So when someone’s rambling on and on about something, do you ever want to make those loops with your finger in the “wrap it up, moron” gesture? That’s what I feel like doing to this “cute boy” series of posts. The original reason for beginning it was that after almost 6 years, I finally feel honest when I say I don’t want or expect any further contact with him. I don’t quiver when I hear about him, don’t flip immediately to his section in the alumni magazine, and have no desire to send him email in hopes of trying to get his attention again. I did all those things – for years – but I think that last ember is finally cool, and I wanted to pick it up and examine it, carry it around for a little while longer to try to see why it was so important to me.
I guess I should officially wrap up the story. We didn’t speak often after the massage evening. I climbed the stairs to the apartment and spent a few minutes just sitting in the dark. Then I sent email to Rachel – she was across campus in the computer lab – then shocked Elle by coming in to her room so late to retell the story. Neither had realized I hadn't returned to my room immediately after the meeting. My girls… some of my favorite moments in this story were spent with them. Daydreaming, laughing, talking about something that happened in my life rather than just taking in what they would say about theirs. Good times – great friends.
And Gabe? We saw him several times after that, but no one incident sticks out for me. There were many friends who said I should have kissed him – made some sort of move after he so carefully constructed a seductive environment. But I wasn’t, and still am not, sure what his motivation was. I was there, and while it was intimate, I don’t know that he was interested in anything sexual. I really don’t. So I continue to be pleased that I didn’t sleep with someone who had a girlfriend. I probably would have, had there been a more explicit invitation, but with everything so shadowed and open to interpretation, I remain 80% pleased, 20% regretful that the situation played out as it did.
He helped me with some homework, coming over several times. We stayed in the living room – my bedroom safely down the hall, guarded by 3 roommates who were convinced that contact with Gabe would only be harmful. I think he was only in my room once – I wanted to show him how well I’d done on a test he’d helped me study for. But once he was sitting on the bed, and looking through a binder I’d handed him, Julie joined us and coaxed us back down the hall. He did offer to give me a massage again – after an evening studying where I wasn’t be as attentive and awestruck as normal. I turned him down that time – firmly – and told him he should leave so he could make the Easter date he had with his girlfriend. He graduated – we’ve exchanged maybe 4 emails over as many years, and I haven’t heard from him for a long time.
I believed completely that I was drawn to him for a reason. That if we weren’t meant to end up together that the experience would be somehow critical for me. But I don’t know that it was – I think I could have looked at him at that first environmental meeting on the quad and thought “cute boy” and moved on. But I didn’t, and I’ve never experienced anything like that again. That immediate attraction that only strengthed as I learned more and more about him. The flutters – giddy excitement – that I felt on receiving all of his emails, even years after I’d seen him. My heart broke a little when I read about his first child. I had been waiting for that and it was, as expected, the final push that closed the door on any hopes I might have carefully hidden over the years.
Rachel had a story of her own. She had a crush when she was in high school – a boy she knew from family connections. They had known each other for years, but had never been particularly close. She told me about him (we’re going to call him Ross) when I was tucked in the corner of her dorm room, both of us doing homework. She wanted to take him to prom, and he had accepted her invitation. But something got in the way – I can’t remember if he couldn’t afford a tuxedo rental or if he was uncomfortable with her younger group. She ended up going with a friend, deeply disappointed in his late refusal and irritated over his lack of explanation.
A big fan of romance novels, I confidently predicted that their story wasn’t yet over. I recall looking in her dark eyes and telling her that I didn’t know if they were meant to end up together, but I knew that something more would happen. No decent novel would end with disappointment like that. It was just a conflict that would eventually be resolved.
She went home after graduation. Got a job, found an apartment, and ran into Ross with her sister. He asked about her, she told me over the phone. She thought he might be interested. Vindicated, I waited for future reports.
They’re married now. Contemplating a house and children, fighting and making up, figuring out how to continue building a life together.
That’s a good story – one where things worked out, people fell in love, and things got neatly tied up at the conclusion. I think that’s why I hung on to Gabe for so long – kept those memories fresh and ready to revive. I thought there was something more – that such strong feelings couldn’t lead nowhere. But sometimes they do; perhaps that’s the lesson I was meant to learn. Sometimes I’m not the young, beautiful heroine. That doesn’t mean there isn’t cool stuff out there for me – friends, work, a house, the best little dog in the world. And maybe I do have a boy out there somewhere – one who will make me fluttery and giddy again. This next one might be the real one, or maybe he’ll just be more practice. But as I sit, stuck in a dateless rut and not really all that bothered by it, I wanted to review the story that made me lose faith that love is all powerful. Not every story makes a great novel, I guess. So I don't have a romance novel of my own - just some background material on a website. And for now, I'm good with that.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Cute boy from SC: part 4
Remember how I said Gabe had an uncanny ability to know when I was getting over him, and would somehow once again enter my life, bringing me back to the brink of desperate infatuation? He knew – as if he was tuned into my private thoughts and feelings.
I mentioned I would see him around campus – he’d always stop me to catch up. Perhaps he felt obligated after that evening confession, perhaps he enjoyed the ego boost that I offered. But I backed off – perhaps frightened by my uncharacteristic behavior, maybe understanding that this relationship was going nowhere. This was before the “he’s not that into you” catchphrase, but sometimes the situation is so clear that you don't need a bestseller to decode it.
Elle was in my room one night, working on my computer while I did homework problems lying on my bed. She was saying how I really needed to move on – that I was amazing and wonderful and it was clear he didn’t appreciate me. I should have someone who wanted to be with me, who came over, who called.
I was about to agree when the phone rang. It was Gabe, and we talked while Elle rolled her eyes. After a few minutes, I hung up and looked at her.
“Uncanny.” Was all she said.
Eventually though, snippets of attention become degrading. So my infatuation waned and irritation replaced it. I had been clear in my interest, he hadn’t told me no, and while I construed that as being polite, it had strung me along for another semester.
The last straw came near Christmas. He called and said he wanted to bring brownies over before we all escaped campus for holiday break. I told him I had plans to attend a party with Rachel, so he suggested we meet at my place around 10. The party was nice – Rachel wanted to stay, but as a good friend, politely made our excuses as 10:00 approached. We hurried home, and settled in to wait. He never came – no call, no email, no brownies.
I was hurt, and allowed animosity to replace the warm feelings he once inspired. I would avoid him when walking through campus, I decided, and that would be it. And it worked – I rarely saw him and didn’t talk to him.
Until one night in February. It was late on a Wednesday evening, I think. I was running late, but felt obligated to attend an environmental club meeting. So I headed across campus through the cold and snow. I was almost in the building, unable to feel my fingertips or nose, and I saw a bike thrown in the bushes. I stopped to look more carefully, my hand on the door handle.
No – I thought – can’t be his. I haven’t seen him at all this year at SC meetings, so he certainly wouldn’t be here now. But fully expecting to see him, I trotted up the stairs and bit my lip as he sat on the far side of the circle. There was an empty seat on his right, but I pulled a desk over closer to the door. I was careful not to make eye contact – focused on the leader (this one less militant) and the people I knew. I had an advantage – I knew most of the people through my involvement when I was trying to stalk Gabe. We adjourned the meeting early to watch some sort of news clip that someone had on tape. One of the women in the group thought there was a VCR in a classroom down the hall, so we all headed that direction.
I wasn’t interested – I don’t remember what the tape was about, but I vividly recall not caring. So I allowed everyone to precede me into the room, hovering in the doorway, deciding whether I could be impolite enough to leave early (and yes, probably trying to give Gabe an easy opportunity to talk to me – whatever). He did – stepping aside to let more people into the room and facing me.
I nodded and gave a half-smile in response to his greeting. He frowned at me.
"Are you OK?"
“Fine.” I replied. “Just tired. Busy. You?”
“Would a hug help?” he asked, opening his arms a bit and ignoring my question.
It earned him a smile. “No.” I sighed, charmed though I knew it was corny. I continued to speak. “You know – I don’t think I care about this tape. I should head home.” I had already bundled up in my coat and pulled my gloves out of the pockets. “It was good to see you.” Eyes down, focused on the gloves, I glanced up to find him zipping his coat too. We began walking down the hall.
“Aren’t you going to stay for the tape?” I asked.
“Nah. I don’t really care either. I’ll walk you back. We just need to grab my bike.”
Deciding I had been irritated at him for no reason – I knew he was unavailable a long time ago – I laughingly declined a ride on his handlebars. He straddled the bike, walking sometimes, coasting others, while I strode quickly to keep up. I started to chatter – unnerved by his silence, aware of his desire that I explain why I was so distant when my previous goal was to get closer.
I was upset about a roommate situation, stressed and feeling inadequate. As I talked and we walked (or rather I walked and he did some sort of half riding, half walking thing), I realized I was just in a crappy place – disappointed that he wasn’t my boy, confused about what I wanted from the future, distressed over the fact that the 3 women I considered to be critically important in my life were struggling and I was failing as a friend. Life was just sucking pretty hard.
We arrived at my building and I stood outside with him until I started to shiver. I told him I was too cold to stay and talk, and thanked him for walking me home. As I turned to finish the walk to my building, he once again asked
“Are we done? Are you OK?” And I turned around to respond to the question that had ended our last walk together.
“I’ll be fine. I’m just sad. And cold.” I smiled and waited for him to walk away, knowing that a glimpse here and there would probably be all I’d have until he graduated. He had a girlfriend, and though their relationship was new, I realized that nothing would ever develop between us.
“I have time. We could talk…” he offered, making no move to head home.
“That might be good.” I murmured, confused over the offer, but knowing Gabe was highly focused. I’d never captured this much of his attention before, and was unsure as to how to handle it.
“So, my place or yours?” I raised my eyebrows at his question. Seriously? We were going to talk?
“Yours.” I said after a moment, wanting to wallow in him if I had the chance – see his things, be in his space. So we walked to his house. I don’t remember if we talked or not – I was overwhelmed. Completely.
I remember arriving, him dragging his bike up the stairs to his back deck and entering through the kitchen.
“Let’s get settled and I’ll get you a drink.” He lead me to his room, while I glanced around for the roommate I had only met once.
