is the kind of experience that lingers with you...especially me.

It is the year 2010. Humanity has somehow survived 10 years since the Y2K Scare, I don’t even know how.

Anyway, here we are. As for how we’re doing…well, ask anyone and see what they say. Maybe they’ll say something like, “It’s all good,” “Eh,” or “Oh my god, let me tell you…”

God. His role in the year 2010 is a bit of a puzzle, almost as complex as Sudoku, but not nearly as popular. To enter the religious realm is to find a variety of moods, tones, and practices diverse and divided. I have entered sanctuaries that felt like morgues and others that felt like gymnasiums—and each with the proper personnel: pale, frozen faces from the wax museum to sweaty armpits amped for spiritual aerobics.

The musical accompaniment is equally as intriguing…

Take this one time I went to an evening worship service geared toward young adults. I arrived early with my boyfriend who was playing piano that night with this group for the first time. The group was mostly comprised of members of a progressive church in town that catered to young people who felt stifled in more traditional worship services. We were to be there early for sound check and arrived promptly, ten minutes late. I was hoping we hadn’t begun stressing anyone out, but all seemed calm, in fact, oddly so. The entire setup was actually just beginning, and it took all of five minutes being there to see this sound check wouldn’t be starting anytime soon…

Seeing people work together is always fun—as a bystander. A hatred for participating in group projects does not hinder me at all in watching them, fully entertained. Here, at this sound check/dress rehearsal/people talking/shouting/musicians soloing for no good reason, and all at once/let me assert myself, I REALLY NEED TO, the viewing was especially savory.  I found myself looking around to see who was in charge, but couldn’t tell at all—I was glad to fit in. Each lovely contributor to the evening’s attractions didn’t seem to care about, well, anything really, expect what they happened to be doing privately at the moment.

Eventually I identified the speaker and, as I found out, coordinator for the program. He was dramatically practicing his presentation, a skit depicting a prison-worker, played by himself, giving a testimony. Had he ever been to a prison or watched Cops? He looked more like a hobo from the 1920s, or maybe a mechanic from a Detroit factory in his gray coveralls. No matter, he was definitely feeling the spirit at the moment, and was totally “psyched” about the program, so he said when finally everyone was casually called to the stage area. He talked up the night as he paced back and forth in an agitated manner, hyped on something. It was gonna be a “powerful night,” “really back to basics” and the “nitty gritty.” I guess prison could be described that way.

Meanwhile, the sound guys were actually buzzing around as well, cords dragging behind their erratic comings and goings. They seemed to be making a trip from the back of the room to the front for every cord, one by one, until I had to start reading before I went crazy over this total lack in economy of time used. Oh well. Not everyone schedules their errand routes systematically, with attention to minimum number of turns necessary to reach destinations, possibly growing immensely frustrated at any glitches in “the plan,” like I might. Might.

No, these were not those types at all. I marveled at their scurrying about, like so many mice, somehow still slowly setting up. We were now about 20 minutes from show time, sound check still pending.

To be honest, I can’t quite recall if sound check ever actually happened. I’m sure it did, probably some “one, twos” in the mics, a quick volume check for the drummer, bassist, and pianist, the latter being one of the more attractive I’d seen. Elton being my boyfriend was certainly satisfactory. Most of the reason details of the sound check are fuzzy is because of the distracting meeting that took place right before the program was starting. The speaker was again pumping up the contributors, I suppose some of them were responding favorably, but he was still the most energized by far. Right in the midst of his pep talk dropped what I like to call “the bomb.” This term seems most appropriate to me in conveying something absolutely wild and unexpected.

While the speaker chattered away, gesticulating enthusiastically, he made a comment regarding the sound for the night. One of the sound guys—a little on the large side, haphazardly dressed, a sort of cross between nerd and grunge—turned to him, and asked incredulously,

“Are you serious or are you fuckin’ with me?” 

