It's not you...

It’s better the second time. There’s less nervous energy and more of an anticipation to begin. Tension that’s nearly pleasant if not for the fear that I’d make the wrong move, say the wrong thing, do something to kill the mood.

I slept well last night, waking this morning with the absolute knowledge that my turn would come at noon today. I confirmed the meeting time and made sure I was prepared yesterday. I visualized it beforehand – thinking through how I should look, what I should say, the overall feeling of the event. I could picture the room with its comfortable furniture and darkened lighting. I wasn’t nervous, I mused this morning, feeling rather odd about the fact. More…ready.

Prepared as I was though, I still had that fluttery feeling in my stomach. There's always a chance something could go terribly wrong. Oh, and I want eight, would settle for three but hoped to be offered six.

I arrived in the room, passed by the food and drink presented attractively on my way to a bottle of water, then found a seat in the back of the room. I smiled greetings at the members of the committee I knew, then reviewed my notes and slides once more. I was scheduled second and settled in to watch the first presenter make his case.

“Wait.” The chair of the committee said when he started to speak. “Where is your presentation?” When told there wasn’t one prepared, he looked around at the other people seated at the table and said, “No slides at all?” Clearly bewildered and dismayed, he told someone they might as well turn the lights back on. I was confident that I – with my pretty and perfect slides and practiced remarks – would make a better impression. I told myself to sit calmly to wait for my turn, trying not to breathe too quickly as no-slides-for-you man finished up.

My speaking style – modesty aside – is quite good. I tell stories, use simple language as much as possible and focus strictly on why you should care about what I do versus the technical details. Those same details bore me so why should I inflict them on others? Especially those who have money I’d like to obtain? There’s another little gift that ensures I tend to test and speak pretty well. The nervous terror that forces me to over-prepare eases once the event begins.

My focus is complete and it usually wipes out any nerves or worry or fear. Once it’s started – whatever it is – I’m engrossed and living completely in that particular moment. What’s on that slide consumes my thoughts. Those test questions are all that’s important. I’m telling an audience what I know in the way I decided worked well. And watching people learn, cock their heads in confusion or nod in easy understanding, is a rush. When it’s going well, I’m delighted. And I don’t do it so often that I have a multitude of negative experiences to remember.

Questions are where I shine though. I’m truly interested in hearing what people think is wrong or strange. If I can fix it, I will. The focus shifts to giving people the specific information they seek and when presenting material I’ve spent years studying, there’s little with which I’m completely unfamiliar. I can pull off confident respect in those situations quite easily – I think it has something to do with standing behind that podium, everyone paying attention to me.

I returned to my seat after a satisfied nod from Boss and being dismissed by the chair of the meeting. I crossed my legs, admiring once again the adorable brown flats I wore today. They have a big satin bow behind the leather toe on a suede shoe. There’s satin trim around the edges too. They’re absolutely adorable and I savored the very sight of them as I let myself ease away from the intensity of the talk. They're blissful, the moments after it’s over. It went well, the anticipation is gone and there’s this euphoric mix of relief and pleasure and knowing these other people aren’t going to do as well as I did. He used too many big words. She said, “How do you make this bigger?” as if she’d never used PowerPoint before. That one mumbled so much that two people asked him to speak up on the small room.

After the presentations ended, I gathered my keys and water bottle and wandered from the room. I wasn’t as nervous beforehand, but the pleasure after this meeting was as strong as the first time I presented for this group. I skipped down some stairs, then exited the building, confused as all hell as to where I was. I frowned, knowing I was lost when I realized I’d never been on this side of the building. Was it some sort of strange balcony? With a bridge? I wandered around the outside, finally seeing something that looked vaguely familiar. After several more minutes, I made it back to the office – still pleased and relaxed and feeling lovely about life.

But, well, when faced with a relationship, you expect the sex to be good. The rush of emotion, the big payoff, the aftermath that eases into deep sleep. There’s a lot to be said for the day to day though. What you discuss, if you have similar senses of humor. The same hobbies are of interest. You feel more good than bad when together because of this mutual affection and appreciation. If all those things are missing – if the sex is all that’s really worthwhile, perhaps you’re not overly compatible.

My point? I think I want to break up with my job.

It’s not that I’m soul-crushingly miserable, but I am unhappy a good part of the time. There are good moments, but they are few and far between. The lows get me too low – rejected papers, projects that just won’t work, analyses that have to be done and redone and redone again (and again). And the highs just aren’t doing it for me most of the time. Papers get accepted? Eh. And experiment goes well? Fine. Get a project approved? It should have happened two months ago. It’s just so slow and painful and demoralizing sometimes. And in the current funding climate, it seems like a good time to leave the sciences. There’s just not a tremendous amount of money for research right now.

“If I had a plan B,” I told Friend weeks ago over caramel pie (Great. Now I want caramel pie.), “I’d be gone. If I could just figure out what else to do, I’d leave research pretty easily.”

But I didn’t know what to do. Just apply for an office job? I’m not going back to school, so that’s out. Utilize undergrad training and go work in a lab? There just isn’t a good option.

Then Dave came and reminded me of one. I have a Masters degree that matches his. It qualifies me to make twice as much money as I currently earn. I’d have to work about half as hard on work that is easy to the point of being boring.

“I’m so good at FreeCell.” Dave confided. “There’s just not enough to do during the day and I have to be around, so I play computer games.”

I could write my blog, I thought with pleasure. Or work on books that only I would read! Perhaps dabble in research in all that free time since my current interests would play into that career, albeit in a small way.

I’ve been thinking about what I want – what I think is important. If you look at The Plan (update comes tomorrow! It’s going to…suck really badly. Not looking forward to it at all.), you’ll note that very little of it is involved with work. It’s just a tiny piece of how I see my life. And research doesn’t lend itself well to sitting in the corner while one indulges many outside interests. Dave’s job – or one like it – does that very well.

I’d like to live near my family – head north and reacclimate to the cold and feel at home. I’d like to make enough money to live very comfortably. Starting near, if not in, 6 figures would do that quite nicely. I’d like to be healthier – have a job that allows me to come home feeling something other than mentally exhausted so that I could cook and exercise. I’d like to be more involved at church, do more volunteer work – perhaps tutor at the homeless shelter though I can’t ever find time to set that up. I’d like to seriously consider having a child when I’m about 35. I’m not sure why that particular age – just seems right to me (and safely far away at this point). I’d like to be able to travel. I want to contribute to the world – go to work and feel like being there matters.

All of those things would be possible with a career change. So what am I doing?

I think I’m clinging to the good parts of what I currently do. The presentation today felt good. Checking those proofs of my paper was very nice too. I like contributing when I go to meetings. I enjoy going to seminars where I understand more and am befuddled less. The sex is still good! There must be something worth saving! It makes me sad to think about not doing this anymore – we’ve been together a long time, my research and me. All those contacts in industry and academia. All that knowledge I’d never use outside my given niche. Those papers I battled to get published. Those file drawers of paperwork I’ve saved – highlighted articles, approved IRB forms, manuals, texts, binders.

I’m also in therapy. Had a major bout of depression earlier this year. Can’t get myself to work on this grant that maps my research future. Feel very disconnected and confused as to how I got here and where I’m going next. I could easily switch to this different field. I understood the concepts for it in grad school – it’s very straightforward. I have an idea on how to brush up on my training in my current city. I’m at the point where I’m scripting conversations in my head that allow me to move in this new direction rather than wondering how to remain in research. I’m not quite ready yet – I’m going to talk to Boss about exploring the opportunities in that particular field. The chair of that department is one of my collaborators anyway. I think I can dip my toe in the water without risking too much in the immediate future.

So, at the very least, I’m thinking of seeing other people. And once that happens – once someone acknowledges that there’s something missing in a relationship and starts looking for what will make her happier, it’s generally just a matter of time before she walks away. I’m not sure right now – I still plan to go to work tomorrow and plan projects, work on my grant, make progress on my list of things to do – but my feeling is that I might change some professional plans in the near future.

I just don’t think I want to do this forever. In spite of the good environment, amazing opportunities, and moments of pleasure and satisfaction, I think I want out. Much as I respect research and the people who do it, it may not be for me. The good thing is that my research can't start a blog and start writing about how I betrayed it by going in a different direction. So at least there's that.

Edited (the morning after): I slept better last night than I have in recent memory. I think it was a mixture of having the presentation out of the way, an idea of how to wiggle my way out of research and moderate amounts of sleep deprivation over the past week or so. (As in I slept only 5-6 hours instead of 7 or 8.)

I woke up and wandered down the hall to find an email from the chair of the committee I saw yesterday. They're not only offering every penny I wanted, they offered additional assistance with grant writing since this work is "tremendously important" and I have "considerable talent with which to complete it."

Two points. The first is that Boss, who I wanted to be anywhere but in that meeting, stayed for deliberations and clearly talked me up to a great degree. Which makes me feel guilty for being annoyed with him recently when he's so clearly on my side.

Second, if we're using my relationship scheme introduced here, it's like remembering why I fell in love in the first place! People think my research and I make a good couple! We do important work together and when things are good, it's challenging and amazing. So I'm fluttering under the praise right now. Thrilled that I can do some work I've been planning for years. Picturing the papers that are going to come out of this and gleefully plotting where I will send the results (which should be exquisite) (and the journals that rejected my poor initial papers aren't getting them) (unless Boss tells me to send them there.)

There are still problems. The unhappiness I've suffered since being here isn't erased by a couple of good moments. Except that for right now it is - the focus on this work will, in the near future, push my plans of escape aside.

I'm not sure whether that's good or bad.

Not such a fun game

“It hurt to come in today.” I confided to Friend as we had a late lunch. “It hasn’t been this bad for a while. But I wanted to stay home so badly. Go back to sleep. Watch TV. Pretend work didn’t exist. I changed outfits three times. Had to curl my hair after I straightened it. Kept putting on makeup. Dragged myself out of the house when I wanted to cling to the doorway. Had I not been so concerned about my responses, I would have canceled with Dr. Counselor and stayed home.”

The short story is that Boss and I had a bit of a tiff. He said something I didn’t like – expressed an opinion in public that was the exact opposite of one he’d shared with me privately. It wasn’t a big deal – I just have a particular problem with people who change their stories. It started with my defense – a story that is long and painful and that I’ve only partially shared.