“He’s not home tonight.” Gabe told me, apparently knowing who I was looking for. I decided that since we had the apartment to ourselves, we’d sit in the living room. That was actually the reason I had given him for choosing his place over mine. My 3 girls would probably join us in the living area of my apartment, so we’d have a better chance of talking in his house.
But we continued toward his bedroom, and I once again watched him push piles of laundry around. This time, he threw clothes in the closet, cleared off the bed and put the piles of papers and books lying on the couch under his desk. Then he smiled at me, standing with the tips of my toes just touching his carpet.
“Are you coming in?”
“Oh. Sure. I thought we were … never mind.” I said, trying once again to reconcile what was actually happening to the mental picture I had of us in his living room. I took a step inside and he gestured to the far section of the couch under his window.
“Are you cold? I keep it much colder in here than in the rest of the house.” I assured him that I too preferred the cold – I love winter.
He went to get drinks – listing the mixes he could make with the liquor they owned – and I requested water. I was freaking out a little – not understanding why we were in his room, fully aware that he was dating someone, and not comprehending the vibe he had going.
He returned, closing and locking his door, and we talked. I can’t really remember the conversation. I do remember the music – he asked what I liked, and when I didn’t offer a suggestion – too afraid to select something gauche – he played Tori Amos. I still think of him when I hear her. Mellow, smooth, a little sexy. I do remember him talking about being sad himself, sharing some of his struggles when all I had seen was confidence and clear views of his goals and future.
After a few hours, I was growing more and more shaky and upset. I was the same way in therapy a couple years later – talking didn’t clarify or calm, it only wound me up tighter, focusing attention on problems I wasn’t even aware of in addition to the ones that had originally upset me.
“I should go.” I finally said – freaked out by my own issues and still not reading Gabe all that well.
“You’re still upset.” He noted. “Stay and we’ll talk.”
“The talking isn’t working for me. I think I’ll just go.”
“No, you should stay. We’ll figure it out.”
I shook my head, thanked him for the talk, and set my plastic cup on his desk. And I stood up.
“Don’t go.” He said again. “I’ll give you a massage.” I looked at him, beyond surprised and into shocked.
“It’ll help,” he promised, “and I’m good at it.”
“I don’t think so.” I said quietly, but making no move to get my coat, suspended in thought, wanting but not being brave enough to take. And where would it lead? He had a girlfriend – were guys with girlfriends allowed to give massages to girls who had crushes on them?
“I do think so. It’ll help. Take your hair down.” He waved his hand at my ponytail, and began moving around the room. Tori Amos gave way to a man I wasn’t familiar with – slower, maybe more soothing. After changing the music, he lit a candle – a large orange one with 3 wicks. “It’s supposed to be relaxing.” He explained as he turned off the overhead light, leaving us in the flickering illumination of 3 small flames. He moved to the window, closing the blinds. Why close the blinds? I thought. This is too much – I don’t understand what’s happening.
He told me to lie on the floor on my back. I got as far as sitting on his carpet with my legs crossed, suddenly completely unsure as to what the hell I was doing. He had a girlfriend, I was being melodramatic over some minor problems, and it was late. What was happening here? He sat behind me, and eased me into a prone position between his legs.
“Stretch your legs out. Relax.” He advised softly as they remained crossed and I was more tense than I could remember being. Ever. He chuckled when he touched my shoulders. I closed my eyes – looking up at him, sitting directly above me, was far too intimate.
“This is the worst part. Letting go and getting into it. Try to relax and let me move your head. Just give up control.”
I couldn’t. I lifted my head so he could slide his hands underneath. Tried to anticipate his moves so that I could turn my head for him. He continued to request relaxation as he manipulated my neck, twisting my head slowly.
“OK,” he decided, “we’ll try that again in a minute.” He started rubbing my shoulders, which felt lovely. I carry tension in my shoulders and upper back, according to the professional masseuses I now frequent. He rubbed at it, moving down my arms and into my hands. We’re holding hands. How sweet.
“Think about what makes you happy. Something nice.” I frowned – there’s no freaking way. I was trying to enjoy the attention – I’d later pay for people to work tension out of my tired body. He rubbed my scalp with the pads of his fingers. Smoothed my forehead, my cheeks, my earlobes, warming them with friction between 2 fingers. Under and over my lips, pressing the soft skin against my teeth, tracing lightly around the edge of my face. How intimate, I thought, all the problems fading as I focused on him, on how I felt. On wondering how he felt, what his motives were, on the phone call he’d taken from his girlfriend earlier. He told me it was the library, though I didn’t think they were open and making calls after 11 PM. Were they having problems? Was this some vindictive thing?
It didn’t feel negative to me though.
“How is it?” He asked softly, barely intruding on my whirling thoughts.
“It was good. It helped – you were right.” I glanced up at him, and he smiled down at me, face shadowed in the dim room.
“Is there a favorite part I could do again for you?” Wow – he must be an incredible lover, I thought, already disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to find out. Seductive, confident, attentive.
“Maybe just another minute on my shoulders.”
He started to rub, the pressure perfect, the intimacy taken down a notch from having him touch my face, ears and scalp.
“No one has ever asked for more shoulder work before.” He commented lightly.
So he did this all the time, I mused, relieved. This was a big deal for me, but maybe it was normal for him. Lock the door, put on music, light candles, close the blinds. Make a memory for a young woman who was freaking out over her privileged life. We got off the floor, and I reiterated that I should go. He handed me my coat and grabbed his own.
“You don’t have to walk me back. It’s cold and I’ll be there in 2 minutes.”
“It’s not safe. And I don’t mind.” Knowing that I didn’t tend to win arguments with him, I decided to quit. He handed me the band that had held my hair back. I wrapped it around my wrist. I quietly waited while he unlocked the door, and followed him out of the apartment, down the stairs and across the grass until we reached the sidewalk. We talked about squirrels.
Arriving back at the front door to my apartment, I turned to look at him.
“Thank you. For tonight. It helped.” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Could I maybe have the hug now?”
He wrapped his arms around me, and for a moment, I held on to his coat and rested my chin on his shoulder, breathing him in and wishing for something I couldn’t have. Then I let him go, and opened the front door, headed up the steps. And while I’ll do a post-mortem tomorrow - how I told the girls, how I desperately wished something would happen - this was it. The big finale to a silly story, but one that shaped me and how I view relationships.
Part 5 comes tomorrow. And then, I’m letting Gabe go for good.
I mentioned I would see him around campus – he’d always stop me to catch up. Perhaps he felt obligated after that evening confession, perhaps he enjoyed the ego boost that I offered. But I backed off – perhaps frightened by my uncharacteristic behavior, maybe understanding that this relationship was going nowhere. This was before the “he’s not that into you” catchphrase, but sometimes the situation is so clear that you don't need a bestseller to decode it.
Elle was in my room one night, working on my computer while I did homework problems lying on my bed. She was saying how I really needed to move on – that I was amazing and wonderful and it was clear he didn’t appreciate me. I should have someone who wanted to be with me, who came over, who called.
I was about to agree when the phone rang. It was Gabe, and we talked while Elle rolled her eyes. After a few minutes, I hung up and looked at her.
“Uncanny.” Was all she said.
Eventually though, snippets of attention become degrading. So my infatuation waned and irritation replaced it. I had been clear in my interest, he hadn’t told me no, and while I construed that as being polite, it had strung me along for another semester.
The last straw came near Christmas. He called and said he wanted to bring brownies over before we all escaped campus for holiday break. I told him I had plans to attend a party with Rachel, so he suggested we meet at my place around 10. The party was nice – Rachel wanted to stay, but as a good friend, politely made our excuses as 10:00 approached. We hurried home, and settled in to wait. He never came – no call, no email, no brownies.
I was hurt, and allowed animosity to replace the warm feelings he once inspired. I would avoid him when walking through campus, I decided, and that would be it. And it worked – I rarely saw him and didn’t talk to him.
Until one night in February. It was late on a Wednesday evening, I think. I was running late, but felt obligated to attend an environmental club meeting. So I headed across campus through the cold and snow. I was almost in the building, unable to feel my fingertips or nose, and I saw a bike thrown in the bushes. I stopped to look more carefully, my hand on the door handle.
No – I thought – can’t be his. I haven’t seen him at all this year at SC meetings, so he certainly wouldn’t be here now. But fully expecting to see him, I trotted up the stairs and bit my lip as he sat on the far side of the circle. There was an empty seat on his right, but I pulled a desk over closer to the door. I was careful not to make eye contact – focused on the leader (this one less militant) and the people I knew. I had an advantage – I knew most of the people through my involvement when I was trying to stalk Gabe. We adjourned the meeting early to watch some sort of news clip that someone had on tape. One of the women in the group thought there was a VCR in a classroom down the hall, so we all headed that direction.
I wasn’t interested – I don’t remember what the tape was about, but I vividly recall not caring. So I allowed everyone to precede me into the room, hovering in the doorway, deciding whether I could be impolite enough to leave early (and yes, probably trying to give Gabe an easy opportunity to talk to me – whatever). He did – stepping aside to let more people into the room and facing me.
I nodded and gave a half-smile in response to his greeting. He frowned at me.
"Are you OK?"
“Fine.” I replied. “Just tired. Busy. You?”
“Would a hug help?” he asked, opening his arms a bit and ignoring my question.
It earned him a smile. “No.” I sighed, charmed though I knew it was corny. I continued to speak. “You know – I don’t think I care about this tape. I should head home.” I had already bundled up in my coat and pulled my gloves out of the pockets. “It was good to see you.” Eyes down, focused on the gloves, I glanced up to find him zipping his coat too. We began walking down the hall.
“Aren’t you going to stay for the tape?” I asked.
“Nah. I don’t really care either. I’ll walk you back. We just need to grab my bike.”
Deciding I had been irritated at him for no reason – I knew he was unavailable a long time ago – I laughingly declined a ride on his handlebars. He straddled the bike, walking sometimes, coasting others, while I strode quickly to keep up. I started to chatter – unnerved by his silence, aware of his desire that I explain why I was so distant when my previous goal was to get closer.