I think I dropped my book, it’s hard to remember through my shock. What? At first I thought I must have heard him wrong, but a quick glance to those closest to him, including Elton, revealed it was real. Lots of wide eyes, glancing down at the ground, around the room and ceiling, perhaps wondering when the lightening bolt was coming. Because it had to be coming—dropping the f-bomb just minutes before a worship service? I immediately began denying any direct affiliation with any of this in my heart.

An awkward pause floated in the air for a few beats, then the speaker responded, “Yes.” And then kept talking. I heard throats being cleared, as everyone pretended nothing had happened. I’ve never been be very good at hiding my emotions, so I continued openly staring at the guilty sound guy, but you know what? The only guilt he was connected to was what I was feeling on his behalf. He had only chuckled to himself in that “tryna be bad ass” kind of way, not out of disrespect or malice, just cluelessness.

In the end, the program was one of the more imaginative ones I’d seen, unfortunately my imagination couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t understand the correlations being made between a fake prison testimony, an artist drawing a picture, a video clip showing scenes of nature and natural disasters, and lots of heartfelt singing interspersed throughout the program. What did it all mean? I’m sure there was some underlying theme I was supposed to be blessed by, but instead all I could think of was how confusing religion had become, even to us, the religious. We were trying to reach out to the youth in our community, but this abstract way of doing it, while very postmodern, lacked a certain essential continuity that I missed. I like to think God penned the Ten Commandments on two stone tablets for what the stone symbolized as well. Solid, like the foundation and corner strength of a building built to last.

At the time though, I couldn’t make any of these conclusions; my mind was fixated on one thing alone, the surprising word fuck.

The Most Expensive Form of Torture I've Ever Bought Myself

There are two things that I hate: heat and sweating. I was the kind of kid that would try to hangout with my mother while she sunbathed the summer afternoons away, but inevitably ended up retreating back into the house after about 20 minutes, dying of heat exhaustion. Blissful afternoons in my plastic fill-up swimming pool were another story; that nice, cool water on my skin sufficiently distracted me from the sun’s deadly fingers. Ironically nowadays, my vitamin D-seeking mother warns me against the dangers of those invisible assassins, UV rays, urging me to always apply sunscreen and wear a hat to protect my youthful skin, especially since her back was, and I quote, “so smooth at one time, until the sun got to it.” That last statement always does make me shudder and reach for my SPF 30, even if I do only put it on my nose.

Heat gets a thumb’s down, invariably making sweating my secondary enemy. Before I start sounding like a complete bum, let me assure you, I’ve played my fair share of sports, just not recently. What’s important here is that I don’t sweat easily—it takes me a bit to actually work it up, and I can deal with it that last mile or so, but after, it’s straight to the shower for me. What baffles me is that I have friends who claim they “love to sweat.” I’ve never heard anything so stupid in my life. Do they really expect me to believe that they enjoy the feeling of awkwardly wet, salty, smell all over them? I do realize some people seem unaware that perhaps one shouldn’t go walking around the grocery story in spandex that is clearly wet in the crotch and down their bum cavity. I mean really, that is not alright. Someone should tell that lady. Someone should also tell that man that doesn’t wipe off his equipment at the gym—I don’t want that disease, thanks.

Damp clothing has never been a perk for me—I remember crying as a kid thinking my tights were wet, crying as a kid in the women’s locker room after swim class because it was too humid to get dressed, and looking down in high school with horror as I realized my gray shirt had a sweat spot gleaming from under my arm. I almost cried.

And so, given my dislike for heat and sweating in my clothes, it remains a mystery to me how I ever let myself get talked into something that combined the two in the most awkward, intense, and horrific way I ever thought possible, Power Hot Yoga.