Basically, I was set to defend on a set date. Let’s say May 13. I set up appointments with everyone on my committee, some of whom had vague concerns about my lack of publications. I had a mentor – an MD I both liked and respected – who blew me off for months. My advisor was also very hands off at that point for various personal reasons. On May 6, I received an email that was addressed to my entire committee. Mentor decided that I wasn’t ready to defend. We should instead use the scheduled time to discuss the research I would complete over the next year. As I was in town between interviews 6 and 7 with two left to go, this was not something I wanted to hear. I still make faces when I hear Mentor’s name.

Advisor, though… Having been nothing but supportive, he immediately started switching sides depending on who else was in the room. It is infuriating to constantly guess how someone feels about you. Which is why it’s rather surprising that I chose to do exactly that in a personal situation. But such is life. The defense ended up working out, albeit much later than I had scheduled. I kicked and screamed and fought like hell. I lost. In the process, I grew bitter and depressed and tired and scared. My time here has exacerbated this problem.

Dr. Counselor listened, then started to offer advice. “Be respectfully bold!” “Confront him with your concerns in a positive way.” “Are you an adult, responsible for your own well-being?”

“I don’t think I’ll talk to him about it.” I insisted. “I might have overreacted and I don’t want to make things worse when they’re already a bit tense. Plus, I don’t even know that I care that much.”

He pondered me for a moment. Then asked if he’d told me the names of his chairs.

“I’m sure you have not.” I said, warning myself not to get too irritated with him. My sleep schedule is all kinds of messed up after my busy weekend. My fuse is short and I struggle to hide my feelings when I’m upset.

“Stand up.” He said. “I want to show you something.”

I sighed and moved away from the box of tissues. Well, not too far. The office is tiny – filled with a desk and 3 chairs, book shelves on one wall. A door is located in the corner. I moved a single step toward it and waited.

“Stand in the corner.” He said, and I moved to the yellow oval (pictured for clarity - there aren't colored circles in Dr. Counselor's office). Looked at him dubiously. “This is the version of you God created. Spunky, full of joy and hope. She experiences natural highs, is happy and powerful and fulfilled. Ageless and beautiful.”

I’ve never used ‘spunky’ to describe myself, I thought, and not much of that description sounded familiar. I was uncomfortable in yellow. So it was with some relief that I was asked to move to my left and landed on light blue.

“This is your conscience. Your sense of right and wrong, not only for yourself but for the world. Strong, serene, affirming all that’s right and eager to correct that which is wrong. There’s tremendous power here – control over how your life is going.”

Moving left again, I stepped into the green oval and rested my hands on the back of the chair I never use.

“This,” Dr. Counselor explained, “is Katie, the scientist. Your intellect. OK, now we have to go over here.” He motioned to the dark blue area, so I moved there and stood facing him.

“Here you’re scared. Wounded and timid. You may be chronologically young, but you feel terribly old. Small.”

“Heavy.” I said, for the first time feeling as if I truly identified with one of these spaces. “Like it hurts to carry my body around sometimes.”

“Like you want to sleep.” Dr. Counselor said, tipping his head in sympathy. “Just be alone and safe and not deal with the world. And maybe not wake up?”

I stopped crying and sighed at him. “I always want to wake up. I like to sleep very much, but I don’t want to die. Honestly.”

“One more.” He said, moving me one step to my right. There wasn’t much room there – I was resting one leg against the chair I always use. “This is anger – where all the blame and rage lives. I don’t know that you stay here for very long. This Katie appears, but she tends to retreat pretty quickly.”

I nodded. Stepped out of the red oval without being prompted. That put me right back at home – in the deep blue.

“You live there lately.” He said gently. “And I think movement into the other spaces is ruled by that fear. That sadness. That people hurt and disappoint you. That any further effort will only bring pain.”

He pointed around the room as he explained his concept. Dr. Counselor, by the way, is the purple diamond. I’m going to use my helpfully constructed figure with the colored ovals as I think through this.

He said Yellow was the core desire. So Yellow wants to be happy. Seeks the personal space that feels really purposeful and good and right. Wants love and security, friendship and laughter.

Dark Blue desperately seeks distraction from the sorrow. Artificial highs – food (did I tell you about the delicious brownies I made?), drink (not so much - I had one drink all weekend and didn't care for more), drugs (Celexa? It helps, but I don't think it's a high), sex (turned that down, actually), even work. Anything to avoid thinking about the pain. The awful, terrible pain. Standing in this space too long makes me willing to drag others down with myself. To feel some relief when someone else stumbles because it lessens the isolation.

I admitted to being critical when I looked at Red. Picking people apart after they had somehow wronged me. But I do it mostly to myself.

“Be careful.” He noted, wagging his finger at me. “Don’t screw up again. You were wrong and stupid and ugly so you don’t want to go that again. Maybe next time it will be worse.”

I nodded, took a tissue to wipe my eyes as I recognized lines I’ve told myself.

“Dark Blue and Red feed off of each other. Can easily control nearly everything you do. We don’t want that. They muddy everything up. It’d be good to stay on that side of the room.” He motioned to the lighter colors in my diagram.

Light Blue, therefore, sets boundaries. Defines control. Says that wine is fine, but one glass is adequate. Sex is good, but only works for me in a strong relationship where the feelings are comfortable as well as intense. Light Blue should confront the wrongs in the world – not necessarily to change them for me, but because I was strong enough to help others too.

“So yellow wants to be happy. Stand up. Go over there.” Rolling my eyes, I did.

“I want to be happy. I want a good relationship with Boss – a man I both like and respect. I want to do good research.” When I just looked at him, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Now you say it.” With a couple of alterations, I did. Then I stepped over to Light Blue.

“I want a respectful work environment. One where I’m valued and can freely share my ideas and concerns. This creates a department where everyone is doing good work and happy.” So there is an evaluation of the desire, I thought instead of repeating his words. A decision on whether what I want is something that would be good overall. I nodded in understanding and scooted over to green.

“Now this is where you decide how to make it happen. You want something, you’ve affirmed that feeling, now you think about what you can do or say to encourage the outcome you desire.”

We did a lot more work with this – I’ve done some further thinking about it.

“So now you not only have some problems with depression,” Friend noted, “but he’s trying to give you multiple personality disorder? Plus, that office is so small! There’s barely room to take three steps in any direction.”

“Oh, I know.” I responded. “I was walking all over it for the whole session.”

“The problem,” Dr. Counselor told me, “is that you spend a lot of time on the dark side of the room. It’s good to want what you want – a man with whom to share your life, a family, good work, great friends, money – but you need to come at that from a position of power, strength and hope. Not fear and anger and entitlement.”

“So how do I do that?” I asked – in agreement but very confused as to how to make that happen.

“Just recognize that the problem exists. Know your starting point and the dominant force in a situation. Then you can work to change that.”

“OK, I recognize it. I start in the dark blue more often that not. I’m scared. A tremendous amount. A lot of the time. How do I fix it?”

“We’ll get there.” He promised. “There are two other spots we didn’t discuss. First, there’s me. I’m here to help each of those Katies. To make Dark Blue feel safe and protected so she can back off and trust that it’ll be OK. To give Red hope so that she’s not so irritated so quickly. To allow Yellow to express those desires in a healthy way – to remind you that there’s this bright soul inside, trying to come out. We need to empower Light Blue so she can make choices and take action that makes you feel good about yourself. Green is actually very strong – you’re smart and thoughtful and observant. But you can use that – if controlled by Dark Blue or Red – to make the wrong things happen. But if focused correctly, there’s a tremendous capacity for joy there.”

I cried less than I could have, but more than I wanted. I’ve done some thinking – what scares me about Boss and my current work situation. How I can identify what controls my actions.

Oh, and I did mention the book in passing. I’m sure it fits into my little ‘move around the colors of your personality!’ game, but I’m too tired to figure it out right now. Though most of the actions I take are fairly easy to code. Defer to everyone at work as if my ideas are negligible? Dark Blue. Spend a meeting with Boss this morning with my hands on my hips or arms crossed tightly in irritation? Red. That feeling when I opened the door and saw Dave on Friday night? Yellow. The thought that I may always be alone? Dark Blue. Don’t want to write the grant? Dark Blue.

“Who do you think sits in the last chair?” He asked at one point. I happened to be choking back tears at the time.

“God.” I said around a sob and he nodded. I took a deep breath and nodded in return. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” I said softly and he smiled. “I’ll be OK.” I said again, comforted by the thought that I’m not alone. Not kept company by the different facets of my personality, but by an all-powerful Being who knows and loves and understands me.

I accomplished a lot this afternoon. Checked proofs of my paper. Sent email. Worked on Project A and received a nice compliment in the process. Finished a presentation I’m giving tomorrow. (I felt Dark Blue rise up with a sick feeling as I wrote that – probably not the best of signs.) It was tough – getting there today – but I did it. I’m taking to therapy quite easily and I’m comfortable with Dr. Counselor. I don’t know how rapid the progress is, but I do think I’m slowly climbing out of my hole.

And that’s pretty much the point of these sessions, I think.

Frozen flirting

“That’s what you call a dye job.” Dave pointed out as we sat in an arena. I would have defended the woman in question had I not been able to see dark roots peeking out from her bleached hair from a good 50 yards away. So I shrugged instead.

“I’ve never dated a blonde.” He mused, and I leaned away to send a frown his direction.

“Jen.” I said, reminding him of the only long term girlfriend he’s had since I’ve known him.

“She wasn’t a natural blonde.” He said immediately, wiggling his eyebrows when I looked at him again. I sent him a firmly disapproving look and started to lecture.

“OK, no. One, ew. I do not require that information or that face you just made. Two, what color would you call her hair? It was blonde!”

“She had highlights put in. It was…kind of a dirty blonde, I guess. But those lighter strands were manufactured.” Then he nodded decisively. I rolled my eyes and shivered.

“Is it cold in here?” I had asked earlier as we wandered toward our seats at the live sporting event of the evening, folding my arms and nudging the zipper of my soft sweater up to my neck. I was glad we were finally there, having spent the afternoon downtown. One bar offered televised basketball and had an impressive beer list. The next place was fantastic – very pretty and relaxed – where we watched the first half of the Colts game. Well, sort of. I kept dragging my attention to the screen when he wanted me to be impressed with a person or play. I was thinking my thoughts. One more bar completed the football game and found us a few more snacks.