I was upset about a roommate situation, stressed and feeling inadequate. As I talked and we walked (or rather I walked and he did some sort of half riding, half walking thing), I realized I was just in a crappy place – disappointed that he wasn’t my boy, confused about what I wanted from the future, distressed over the fact that the 3 women I considered to be critically important in my life were struggling and I was failing as a friend. Life was just sucking pretty hard.
We arrived at my building and I stood outside with him until I started to shiver. I told him I was too cold to stay and talk, and thanked him for walking me home. As I turned to finish the walk to my building, he once again asked
“Are we done? Are you OK?” And I turned around to respond to the question that had ended our last walk together.
“I’ll be fine. I’m just sad. And cold.” I smiled and waited for him to walk away, knowing that a glimpse here and there would probably be all I’d have until he graduated. He had a girlfriend, and though their relationship was new, I realized that nothing would ever develop between us.
“I have time. We could talk…” he offered, making no move to head home.
“That might be good.” I murmured, confused over the offer, but knowing Gabe was highly focused. I’d never captured this much of his attention before, and was unsure as to how to handle it.
“So, my place or yours?” I raised my eyebrows at his question. Seriously? We were going to talk?
“Yours.” I said after a moment, wanting to wallow in him if I had the chance – see his things, be in his space. So we walked to his house. I don’t remember if we talked or not – I was overwhelmed. Completely.
I remember arriving, him dragging his bike up the stairs to his back deck and entering through the kitchen.
“Let’s get settled and I’ll get you a drink.” He lead me to his room, while I glanced around for the roommate I had only met once.
“He’s not home tonight.” Gabe told me, apparently knowing who I was looking for. I decided that since we had the apartment to ourselves, we’d sit in the living room. That was actually the reason I had given him for choosing his place over mine. My 3 girls would probably join us in the living area of my apartment, so we’d have a better chance of talking in his house.
But we continued toward his bedroom, and I once again watched him push piles of laundry around. This time, he threw clothes in the closet, cleared off the bed and put the piles of papers and books lying on the couch under his desk. Then he smiled at me, standing with the tips of my toes just touching his carpet.
“Are you coming in?”
“Oh. Sure. I thought we were … never mind.” I said, trying once again to reconcile what was actually happening to the mental picture I had of us in his living room. I took a step inside and he gestured to the far section of the couch under his window.
“Are you cold? I keep it much colder in here than in the rest of the house.” I assured him that I too preferred the cold – I love winter.
He went to get drinks – listing the mixes he could make with the liquor they owned – and I requested water. I was freaking out a little – not understanding why we were in his room, fully aware that he was dating someone, and not comprehending the vibe he had going.
He returned, closing and locking his door, and we talked. I can’t really remember the conversation. I do remember the music – he asked what I liked, and when I didn’t offer a suggestion – too afraid to select something gauche – he played Tori Amos. I still think of him when I hear her. Mellow, smooth, a little sexy. I do remember him talking about being sad himself, sharing some of his struggles when all I had seen was confidence and clear views of his goals and future.
After a few hours, I was growing more and more shaky and upset. I was the same way in therapy a couple years later – talking didn’t clarify or calm, it only wound me up tighter, focusing attention on problems I wasn’t even aware of in addition to the ones that had originally upset me.
“I should go.” I finally said – freaked out by my own issues and still not reading Gabe all that well.
“You’re still upset.” He noted. “Stay and we’ll talk.”
“The talking isn’t working for me. I think I’ll just go.”
“No, you should stay. We’ll figure it out.”
I shook my head, thanked him for the talk, and set my plastic cup on his desk. And I stood up.
“Don’t go.” He said again. “I’ll give you a massage.” I looked at him, beyond surprised and into shocked.
“It’ll help,” he promised, “and I’m good at it.”
“I don’t think so.” I said quietly, but making no move to get my coat, suspended in thought, wanting but not being brave enough to take. And where would it lead? He had a girlfriend – were guys with girlfriends allowed to give massages to girls who had crushes on them?
“I do think so. It’ll help. Take your hair down.” He waved his hand at my ponytail, and began moving around the room. Tori Amos gave way to a man I wasn’t familiar with – slower, maybe more soothing. After changing the music, he lit a candle – a large orange one with 3 wicks. “It’s supposed to be relaxing.” He explained as he turned off the overhead light, leaving us in the flickering illumination of 3 small flames. He moved to the window, closing the blinds. Why close the blinds? I thought. This is too much – I don’t understand what’s happening.
He told me to lie on the floor on my back. I got as far as sitting on his carpet with my legs crossed, suddenly completely unsure as to what the hell I was doing. He had a girlfriend, I was being melodramatic over some minor problems, and it was late. What was happening here? He sat behind me, and eased me into a prone position between his legs.
“Stretch your legs out. Relax.” He advised softly as they remained crossed and I was more tense than I could remember being. Ever. He chuckled when he touched my shoulders. I closed my eyes – looking up at him, sitting directly above me, was far too intimate.
“This is the worst part. Letting go and getting into it. Try to relax and let me move your head. Just give up control.”
I couldn’t. I lifted my head so he could slide his hands underneath. Tried to anticipate his moves so that I could turn my head for him. He continued to request relaxation as he manipulated my neck, twisting my head slowly.
“OK,” he decided, “we’ll try that again in a minute.” He started rubbing my shoulders, which felt lovely. I carry tension in my shoulders and upper back, according to the professional masseuses I now frequent. He rubbed at it, moving down my arms and into my hands. We’re holding hands. How sweet.
“Think about what makes you happy. Something nice.” I frowned – there’s no freaking way. I was trying to enjoy the attention – I’d later pay for people to work tension out of my tired body. He rubbed my scalp with the pads of his fingers. Smoothed my forehead, my cheeks, my earlobes, warming them with friction between 2 fingers. Under and over my lips, pressing the soft skin against my teeth, tracing lightly around the edge of my face. How intimate, I thought, all the problems fading as I focused on him, on how I felt. On wondering how he felt, what his motives were, on the phone call he’d taken from his girlfriend earlier. He told me it was the library, though I didn’t think they were open and making calls after 11 PM. Were they having problems? Was this some vindictive thing?
It didn’t feel negative to me though.
“How is it?” He asked softly, barely intruding on my whirling thoughts.
“It was good. It helped – you were right.” I glanced up at him, and he smiled down at me, face shadowed in the dim room.
“Is there a favorite part I could do again for you?” Wow – he must be an incredible lover, I thought, already disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to find out. Seductive, confident, attentive.
“Maybe just another minute on my shoulders.”
He started to rub, the pressure perfect, the intimacy taken down a notch from having him touch my face, ears and scalp.
“No one has ever asked for more shoulder work before.” He commented lightly.
So he did this all the time, I mused, relieved. This was a big deal for me, but maybe it was normal for him. Lock the door, put on music, light candles, close the blinds. Make a memory for a young woman who was freaking out over her privileged life. We got off the floor, and I reiterated that I should go. He handed me my coat and grabbed his own.
“You don’t have to walk me back. It’s cold and I’ll be there in 2 minutes.”
“It’s not safe. And I don’t mind.” Knowing that I didn’t tend to win arguments with him, I decided to quit. He handed me the band that had held my hair back. I wrapped it around my wrist. I quietly waited while he unlocked the door, and followed him out of the apartment, down the stairs and across the grass until we reached the sidewalk. We talked about squirrels.
Arriving back at the front door to my apartment, I turned to look at him.
“Thank you. For tonight. It helped.” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Could I maybe have the hug now?”
He wrapped his arms around me, and for a moment, I held on to his coat and rested my chin on his shoulder, breathing him in and wishing for something I couldn’t have. Then I let him go, and opened the front door, headed up the steps. And while I’ll do a post-mortem tomorrow - how I told the girls, how I desperately wished something would happen - this was it. The big finale to a silly story, but one that shaped me and how I view relationships.
Part 5 comes tomorrow. And then, I’m letting Gabe go for good.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Cute boy from SC: part 3
It should come as no great surprise that following the return of his stereo, there was no contact with Gabe. Nada. Absolutely positively nothing. But if I were going to give up, I should have done it in the beginning. No – we had invested too much time and energy in this faux-relationship to forget about it now.
I spent a considerable amount of time on my own deciding on my next attempt to get his attention. Go with what you know, so I decided to ask him about recycling. Since we were new to apartment living, it seemed reasonable to find out where he took his recyclable materials. So I called, but didn’t want to leave a message – what if he didn’t call back again? No – I would just keep calling until I reached him. It probably took me 10 times (and yes, he and his roommate had caller ID. And yes, I absolutely am still embarrassed that they knew I called so much), but I finally got to talk to him on a Sunday morning after church.
He told me where to go with our recyclable materials (having carefully collected them with this plan in mind and the roommates’ full support), and gave directions. I told him I was “sure I could find it” but continued to ask for clarification and paused to pretend to write notes so he could ascertain that I was uncomfortable going on my own. I wasn’t being too subtle anymore – it wasn’t effective. He finally offered to come with me, saying he had his own box of things to take. Pleased that he could take a hint, I quickly accepted and the conversation degenerated into a minute-long discussion over who would drive. I decided that I would, having exhausted the number of ways we could each say “I don’t really care.”
I went to pick him up soon after the call, knowing myself well enough not to allow excessive time to get nervous. My girls were thrilled – finally, a chance to be alone with Gabe! We spent a few moments fixing my hair (already curled for church) and getting the recycling separated into neat piles. Pleased with the quantity of our trash, I put my things in the trunk. Bolstered by their compliments, I headed over to get Gabe.
He didn’t have many recyclable materials, I noticed. His box wasn’t nearly full and seemed meager compared to our carefully prepared bags. But he directed me further downtown, deeper into the seedy part of my small Midwestern city, to the recycling location. He directed me to park, and he carried all but one of the bags over to designated piles, telling me to save the glass bottles. He then lead me over to a huge pile of broken glass, and smiled.
“This is the best part.” He told me, grinning. “You get to throw your bottles on the pile and watch them break. Go ahead.”
I shook my head – my athletic skills were never my strong point, and I hadn’t prepared for any sort of bottle tossing event. He noted my reluctance, but his smile didn’t dim. He leaned closer and grabbed a bottle out of his box.
