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.

Note to Self:

There is something therapeutic about writing--I've always known this, as I inevitably turned to paper and now my laptop whenever in a melancholy mood. Lately, I've also felt the urge to write to stave away the fearful feeling that my life is futile, that I'm getting old. It's not my age that bothers me exactly--though the tentative beginnings of fine lines on my face does make me lean in for a closer look, then back away again because ignorance truly is bliss. Rather, it's the thought that I am getting older and there's a heck of a lot left on my "to-do" list, things I've always envisioned accomplishing while young--actually young, not just at heart. And so I write because, A) writing lets me "get it out," relatively painlessly and without judgement; B) I like writing and therefore feel a little happier having finished some little ditty that amuses me, and C) there are these secret hopes and desires that have been festering since I was a child--that I might write and publish some day, you know, just for fun. My writing also bleeds into the lyrical category, accompanied by music, sung by an oddly familiar voice.

With these things in mind, my 26 years seem to stretch out in front of me, languidly, but too much so, and I feel like giving them a nice quick kick, a proper scolding for being so relaxed. So what if I cry...

Because it's not just enough to have ideas--I know this. It seems my fatal flaw is a lagging volition--keeping my feet moving. Children's author and illustrator Tommy de Palo once wrote, "First one foot, now the other." This is the best kind of mantra for me. Swimming the English Channel takes some paddling along the way, stepping on the moon means miserably unrecognizable meals , and much as I would like to believe that for three easy payments of $19.95, my life can be changed, there's always the shipping and handling.

There you have it, or rather, there I have it, since this is a "Note to Self." The shadows of my previous melancholy this week are in hiding for the moment under a splendidly sunny sky today. My skin is happy, my fingers warm. I will refer to these musings from October to March.

"First one foot, now the other." I'm on the pavement now, and I'm walking.

French Toast.

This morning I woke up before my alarm rang, but didn't get up because I didn't want to get up, even though I've always heard it is best to get up when you awake naturally the first time. Thursday is a day of rebellion for me, having fought through the week thus far with a smile, sometimes slung precariously on my face, but there all the same.

Thursday is a day when I am both tired and the most apathetic because I am tired and no longer care as much as I would under more healthy circumstances about being so unhealthy. In addition, with Friday around the corner, I feel invincible to any consequences my apathy will provoke. Such morbid musings are common on a Thursday and today is Thursday.

These were my preliminary thoughts this morning as I lay in bed, attempting to ignore, most rudely, my bedside clock. I then thought about wardrobe options for the day, but that proved too rigorous at that hour, and was saved for my shower, a time when I struggle to come up with all kinds of solutions to life's many difficulties while hot water beats on my head. Lately topics have ranged from balancing my budget, last minute lesson plans, whether or not I should shave, and today, what to wear. Success rate is ok, given my state of mind, but only if the water is quite hot.

Finally, face, hair, and clothing taken care of, I meandered out to the kitchen, drawn magnetically to the next station in my morning sequence: French Press Coffee Device, because morning will stay morning without it. As I listened to the kettle simmering and the faint hum of two overhead fluorescent tubes, toast began to sound delicious and that, possibly mixing subconsciously with the blessed title "Fresh Press" evoked a hell of a good idea: French Toast. I only eat French Toast about two times a year because I only think of it two times a year, and it always remains a randomly novel food choice that both excites me and makes me feel creative. A quick whipping of eggs, salt, and pepper, a dousing of sourdough in said mellow elixir, momentary sizzling in the pan, enter butter and maple syrup = happy me.

Strange how something so inconsequential should make me feel so tickled. All of Thursday's depressive density meant nothing. Apathetic again? Sure, about Thursday's nonsense. But oh so optimistic about my French Toast.

Yes, please, thank you.

Fetus.

While sitting on this Sunday morning, distant memories of a blog I once use to keep up meandered through my mind. Oh that one! Yes, this one, six months since. Today, my brain feels the biological bursting of six months of incubation. I'm a little worried about what I will find in here, but I'm going to investigate and figure it out...

Shorty Get Low...cause I'm collapsing on the dance floor.

The lights were low, giving everything a luminous glow, though I could see paint peeling on the walls, the bar chipping. Keeping things dim was a management move, apparently. Not that anyone would really notice anyway, in their revery.