“Probably all that ice.” He said mildly, then looked down at me again. “Are you really cold?”

“It’s freezing!” I defended myself, looking around and wondering why I was the only one to notice. Then I gasped with a new realization. “The south has weakened me. Now it’s going to prove its power over my defenseless state by reminding me what moderately cool temperatures feel like.”

“Your blood has thinned.” He agreed. “Seems odd for you.”

“I know! I’m never cold!”

Deciding I was still chilly as we sat in our seats, I cuddled closer to him, under the arm he’d put on the back of my chair. He was being a bit of an ass about his ex, but he was also radiating heat that I needed. I took the bad with the good.

“Do you know where she went to get the highlights?” I finally asked. “They were really well done. Natural.”

“I’m sure I never cared.” He replied, rubbing my arm as I looked around and hoped people started to arrive soon. Perhaps as the seats filled, I’d warm up. “Would you like me to buy you a sweatshirt?”

I shook my head.

“You should have a sweatshirt.” He tried again. “Or a jersey!” He exclaimed, clearly warming to the idea.

At this I laughed. “Dave, my dear, I can’t see myself wearing a jersey. Ever.”

He looked offended as he motioned to his own.

“I know. You look lovely.” I soothed. “But it’s not something I’d personally feel comfortable wearing.”

“You’re just self-conscious.” He scoffed. “Wearing one makes you feel part of the team.”

“I’m not part of the team.” I scoffed right back. “I have no plans to play this evening, nor have I attended a single practice. They don’t consult me for strategy, nor did a single person stand and cheer when I walked in this place.”

“Well, how could they know to cheer if you’re not wearing the jersey?”

I could sense I wasn’t going to win this one, so I changed the subject. I remained curious anyway.

“Have you spoken to Jen since you moved? It’s been, what, four years? And you were together for almost two.”

“No. Yes, and yes.”

“Aren’t you curious?” I asked. “How she’s doing, what’s going on in her life, if she’s with someone else?”

“Eh.” We stood to let people slide by us to reach their seats.

“I’m still cold.” I offered, and he put his arm around me again when we sat down.

“She asked about you the last time I talked to her.” I guided the conversation back to Jen. “Wondered why you never called. That ‘just move away and let things die out’ plan was pretty lame.”

“It worked.” He said simply, then glanced at me and elaborated. “It…we weren’t right. She just didn’t want me to be happy. Not enough. And I was supposed to make up the difference – love her and accommodate her and always let her win. I just didn’t want to do it anymore. But she’d always been like that. Since we were moving to different places anyway, it just seemed easiest to stop talking. No argument or excuses – just an end.”

“And you won’t talk again?”

“I don’t see why we would.” He decided.

“It’s strange.” I mused. “You were closer to her than any of us. You ate together, worked together, slept together. And you can tell me any number of stories involving students whose names you barely remember. Yet of Jen? You know nothing. Don’t care to know anything. I think it’s sad.”

“It’s not that I don’t care, necessarily. But we tried to be together and we failed. Talking to her would be a little awkward considering how we ended, and wouldn’t serve any real purpose. We’re not going to be friends. So why deal with it?”

“Sad.” I repeated. “It’s like when you cross a certain threshold of love or intimacy, you can’t keep people in a real way. There’s always that wall of why you’re not still together. So you lose each other completely.”

I finally warmed up as fans arrived to watch the game begin. Watching large Canadian men move so quickly and gracefully has always been a favorite activity of mine – one in which I rarely indulge. I used to see a tremendous amount of hockey – in undergrad, then in grad school. But as I lost sports-crazy friends, I fell out of the habit of going. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen a game and I didn't notice that I really missed it. I wasn’t even that excited about going.

But somewhere between breathing in the smell of ice and watching the goalies score the space in front of their nets, I fell in love again. Remembered all the reasons I’d been drawn to the sport – the graceful motion and violent outbursts. The speed interrupted by whistles and buzzers and breaks.

“There was a goalie,” I told Dave, smiling as I remembered, “who played in my undergrad city a long time ago. He was young – from somewhere in Eastern Europe – and would dance around when the music played. He was adorable – peppy and smiling and sweet. But he would panic when there was a breakaway. So he would burrow into the net, put his shoulders underneath the crossbar, then lift and shove the net out of position. Like a little turtle with his shell.”

“You can’t do that.” Dave noted, his attention on the game.

“No.” I agreed solemnly. “He’d get in trouble. But he couldn’t help himself. And it was so cute to watch! Burrow, lift, shove. At least twice a game. Always taking the easy way out. Once it became such an ingrained habit, they had to kick him out of games.”

Pleased with my story, remembering games when I’d sat between my parents, with Rachel or another friend, humming over the cutest of the hockey boys, and thrilling when we’d actually get to meet one, I sat happily to watch the game. I patted Dave’s knee when his goalie let a goal go in. I gripped the sleeve of his jersey in my hand and twisted when I watched two of the hockey boys pound on each other for far too long. I looked at him expectantly and announced my need for a soda – I was growing sleepy again - in the second intermission. We talked and teased and laughed.

“Turn left up here.” He advised when we reached an intersection after the game and I navigated my way out of the parking lot.

“Into the masses of people? I don’t want to turn left!”

“Right. I meant right. Sorry.”

“Oh. Good! I want to turn right.”

“Right again.” This at the next corner, said confidently, so I moved to the appropriate lane.

“I don’t know where this goes.” I warned as I made the turn anyway. He started listing street names as we proceeded away from the arena and I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know where we are.” I said. “You can name all the streets you want. I haven’t been here before.”

“We’ll get there.” He promised. “Get in the other lane so you can turn left.”

“How much did you drink?! Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I know we’re turning left.” He said and sounded certain enough that I did as he ordered. We made it home just fine.

We arrived relatively early, though I was quite tired from my sports-filled day.

“Oh,” I remembered as he sat on the floor, his back to the couch as he wrestled with Chienne, “you were going to show me your trip information.”

Handing him my laptop, I laid on the couch so I could peer over his shoulder as he read me the relevant pages. Nifty trip to get an amazing car. I was suitably impressed and asked questions and listened to him talk. I rested my head on a pillow and let my eyes droop heavily as I started to murmur responses to his long statements.

“OK there, sleepy?” He asked with an affectionate tickle of my ankle. I blinked my eyes open to smile at him. Nodded and pushed myself into a sitting position. I patted his shoulder, stretching my toes toward the floor next to him. I tucked my hands back in my lap when he put his hand on the back of my leg – below the knee, but above the ankle. As I paused to consider the situation – aware of the shift in energy that had occurred sometime in the evening. I didn’t really mean to issue an invitation, I knew. Had just been flirting mildly and enjoying the comfort of having company and feeling loved and appreciated.

For me, loneliness isn’t a good reason for sex. Perhaps had I enjoyed the quantity of alcohol he had… Well, no, then I would have been unconscious somewhere. He’d been drinking beer all afternoon. And while he showed no blatant effects – not even droopy eyes or slurred speech – he was likely feeling pretty good. He hadn’t dated anyone seriously since this summer. We’ve covered my romantic past and it’s hardly pretty. But I was completely sober and very aware that while his touch wasn’t repellent, it was not overly tempting.

He started to slip his hand slowly higher and I decided that as far as seduction styles go, it wasn’t bad. If I didn’t view sex as sharing a part of my very soul or if I was slightly less inhibited or a bit more attracted or a touch more isolated or lonely, I would have permitted more touching. Seen where things went. How I felt. Been with someone I love and trust and enjoy.

But, well, I know when I like someone. Want someone. And I didn’t. I’m also pretty sure he wasn’t feeling what one should be feeling in moments such as these either. So I patted his shoulder twice more and rose, retreating to the safety of my loveseat while he remained on the floor. We each went to separate bedrooms to sleep, waking to shower at different times and drove to breakfast in our own cars so he could reach the interstate more quickly and attend yet another sporting event on his way home. I hugged him tightly before he left and find myself missing him a little this evening. All was normal and lovely.

Though I could list a bunch of reasons – I didn’t want to alter our friendship and lose someone I really do love, I didn’t want someone who used the phrase “man slave” in a cell phone conversation to have carnal knowledge of me, it wasn’t an event that would fit in my book – the truth is that the feeling wasn’t there. The one I get when I smell ice and know hockey is coming. Or when I’m with someone I just want to watch or hear speak or be near. When my heart or brain or something says, “Oh, yes. More of that.” And the absence of that feeling – that phrase – is enough for me to stay alone. I have a feeling that will always be the case.

Which leaves me very much hoping I get to think that – feel that – again. Because this inability to settle and enjoy what is instead of hoping for what might never be is getting old.

All work...

"You still need to remember balance." Dr. Counselor advised when I was feeling so good at our last session. "All work and no play makes Katie..."

Instead of completing his sentence - something I try to avoid - I smiled and shook my head. "I can't see that ever being my problem - an obsession with work has just never kicked in for me."

And yet as I watched sports, flirted with Dave a bit more than I should have and tried to catch up on sleep, I found myself thinking of poor Project X. And how lame I was going to look when I had to postpone a meeting because I didn't have any results.

It wasn't that I hadn't made progress. It's a labor intensive little process and I've recreated it more times than I can count. I was working on this same dataset on the plane ride to Hawaii in May. It just won't die - keeps popping up with new questions and ideas and endless amounts of switching that number and rerunning code and calculating results and staring at spreadsheets - hoping something pops out and looks reasonable.

I finally decided on how I wanted to approach it - the final attempt at methods that have consumed a great deal of my time. But today was an abstract deadline in addition to sending Dave off after breakfast and stopping to pick up a few office supplies. So I returned to my laptop and started reading through text I was lucky enough not to write. I did a bit of editing on one abstract, then some reading.

"You used the same word 4 times in one sentence." I offered Steve in my reply to his email. "Other than that, you're good. I kept reading to try to find additional material, but you hit the important points. You're quite concise and informative. So while I always look at your papers and wonder where all the words are, I find the material I need is always in there."

He thanked me and asked what I'd been reading. Should he include it in his reference list?

"Did you think I was lying?" I asked out loud as I typed out the citations for him, along with my impression of the papers. "I really did read."