Several of my colleagues had recently discovered a “great little place” for a fantastic new workout, “Hot Yoga.” Now, I’ve lived in the Seattle area for about four years and have grown accustomed to routine sightings of well-to-do women of all ages rocking their yoga pants, stopping after their sessions for coffee at local cafes, the ones where I’ve been sitting all morning in a rather sedimentary manner. I say thinking burns calories though, I’m sure of it. I’d known yoga was all the rage and was aware as well that the new spin “Hot” was supposedly the next best thing ever.

“Anika, you have GOT to come with us, it’s such a good workout.”

“Oh yeah?” That is quite probably the last thing I would ever want to do…but everyone’s doing it.

“Yeah! You just feel so refreshed and flexible afterwards, it’s awesome.”

“Ah, sounds interesting.” Ok…maybe I’d be surprised…still though, I don’t know…

“You’re active, it’ll be easy for you.” Yes, I am athletic. Here I think is where I made my fatal error—pride, and feeling like I couldn’t say no to a physical activity when I was supposedly the active one…what they didn’t know what that I hadn’t touched my running shoes in months and feared this workout might reveal my secret indolence.

“So, you want to come Thursday?”

“…sure…” Oh shoot.

Thursday rolled around, and from about lunch on, I began feeling the slight twinges of anxiety and dread that often accompany things I do not want to do. How was this happening to me again? After work, I reluctantly made plans to carpool over with Mr. Howard Munson, the school’s history trivia master and instructor. I did this with a fake smile because Mr. Munson is 60 years old and how could I skip out if he was going, dang it?

Getting into the car and driving to our destination is kind of a blur now; all I remember thinking was that it was cold outside, but that I wouldn’t be for long. We arrived at the Wellness Center, a green building with no windows. This detail was concerning. The “lobby” consisted of a small sitting room with plenty of potted bamboo, pebbles, and trickling fountains. I heard once that you should never sleep with a fountain in the room or you might wet the bed—this is the thought that wedges into my mind whenever I see indoor fountains. It kind of destroys the peaceful purpose. I didn’t have too much time to meditate on this however, which is what I would have ended up meditated about in this trickly Zen garden, because the lady at the desk wanted to sign me in.

These next few moments truly determined my fate and looking back, I overlooked so many signs. The lady at the desk looked like a short man, but with really big boobs. I realize this sounds contradictory, but even with the rack, her body was so tight and muscular, it held none of that soft, pliant femininity one comes to expect. Instead, I was pretty sure that if provoked, her deeply tanned sinewy arms could jerk my head back to touch my feet, which would really hurt. She had me fill in my name and information on a form with strong overtones of “waiver.” I paid $15 for the class, was given a voucher for a second free one since I was a newcomer, and then paid $2 more because I didn’t have my own yoga mat. This particular tidbit was her signal that I was a novice and she asked if I’d ever done yoga before:

“No.”

“Well…” there was a long pause that made me stare at her, “it should be ok.” Wait, what should be ok? What does that mean? But did I ask this? No. I did not. But I should have. I looked at Munson who simply shrugged—he’d been here a few times before and had been one of the strong advocates for, “It’s not that bad at all!” Munson did ask her when the class was starting since we had another co-worker, Jorge, on his way, the guy who had coordinated us all meeting there at 7pm.

“Oh, we need to start now, we’re already running late. We lock the doors, so unfortunately he won’t be able to get in after we begin.” The door gets locked? What was this? How I ever propelled myself into that adjoining room, I’ll never know.

The humidity hit me in a tangible, hovering wave. It was like the blanket I’d bartered for once from a vendor in Mexico—kind of musty and uncomfortable. But unlike that blanket, I wasn’t sure the cost of this experience would be worth the effort. The room was a long rectangle whose front was walled with mirrors. I suppose this was for the same reason mirrors line the walls of weight rooms—one must check to make sure the moves are being done properly. Unfortunately, mere reflection could not hope to correct the problems that were my yoga moves. This mirrored wall would also tell me I was not the fairest one of all, and that in fact, I looked to be on death’s door.