“I’ll go first.” He tossed the comment over his shoulder as he heaved the bottle toward the pile. It hit near the center, shattered and the pieces clinked as they fell to the shards already on the ground. He raised his eyebrows at me inquisitively, but I shook my head again.
“You seem to enjoy it more than I would. Please, go ahead.” I demurred. He did, tossing a few more. I watched him from a step behind, entranced by his enjoyment of throwing the bottles. It smelled like garbage around us, the sun barely peeked through the clouds, and I stood, always timid, holding his box in one hand while a trash bag sat at my feet.
“Now, you. There are only 3 left.” Sensing my continued resistance, his eyes narrowed slightly behind the lenses of his glasses and he bargained. “You throw one, and if you hate it, I’ll do the other 2.”
I tossed one, barely making it to the mound of glass. I remember some sort of encouragement, thought it was a bit condescending, and threw the next one harder. It was sort of satisfying, I thought grimly. But the last one, I handed to him. I still don’t know why.
We loaded his empty box into my trunk and drove back to campus. Hardly a romantic afternoon together, I thought with a smile at myself. But I tried – I forced contact with this boy I decided was so incredible, and I was proud of that. I started talking about a book, some sort of collection of Christian experiments set on proving the existence of God. I glanced over to see him studying me, asking whether or not I thought proof was necessary.
“I don’t know. Is it?” I turned the question back. He shrugged, and said he needed more than 2 minutes to discuss it.
“Call me when you don’t have anything going on,” he said, much to my delight. “We’ll get a beer and talk about God and proof. You can convince me.” After informing him that I was too young to drink, I said I was definitely open for a talk. It had started to rain, and he told me to stay in the car and he’d get his box later, jogging across the street and into his house with a wave.
I returned to the apartment, my triumph dimming with the realization that though I had a box and a casual invitation for a spiritual talk, I probably would end up with an empty box in the end. Contact with Gabe was elusive, and neglecting to make firm plans would likely ensure the necessity of yet another plan to gain 10 minutes of his attention.
But I was high on the afternoon, completely infatuated, trembling as I told the story to my eager audience of roommates. We spent the rest of the rainy afternoon together in the living room, sprawled on the couch and over the chair that had come with the apartment and lying on the bright green carpet. I think we studied – we typically would emerge from our respective rooms with books, pens and paper so we could be somewhat productive while waiting for distractions. So I’m sure I did some differential equations or worked through quantum mechanics, but every time my mind would start to loop through Gabe scenarios, I’d interrupt their thoughts to share my own. We’d discuss, and I’d lapse back into daydreams of what might be.
After hours of this, I was exhausted. It almost hurt to think about it anymore and the idea of further commentary from my lovely roommates was distasteful. The moment that kept playing through my mind was when I wouldn’t throw the bottles. Why was I so frightened – resistant to doing something new, being embarrassed, opening myself up to pain? What was wrong with me that I wanted to constantly be safe? Would I never have a story of my own? Destined to seek comfort over anything that could be construed as a plotline? I couldn’t take the questions – wasn’t able to face the thought of yet another night plotting how to get Gabe’s attention. Didn’t want to talk about the same 10 minutes for another 2 weeks.
So I walked quickly to my room and called him. It was late – almost midnight, but he answered on the second ring. I apologized for bothering him, and asked if he was busy, my agitation clear. I just wanted to talk about something, I explained, and I couldn’t wait. I’d walk over and needed just 5 minutes of his time. Could he meet me outside?
“No. It’s cold and late. I’ll come to you – just wait there.” He replied quickly.
I shook my head as I told him I didn’t want to bother him. I already had my shoes on and wanted to walk for a little while anyway.
“Then I’ll take you for a walk when I get there. Just wait – I’m on my way.” He insisted, hanging up before I could reply.
I walked back to the living room, shoes and coat on, and sat down.
“What’s going on?”
“I thought you went to bed.”
“Are you going somewhere? It’s late.”
My girls had remained in the living room and asked their questions from there. Only Julie followed me down the hall – she had been brushing her teeth, getting ready for bed.
“I called him. I wanted to go over to talk, but he said he’d come here. That I shouldn’t be out walking by myself so late.” My voice was shaking – I was nervous and unsure, yet thrilled that I had done something so out of character. My friends were suitably impressed, waiting mostly in silence for Gabe to arrive.
The buzzer didn’t ring – someone must have been coming home in the early hours of Monday morning. Because he knocked at the door – quick raps, 5 of them. I still remember the rhythm.
“I’m sorry.” I said first as I opened the door and stepped out in the hall. We stood looking at each other, he concerned, probably over my mental health, and I was… completely in the moment. Struggling to function past the tide of emotions was almost overwhelming. I was trying to think – compose statements that made sense, trying to tell him something without appearing pathetic. Screw it – I finally decided. Why do something if you’re not going to go all the way?
“I need to walk. Can we walk?” I asked, talking quickly; I needed to burn off some energy. To move through the cool evening, still scented of rain. To not look in his eyes as I tried to share some vital piece of myself with him.
He nodded and followed me down the stairs and out the front door. We walked side by side down the path and out to the sidewalk, away from the lights that welcomed residents to the building and into the older neighborhood that would soon be demolished to make room for more campus housing.
“I don’t know what I want from you. I really don’t. But I keep thinking about you – about why I’m so drawn to you when it’s so not something I’d normally do. I’m not sure why you’re important to me, but you are. I think about you – want to know you, and I feel like there’s something I’m supposed to get from this. Whether you know something I need to know, or whether the experience itself is important, I don’t know. But it’s not easy – I never see you, and I feel like I’m trying to get your attention, and I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t seem to stop it. So I need you to give me something – I need to know if we can be friends and I can bother you, or if this is completely insane and I’m freaking you out, then you need to say that so I can leave you alone. Because I want to know you.”
He listened, looking down at the ground in concentration as I glanced over at him through my quickly-uttered monologue.
“Wow…” he finally said, looking over at me. I waited for him to tell me he was flattered, and he did. “Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me before, so I’m not sure how to respond. Give me a second.” He looked around, noticed a man coming toward us, and touched my arm to guide me to walk on the other side of him. Gallantly placing himself between the man and me – protective and sweet.
“I don’t know if I believe in soul mates. That 2 people are bound to find each other.” He started.
It was too much. I didn’t say I thought we had to be together, did I? Hell – this was startling out poorly, so I quickly interrupted.
“I don’t think we’re soul mates. I don’t think we’re bound to be desperately in love and that I’ll be incomplete without you. I just want to know you.”
This time, he interrupted me. “I know what you’re saying. I just don’t know what to give you.”
“It’s fine if you’re freaked out. I know this is weird – the calling so late and walking in the dark. It’s OK to tell me to back off, Gabe. Honestly. Maybe that’s what I need.”
“No. No – that’s not at all what I want to say. I’d like to know you – I’d like for you to know me, but I know how I am. I get busy and don’t make time for people. I just broke up with my girlfriend because she said I was always distracted.” Now he was talking quickly. “But you... We’re friends now, and we can work on that some more, but I don’t know how much I can give you. And I don’t want to say something that makes you expect something that I won’t deliver. I don’t want you to think badly of me, and I don’t know what to say.”
I sighed and started to breathe more easily. It was more than I deserved, dragging him out when we both had classes the next morning. “We should turn around.” I said quietly, content and suddenly exhausted. The emotional storm wasn’t normal for me, and I was starting to get sleepy as my mind slowed down.
“Are we done?” He asked. “Are you OK?”
“I’m good.” I think I said. “I needed to hear that – that you didn’t think I was awful, but that you needed time and space for your own life. And I think I needed to tell you – I’ve talked to the girls, but we can’t come to any resolution, and I knew you’d have something to say. And it’s what you think that matters.”
“You talked to your roommates?” I remember him asking – our eyes meeting as I glanced at his stare.
I smiled. If only he knew. “Today I did. I had questions after we got together this afternoon, so we talked about it some.” Like for nearly 10 hours, but I think I had disclosed enough information to terrify him for one evening. So we walked back to my apartment, mostly in silence, shoulder to shoulder while I breathed in the clean smell of wet grass, the light breeze cooling my blush that had persisted throughout the conversation. He walked me to the door, wished me good night, asked if I was alright, then walked home.
I slept that night, tired over all the thoughts and questions. I wonder if he did. Or if he considered the crushed-out junior, the girl who was not yet 21, but who considered herself to be somehow linked to him in some profound way. Tucked into my 4 pillows, surrounded on all sides by softness and easing into sleep, I thought this might be a fitting end. At least, I told myself, this was something. A story I could tell where I was stupid and reckless in telling someone where I was mentally.
And it seemed to be over. We saw him for his birthday later that fall – I bought him a plant and wrote a beautiful card. He’d catch me on campus that winter, rubbing his hand over the arm of my coat to get my attention. We stood, several times, in the frigid air, our breath clouding the air between us, and exchanged a few words. My nose was running once, and I was embarrassed. But there was basically nothing – a casual acquaintance marked by the events of a single rainy Sunday. My girls had started to encourage disinterest in him, telling me that there was nothing there. I had tried, and that was great, but I should find someone more available - someone who would appreciate me.
But it wasn’t over yet.
I spent a considerable amount of time on my own deciding on my next attempt to get his attention. Go with what you know, so I decided to ask him about recycling. Since we were new to apartment living, it seemed reasonable to find out where he took his recyclable materials. So I called, but didn’t want to leave a message – what if he didn’t call back again? No – I would just keep calling until I reached him. It probably took me 10 times (and yes, he and his roommate had caller ID. And yes, I absolutely am still embarrassed that they knew I called so much), but I finally got to talk to him on a Sunday morning after church.
He told me where to go with our recyclable materials (having carefully collected them with this plan in mind and the roommates’ full support), and gave directions. I told him I was “sure I could find it” but continued to ask for clarification and paused to pretend to write notes so he could ascertain that I was uncomfortable going on my own. I wasn’t being too subtle anymore – it wasn’t effective. He finally offered to come with me, saying he had his own box of things to take. Pleased that he could take a hint, I quickly accepted and the conversation degenerated into a minute-long discussion over who would drive. I decided that I would, having exhausted the number of ways we could each say “I don’t really care.”