A brief email to Carrie told her to scoot my name back in her author list. I'd worked on a tiny piece of one particular project and it ended up being rather secondary to her hypothesis. A first authorship for yours truly was rather ridiculous. But she insisted and I was too sleepy to argue overly hard. I do feel badly about it though and had I submitted the abstract myself, I would have altered the order.

Friend was easily coaxed into joining me for dinner after I failed at taking a post-abstract nap. Dave and I didn't make it to one of my favored restaurants in our continuous quest for sports and beer (though I had no particular desire for either) and I was craving cheese biscuits. I made a quick call to my parents when I got home, then began work on X.

I finished around midnight, completely consumed and largely content (apart from a couple minor outbursts that contained few (if any) bad words) with my lists and code and graphs. I took breaks to read, but not to write. Since I have blog posts both drafted and planned, I was more than a little surprised.

When I found myself unable to sleep - brain overly active and wanting to think more thoughts - I came to do some literature searches. So apparently I am capable of obsessing pleasantly about work in addition to cheese biscuits and attractive men. In addition to a whole host of other topics that I won't take the time to list.

But if I'm going to be awake at 1:30 after 2 nights of being up later than normal, I wanted proof and credit for doing so. Especially as I wasn't emotionally distressed or sick or anything awful. I was working. It just seems my reward for doing so should be something other than insomnia.

Horns, balance and lots of sports

“Horn or sax?” Friend asked over the music as she sat on my right. (She also asked how much of the evening she’d be reading about later. “Not sure.” I answered. “Have to tie it into some life lesson, I guess.” was her wry response and I giggled and nodded in agreement. I didn’t come up with much, but I also wasn’t making much progress on Project X, so post I shall.)

“Horn.” I answered promptly, moderately surprised by even the question. He was clearly more attractive, and I naturally let my eyes drift back toward him.

We’d reached the bar easily after dinner. Dave had arrived, happy and talkative, exactly as I expected. He threw his luggage in the office, pronounced himself good to go as long as drinking was involved and I scooted the passenger seat back as far as I could to accommodate a male frame. We picked up Friend, got dinner among good conversation I did little to create, then headed downtown.

“Did you look up the address?” Friend asked and I shook my head.

“As with almost everything I was planning to do today, I forgot.” I said and she shook her head at me. “I believe I can find it.” I claimed.

“OK.” She scoffed and I shrugged. My sense of direction is hardly legendary (well, at least not in a good way) but I had a feeling as to where it was. Sort of.

“I’m confident we’ll get there.” I said again. “We can go back to your place to look it up if you want, but I think – I believe – that I’ll find it.”

So we headed downtown.

“Look at the lights!” I said. “And all the people! Who knew I was missing so much by sleeping at night?!”

Thinking – not for the last time – that it was a shame I’d taken advantage of little of what the city offers, I proceeded toward where I felt the bar should be.

“I don’t remember which side it’s on.” Friend mused. “I’ve never driven down here. And I’ve always been drunk.”

“It’s left.” I said, feeling good about that part of the trip. “Then…” Just as I was starting to lose confidence though, Friend spoke up.

“We parked there before.” She said, pointing to a deck off to one side. I selected a slightly different one – though it was close – and we followed a truck up the ramp to the deck. A slow truck. A very, very, very slow truck.

“What the hell is the problem?!” I burst out, interrupting whatever Dave was trying to say.

“He thinks he’s too big.” Friend decided. “Compensating for something, no doubt.”

Dave agreed. “He’s afraid he’s going to hit the overhead beams. So he has to go slow. Very slow.”

“Look at the muffler and tailpipe.” Friend noted and Dave peered up from his sprawl in the backseat.

“Go there!” He finally advised, seeing the first opportunity to find a different route from our slow nemesis. I had reached the critical point of irritation – I’m not relaxed even on nights out – so I guided the car to a spot we found quite quickly after losing the not-as-big-as-he-thinks truck.

Opening a side door, we found ourselves in an alley.

“I’m so good at what I do.” I bragged as Friend spotted a landmark. We walked across a street then directly into the bar we’d sought. “I knew we’d find it.”

Pleased with my navigational mastery, I followed Friend past the band, up the stairs, around the room, then nodded my approval at her choice of three seats in front of a surprisingly sticky table. I took the creaky wooden chair in the center, balancing my tiny blue purse between my pretty black flats, and adjusted so I was too close to neither companion.

Dave noted his approval of the bar and Friend nodded. She liked it there and decided I’d be less bored with this music than the other choices. She was right. I liked it well enough.

“Oh,” I breathed as soon as I’d settled and peered down toward the band. “Aren’t they pretty…” I said of the brass section. Two young men stood directly in my line of vision, framed nicely by the wrought iron that decorated the balcony. The black curves of metal separated nicely and I could see them both clearly as they played and smiled and talked to each other.

“Who’s talking?” I asked of the man I could hear telling stories in the middle of his song. Something about chicken wings, leaving his wife and a beautiful woman in a bar.

“We can’t see him.” Friend said, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the man she’d seen play before.

“I don’t care.” I noted, happily staring at the beautiful men I could see playing the music that was just a touch too loud for me. I sipped Diet Coke, followed by water, and sat – content but growing sleepy – between my drinking friends. They seemed to be enjoying the experience, and I was happy they were happy.

I’m not sure what people experience when they hear music, but I’m pretty sure I don’t get it. I enjoy it – it’s something to listen to – but I don’t tend to feel anything intense or moving. I get a glimpse of that during some hymns, but blues? Not so much. So I do what I do when I’m in a seminar or watching sports or waiting for a meeting to start. I think my thoughts. I look around. I just settle in and wait for time to pass.

“Why?” I asked of Friend’s original question as to my preference.

“Curious.” She answered and I nodded in understanding. The horn player was prototypically attractive for me. Tallish, though not huge. Medium build. Dark hair in a good cut, clean shaven, good facial features, nice clothes in dark colors, decent shoes.

“You?” I asked and watched her make a face. My own curiosity increased. Though Saxophone was secondary to Horn, he was also quite cute. Striped shirt, good haircut, clean-cut and a bit younger. These were cute boys! And she didn’t have a favorite? In response to my clear shock, she elaborated.

“I’d lean toward Horn, but he keeps looking bored.”

I liked that he looked bored in some vague way. He was doing his job – was good at it – but it was hardly capturing his full attention. He looked around, wet his lips, played his notes then held his instrument in his left hand (no ring, nice watch) as he waited for his turn to arrive again.

I find that detachment attractive. I’m so tuned into everything around me – feel it as a personal and intense experience – that I’m drawn to men who are a bit more contained. That search for balance – cool confidence against bright insecurity, steady strength contrasting passionate intensity, art vs. science, rough and gentle. It’s just interesting – I find myself most stable when I’m around someone who is struggling. I’ll allow myself to be quite neurotic when nothing else is going on. Nothing to talk about? Let’s discuss me!

As I grew more and more tired, watching the hour creep toward morning, I leaned toward Dave. Noticed that our arms were pressed together and wondered why I didn’t feel much. It was not unpleasant. That’s all I could offer. And it isn’t that I’m unable to muster any attraction to men of late. There was Visitor 2 – I blushed when I asked for his card so I could contact him with questions. Then Horn – he was worthy of a few little fantasies while I waited for my friends to become adequately drunk or blues’ed and we could go home to sleep.

“I see why you both like him and don’t like him.” Friend noted when Dave excused himself.

“Thanks.” I smiled, glad she understood. Dave is fantastic – smart and sweet and funny. But we don’t balance at all. If you replace his interest in sports with my online pursuits, we mirror each other. A time-consuming hobby of which we’re intimately familiar. He’s ready to be married – can catalog faults of many women over the past years. I could direct you to those sections of my archives if you’d like. He’s a social animal though – bar managers know him by name. I’m happiest in the safety of my house. He talks. And talks and talks and talks. I eventually tune him out so I can think my thoughts.

But it’s nice – having someone around that I love. I went to get donuts this morning along with juice and milk and soda. (He doesn’t drink coffee. I do not understand this phenomena.) After he showers, we’ll head back downtown. He craves the people and activity – I’d just as soon nap. But we’ll watch one game on TV, then see another one live and I’m currently listening to the Duke game on ESPN. And, of course, writing for my blog. Because when it comes to obsessions, I’m pretty forgiving.

I have too many of my own not to be.

Deferentially yours

“I don’t know what the plan is.” I told Friend as I sat on my loveseat, coughing. I stayed home for work today – sleeping, drinking lots of soda and water (I keep forgetting to buy juice) and trying to work but losing track of my overall goal.

“Dave said he was getting here around 8, but I’m not sure the trip is that fast. I’ve been…doing other stuff. Let me get my laptop.”

“Away from the computer while you’re at home?” She gasped.

“I know!” I said, sniffing then moaning. I’m so tired of this particular cold. “It’s only a five hour drive.” I said after consulting Google maps.

“Does he have a time change?”

“Yep. He might actually be here before I expected.” Then I frowned at my sort of clean house and tried to figure out if the laundry was ready to be switched around. I waited until today to wash the sheets in the office.

“Well…” She said and I could tell she wanted me to make some decision or timeline about the evening. There’s a basic idea of what I want to do, but nothing firm.

“I’m going to wait until he gets here, then see what he feels like doing. My assumption is that we’ll do dinner then head downtown, but I’m not sure. I’ll just ask him when he arrives. Then I’ll call you and we can work around what you have going on – if you’re still at work, we’ll wait.”

If I may offer a tip as I launch into yet another lengthy post, if you’re going to work yourself into a state of emotional distress in the morning for no apparent reason, then head off to work? Try not to do that on a day when you’ll meet important people, be required to do highly technical experiments that are a bit beyond your experience, and take care of all kinds of other menial tasks in spare moments. Just a piece of advice from me to you. Learn from my mistakes.

Upon my arrival yesterday – sometime in the late morning – I dropped off my bag at my office, watered my plant and went to get a soda. I was a bit sick and wanted a Diet Sprite.

Boss waved at me in the hallway, but was involved in a conversation. He came to find me - dropping off his comments on my paper revision and letting me know that the technical advisors were here today. It was on my calendar so I was already aware. I nodded and he went into a spiel about how he was going to meet A, talk to B, email C, then find D and E so they could show him x and y. I just continued to nod until he stopped speaking.