The back row was already claimed, so I laid my mat down in the front row, off to the side. Directly behind me, a middle-aged, Caucasian man sat stretching. He had already sweated through his gray shorts, which now appeared several shades darker in most areas, particularly the awkward ones. How long had he been in here stretching? Note to the general public, in case you haven’t garnered this knowledge for yourself already, gray is not the color of choice for working out or warm weather. As mentioned, I learned this lesson in high school and will never repeat that mistake. Having already laid my mat down, I couldn’t very well move it after staring at Mr. Pits—that would seem rude. So I sat down and began some stretching of my own, mostly distracted by my rising body temperature. Things were about to get interesting.

Ms. She-man came in and with the gentle ringing on a gong, began taking us through a sequence of yoga moves whose foreign names I couldn’t repeat. The sequence seemed to go on and on, until we finally came back around to the first position. During the cycle, I did a horrible job of mimicking the moves and honestly felt just a little odd reaching up to adore a sun millions of miles away who hadn’t shown it’s face in months. The solemnity that pervaded the atmosphere of the room added to the heaviness in the air, but I just couldn’t connect. Not that I didn’t feel seriously desperate—I did.

We went through the cycle several more times—I’d grown quite warm and was drinking my water frequently, though not as frequently as I would have liked because the moves kept changing and I felt like I should keep up. To add more pressure to already aching nerves, on my left there was a lady who was doing all the moves, only with several more degrees of difficulty added on. When it was time for a leg lift supported by two hands, she only used one hand. When we stretched up on one side towards the ceiling resting on an arm and leg, her body was completely horizontal, leg extended, resting on her knee and fingers. How did her fingers get so strong? I didn’t want to know. Finally I just couldn’t look at her anymore—my self esteem was plummeting.

It was much better to look to my right, where Munson was camped, slowly doing the moves with all the measured momentum of a sloth, taking some breaks, and as the night progressed, doing the moves to about a fourth of the scope they were supposed to have. He eventually took to hanging in child’s pose, basically a face-down fetal position. I knew how he felt, only I had that pride thing ringing my neck and couldn’t let myself back down, despite my shameful attempts.

Then came the POWER part of this whole ordeal. The cycle we’d been going through continued, only Ms. She-man began announcing a quicker pace, to the point of near blackout for me. With vision blurring, I couldn’t tell what I was doing in the mirror, but it didn’t look like anything Ms. She-man or Miss Gumby next to me was up to, but I was focused too much on survival at this point to care. Feeling faint every time I stood up, and feeling my body was about to implode every time we dropped down to the mats, I swooped, stretched, and sweated through the next hour, the worst one I’ve ever lived through.

Few times have I felt more relieved than when Ms. She-man announced it was time to “cool-down.” Though this was a complete physical impossibility in the humid room, the knowledge that hell was actually coming to an end was like throwing up after an upset stomach, blissful. Had I any moisture left in my body, I would have wept.

Instead, I weakly laughed when Munson looked up from his child’s pose and whispered to me, “This is crazy!”

Yes, it was. The whole thing was, including him saying that. In 15 minutes, I plunged back into the cold air of the outside world, unsteady on my feet. I have no recollection of walking out through the lobby or handing my mat in. I just leaned on the car, leaned against the seat of the car, and closed my eyes on the way home, trying to overcome dehydrated nausea. I truly felt terrible.

We learned that we’d been at the wrong class entirely. This was the fault of our co-worker Jorge who’d finally arrived, found himself locked out, and noted with curiosity that he’d gotten the schedule wrong. Opps. Power Hot Yoga was for advanced yogis, and turned out to be the most expensive form of torture I’ve ever bought myself.

When I finally arrived home, after a half-hearted wave to Munson, I opened my apartment door and fell inside. As I lay on the carpet, its itchiness really didn’t bother me like it normally would have. In fact, I was relishing the way it was scratching my face, as I was pretty much numb otherwise. Only later after many glasses of water, a shower, and more lying down like a viral victim, could I even begin to groan at the humor of the experience. Will I ever be brave enough to attempt Hot Yoga again? No. I don’t think so, but more importantly, I don’t want to.