While contemplating with some horror the way the DJ was mixing clashing beats as he changed songs, I saw them: the couple. The couple on the dance floor, gettin' down. Literally.

And though this may sound like it's about to become quite steamy, only in the sense of glazed, glazed with pain. Hip pain.

His shorty was doing her thing, swaying and dropping in slow motion, but as I watched, I began to sense a sort of disconnectedness between the couple. He was standing before her, seemingly enjoying the moment...but was he?

At first I thought the slight grimace on his face was the tough guy exterior popular among dancing dudes-the expression that says "Yeah, that's right, she's my girl, we got it going on" and "I am not homosexual," not that you would even mistake that part because he's much to tentative and off-rhythm. The grimace was definitely there and as I observed, with growing curiosity, it also grew. She was short and as she balanced below his chin and out of viewing range, he went ahead and closed both eyes tightly. This guy has a problem! I thought, is he ok?

Why no, actually. His fist was balled up tight on his right hip, near the socket--he had injured himself in some sort of mishap and any sort of movement was eliciting a painful response. So ok, the guy was hurting, his girl was clueless (completely absorbed in "her thing"), so why was he attempting to dance along with her? Honestly, she seemed quite fine with solo work, but he was also moving in an awkwardly stiff sway-from the hips no less, well, hip, since only one was working properly. It was a slow rock back and forth, leg braced and sticking out. I realized I was grimacing too.

The grand finale of this side-show was his "drop down." While she was waving serpentine, he began to drop lower and lower in front of her, until his hip kind of gave out and he resorted to "embracing" her knees--out of "adoration," and mind-blowing system failure. At this point, I could no longer contain myself and laughed out loud, loudly under the cover of the fat beats booming from the speakers-thank you Mr. Bad DJ for at least the disguise of distraction. I have no idea how he pulled it off, but Bad Hip Boyfriend managed to wrangle his way back up, with the aid of her waist I think (though I'm sure he was cursing her for twisting it so much in his time of need). He actually kept at it for a surprisingly long time, until they walked out, shorty bouncing toward the door, battle-beaten boyfriend dragging along after her.

His leg was the last to exit the building.

How now...

Are you an educator?

Are you tired?

Are you sick?

Are these three strangely synonymous?

Does the "sick and tired" persist on your off-duty?

As Lucille Ball once asked so eloquently, do you "pop out at parties and feel unpoopular?"

Thank goodness there are little breaks here and there to save us from utter decomposition, but in the mean times, endurance is of the essence. In those wearisome class periods, end-of-the-quarters, and semester finals, the following ideas may come in handy.

Survival Tip #3: Multifaceted to Fit.

1. Use solid-colored drink containers for whatever beverage makes you happy.

2. Bulk up on snacks, I mean, bring lots of snacks on which to bulk up on...never mind.

3. For fielding those inevitable futile questions, use the "Five Finger Sign," a simple open hand up in the face of the curious terrorist.

Regular forms of said futility:

• "Can I have more time on this assignment? I was sick, my internet mysteriously broke, my grandma died, and then my goldfish too."

• "Can I turn in these assignments from last semester? Last school year? Cause the same class is offered this year too-I'm just not in it, but I was."

• "Can you arbitrarily change my grade even though I've done nothing to merit this senseless act? How about if my mother comes in and threatens you and says things that make no sense? Do higher authorities have veto-rights over your gradebook?"

Sometimes "No" just doesn't work; the "Five Finger" is a little more believable. Plus, it saves

on the voice and gives you time to ponder things like, "I veto YOU."

4. The Grand Finale, the "Go-to"

Sick and tired? Clearly, you need to lie down and just go to sleep. Right now. No veto.

How-To: The Continuing Story

Survival Tip #2

The Meeting Position

Bored of the routine? Try the Meeting Position.

Meetings are those little get-togethers always foretold of as "short affairs," and yet. You know how it goes.

And keeps going.

Ooohhhh.

Reliable? Every Wednesday.

Rigid? Often.

Romantic? Probably not.

Restless? Pick me.