I went to pick him up soon after the call, knowing myself well enough not to allow excessive time to get nervous. My girls were thrilled – finally, a chance to be alone with Gabe! We spent a few moments fixing my hair (already curled for church) and getting the recycling separated into neat piles. Pleased with the quantity of our trash, I put my things in the trunk. Bolstered by their compliments, I headed over to get Gabe.
He didn’t have many recyclable materials, I noticed. His box wasn’t nearly full and seemed meager compared to our carefully prepared bags. But he directed me further downtown, deeper into the seedy part of my small Midwestern city, to the recycling location. He directed me to park, and he carried all but one of the bags over to designated piles, telling me to save the glass bottles. He then lead me over to a huge pile of broken glass, and smiled.
“This is the best part.” He told me, grinning. “You get to throw your bottles on the pile and watch them break. Go ahead.”
I shook my head – my athletic skills were never my strong point, and I hadn’t prepared for any sort of bottle tossing event. He noted my reluctance, but his smile didn’t dim. He leaned closer and grabbed a bottle out of his box.
“I’ll go first.” He tossed the comment over his shoulder as he heaved the bottle toward the pile. It hit near the center, shattered and the pieces clinked as they fell to the shards already on the ground. He raised his eyebrows at me inquisitively, but I shook my head again.
“You seem to enjoy it more than I would. Please, go ahead.” I demurred. He did, tossing a few more. I watched him from a step behind, entranced by his enjoyment of throwing the bottles. It smelled like garbage around us, the sun barely peeked through the clouds, and I stood, always timid, holding his box in one hand while a trash bag sat at my feet.
“Now, you. There are only 3 left.” Sensing my continued resistance, his eyes narrowed slightly behind the lenses of his glasses and he bargained. “You throw one, and if you hate it, I’ll do the other 2.”
I tossed one, barely making it to the mound of glass. I remember some sort of encouragement, thought it was a bit condescending, and threw the next one harder. It was sort of satisfying, I thought grimly. But the last one, I handed to him. I still don’t know why.
We loaded his empty box into my trunk and drove back to campus. Hardly a romantic afternoon together, I thought with a smile at myself. But I tried – I forced contact with this boy I decided was so incredible, and I was proud of that. I started talking about a book, some sort of collection of Christian experiments set on proving the existence of God. I glanced over to see him studying me, asking whether or not I thought proof was necessary.
“I don’t know. Is it?” I turned the question back. He shrugged, and said he needed more than 2 minutes to discuss it.
“Call me when you don’t have anything going on,” he said, much to my delight. “We’ll get a beer and talk about God and proof. You can convince me.” After informing him that I was too young to drink, I said I was definitely open for a talk. It had started to rain, and he told me to stay in the car and he’d get his box later, jogging across the street and into his house with a wave.
I returned to the apartment, my triumph dimming with the realization that though I had a box and a casual invitation for a spiritual talk, I probably would end up with an empty box in the end. Contact with Gabe was elusive, and neglecting to make firm plans would likely ensure the necessity of yet another plan to gain 10 minutes of his attention.
But I was high on the afternoon, completely infatuated, trembling as I told the story to my eager audience of roommates. We spent the rest of the rainy afternoon together in the living room, sprawled on the couch and over the chair that had come with the apartment and lying on the bright green carpet. I think we studied – we typically would emerge from our respective rooms with books, pens and paper so we could be somewhat productive while waiting for distractions. So I’m sure I did some differential equations or worked through quantum mechanics, but every time my mind would start to loop through Gabe scenarios, I’d interrupt their thoughts to share my own. We’d discuss, and I’d lapse back into daydreams of what might be.
After hours of this, I was exhausted. It almost hurt to think about it anymore and the idea of further commentary from my lovely roommates was distasteful. The moment that kept playing through my mind was when I wouldn’t throw the bottles. Why was I so frightened – resistant to doing something new, being embarrassed, opening myself up to pain? What was wrong with me that I wanted to constantly be safe? Would I never have a story of my own? Destined to seek comfort over anything that could be construed as a plotline? I couldn’t take the questions – wasn’t able to face the thought of yet another night plotting how to get Gabe’s attention. Didn’t want to talk about the same 10 minutes for another 2 weeks.
So I walked quickly to my room and called him. It was late – almost midnight, but he answered on the second ring. I apologized for bothering him, and asked if he was busy, my agitation clear. I just wanted to talk about something, I explained, and I couldn’t wait. I’d walk over and needed just 5 minutes of his time. Could he meet me outside?
“No. It’s cold and late. I’ll come to you – just wait there.” He replied quickly.
I shook my head as I told him I didn’t want to bother him. I already had my shoes on and wanted to walk for a little while anyway.
“Then I’ll take you for a walk when I get there. Just wait – I’m on my way.” He insisted, hanging up before I could reply.
I walked back to the living room, shoes and coat on, and sat down.
“What’s going on?”
“I thought you went to bed.”
“Are you going somewhere? It’s late.”
My girls had remained in the living room and asked their questions from there. Only Julie followed me down the hall – she had been brushing her teeth, getting ready for bed.
“I called him. I wanted to go over to talk, but he said he’d come here. That I shouldn’t be out walking by myself so late.” My voice was shaking – I was nervous and unsure, yet thrilled that I had done something so out of character. My friends were suitably impressed, waiting mostly in silence for Gabe to arrive.
The buzzer didn’t ring – someone must have been coming home in the early hours of Monday morning. Because he knocked at the door – quick raps, 5 of them. I still remember the rhythm.
“I’m sorry.” I said first as I opened the door and stepped out in the hall. We stood looking at each other, he concerned, probably over my mental health, and I was… completely in the moment. Struggling to function past the tide of emotions was almost overwhelming. I was trying to think – compose statements that made sense, trying to tell him something without appearing pathetic. Screw it – I finally decided. Why do something if you’re not going to go all the way?
“I need to walk. Can we walk?” I asked, talking quickly; I needed to burn off some energy. To move through the cool evening, still scented of rain. To not look in his eyes as I tried to share some vital piece of myself with him.
He nodded and followed me down the stairs and out the front door. We walked side by side down the path and out to the sidewalk, away from the lights that welcomed residents to the building and into the older neighborhood that would soon be demolished to make room for more campus housing.
“I don’t know what I want from you. I really don’t. But I keep thinking about you – about why I’m so drawn to you when it’s so not something I’d normally do. I’m not sure why you’re important to me, but you are. I think about you – want to know you, and I feel like there’s something I’m supposed to get from this. Whether you know something I need to know, or whether the experience itself is important, I don’t know. But it’s not easy – I never see you, and I feel like I’m trying to get your attention, and I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t seem to stop it. So I need you to give me something – I need to know if we can be friends and I can bother you, or if this is completely insane and I’m freaking you out, then you need to say that so I can leave you alone. Because I want to know you.”
He listened, looking down at the ground in concentration as I glanced over at him through my quickly-uttered monologue.
“Wow…” he finally said, looking over at me. I waited for him to tell me he was flattered, and he did. “Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me before, so I’m not sure how to respond. Give me a second.” He looked around, noticed a man coming toward us, and touched my arm to guide me to walk on the other side of him. Gallantly placing himself between the man and me – protective and sweet.
“I don’t know if I believe in soul mates. That 2 people are bound to find each other.” He started.
It was too much. I didn’t say I thought we had to be together, did I? Hell – this was startling out poorly, so I quickly interrupted.
“I don’t think we’re soul mates. I don’t think we’re bound to be desperately in love and that I’ll be incomplete without you. I just want to know you.”
This time, he interrupted me. “I know what you’re saying. I just don’t know what to give you.”
“It’s fine if you’re freaked out. I know this is weird – the calling so late and walking in the dark. It’s OK to tell me to back off, Gabe. Honestly. Maybe that’s what I need.”
“No. No – that’s not at all what I want to say. I’d like to know you – I’d like for you to know me, but I know how I am. I get busy and don’t make time for people. I just broke up with my girlfriend because she said I was always distracted.” Now he was talking quickly. “But you... We’re friends now, and we can work on that some more, but I don’t know how much I can give you. And I don’t want to say something that makes you expect something that I won’t deliver. I don’t want you to think badly of me, and I don’t know what to say.”
I sighed and started to breathe more easily. It was more than I deserved, dragging him out when we both had classes the next morning. “We should turn around.” I said quietly, content and suddenly exhausted. The emotional storm wasn’t normal for me, and I was starting to get sleepy as my mind slowed down.
“Are we done?” He asked. “Are you OK?”
“I’m good.” I think I said. “I needed to hear that – that you didn’t think I was awful, but that you needed time and space for your own life. And I think I needed to tell you – I’ve talked to the girls, but we can’t come to any resolution, and I knew you’d have something to say. And it’s what you think that matters.”
“You talked to your roommates?” I remember him asking – our eyes meeting as I glanced at his stare.
I smiled. If only he knew. “Today I did. I had questions after we got together this afternoon, so we talked about it some.” Like for nearly 10 hours, but I think I had disclosed enough information to terrify him for one evening. So we walked back to my apartment, mostly in silence, shoulder to shoulder while I breathed in the clean smell of wet grass, the light breeze cooling my blush that had persisted throughout the conversation. He walked me to the door, wished me good night, asked if I was alright, then walked home.
I slept that night, tired over all the thoughts and questions. I wonder if he did. Or if he considered the crushed-out junior, the girl who was not yet 21, but who considered herself to be somehow linked to him in some profound way. Tucked into my 4 pillows, surrounded on all sides by softness and easing into sleep, I thought this might be a fitting end. At least, I told myself, this was something. A story I could tell where I was stupid and reckless in telling someone where I was mentally.
And it seemed to be over. We saw him for his birthday later that fall – I bought him a plant and wrote a beautiful card. He’d catch me on campus that winter, rubbing his hand over the arm of my coat to get my attention. We stood, several times, in the frigid air, our breath clouding the air between us, and exchanged a few words. My nose was running once, and I was embarrassed. But there was basically nothing – a casual acquaintance marked by the events of a single rainy Sunday. My girls had started to encourage disinterest in him, telling me that there was nothing there. I had tried, and that was great, but I should find someone more available - someone who would appreciate me.