“OK.” I said mildly, barely interested. I didn’t think it’d be appropriate to offer a “Good luck with that.” so I just looked up at him from my seat at the desk. He stayed silent, looking at me expectantly. I sighed.

There are these people and they give me money. In return for this payment, they expect me to show up in the clothes I got for Christmas with my pretty new haircut and contribute. Which apparently does not involve me sitting at my desk, feeling sorry for myself and reading my sad blog entry.

"Would you like me to go with you? Or do something?" I asked.

"Yes." He responded. "If you have time, of course." was a quick qualifier. "I'd like you to be central to this whole process."

I agreed easily and trotted along beside him in my black flats that allowed for quick motion. I shook hands, offered opinions, helped with scheduling conflicts. Talked to people, sat next to a breathtakingly sexy man who operated multi-million dollar equipment with ease, took care of an experiment, finished up an analysis, took notes.

Throughout the day I displayed the very quality that allows me to do my job so well. I defer. I know what I know and can offer my opinion gently. Then I back off. Partially because I don’t really care – part of the therapy process is figuring out how to make myself engage in my professional life again. Offer something more than a “Really? Now? ...OK.” when someone asks me to do my job.

Standing next to Boss in a clinical area, I shook hands and smiled at Visitor 1. Then I stood next to Tech A and across from Tech B and listened to their arguments for this particular process.

“I absolutely agree.” I offered when Tech A faced me at one point. “That makes sense.”

“That really should happen.” I later said to Visitor 1. “What timeline is convenient for you guys?”

When I following after Boss toward our next little meeting, I tossed a farewell to Visitor 1.

“She works for Boss?” I heard him ask Tech A.

“Katie? Yes. She’s great.” I heard her respond and smiled.

In our second meeting – taking place in a darkened room that was far too warm – I met another important MD. We will call him VIMD 2. Boss went into a big spiel about the mess this day was becoming without introducing me. This lead to an awkward set of glances from VIMD 2. It’s unusual for Boss to make such an error in decorum. I was shocked, therefore, when he went to leave without introducing me to VIMD 2 and the friend who’d just joined him.

“Oh!” Boss said, turning around. “Do you know Katie?”

“I don’t.” They chorused and introductions were made as the southern charm was dutifully trotted out.

“And Katie is…” The elder newcomer asked.

“I’m one of Boss’s postdocs.” I offered.

“So you like mail?” He asked. “Post in Britian refers to mail. Letters, bills, items of that sort.”

“Sure.” I smiled. “You’re more than welcome to send me letters. Email. Postcards. Whatever you think is best.”

Deferential even in casual conversation, I thought, but walked away feeling fine about my impression. It’s just what I do. How I am.

“So what’s the plan?” I tried to confirm as we met with Visitors 2 and 3, deciding what to do about the experiment and subsequent meeting with VIMD 3. Boss decided quickly and after our brisk walk back to our offices, I set about contacting the necessary people to make the appropriate changes. I received this task because I’m good at manipulations.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I’ll begin. “But Boss had a slight change in plans and was very much hoping to impose on you a bit…”

“Oh, thank you so much.” I’ll continue after obtaining the agreement I sought. “Would 1:30 work for you? Or would later be better? Are you terribly busy this afternoon? Again, our apologies for the late notice. We appreciate your help so much!”

Running around – issuing compliments, apologies and graciousness like there was no tomorrow – I had everything set up with 20 minutes. Then I went to take notes, smoothing any feathers that had accidentally been ruffled, offering to stay behind when the experiment ran over so we could get the data and no one would be late for the next meeting.

VIMD 3 came in the room just as I was finishing up, Visitors 2 and 3 in tow.

“Katie!” He said, reaching to shake my hand as I greeted him with equal enthusiasm. “I was going to ask about you – I knew you’d be around and didn’t know why you weren’t in the meeting!”

“I was wrapping something up – I just wanted to make sure we had the data we needed so we can get started for you.”

He went into a brief description of what he wanted and I nodded along, expressing excitement, appreciation and basically making the right noises at the appropriate times.

“That sounds great.” I chirped. “I’ll look forward to it. Whatever you need. Anytime is fine. Thanks so much for coming over to meet with us.”

Then I went over to meet with the original VIMD of Project A (I think. I lost track of what I called the suckers). I did my deferential routine with her too. At first, anyway.

Eventually, her blatant lack of respect for me and my time got to me. She asked me to attend a meeting when I’d told her I was heading out of town the next day. I accepted at first, then sent an email with my apologies later that night.

“I want to come home.” I told Mom. “There’s no reason I need to be there. I think she’s just screwing with me because she can. But I’m not a med student. This is just a side project for me and I’ll do it when I can.”

Then I got back to an email from another person asking for help with something of which I wasn’t familiar and didn’t control. I sent back a note that referred to her to VIMD and offered assistance if someone could offer further directions. I didn’t hear back so I assumed all was well. But I felt badly.

I arrived in her office, picked up the files I needed, asked for keys to the room that was locked.

“Oh, I took care of that email.” She explained the situation and I nodded along. “I can’t remember what we decided…” She trailed off as she scanned through her email folder.

“I can send a note to Wendy.” I said after a moment. “Don’t worry about it – I’ll figure it out. I’m just going to get these entered in now.” I said.

“OK,” she turned to face me with a smile. “Thanks for doing that. It’s good to see you.”

“My pleasure.” I smiled back, finished the work, filed my papers and walked back to the office.

I was left sitting at my desk, looking at a new line in Gmail. One that made my stomach clench. At work, you see, I divorce myself from the craziness. The obsessions and mopey moods and garbage. I work. I act normal and effective, sweet and smart. I’m good at what I do. I want to feel more like that and less like I did yesterday morning.

So I clicked on the little checkmark beside the message and archived it. I don’t know that I’ll read it, though I kept it in case I want to. Honestly, I can't think of anything his little friend can offer that I want. Her words tend to linger painfully for me and I’ve done nothing more than skim some of her emails. I baited her (I know that), but regardless of her intent, ignorance has to be bliss here. I’m afraid of what’s there, so I'll defer (as in the other meaning - how's that for nifty?!)

Just in case you think that breaks my overall theme, I did ask Friend about it. She said I was fine.

Notes (for the next novel or the end of this one)

I lost a bloglines subscriber yesterday. I’m forced to admit that I was saddened – bothered on some level that was inappropriate to this particular stimulus.

It’s silly because I have weeded through my feeds for months now. In a continuous yet moderate quest to focus on what makes me happy and ignore what bugs me, I have attacked my bloglines subscriptions with some regularity. If I’m not pleased when someone updates – if I feel reading is for some reason a chore, or makes me feel badly about myself or just isn’t pleasant, I stop. We don’t owe each other loyalty, though it does happen that I enjoy reading everyone who comments and reads me. It’s just a little step – a way of controlling a hobby (that admittedly takes a good deal of my time) to ensure it makes life better rather than worse.

When I delete items, it’s sometimes because someone had admitted he is writing a book. Please, I scoff lightly. If I’m not excited when you update for free, why in the world would I buy a novel talking about this crap? Honestly. You should spend more time doing your job and less time thinking about what a wordsmith you are. Jackass. (Huh. Apparently sometimes I’m not very nice when reading people. This is why only reading what I like – what elicits kind and empathetic responses – is good for me.)

So when I started braying like the jackass that I probably am (Don’t nod along. It’s impolite.), I expected some of you to jump ship. Shake your heads and think that you’d tolerated me so far, but this was ridiculous. The merging of overwhelming conceit with this desperate insecurity that just doesn’t make sense. A quick click of “delete this feed” followed by a muttered “Of course I’m sure.” click of the confirmation screen. I might have done the same thing.

Of course, this reminds me of a story.

Before beginning undergrad, we had summer orientation. A time to sign up for classes, take placement tests, stay in a dorm and get to know the 1/12 of our peers involved in that session. I was sick with nerves – knowing no one, feeling frumpy and uncertain and desperately wanting people to like me. To start college as someone fun and amusing and wonderful rather than just smart and successful as was my high school persona.

Preening after returning from a scholarship meeting – I was National Merit, you see, and therefore got to attend the “look how special you are! You’re going to get this much money and we’d love for you to join the Honors Program! Attend special sessions on the meaning of dreams or politics of the Middle East. Combine your Western Civ requirement with the composition course because you’re far too advanced to join the others in their freshman English classes.” gathering, I made my way back to the dorm room I was sharing with Linda as we talked about which seminar we liked most from the meeting. Then she asked if I’d be her roommate. I was filled with the certainty that I was going to be amazing in college. Smart and popular. Finally. (Note that the first sentence in this paragraph was insanely long. Perhaps those composition classes would have helped me out.)

Someone came to the door of our room as we were preparing for some social event that evening. I think it was loud music and awkward dancing in the cafeteria. Super-cool. Anyway, I vaguely recall a pretty blonde asking if we’d brought a curling iron. As Linda looked for hers, I smiled when the blonde complimented my Clinique make up. I just used the pressed powder – Stay Buff – but was also enamored of the marbled green case.

“Where were you guys earlier?” Blonde asked.

“We had a meeting for Honors Program seminar choices.” I said as Linda walked over, curling iron in hand.

“Wow.” Blonde said, thanking Linda with a smile. “I have a financial aid meeting tomorrow. Do you both have scholarships?”

Linda confirmed that she did and I nodded as well. Since junior high, I’ve understood you don’t brag about academic accomplishments. It makes people dislike you. And I very much wanted to be liked in my new environment.

But Linda talked of her half-tuition remission, then glanced at me and told Blonde I was receiving a full ride. Tuition, fees, room and board. I was, of course, pleased. I couldn’t share that information, but I very much wanted people to know that I was smart. Special. Because I doubted those qualities were truly mine to claim and liked having friends around who could reassure me that I was important.

“That’s great.” Blonde told me and I smiled.

“I test really well.” I said in an attempt to brush her comment aside. “The PSAT went better than I expected and things just fell into place. Which is good, actually, since I doubt we could have afforded tuition had we not had help.”

Blonde came back with a tin of eye shadow moments later. She stood in our open doorway and asked if we could help her open it. I don’t remember what was weird about the container, but there was some little trick to reveal the pretty makeup. I quickly conquered the device and handed it back to her with a smile.