Ok, so include "Resourcefulness," category "Rescue Devices," and see what happens:

1. "The Notebook," welcomed for notes of the meeting, of course, and with endless possibilities. Consider:

• Connect-the-Dot creations: anything goes...is that a lampshade of so and so's face?
• Gestural Drawing: a particularly ingenious option as the object is to draw nearby people without looking at one's paper. Oddly placed facial features make this gratifying every time.
• Flip books using the corner of the notebook pages. Perhaps wait to flip them gleefully in all of their animated glory till after the meeting.
• Ongoing games of M.A.S.H. Remember all the ways you learned to manipulate the game as a 4th grader, and the ones you perfected last meeting.
• Grocery lists for the pragmatic, weary, and hungry.
• Doodles that allow release of all those pent up "work emotions," everything from boredom (lazy leafy patterns) to rage (hangman gone very apathetic).
• As I said, the possibilities are hard to expire. Have at it...

2. Secret signs and symbols: For best results, share collective agreement on interpretations.

Unless confusion and chaos is desired, as it very well might be.

• Hand-motions: colloquial and common, everything from thumb's up to slashing movements across important arteries work.
• Eye brows: wriggles, skips, waves, culminating in the classical cocked stance. Generally, this codes for "Oh my g...STRANGE."
• Mouth: pursed, mobile corners (imagine they are hooking with thread and pull on the strings), or open abyss/yawn when things get especially windy.
• Various twitches, ticks, shrugs, stretches, and bone-cracking techniques when you just have to MOVE and hear something besides so and so...
• Mimes: "The Hunchback of Notre-Dame," "Moby Dick," and the "Birth of Shiva."

3. Borrowing...Thieving

• Waterbottles
• Pens
• Other people's precious notebooks
• Computers
• Bags
• Money
• Wallets
• Social Security Cards

*These items will be kept only until the owner notices, which could be for a very long time depending on execution, and if the item belongs to the group "absent minded professor."

4. The Meeting Position. Ah yes, here it is.

Ambiguous, yet effective in nearly all situations.

Throw down this moves when all else fails, or just for pure pleasure.

Meeting attendee should:

• assume a position of interest, even of intense fascination in what is being discussed.
• slowly, almost imperceptibly, this position should melt, slowly.
• most logically be lying on the floor in the end, the puddle stage. Eyes closed.
• maintain this position for at least three minutes for maximum effect.
• enter a meditative state, which is what's been desired all day. Delightful.

Best of luck and do let me know how it goes.

The How-To.

Surviving the Workplace...

and other applicable scenarios.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Sick day. And sick of it. Today reports of rumors, rigors, and other unreasonables causes me to say, "Rubbish."

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Circumstances sometimes stink. This is a given. Unfortunately. More variable is how we handle the stench. Will we, for example, rationalize everything so that it's really "nothing?" Or if it does resemble "something," clearly indicate it certainly isn't our fault? Conversely, will we allow for a little expansion of the issues at hand?...making them into epic episodes, heady with good gossip material and emotional trauma, and still, not our fault?

There's really no easy fix. Humans just tend to make depressing matters all the more well, depressing most of the time. Even so, some coping skills may help alleviate the pain. Beginning today, a series of "Survival Tips" will be available to those in need. Though some are specific to certain situations, please feel free to adapt any and all that catch your feverish fancy.

And so, in the face of madness,

Survival Tip #1:

Act according to the "Rosa Parks Model."

Whatever you do, DO NOT give up that bus seat, aka remain steadfast.

From now on, at work whenever you're asked to do anything extra, a firm attitude must be implemented: "Oh...I'm sorry...I'm not gonna be able to do that." This is said slowly, while shaking your head, presumably out of deep regret.

When faced with an unattractive task, pull a "Rosa:"

The photocopier says, "No more copies for you!"

You say, "No more copies for anyone."

The reimbursement form says, "Enumerate all expenses, both real and imagined, that is, prospective."

You say, "Sounds too nebulous for me. I can't do this in good conscience."

You are asked to sub for someone too stressed to show up for work.

You slowly lie down on the floor and close your eyes.

Etc. and best of luck...

Espresso, Yoga, and Really Small Dogs.