Public Transportation Trepidation

I, Anika Clark, am a survivor of Public Transportation. This epiphany struck on a long walk one summery Wednesday, where I concluded the word "transit" really tricked one into thinking there might be a lot of sitting involved. "Trek-it" seemed more appropriate that late afternoon months ago, though last night's dream is still vivid.

With excitement, I had boarded the bus from Kirkland to the University District. The term "Express" accompanied the number, 540, and I felt empowered. This is the sort of endeavor which, I am embarrassed to admit, reveals my true identity as a suburban novice. A novice characterized by only knowing the places she knows, dislikes asking for directions, despises getting lost, and harbors a particular hatred for instruction manuals. I would only realize the fatality of this combination later in the day, after several hours and miles in the wilds of Seattle and its surrounding territories. For the moment, I was both proud and enthused to immerse myself in "the people," to mingle in the circles of society, on the bus; this would make me modern, independent, and cosmopolitan. Right.

I had already been riding the Express Bus to the University of Washington campus for several mornings, easy enough since it stopped right where I needed it to, without me having to figure out how to push the signal/pull the cord (I couldn't really tell which). So far, hoping someone else would take care of this for me before we went sailing on past my stop had been working out splendidly. All was following suit that morning, I mused as I munched on my breakfast while admiring an undisturbed view of Lake Washington. We really did seem to be floating freely on the water as I had imagined as a kid, and it was nice to not have to be concentrating on the road. At this point, a serious false confidence was instilling itself in my head.

Sure enough, as the bus approached my destined stop, some blessed person pulled the cord, a muted bell dinged. In the woosh of airbrakes, I hopped off began a morning of class, coffee, studying, and then, feeling subsequently enlightened, decided I would head home. I knew the same bus made return trips to Kirkland about every half hour, so made my way over to the same stop. Unfortunately, after walking the 10 blocks back (I had not meant to wander so far...), I saw that I had just missed it and would have to wait. Oh well, it was a pleasant day, if a bit sunny, so I sat down and tried to make sure I looked like I knew what I was doing there. Thirty minutes later, I skipped onto my bus and was on my way. Sometime I would have to change busses to arrive at my house and I hadn't managed to look this up beforehand. But how hard could it be? Kirkland wasn't that big, and after my smooth morning experience, I wasn't worried. Hmm.

I figured getting off at the library would be opportune; I could use the computer and plan out this "route" home; in reality, I wasn't very far from home anyway, and naturally assumed this would be an easy task to plan. And it was--at least in terms of typing in my starting and ending points and pulling up the logistical information. The variable that would prove the problem would not be the King County Metro Trip Planner, or even the King County Metro itself, but me. Which is embarrassing.

The bus stop I needed was up the hill from the library-I could go directly home from here. Great! ...Wow, this hill had never seemed so steep from my car window...I trudged along with a bag full of books and other "essentials" I was quickly finding quite unnecessary. I had nearly reached the street above and saw the bus stop sign on the left side, just a few feet from the intersection. Checked the watch, a good 10 minutes to spare. Perfect. Somewhere between seeking shade and checking my watch again, I saw a bus breeze by about eight minutes later...wait, why did that bus say, "Factoria 245?" That was funny, that was supposedly the one coming to this stop...? It was then I realized an important detail: there is a reason why there are bus stops on both sides of the street. One for coming and one for going. I was on the wrong side of the street. And I had just missed my bus home.