“I’m such an idiot.” She said, frowning when I showed her the trick to open it.

“Of course not.” I scolded lightly. “I’m just really smart!”

“Right. I remember the scholarship.” She said, her face falling in disapproval.

“No!” I was immediately horrified. “I was kidding. I don’t think I’m smart. I just…”

“Thanks.” She said haughtily and walked away, leaving me wide-eyed with regret. It was then I realized that life wasn’t going to be much different for me. I’d never have masses of friends because I could only open up to a given few. They would get my jokes – laugh when I said I was really smart because they’d seen me weep in miserable terror of failure over some C++ concept I just didn’t understand. I can, in the presence of people who love me, be quite funny. But if you chose to take what I say in a way other than was intended, I can appear painfully arrogant. And the truth is that the underlying insecurity is so strong that any perceived conceit is rather ridiculous.

I have made the mistake of telling myself the bloglines readers are friends. They know enough – have read enough – that I don’t need to track them on site statistics. They know when I’m kidding and when I’m serious. They like me. When faced with the truth – that sometimes they’re just not impressed, I was left sighing with regret. I said something wrong. Was irritating or boring or otherwise unworthy.

Upon further reflection, I’d rather you not read than come around to roll your eyes. So it’s good to unsubscribe. I approve.

“My mom decided she rather liked you.” Friend told me after she returned to our city from being home for New Year’s Day.

“Thank you!” I said with some feeling. “People should like me! I’m delightful! A good friend who is not in need of perspective.”

So in truth, while I doubt my intelligence, writing ability, humor, appearance…I believe in my inherent lovable qualities. When someone gets me, they should like me. No, love me. Want to protect me and make me smile. Bask in the joyful love I offer in return.

So despite the loss of a bloglines reader, I have fluttered a bit over my site statistics of late. Since the mention of the book, I’ve done amazingly well. People come, read, then return. There are less random google searches and more cities I recognize. Perhaps people want to hear about the book, I think, lured strongly toward talking about it all the time to provide something interesting to read. Come back again, I urge the cities. You don’t have to comment or email. Just read. Let me take up space in your day – just for a few minutes.

Why is it important? I wondered as I switched screens to look through search words. Then I frowned, closed my eyes and shook my head.

Read the posts more carefully, I told him in my head. I want the attention. I like that you read, though I desperately wish I didn’t. I have this sick desire to take up space in your head and you’re not supposed to feed that. You’ve done so well thus far! Ignored the drunken email (did I not mention that? Yeah…not so good for the Katie.) and, as I expected, have been gallantly and completely silent. At least publicly. But there’s a single person who finds me through googling “minor revisions.” (Which, by the way, is silly. Just type it into the address line, add a .blogspot.com and you’re here! And I’d never know!)

(I’m aware that I’d also never know if I stopped being freakishly obsessed with Site Meter. I can’t help it. I have a problem.)

“You’re writing a book that happens to feature him prominently.” Friend said when I started obsessing out loud. Bad call on giving me permission to do that again. “Did you expect him not to be vaguely curious? To wonder what the hell you’re doing?”

“You swear more since you’ve been home.” I pointed out. “But he wouldn’t have known! It’s not like he cares on any real level – about me, what I do, any of it! It’s that little friend.”

She smiled as I narrowed my eyes, then I grinned in return. “I don’t read her.” I said and she nodded. “I’m afraid to, actually.” I confessed sheepishly. “I’ve been…less than mature in how I think of her.”

Friend shrugged, hopefully thinking that I’m rarely catty but wondering over the amount I appear to be reveling in it right now. She didn’t comment, so I continued.

“I don’t know why she reads.” I said. “They’re friends and apart from mocking me as the poor cow, which is just mean and that’s why I’m catty!, what could I possibly have to say that would be of interest?! To either of them? But especially to him?”

Well, there’s this.

Reading those old emails is interesting. Helpful in the fact that I remember why I liked you so much. It wasn’t just me seeing what I wanted to see – there was something compelling there and I feel no small amount of relief at the fact. It’s an interesting story, but one filled with warnings that I should have heeded. Some of which I tried to heed but whether from your reassurances, my blindness or a mixture of the two, I didn’t. My fault, and I’m OK with that.

The fact that I can’t get over – the one that puts you on the list of people I just dislike – a list, by the way, that is short and incredibly difficult to land on – is that our particular ending was so very avoidable. A tiny measure of respect for me as a person, let along a friend or someone who cared about you, would have lent itself easily to an email that said, “You’re great and I’m sorry, but it’s not there for me. I have feelings for other women and though I’ve tried to warn you, I see that you’re not getting it. So, dear Katie, I’m out.” Then instead of ignoring me, we just would have been done. And I would have been hurt – terribly hurt and disappointed – but I would have understood and thought the world of you for being gutsy enough to say what needed to be said. I can’t fathom why you didn’t do that. I just don’t get it.

The other problem is that it simply doesn’t matter to you. I was this little bit of nothing in your life. That’s where I get stuck. I matter to people. I select them carefully, but once I decide? People love me. And… I don’t know. I don’t understand why you didn’t. Just a little. In some minor way. How you could lie outright. What you must have said to the other women about me – during or since. What kind of standard document exists that explains the presence of someone who was admittedly stupid but painfully sweet. The punishment, I decided yesterday, for your bad behavior is that you don’t get to know me anymore. Don’t get to hear when I think a meeting is annoying, don’t get postcards that tell how the weather is in whatever locale I’m visiting because I hope it makes you smile, can’t discuss books where I tell you I think you’re wrong. Pickwick in prison was annoying.

But you don’t see it as punishment. You weren’t amused or charmed or interested and therefore the lack of me is negligible. Deleted. Lack of significance confirmed. Some strange little character you can only bother to acknowledge when the poor thing talks about you.

I am not a cow, damn it. And if you or your friend – or any of your friends – think so, then you’re wrong. Terribly and completely wrong. I feel like dismissing what happened concedes my defeat to a degree I simply can’t tolerate. Because to people I love, to 44 (and probably decreasing as I write this) people on bloglines, to me – I matter.

So somebody needs to buy me a clue as to why I can't focus on that, instead choosing to dwell on the few people who think I don't.

Shuffle away

I have an easy way of gauging my mood – how well I’ll tolerate inconveniences or people I dislike. It involves putting my iPod on shuffle while I drive. If I find myself scowling and skipping through song after song, I’m not doing well. If I can listen to anything and everything that little Chandler decides to play, I’m feeling good. I generally, of course, tend to fall somewhere in between.

“Shuffle at will, Chandler.” I chirped as I headed toward Friend’s apartment after leaving work this afternoon. “I’m just fine.”

I guess it started last night. I was busy pouting since I wanted chocolate but did not want to go out to get any. Then I remembered I had Penzey’s cocoa – I received it as a Christmas gift – as well as leftover chocolate chips and pecans from cookie baking that didn’t happen. I found a recipe online to make brownies. My first attempt at making brownies sans box was nearly 15 years ago and they were inedible. I wasn’t overly hopeful my newest effort would fare better.

But I walked to the kitchen, recipe copied in a notebook, and made sure I had enough eggs. I saw I had real butter – unsalted even – and sniffed it, wondering how you tell if butter has gone bad. It seemed fine so I put everything together, wondering when in the world I bought actual baking powder in addition to baking soda, and saving the cocoa for last so if the batter started looking evil, I could save my precious spice (“processed to temper the natural acidity of the cocoa bean, yielding a smooth, rich and slightly less strong cocoa”).

But the mixture in my bowl looked safe so I carefully measured a bit less than the ½ cup required and gently stirred to incorporate. After adding all the chocolate chips and pecans I had, I transferred the batter to a glass baking dish and tentatively licked the spatula I used. It smelled amazing – rich and darkly chocolately – and tasted even better. So I licked again, cleaning the spatula and taking the bowl with me to the living room to savor every speck of brownie batter goodness I could find. There’s a chance I had to wash my face afterward. I may have become a bit too intent on obtaining that batter. Maybe.

The brownies were good last night when I burned my mouth to taste them. Rich, certainly, but far better than any brownie mix I’ve encountered. I had one this morning and it was perfection. The chocolate chips had hardened and I could taste the elements of the baked-from-scratch goodness. Butter, sugar, pecans. And chocolate – the bittersweet chips and my precious, lovely cocoa. So, so, so good. Completely surprising in their quality, and that very fact increased my enjoyment of the treat.

I woke with a start around 6:00 this morning. I wasn’t sure whether the dog or cat or some other noise source had disturbed the deepest sleep I’d had in several days, but I started with day with a surprised gasp. After unsuccessfully trying to sleep some more, I went to the living room to blow my nose and drink some water.

Then I looked over the outline of chapters that is slowly being colored green as more and more of them enter the “in progress” stage at one time. Copied, pasted, edited. About 75% of how I see the novel so far is based on text I’ve already written. So it gives me a starting point. But the chapters I’ve been working on – the ones that flow – are fictional. Despite being initially guarded against possible pain, I found that they’re incredibly fun to write. After spending a couple of hours typing as fast as my hands could move words from mind to screen, I took Chienne on my favorite route for our walk.

I came home, finished editing the paper I’m continuing to revise, emailed the final versions to Boss and got dressed for my 11:00 appointment. I was getting my hair cut after letting it grow far too long. And I was going somewhere new.

I decided against the garishly colored salon located the opposite direction from my commute to work. The petite southern girl who counted the gray hair for me had been scheduled to color it in October or November. I was just beginning my drive to the salon for an 8:00 appointment when the receptionist called to cancel. My stylist was sick. I rescheduled but decided to work instead of coloring my hair one Wednesday afternoon.

At some point, I decided to never return. Bad memories. The feeling of being too plain against the bright backdrop. I didn’t want to feel frumpy. So I decided to call the salon attached to my massage therapist’s office.

I met Gina today and sighed in resignation. This wasn't going to be good. She was older and decidedly southern. Her hair looked good, and I was immediately suspicious. I’ve been told by every stylist in the past 10 years that doing good hair all day leaves them too tired to do their own for work. But I shook her hand, admitted I have a cold and settled in to discuss our holidays while she shampooed my hair.