But it wasn’t over yet.
Cute boy from SC: part 2
Armed with a name and room number, the stalking effort was renewed. I could see when and where he checked his email (almost never from his room – likely from a science lab or the library), and would sometimes check the mailbox in the lobby 4 times a day in hopes of running into him (you have to take one piece of mail at a time so there’s always a reason to return). I spent hours in the cafeteria with my girls, arriving at the start of dinner hours and drinking free soda refills until we couldn’t stand it anymore. We would see him sometimes, often toward the end of serving hours - we quickly altered our schedule to arrive later. He’d always be reading. Look how smart, I’d think. How dedicated, time conscious. How I love him.
Since inviting him to eat with us was unsuccessful (he was trying to get reading done, but was always graciously appreciative of our offers), I went back to the original plan – the SC. He didn’t attend the environmental meetings, but he had to be on the email list. If I were to become secretary, I could send emails (for the good of the group, of course) and perhaps trick him into replying.
Long story short – I wrote amazingly detailed emails on the meetings, but never got a response from him. I even organized a plan to deliver holiday treats to the rooms of members to encourage next semester participation, but caught him in the middle of studying. The thrill of being in his room, even momentarily, lasted for weeks. Julie eventually introduced us – I remember shaking his hand and trying not to make a fool of myself. He ate with us one day at lunch – sitting right across from me. He asked about my ring – the ruby I don’t wear anymore. So intense was my infatuation that I overemphasized a lack of interest. Participating in other conversations more than I talked to him, deflecting attention to others when he’d try to ask questions.
Our relationship seemed doomed - his lack of availability and interest didn't fare well for my timid and subtle attention. We were both the beginning of verses - mismatched. I left for the summer, eager to return to campus for junior year. There would be no return to the dorm though – Julie, Elle, Rachel and I moved our meager belongings into a 4 bedroom space. After a summer apart, we were quick to catch up, eager to share stories of home and plans for the coming year.
I think it was Julie who asked about Gabe. I shook my head and smiled. There was nothing to say – for all the intensity of feeling on my part, there was a complete lack of anything significant that had happened outside my imagination. I liked him – he was pre-med and had excelled in some of the same classes I would soon begin. He seemed spiritual without being overly conservative, athletic, but on a casual basis. I still thought he was nearly perfect, but his utter lack of accessibility convinced me I should move on.
I shared these thoughts with my girls, seated on the floor of my bedroom while Elle sat at my desk and Julie was on the bed. I remember looking at Rachel helplessly, seated facing me on the floor – I wanted him, but I didn’t know how to get him. My lack of meaningful dating in high school left me ill-prepared to chase him in earnest and subtle approaches were ineffective when I had no contact with him. I remember telling them that I needed a new crush to erase the old one. My defeat inspired my girls though - they were always gentle with me - reminding me that I was amazing when I continued to lack the ability to see it.
So we developed a plan for one last shot at Gabe. Why give up the crush you already have when nothing has ever happened? Our plan was rather elaborate, involving a party to celebrate the beginning of the school year, I think. We all had a casual acquaintance with Gabe, and decided that upon running into him (with 4 people committed to partaking of the plan on a relatively small campus, it seemed completely reasonable) we’d invite him to this party.
Except we never ran into him, each day congregating to watch TV or discuss our widely varied disciplines, complaining over some difficulty, and rehashing our failure at finding Gabe, let alone inviting him. I once again offered to move on to another guy – perhaps one that actually existed in our little world.
Rachel, so far relatively uninvolved in the process, refused to admit defeat. Quickly finding the number to his off-campus apartment, she called and left a message inviting him to his party. Now forced into having an actual party with actual people, we quickly invited friends, found someone to buy alcohol, and we were good to go.
True to form, he didn’t call. I was vindicated in my original view that this was going nowhere. And if you’ve ever waited for someone to call, you know that in the beginning, it’s torture - sharp and constant. Rushing home to check your voicemail, calming the flutters in your stomach when you download email, every moment having at least some of your attention directed to what you’ll say when he calls. But as time passes, your expectations fall in an exponential decline and you don’t really expect to hear from him. There’s disappointment, but it’s a progressive lessening of torture as time passes.
Knowing we gave it a shot, my girls attempted distractions. We were having movie night one evening, probably about a week later, and expected some friends to join us. The buzzer rang, and Rachel spoke into the intercom, but got no response. While she tried again, I found my flip-flops and headed downstairs. Our building was new, but the intercom would continue to be problematic for our entire 2 year lease. Though we hadn’t lived there long, I had already decided that the initial buzz was all the help that would be offered from the tiny device.
I descended the stairs, already smiling over a story I wanted to tell Jeff - the friend I expected. Reaching the bottom, I looked out the glass door with a grin to find Gabe smiling back.
“Hi…” I trailed off, trying frantically to reconcile reality with my expectations. "The intercom is ... um, bad. And ... I thought you'd be Jeff. Jeff was supposed to come over. To watch a movie. We're going to watch a movie. Now." I hadn’t seen him at all that year, but he had found us. And had apparently brought beer.
I finally invited him up, cutting off my awkward conversational attempt by heading upstairs, sharing the shock of Gabe with the roommates who were slightly cooler than I. I remember the shock overriding any sort of charming conversation I could have made. I had been ready for so long! Topics in mind! Always dressed to be Gabe-prepared. But now? Sleepy pants with a bleach stain on the ankle, a huge old t-shirt and ponytail. Add that to the fact that I’m easily distracted searching for meaning (the mess that appears here in print is only a peek at what constantly occurs in my head), I kept wondering why he showed up when I finally stopped thinking about him rather than during one of the many days when I’d been obsessed. It was like he was super-Gabe – able to see when my interest waned so that he could arrive and fan it back to a towering inferno.
What I remember from the visit:
He had stopped by because Rachel left the wrong number.
He couldn’t make the party, but thanked us for the invitation.
The beer wasn’t for us.
We could borrow his stereo since it was special (I don’t remember how, and I recall all 4 of us having some sort of music-playing device).
I tuned back in enough to jump at borrowing something of his. It would give us a reason to see him again! Understanding that striking while the iron was hot was of the utmost importance for Gabe, I told him we’d go take the stereo now. So Rachel and I drove him back to his place, climbed up some rickety stairs, and waited while he kicked piles of laundry around to make room for us to stand in his bedroom. Unhooking and unplugging was followed by carrying stereo, speakers and other random accessories to my trunk. We waved goodnight, left him to his beer, and went home to revel in the triumph of having some part of the Gabe plan come to fruition.
We had the party, and about a week later, he came to get his stereo. He drove this time, making the short trip to our apartment, though I offered to drop off all the equipment with his roommate. Gabe was starting to explore professional schools at that point – knowing he wanted to get more education before he pursued his given career. He also had left engineering, was interested in environmental causes, though he didn’t have time to devote to them, and was quite well-versed in spiritual matters.
For me, in the midst of terror over what I’d do after college, and trying to work my way through a spiritual struggle by taking classes and reading books, I was impressed. I craved that confidence – that knowledge of where I was going and what I believed. He seemed so much older than my 20 years, though he wasn’t. He was just so kind, smart, gorgeous, charming – and I was besotted. After sitting with us for a few minutes, listening to music on Elle’s stereo that we had set up next to his borrowed one (music from Cruel Intentions, I think – it became the soundtrack to our apartment life), he left. I helped carry speakers to his car, and watched him drive away.
Is that it? I remember thinking that couldn’t be all. Returning to the apartment, Elle said “I don’t know what it is about him, but there’s something there. Maybe he’s your boy!”
And recalling countless afternoons and evenings curled up on twin beds in the dorm, talking to each other about the men who would eventually capture our hearts, I promised myself that I’d find out if he was my boy, knowing that I would make a fool out of myself if needed, but not aware that it was not only necessary, but inevitable.
Since inviting him to eat with us was unsuccessful (he was trying to get reading done, but was always graciously appreciative of our offers), I went back to the original plan – the SC. He didn’t attend the environmental meetings, but he had to be on the email list. If I were to become secretary, I could send emails (for the good of the group, of course) and perhaps trick him into replying.
Long story short – I wrote amazingly detailed emails on the meetings, but never got a response from him. I even organized a plan to deliver holiday treats to the rooms of members to encourage next semester participation, but caught him in the middle of studying. The thrill of being in his room, even momentarily, lasted for weeks. Julie eventually introduced us – I remember shaking his hand and trying not to make a fool of myself. He ate with us one day at lunch – sitting right across from me. He asked about my ring – the ruby I don’t wear anymore. So intense was my infatuation that I overemphasized a lack of interest. Participating in other conversations more than I talked to him, deflecting attention to others when he’d try to ask questions.
Our relationship seemed doomed - his lack of availability and interest didn't fare well for my timid and subtle attention. We were both the beginning of verses - mismatched. I left for the summer, eager to return to campus for junior year. There would be no return to the dorm though – Julie, Elle, Rachel and I moved our meager belongings into a 4 bedroom space. After a summer apart, we were quick to catch up, eager to share stories of home and plans for the coming year.
I think it was Julie who asked about Gabe. I shook my head and smiled. There was nothing to say – for all the intensity of feeling on my part, there was a complete lack of anything significant that had happened outside my imagination. I liked him – he was pre-med and had excelled in some of the same classes I would soon begin. He seemed spiritual without being overly conservative, athletic, but on a casual basis. I still thought he was nearly perfect, but his utter lack of accessibility convinced me I should move on.
I shared these thoughts with my girls, seated on the floor of my bedroom while Elle sat at my desk and Julie was on the bed. I remember looking at Rachel helplessly, seated facing me on the floor – I wanted him, but I didn’t know how to get him. My lack of meaningful dating in high school left me ill-prepared to chase him in earnest and subtle approaches were ineffective when I had no contact with him. I remember telling them that I needed a new crush to erase the old one. My defeat inspired my girls though - they were always gentle with me - reminding me that I was amazing when I continued to lack the ability to see it.