Ok, ok, wait twenty minutes or just buck up and walk home? Why, walk of course, after all, I was an able-bodied young woman this side of a quarter century. And yes, that past tense verb "was" has been carefully chosen. I set off and immediately began to feel the heat of the day in the form of a trickle down my back. Among the many things that might perturb me on a daily basis, sweating is one of them. I hate sweating. I began to hate every step more and more as the incline increased. I began hating my books, the other ridiculous things burdening my bag, which was burdening my shoulder. I hated walking, I hated...it was then that I began to feel the familiar sensation of frustration-induced irrational tears behind my eyes, a disgusting response that has plagued me since childhood.

There I was: dragging, drooping and sniffing my way up the long hill home in a most unsightly fashion. No little blue engine mentality here. At least I couldn't see myself, otherwise I would have cried more. It was tough being all alone, but what was worse was the disaster the day had turned into. Just because I didn't know how to ride a silly bus, humiliating. I would not be calling for help like some little weakling though. I would suffer...I would...sniff sniff.

I eventually arrived home, throwing my bag and myself on the floor--actually, I sort of fell through the doorway onto the carpet, utterly and completely exhausted. Such great expectations certainly make for such epic fails. Since that fateful trip, I have mustered up the courage to get back in the saddle, so to speak, and ride again. Always with a book, always with a fully-charged ipod and sometimes a first aid kit, because you just never know. No more catastrophes thus far though; knock on wood, knock on paneling, knock on vinyl linoleum, knock on something, lest I knock myself right out again.

Matters of the Heart.

I hate sentimentality, such needless tears and drama. Because of this, I hate romantic comedies-the illegitimate emotional playing to the audience makes me want to eat my heart out, but for opposite reasons than the movies intend. This, in addition to the painfully obvious plot-lines that one could trace despite having no fingers, lost to frostbite after exposure to said comedies, makes the genre irritating.

But you know what's even more nauseating? The horrid truth that I become an insomniac, that my stomach tosses, that I worry till my eyes hurt because of sentimental, emotional responses to just about every damn thing that happens to me. I am, in a word, a girl. And I type this word, highlight it, and click "italics" with a fair amount of disdain.

I would say I wish I could figure my condition out, but the truth is, when I start poking around, it just gets worse. Instead of logical reasoning, I only find layers upon layers of soft mush that are mushing together in quite an unappetizing manner. So I'd rather not think about it, but then I can't forget it either. It's the mania in me, what can I say...that's why it's best to stay silent. And not snoop in dark corners.

The heart of the matter is that I am beginning to understand why I hate sentimentality so much. I am, apparently, exhibiting a very concerning reaction against what I am. This seems unhealthy and even more pathetic than a romantic comedy.

This all being said, a bit of an explanation is probably merited. There are too many tales of such moments in my history to relate in their entirety, but a handful is all we need...

Caldwell, Idaho, 1992: Anika the Child runs into her room, throws herself upon a flower-print comforter face up, and screams for five piercing seconds, out of unexplained frustration. She lies on her bed in the silence afterwards, thinking about the scream.

Elementary school, 1996: Anika the Prepubescent Adolescent cries in the bathroom stall after overhearing a piece of ridiculous gossip fabricated about her by people she doesn't like. She blames herself for their hate and keeps crying.

High school, 2000: Unrequited love and rejection in no way damper Anika the Tiny Teenager in her devotion to that Pimpled High School Boy and she looks for moments to be around him. She feels a sense of validation that makes her cheeks warm when he says she is cool and a good friend...just not a girlfriend.

College, 2005: Anika the Idealist dates a melancholy musician and believes she can save both of them from himself. She argues with her dad who says it will never work. She only realizes after seven dramatic months the fame that she could have claimed from actually crying a real river.

Current era: Anika the Adult is confused by how un-adult she can behave, how easily she bruises. Such unwarranted sensitivity strikes her as stupid and silly. It makes her want to go to sleep for a long, long time.

But she can't, trust me. Insomia...

It seems in matters of the heart, what matters is the heart. Expressions like this make me wish I was a jellyfish, which has no heart. It also has no brain and no bones. Perfect.