Words are flying out like
endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe

Lyrics from "Across the Universe" (the Beatles) sift through air laden with espresso and artificial sweetener--I am distracted by a GIANT creature lumbering past the window. It is a Great Dane in blotches of brown and white, accompanied by a woman and stroller, both of which could probably ride this dog instead of jaunting along beside it. They are just one of the many such ensembles dotting the sidewalks in downtown Kirkland on any given morning--woman and beast, endeavoring to do that great deed which they have done every day, "the walk," except for when at the salon getting the hair done (yes, even the dog), possibly with tomorrow's walk in mind.

In the lowlights of dawn, I grope for black dress pants, a black shirt, black flats, and for good measure, a brightly patterned scarf. Contrasts, you know.

My mind drifts, perhaps not across the universe, but at least across the I-405 overpass, down to the waterfront apartments. I have not made a habit of peeping into rich condominium windows, but if I were to, I know Women A, B, C, and D would also be reaching for black pants. Yoga pants. Short socks, tennis shoes with new performance insoles placed carefully inside, sports bra and sport shirt of sweat-resistant synthetics, light jackets (insert name brand of choice) = ready to go. They are dressed for a Half-Marathon Challenge at the least, but a walk along Lake Washington will do.

Well, not quite ready to go, actually. The warrior companions, as the ancient Anglo-Saxon tribes called their kinsmen, must be readied as well. Women A, B, C, and D are going to walk their dogs. Not the yo-yo trick. Real dogs. Real, yet unlike the great beast I just saw outside my window, really small. Really small dogs.

Woman A nearly cries herself after stepping on Princess's delicate paw with her new New Balance Performance Runners. Such an unearthly noise to come from such a tiny, irresistibly cute body. Princess is the size of a NFL game ball. Woman A quickly snatched up Princess, coos in her face, and tenderly wraps her little self in a sport sweater, just Princess's size, to keep her warm on this morning's excursion.

Princess will only be able to last about two blocks though, hurt paw, you know. Woman A will again swoop up the dog and carry her for the last two blocks.

Woman B brushes her Fredrick's fluffy hair until evenly full of static electricity. Fredrick sparks over to the door dutifully, waits for his studded collar, so he matches with Mommy's watch. Fredrick feels proud of himself, so much so that he begins to quiver all over. He is surprised to feel himself pee right on the front-door rug.

Woman C awakens to something cold on her hand. She groans. She knows it is George. George is hungry, as usual. It has been a long time since he hoovered up the last kernels of kibble from his dish some two hours ago. George must nudge Woman C's hand from the floor because the very thought of heaving his stubby frame onto the bed makes him even more famished and would require levitation. For now, his paws have a ring of thick skin ruffling them; his breathing is labored.

Woman C groans again. She predicts her nearly daily trek to Starbucks for her morning hot chocolate, whole milk and whip, yes please, will seem extra far this morning. She hopes some passing BMW will at least appreciate her triathlete attire. After all, dedication should count for something. It's only been four days since she walked to Starbucks and only one day since she drove there.

Woman D breaks the stillness in her room with a scream: "Arieeeeeeeeeellll!" She noticed her absence while applying moisturizing bronzer spf 15. Where was Ariel? Not in her cushy bed, not under the plush pillow with dog-bone print, not under the silk bedskirt. Where was Ariel? Had she been taken? Crooks these days look for any opportunity. Ridiculous ransoms, power games. Goodness, there might be an intruder right now!

Woman D tries to stifle the panic quickly tightening in her throat. She picks up a wire hanger and creeps out her door, into the quiet hallway. The sitting room and entry way are dim, gauzy light from the curtained windows making the scene hazy and eerie. She carefully tip-toes down the stairway--"oh no!" she's forgotten her iphone upstairs, too scared to go back. Bare feet on the cold stone landing make her shiver. All seems quiet...

"Argh!!!!!" Piercing scream, a sudden movement by the door. Woman D's purse is moving. Moving. Two pointy ears pop out--Ariel is ready for their walk early in her trusty portable and fashionable "carrier."

..."don't you be so bad..." Espresso and sweetener and music drift back into my revery.

...Words are flying out like
endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe...

I slip across I-405.

I don't own Yoga pants.

I don't own a small dog.

I just drink coffee and smirk at the combination of the two.