I sniffed experimentally. It was nice. Not overwhelming or nature-like. There was probably all kinds of synthetic crap in this shampoo, but I liked it. I also noticed that unlike recent salon experiences, I didn’t feel self-conscious in front of Gina. So my eyes drifted closed, my body relaxed and I let her shampoo and condition until the towel covered my head and I sat up. We moved out of the shampoo room to the styling room before I thought to take note of my surroundings.

Wide picture windows through which sunlight streamed in. Tile with various shades of brown striations. Huge mirrors – nearly floor to ceiling – on two sides of the softly cushioned chair reflected my image unimpeded by stands holding combs and products. I cocked my head at the me in the mirror and discovered with some surprise that I looked pretty. I squinted in confusion – I always wince at my reflection in salons. But the natural light or the softly colored background or my youth contrasting with my stylist’s age…something made me pretty here.

I sighed when she parted my hair in the center to begin sectioning it out to cut. It looks better if I go slightly off center. I tried to sigh but coughed instead when she began to layer. That wasn’t the way it normally went, I thought. This gradual tapering was going to make me look all fluffy. I just knew it. But everyone deserves a fair audition so I stayed quiet except to make occasional small talk when the other stylist and her client stopped gossiping. Just FYI, the woman has a disrespectful relationship with her boyfriend (he started it and she found it impossible not to respond in kind), her brother’s wife is mean (something about a church, a casserole and an angry letter. I didn’t follow and was sure protocol didn’t allow me to lean around my gigantic mirror to ask for clarification.) and Sally at Christ Church was almost certainly having an affair with one of the Lutherans.

I closed my eyes again, plotting my book and smiling over a running theme on which I’d decided and savoring the ending. It’s quite happy. It’s quite good. But it’s not quite written yet. I do think 21 chapters will do it though. But each time I start to write one, it seems to turn into four. Thoughts of the chapters on my laptop and my delusions of grandeur that allowed me to type them out distracted me from the mess that my hair was certainly becoming. It’ll grow out, I soothed. Not to worry. There are always hats.

When I blinked my eyes open, my hair was dry and Gina was reaching for her CHI straightening iron – exactly like the one I have at home. It has ceramic plates and reaches such a high temperature that the hair literally steams. But it’s shockingly effective and one swipe of the device that has never pulled my hair is all it takes for a silky smooth shininess that is certainly to be envied. I shook my head, a bit confused and glanced up at her as she stood behind my chair.

“It’s adorable!” I praised and she smiled.

“I’m glad you like it.” She drawled. “You have such pretty hair.” Fluffing it briefly, she went to work smoothing sections with the iron while I watched it fall perfectly into place.

“I love it.” I said. “It’s really just perfect.” Then, deciding I’d see her again, I debated whether to reveal my gray hair struggle.

“Not everyone has such thick, healthy hair.” She said. “You’re lucky.”

“Did you see much gray?” I asked then – I adore people who compliment me. “I had a problem for awhile, but then I stopped noticing so much."

She shook her head immediately. “I only saw one. You’re far too young to worry about that.”

Naturally, I decided I loved her. Tipped her extravagantly and still spent considerably less than I normally do. I drove to work in light traffic, speeding along while I called to check on Friend then listening to every song my iPod shuffled through. I found an excellent parking space and got to the bus stop just as the vehicle was lumbering to a stop to pick me up. I received hugs (one armed from Boss, a full embrace from Jill) when arriving in the office and shared holiday stories with other colleagues. I responded promptly to email, deciding to put one task off until tomorrow while focusing on another.

I’m at the neat part of my career here where I’ve done a lot of things before. So I was able to take a presentation I was rather dreading, copy the one I’d done before, changed text and figures around and finished it in less than 30 minutes. Pleased, I grabbed a book I needed for a meeting Monday, sent myself email with the last piece of information for my paper revisions and walked back to my car, super-pretty hair blowing in the cool breeze that contrasted exquisitely with the sunshine.

My goodness, I should sing a song! I decided after I smiled widely at the fourth person I passed. My black flats – after giving me a single blister – were shockingly comfortable. I felt like I could walk forever. But I reached my car, turned on the iPod and smiled when every light I approached turned green. I spent some time with Friend, pleased to see her writing the paper that has caused her such problems. I drove home through moderate traffic, pleased to get to the gas station in my little town before I reached the point where my car was completely empty.

Pleasantly surprised – all day I was expecting something bad or boring or otherwise unpleasant and kept being completely pleased with a given outcome – and very happy.

Perhaps after I finish my book and complete the requisite reading tour that will certainly make me rich and famous beyond my wildest dreams (also, of course, providing some wonderful man who will fall madly in love with me due to my deep intelligence, insight and ability to use words in sort of the right context most of the time.), I will learn to write music. I really should have a special happy song to sing on days like today.

I noticed when I went to paste this entry into blogger (I compose in Word) that - for the first time in weeks - I wrote an entry for my other blog this morning. Interesting, is it not, that the first day I decide to spend a few moments on spiritual reflection is a truly easy, happy and lovely one. That was really nice of God. I'm going to put Him in my happy song.

A Sprout-date

It's been quite some time since the kitten got more than a passing mention. I decided that talking about writing my book (which might have been all I did today) would defeat the purpose of putting that obsessive energy toward the book and away from other people. I also realize that I kept the kitten because I wanted to tell the story of how I found him because I thought it was adorable. And I didn't want to be the blogger who allowed the kitten who found her to be put down. So His Sproutness found a home in part due to all of you. So you deserve some detailed information about him, yes?

Of course.

I can't decide what I think about the little fellow. I sometimes consider him as a Screwtape-type character. Superior, dignified, disdainful of all he sees. But then he prances by carrying one of Chienne's squeaky squirrel toys and the mental image falls apart.

"I don't think he knows he's a cat." Dad said when I was home, watching the little guy wrestle with a dog ten times his size.

"He knows." I responded, thinking of how he cleans himself, retreats to places of safety when strangers come around, sleeps during the day and plays at night (this I don't like). "He's just adapted to his new environment." He does play with squeaky toys, comes when he's called (if it's only me around and he deduces there's minimal risk of having to go in the car), takes food from my hand and eschews grace for speed when eating.

He still sleeps in his room during the day, but will select an upper corner of my bed at night, nuzzling my fingers when they appear from under the pillow. He approaches me often to be petted, though Chienne gets terribly jealous when that happens. He lets me clip his claws, though he's not fond of the process. He prefers crispy treats to soft ones.

He enjoys my parents, though he does bite them. I flick him when he bites me - firmly rebuking the act - and he's stopped. I reached to pet him yesterday and he opened his mouth to bite, then licked me once instead. I found him a crispy treat.

Both my parents are scarred from his attempts to play though as they refuse to scold him when he bites them. "What if he stops liking us?" Mom asked. "He already hides from everyone else! And I like to pet him!"

Little One loves him dearly, favoring cats to dogs in general. Over the week we spent at home, he grew used to Mom or me holding him still while she gently stroked his coat. Sometimes she would muss his fur and he'd busily smooth it back into place. She also would hurry to take his toys from any of us so she could whip them around with a speed that was equally frightening and amusing. While he ran away at first, he learned to duck and cover and would play with her a lot. On the last day we were home, he climbed on her lap and allowed her to shower him with affection.

My favorite of their times together? She would come in the house and yell, "Prout!" Then, raising the pitch of her voice, and crouching down, she'd call "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty..." Then again - still high pitched - "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty..." After waiting mere seconds, she stands up throws her hands up in exasperation and shouts, "Come on, 'Prout!"

It's delightful.

He didn't come once.

All in all, he's a funny, sweet, pretty little guy. I really love him very much and I'm glad he's around. So I'll thank you all for making me a better person and inadvertently convincing me to keep the little kitten I found outside my house.

May I ask you a question?

“Do you want to be happy?” Dr. Counselor has asked. Not often, but enough that I wonder what he sees when I speak. He’s also asked if I’m ready to get better. He noted that he has a daughter who is resisting all help right now, which I’m sure is difficult for him, so I’ve rationalized that he’s projecting.

“Of course. Very much.” I answer, then I think about it, wondering if I’m being honest.

It’s funny, actually. More in the interesting way than laughing out loud, of course. Now I ask myself in random moments if I’m happy. If not, am I causing my unhappiness? Dwelling in unpleasant thoughts for no other reason than to mope?

Sometimes. I’ve decided that sometimes I am. I do. I probably will continue to do so.

I’m changing that though. I really am trying to be more positive. To do things that encourage mental health. To refocus my energies on the bright – changes I can make, people with whom to talk, tasks to achieve. It’s not always effective, but I’m pleased with my effort.

And yet there’s still that unpleasantness. Those months that I spent being miserable had a meaning, and it wasn’t all related to the man involved. I spend therapy sessions speaking of it, and Dr. Counselor offers comfort and advice. I’ve really tried to avoid mentioning it to friends. I stopped when I saw the look Friend offered when I was sitting on my loveseat one night, laptop perched on a pillow in front of me.

“She knows him! I know she does – she has to! It’s just too coincidental otherwise.” Then I listed reasons, voice raised as I put pieces together in my head. She nodded carefully then shrugged.

“Perhaps.” She finally offered and I realized she was acting as I would when faced with a crazy person.

“You’re obsessed.” I told myself after she headed home. “Still. Dammit.”

Then I thought for a minute. “I do think I’m right though.” Smiling at myself – how foolish and silly I can be – I wandered down the hall to shower.

When faced with a person like me – one who was hurt and tends toward turning concepts endlessly in her little head – ignoring said person is the best option. I crave attention, though I’m getting better about it. I want to win, though I’m uncertain as to how to go about doing that. Plus, there are all these moments I remember! Foreshadowing! I cry as I remember some line of text. Irony? I wonder, going to look up the concept yet again because I can rarely identify it correctly unless I read though pages of examples then compare my own prospective situation to them. Tragic, I decide as I think over my particular story.

So what would you like to know first? That there exists a folder with 12 files (nearly 350 pages) of text from emails we sent? That I carefully copied and pasted all those words (I stopped for the last 3 months or so, but carefully stored the first 4) and bolded headings, changing formatting so it looked just right?

How about that I copied that folder from the external storage device where it was stored? It’s now embedded in several layers of organizing folders on my laptop.

Or, most shameful of all, the one fact I was hoping to keep secret? Would you like to hear that?