So we developed a plan for one last shot at Gabe. Why give up the crush you already have when nothing has ever happened? Our plan was rather elaborate, involving a party to celebrate the beginning of the school year, I think. We all had a casual acquaintance with Gabe, and decided that upon running into him (with 4 people committed to partaking of the plan on a relatively small campus, it seemed completely reasonable) we’d invite him to this party.
Except we never ran into him, each day congregating to watch TV or discuss our widely varied disciplines, complaining over some difficulty, and rehashing our failure at finding Gabe, let alone inviting him. I once again offered to move on to another guy – perhaps one that actually existed in our little world.
Rachel, so far relatively uninvolved in the process, refused to admit defeat. Quickly finding the number to his off-campus apartment, she called and left a message inviting him to his party. Now forced into having an actual party with actual people, we quickly invited friends, found someone to buy alcohol, and we were good to go.
True to form, he didn’t call. I was vindicated in my original view that this was going nowhere. And if you’ve ever waited for someone to call, you know that in the beginning, it’s torture - sharp and constant. Rushing home to check your voicemail, calming the flutters in your stomach when you download email, every moment having at least some of your attention directed to what you’ll say when he calls. But as time passes, your expectations fall in an exponential decline and you don’t really expect to hear from him. There’s disappointment, but it’s a progressive lessening of torture as time passes.
Knowing we gave it a shot, my girls attempted distractions. We were having movie night one evening, probably about a week later, and expected some friends to join us. The buzzer rang, and Rachel spoke into the intercom, but got no response. While she tried again, I found my flip-flops and headed downstairs. Our building was new, but the intercom would continue to be problematic for our entire 2 year lease. Though we hadn’t lived there long, I had already decided that the initial buzz was all the help that would be offered from the tiny device.
I descended the stairs, already smiling over a story I wanted to tell Jeff - the friend I expected. Reaching the bottom, I looked out the glass door with a grin to find Gabe smiling back.
“Hi…” I trailed off, trying frantically to reconcile reality with my expectations. "The intercom is ... um, bad. And ... I thought you'd be Jeff. Jeff was supposed to come over. To watch a movie. We're going to watch a movie. Now." I hadn’t seen him at all that year, but he had found us. And had apparently brought beer.
I finally invited him up, cutting off my awkward conversational attempt by heading upstairs, sharing the shock of Gabe with the roommates who were slightly cooler than I. I remember the shock overriding any sort of charming conversation I could have made. I had been ready for so long! Topics in mind! Always dressed to be Gabe-prepared. But now? Sleepy pants with a bleach stain on the ankle, a huge old t-shirt and ponytail. Add that to the fact that I’m easily distracted searching for meaning (the mess that appears here in print is only a peek at what constantly occurs in my head), I kept wondering why he showed up when I finally stopped thinking about him rather than during one of the many days when I’d been obsessed. It was like he was super-Gabe – able to see when my interest waned so that he could arrive and fan it back to a towering inferno.
What I remember from the visit:
He had stopped by because Rachel left the wrong number.
He couldn’t make the party, but thanked us for the invitation.
The beer wasn’t for us.
We could borrow his stereo since it was special (I don’t remember how, and I recall all 4 of us having some sort of music-playing device).
I tuned back in enough to jump at borrowing something of his. It would give us a reason to see him again! Understanding that striking while the iron was hot was of the utmost importance for Gabe, I told him we’d go take the stereo now. So Rachel and I drove him back to his place, climbed up some rickety stairs, and waited while he kicked piles of laundry around to make room for us to stand in his bedroom. Unhooking and unplugging was followed by carrying stereo, speakers and other random accessories to my trunk. We waved goodnight, left him to his beer, and went home to revel in the triumph of having some part of the Gabe plan come to fruition.
We had the party, and about a week later, he came to get his stereo. He drove this time, making the short trip to our apartment, though I offered to drop off all the equipment with his roommate. Gabe was starting to explore professional schools at that point – knowing he wanted to get more education before he pursued his given career. He also had left engineering, was interested in environmental causes, though he didn’t have time to devote to them, and was quite well-versed in spiritual matters.
For me, in the midst of terror over what I’d do after college, and trying to work my way through a spiritual struggle by taking classes and reading books, I was impressed. I craved that confidence – that knowledge of where I was going and what I believed. He seemed so much older than my 20 years, though he wasn’t. He was just so kind, smart, gorgeous, charming – and I was besotted. After sitting with us for a few minutes, listening to music on Elle’s stereo that we had set up next to his borrowed one (music from Cruel Intentions, I think – it became the soundtrack to our apartment life), he left. I helped carry speakers to his car, and watched him drive away.
Is that it? I remember thinking that couldn’t be all. Returning to the apartment, Elle said “I don’t know what it is about him, but there’s something there. Maybe he’s your boy!”
And recalling countless afternoons and evenings curled up on twin beds in the dorm, talking to each other about the men who would eventually capture our hearts, I promised myself that I’d find out if he was my boy, knowing that I would make a fool out of myself if needed, but not aware that it was not only necessary, but inevitable.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Cute boy from SC: part 1
I changed majors in undergrad, lasting only 2 semesters in engineering before moving into the more comfortable liberal arts and sciences. I decided that this change must be paired with alternate student groups to match my shiny new major. So I decided to join the campus chapter of the Sierra Club. It seemed like a nice way to meet some nice environmental people, and I figured we would pick up some litter, encourage recycling and then head back to the dorm to study.
I dragged a friend to the informational meeting on the quad. Always uncomfortable in new situations, I was nervous and she was kind enough to come with me. We were sitting in a circle, a little taken aback at the militant attitude taken by the officers in the club, and a boy walked over and sat down just 2 people to my right.
I glanced at my watch – he was 10 minutes late. I don’t normally like (or even tolerate) tardiness, but he was quite lovely to look at, so I forgave him. I’m sure he had something important going on. He wore long, olive shorts and sneakers. I’m sure there was some nondescript t-shirt, though he often paired the shorts with long-sleeved shirts too. Sitting Indian-style, he brought up Zero Population Growth and his concerns on overpopulation and lack of resources. Um…not the most romantic or sympathetic of topics. Was he anti-baby?
Oh, but look at him. The short, dark hair. The intense hazel eyes covered by glasses. Who knew glasses could be so breathtakingly sexy? He paused to listen to a question, answered it confidently and continued with his original comment. Articulate, at ease, respectful of others. Militant leader moved on to a different topic. I scooted back a little so I could stare without being noticed. My friend, Elle, obligingly moved out of my way. When the meeting ended, we all got up. I continued to watch Cute Boy from SC – he greeted someone, then walked away, moving quickly. I turned to Elle, eyes wide.
“I know.” She said immediately, then settled in to listen as I began to review the list of qualities that had convinced me to tumble into an intense crush. I was shy, but certainly I’d talk to him soon. The group was small, and they met every week. My devotion to environmental causes was complete – I would save the world, but only to get to know this boy.
The problem with Cute Boy from SC was that he was completely unpredictable. And if you’re going to stalk someone, there has to be some known schedule – you try to figure out when and where his classes are so you can put yourself in his path; you dress up to go to casual environmental meetings hoping that he’ll show up. But I didn’t see much of him – a quick glimpse across campus, maybe. Enough to keep my interest sharp, but not enough to appease the most rabid of curiosities. But we’d giggle together – Elle and I shared the story with our respective roommates and I’d make grand plans of how I'd meet him, he’d change his mind about the whole anti-baby thing, and we’d marry and have 2 children. And we’d never throw litter out the window of our hybrid car.
One evening, my roommate, Julie, talked me into attending a Christian group meeting. I normally went to one that met on Wednesday evenings. They told me my grandparents were probably in hell, and I basically told them to head there themselves. So I went to this Friday night group for lack of anything better to do more than a true desire to connect with God. But Cute Boy from SC, who I never saw at SC, was there.
All aflutter, I sat with my roommate, guiding her toward the back so that I could watch him through the meeting. But a friend beckoned her forward and we ended up in the front. Everything went fine – I don’t really remember what we talked about in that dimly-lit room in the basement of one of huge buildings on campus. But near the end, we each got index cards with half of a Bible verse written on them. We were to find our partner – the one who had the other half to make us whole.
Oh! I thought – how absolutely perfect. Cute Boy will certainly find me and discover that I am the other half of him! Nervously, I glanced at my verse – I was the beginning. The group started to mingle, smiling and reading, pointing people in one direction or another as they remembered seeing a card that might match. I turned to see Cute Boy from SC. My heart sped up and my stomach clenched, and he smiled at me briefly before glancing at the card in my hand.
“I’m a beginning too.” He told me, my eyes never leaving his face. “I think you’re over there,” he continued, tipping his head slightly toward the left. I don’t think I said anything, and he quickly turned and walked away. I was breathless – I have absolutely no idea who had the other half of my verse. All I can remember was the moment when our eyes met and he smiled. He was so absolutely perfect, I remember thinking.
The meeting adjourned, and I found Julie to walk to the dorm. “That was him!” I whispered as I started back, almost trotting with excitement.
“Who was? And what are we talking about?” She responded, keeping up but remaining confused. She was starting to smile though, picking up the traces that I was far too excited about my evening.
“Cute Boy from SC! That was him!” I replied – entranced with the thought that there was another place I could look for him. She quickly understood – we had discussed him with the seriousness that only sophomore year in college can bring. She laughed a little – my normal behavior covered a wide range. I could be excited and happy or miserable and depressed, but only rarely do I get giddy. After I described him to her, she nodded in understanding.
“Oh…” She told me. “That’s Gabe. He lives upstairs.”
I dragged a friend to the informational meeting on the quad. Always uncomfortable in new situations, I was nervous and she was kind enough to come with me. We were sitting in a circle, a little taken aback at the militant attitude taken by the officers in the club, and a boy walked over and sat down just 2 people to my right.
I glanced at my watch – he was 10 minutes late. I don’t normally like (or even tolerate) tardiness, but he was quite lovely to look at, so I forgave him. I’m sure he had something important going on. He wore long, olive shorts and sneakers. I’m sure there was some nondescript t-shirt, though he often paired the shorts with long-sleeved shirts too. Sitting Indian-style, he brought up Zero Population Growth and his concerns on overpopulation and lack of resources. Um…not the most romantic or sympathetic of topics. Was he anti-baby?