I think I’m writing a book.

How’s that for pretentious? And awful? And a pretty sure sign that I do not, in fact, want to be happy after all. Instead, I want last year – a largely wasted and miserable collection of days – to matter. To have been somehow worthwhile as I believed them to be instead of this hugely regrettable mess. I want to see if I can write a novel. I don’t know why – I kept dismissing the idea as it occurred to me countless times. I’m not a writer – I really do know that.

I couldn’t sleep when I was at home. I was turning situations over in my mind. Fantasies I’d spun early on and how they’ve shifted over time. As I sniffled and tried to shift to avoid the dog sprawled at my side, wincing at my achy muscles from the contortions I used to sleep, I tried to distract myself from physical discomfort.

When I first discovered his little friend, I decided I could make something work. Perhaps… OK. Maybe there was an imposter. There was this icky man who pretended to be the real man – who, at first, had mimicked him perfectly. So I fell in love. Then icky man got distracted – likely by all the other women with whom he was involved – and became all lame and mean. But! I’d read a book where this same thing had happened.

See, Laurel fell for Russ over email. (It was a dating site in the novel, but blog is just as good). But the man writing the email was Trevor, pretending to be Russ (a cop) so that he could steal Laurel’s money (money, soul, same difference, yes?). But Russ (the real one) met Laurel at the coffee shop for her first date with Trevor to try to arrest Trevor, and she ended up loving Russ (the real one). Then at the end, Trevor gets shot! Delightful all around! But it’s been done, first of all, and, well, it doesn’t work for my story anyway. There’s just one guy – no secret yet real man waiting in the wings to sweep in and save me from the icky one.

So, fine. We could try for an evil twin, but that belongs in a soap opera. It makes me happy nonetheless. Rachel, Elle and I watched Sunset Beach in college and I remember when Ben started treating Meg really badly. We all loved Ben and didn’t understand why he would start being such an ass.

“It’s like he has an evil twin!” Elle cried one day. Rachel and I shared a look and shook our heads. Our soap opera certainly wouldn’t sink so low. Except that it did. Ben was locked in a cave somewhere if memory serves, and his twin was out and about.

“Ben or Evil Ben?” I’d ask as I hurried in from class to flop on Elle’s bed with homework on my lap to watch the rest of the show. I’d miss the first 15 minutes due to horrible class scheduling and she’d catch me up by identifying the man on screen.

“EB.” She’d answer quickly. “The English accent is slightly different for the two and EB has a certain evil look. If you paid attention instead of doing work, you’d know these things.” Then we’d smile at each other and watch the story unfold. But I don’t think an evil twin is the way I want to go.

I listened to Babyville on the drive to and from Illinois. Near the end (I ruin books, just FYI, so skip ahead if that bothers you.) Sam (who is married and has a 7 month old baby) is completely infatuated and obsessed by Ben (who does not have an evil twin and is, in fact, a completely separate person from Sunset Beach Ben) who is also married with a child. Sam is still overweight from her pregnancy, is pretty depressed and overwhelmed and anxious. She’s angry at her husband and when they meet up with this new couple (including Ben), she enjoys this intense crush and lets it evolve into a very real expectation of true love between the two of them.

This irritated me, frankly, because I’d like to be married. It pisses me off when people who get to be married screw it all up. But whatever. The confusing part for me was that Ben encouraged her affection. He flirted and touched and flattered. And she felt amazing – started working out, making positive changes – because she had this new hope that someone saw her for the gorgeous creature she was and wanted to be better for this man who truly understood her. (Sounds familiar, I know. Which is why I empathized greatly with the poor idiot.)

Long (and good, actually – I very much enjoyed the audiobook) story short, she eventually overhears Ben laughing with his wife over the “cow” who has such a crush on him. His wife tells him to stop encouraging her – she knows it’s his favorite game, making women love him, but she’s feeling sorry for the poor girl, fat and stupid as she is. Ben laughs and makes some awful comments and returns to Sam with his wife, unaware she's heard. She leaves the room, sick with misery and humiliation, and Ben goes home.

First, was I the cow? I’ve acknowledged that I probably was. Easy to figure out, lonely, uncertain of my appeal and eager to be appreciated and encouraged. Did he pity me? Mock me? I’m not sure. I’m still at the beginning of my book and haven’t written that part yet. Perhaps though. Maybe it was like the boy in high school who asks the nerdy girl to prom, then laughs with all his friends when she actually accepts. Because why would he – with all his looks and talent and popularity – take someone who is actually sincere and interesting and sweet?

Second, where the hell is the punishment? Ben just walks away with a beautiful wife who is amused by his little hobby. And he’s awful! This total waste of human being in a pretty package who hurts women just because he can! And while I don’t want the hero of my story to die (or even get syphilis, I guess), I’m at the point where I’m dreadful enough to want him to be emotionally miserable until such a time when I am blissfully happy in my own personal life. Then, only when I no longer care if he exists or not, should he be allowed to find any moderate romantic success. (That’s awful, I know, and I will get over it. But maybe not before I write this book.)

If I’m trying to encourage myself (and I am, obviously), I could note that I went through the books in my bedroom today. There are separate collections in the other 2 bedrooms and the living room, but I left those alone. I boxed up 2/3 of them. They’re just not that great – weak plot, bad ending, poor wording. I could do at least that well! Ish. Maybe.

Plus, I may have spent large portions of the past year drafting and outlining my novel! That’s not a waste of time! And according to my outline, major portions are coming off the blog or are based on emails or posts that are written but not published. In my past fantasties of penning some cute little book, I couldn’t come up with an outline. But I have a decent one! One that changes as I remember some moments and discard others, but it has humor and sex and love and betrayal and depression. That’s like a real book! A fluffy book, but a book nonetheless. And while I acknowledge my delusions of authorship, I have no expectation of actually getting published. I just want to write it.

Lastly, it saves you (as well as friends and family) from hearing me obsess. I can put that energy toward something semi-productive. Then I can have a stack of pages that note something happened to me. Something that mattered. It’s important, I think.

I don’t see Dr. Counselor for another week. I will tell him about my book when I do, hoping that I’m well into it by that point. I assume he’ll ask if it’s making me happy to write it.

It won’t be. It’s not sharply painful to read those words now, but it’s a bit unpleasant to see sentences I had memorized because they were so special and note that they’re now indicative of the future crushing of my heart. I liked doing the outline – thinking of the progression, the rises and falls, puzzling over what’s interesting and important and what was just noise. But when it comes to mapping it out – deciding on names of characters and actually writing out the details – it’s a little difficult. The emotions are fresh enough to be vividly recalled if not experienced with their initial intensity. I think it’ll make for a better book, but it will contribute to an experience that’s mildly unpleasant.

“Do you want to be happy?” Dr. Counselor will ask after I admit I’m not sure why I’m writing this.

“I do.” I’ll answer. “As soon as I finish this book.”

More content than happy

Though not as dreaded as Thanksgiving, I'm not crazy about New Year's Eve as far as holidays go. I was quite sad last year - lonely, isolated, rather pitiful. I remember having to go out when I was little - my parents dragging me a friend's party where I was overwhelmed from all the people attending. I was placed in the kids' room, away from all my precious toys I'd recently acquired at Christmas, and forced to mingle with my peers. I hated it - going out in the cold, being forced to try to sleep someplace other than my bed, the noise, not being able to readily find my mom and dad. New Year's Eve = sucky.

This year was quite different.

Though I blinked back tears when driving away from my parents, car loaded with presents and a yowling cat, I was glad to get home. I habitually clean before leaving for a trip because I suffer from real mental anguish when returning to a dirty house. So, after considerable speeding that shaved about an hour off my trip, I unloaded the animals and my precious belongings into a clean (albeit cold - save on electricity!) home. Then I fluttered around happily, stopping frequently to blow my nose or drink some juice.

I set up my new microwave and tested out the magical sensor heating feature for a cup of tea, staring in wonder through the front window of my lovely stainless steel appliance. I took down the remainder of the Christmas decorations, lovingly wrapping the ceramic pieces and nestling them back in their boxes for another year. I plugged in my new Kone vacuum in Sprout's room - I'm going to use it for litter control. New bathmats are in my master bathroom. A tealight candle holder shaped like logs sits in my fireplace. ("Is it stupid?" Mom asked when I called back to talk, just slightly lonely. "It's actually very pretty. I like it a lot." I told her, watching the 12 tiny flames flicker in my fireplace that appears to have never been used.) I neatly hung a bounty of new clothes and placed the new electric toothbrush in the bathroom. The DVD player is wired into my bedroom television, though I haven't yet used it. Sprout now has a basket for his toys and Chienne's 2 large bins are overflowing. As I made slow progress, I found myself feeling quite peaceful. Moving items around, playing with my new toys, feeling grateful I'd busily run around to clean before leaving so I could take time to enjoy it now.

I found myself strangely drawn to the laptop. Strange because it was to work. I moved data I'd forgotten off external storage devices. I created elements of a new figure for my paper then transferred them to my office computer. I checked spreadsheets and found my paper that now exists online as an accepted paper. Proofs should arrive this week and I finally smiled over the little paper. I'm proud of it. Pleased with it. Ready to do more work.

I don't do resolutions - don't feel the need to validate a holiday I rather dislike. Plus, The Plan keeps me busy enough. But when the year shifted from 06 to 07, I was content. Surrounded my things I love from people I adore. Doing work I enjoy and think is important. Wondering what will happen this year and knowing it really should be better than last. Even mild improvement is something. And if by chance things do get worse? Perhaps I'm a bit stronger than I was then.

But for now, I'm looking around at bills I've paid, the figure I finished and the list of things yet to do today. I'm glad Chienne and I took our walk already since the damn neighborhood morons are setting off fireworks yet again. (My moments of discontent spewed out in hatred at the fireworks that lasted until 2AM, and apparently have started before 9AM again. We don't do that where I'm from and I can't find it in my heart to appreciate the tradition down here.) So the dog is hiding in the bathtub, while the cat looks at her quizzically. I really feel terrible - the cold is settling into my chest, though it's retaining its ground in my head as well. But life is good. I'm blessed. And grateful.

So I'll wish you - with all sincerity - a new year that is peaceful, filled with moments of contentment and is also really quite happy.