Oh, but look at him. The short, dark hair. The intense hazel eyes covered by glasses. Who knew glasses could be so breathtakingly sexy? He paused to listen to a question, answered it confidently and continued with his original comment. Articulate, at ease, respectful of others. Militant leader moved on to a different topic. I scooted back a little so I could stare without being noticed. My friend, Elle, obligingly moved out of my way. When the meeting ended, we all got up. I continued to watch Cute Boy from SC – he greeted someone, then walked away, moving quickly. I turned to Elle, eyes wide.
“I know.” She said immediately, then settled in to listen as I began to review the list of qualities that had convinced me to tumble into an intense crush. I was shy, but certainly I’d talk to him soon. The group was small, and they met every week. My devotion to environmental causes was complete – I would save the world, but only to get to know this boy.
The problem with Cute Boy from SC was that he was completely unpredictable. And if you’re going to stalk someone, there has to be some known schedule – you try to figure out when and where his classes are so you can put yourself in his path; you dress up to go to casual environmental meetings hoping that he’ll show up. But I didn’t see much of him – a quick glimpse across campus, maybe. Enough to keep my interest sharp, but not enough to appease the most rabid of curiosities. But we’d giggle together – Elle and I shared the story with our respective roommates and I’d make grand plans of how I'd meet him, he’d change his mind about the whole anti-baby thing, and we’d marry and have 2 children. And we’d never throw litter out the window of our hybrid car.
One evening, my roommate, Julie, talked me into attending a Christian group meeting. I normally went to one that met on Wednesday evenings. They told me my grandparents were probably in hell, and I basically told them to head there themselves. So I went to this Friday night group for lack of anything better to do more than a true desire to connect with God. But Cute Boy from SC, who I never saw at SC, was there.
All aflutter, I sat with my roommate, guiding her toward the back so that I could watch him through the meeting. But a friend beckoned her forward and we ended up in the front. Everything went fine – I don’t really remember what we talked about in that dimly-lit room in the basement of one of huge buildings on campus. But near the end, we each got index cards with half of a Bible verse written on them. We were to find our partner – the one who had the other half to make us whole.
Oh! I thought – how absolutely perfect. Cute Boy will certainly find me and discover that I am the other half of him! Nervously, I glanced at my verse – I was the beginning. The group started to mingle, smiling and reading, pointing people in one direction or another as they remembered seeing a card that might match. I turned to see Cute Boy from SC. My heart sped up and my stomach clenched, and he smiled at me briefly before glancing at the card in my hand.
“I’m a beginning too.” He told me, my eyes never leaving his face. “I think you’re over there,” he continued, tipping his head slightly toward the left. I don’t think I said anything, and he quickly turned and walked away. I was breathless – I have absolutely no idea who had the other half of my verse. All I can remember was the moment when our eyes met and he smiled. He was so absolutely perfect, I remember thinking.
The meeting adjourned, and I found Julie to walk to the dorm. “That was him!” I whispered as I started back, almost trotting with excitement.
“Who was? And what are we talking about?” She responded, keeping up but remaining confused. She was starting to smile though, picking up the traces that I was far too excited about my evening.
“Cute Boy from SC! That was him!” I replied – entranced with the thought that there was another place I could look for him. She quickly understood – we had discussed him with the seriousness that only sophomore year in college can bring. She laughed a little – my normal behavior covered a wide range. I could be excited and happy or miserable and depressed, but only rarely do I get giddy. After I described him to her, she nodded in understanding.
“Oh…” She told me. “That’s Gabe. He lives upstairs.”
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Opportunities
I got an email from my best friend in grad school tonight. She left with a Masters degree and took a wonderful, lucrative, challenging job in the exact location she wanted. Paradise – all wrapped up with a marriage, house, cat and dog. I’m thrilled for her – jealous even. She was always so happy with life – pleased to be learning something new in lab when I was exhausted and irritable to still be at the hospital at 11PM; content to be in flip-flops while I was whining over the heat and humidity; fine with working over holidays when I escaped school for the comforts of home. If anyone deserves incredible things, it’s M.
I remember curling up on the corner of my bed in my studio apartment, wrapping my arms around a pillow and lying my head down. She was tucked into the corner of my loveseat – the only piece of furniture that would fit in my tiny apartment, save the bed and desk. She was thinking about changing research groups – altering her plan, as I had done, in order to stay for a PhD. So we talked about her original goals – finish grad school at 24, marry that same year, work and save money for a few years, do some traveling, buy a house, then start a family at 27. Staying for a doctoral degree would push that plan back by 3 years.
I stayed, while she left. We’ve done a decent job of staying in touch – the stress of our lives at the university brought us really close in a short amount of time. I think she knows me extraordinarily well. I’ve sobbed in front of her, positive that everyone in the department knew that I was struggling with classes and research and humiliated that there were witnesses to my defeat. When I wouldn’t answer the phone, drawing deeply into myself in times of stress, she’d come and ring the buzzer of my apartment, refusing to be ignored. In turn, I’d listen when she needed to vent, providing sympathy and solutions as the situation warranted. We did homework together, attended labs, went out for dinner, walked home in the snow, talked about life, played tic-tac-toe in seminars to pass the time, giggled, wrote email and supported each other. That bond survives, untouched by distance or lack of contact. I quite simply adore her, and consider myself to be beyond lucky that we’re friends.
She’s always loved to travel though – going to Japan with her mother, Italy and Greece for class trips, all over America with her husband, and was planning a trip to Thailand before the tsunami. When she was getting ready to take the perfect job, and in the midst of planning the perfect wedding, she confessed her fears. Too many doors were closing – all the jobs she could have done were disappearing in the face of the one she’d accept, and likely keep forever. All the wonderful men – smart, sexy, funny, talented guys in the world – the ones she’d met and the ones she’d only heard about – she was about to forsake as she married her true love. In a world where choices are endless, cutting yourself off from all the paths, even when embarking on the best one, is scary.
I couldn’t have done it – I wasn’t sure enough of who I was and what I wanted to make those big decisions. I’m still not ready. But she was – she has a strong sense of self and had carefully decided that she had the right guy (and she was right – I’ve never met a more well-matched couple) and was going to take this job. She’s been happy for the most part. There have been a few hiccups that have troubled her, but nothing has made her question graduating and continuing on with her plan.
I remember sitting up from my nest of pillows, and perching on the side of my bed. In that tiny apartment about 3 years ago, I told her that marriage and work weren’t so scary. She could still travel, switch jobs, move around – there were tons of adventures yet to be had, challenges that would test her. This wasn’t the end – she could walk this path for awhile and if it was too flat or not scenic enough, she and her husband could cut across and find another trail that was more appealing. So she adjusted to the thought of her new life, made her choices and headed off down her little road.
But I’m almost 27, and she isn’t far behind me. For me, it’s not a big deal – I’m approaching 30, but until I get there, I’m not going to worry overly much about a husband, my career or my reproductive ability. I’m giving myself some time to languish on this short path that takes me to a whole different set of possibilities. There’s comfort in knowing I still have big decisions left to make – there’s nothing out there that’s off-limits, and though I know I won’t take advantage of all the opportunities offered me, the ability to do so is exciting.
M, however, is contemplating children. She mentioned it once in an email, and I was impressed by her composure. Her plan stated that it was time, so she was thinking about it. How immature I am, I thought – I’d be freaking the hell out. But then I got the email tonight – M wants to travel, live in another country, take a break from her job for awhile, spend some of this money they’ve been saving. She’s looking around at all the beautiful things she’s built, and, I think, feeling a little claustrophobic. Adding children, as I see it, is the final step in closing off your choices. You officially stop coming first – baby’s schedule must be accommodated, her needs met, education saved for. She needs attention to develop her little synapses so she’s smart and capable later on. She needs to be challenged so she develops character, but praised so she gains confidence. Loving someone so much, placing their needs and wants far above your own, is the most profoundly beautiful thing I can think of.
But it absolutely terrifies me. I like children, and absolutely adore the little one in our family. Having one of my own though? No – I need to figure out what I want from life, get my career in order rather than messing around trying to figure things out, need to find someone to love, get that relationship all settled, start saving money, see all those places I haven’t visited but that aren’t really appropriate for babies or toddlers, take lots more naps, sleep in on many more weekends… Those little guys are worth the sacrifice, but thinking of how much of your familiar life that will irrevocably change for some abstract baby-like concept can be intimidating.
M will do the right thing in her own time, but my guess is that she’ll get pregnant right on schedule. She’ll be a brilliant mother too, just as she is fantastic at her job and lovely as a wife. She was a source of endless support and love for me in grad school and remained steady and calm in situations that caused me extreme stress. She thinks about life and God in a profound, yet simple way. She and her husband have so much to give to a child, and she’s realizing that. I respect her immeasurably for being thoughtful though – it’s not a stage of life that should be rushed. Her deliberate decision will be the source of tremendous joy for her family, and as I shy away from taking the plunge myself, I can’t help but envy her a little more. So I’m going to start looking around for the best baby gift ever, and continue to send email that tells her she’s going to be fine. How could someone so incredible be anything but?
I remember curling up on the corner of my bed in my studio apartment, wrapping my arms around a pillow and lying my head down. She was tucked into the corner of my loveseat – the only piece of furniture that would fit in my tiny apartment, save the bed and desk. She was thinking about changing research groups – altering her plan, as I had done, in order to stay for a PhD. So we talked about her original goals – finish grad school at 24, marry that same year, work and save money for a few years, do some traveling, buy a house, then start a family at 27. Staying for a doctoral degree would push that plan back by 3 years.
I stayed, while she left. We’ve done a decent job of staying in touch – the stress of our lives at the university brought us really close in a short amount of time. I think she knows me extraordinarily well. I’ve sobbed in front of her, positive that everyone in the department knew that I was struggling with classes and research and humiliated that there were witnesses to my defeat. When I wouldn’t answer the phone, drawing deeply into myself in times of stress, she’d come and ring the buzzer of my apartment, refusing to be ignored. In turn, I’d listen when she needed to vent, providing sympathy and solutions as the situation warranted. We did homework together, attended labs, went out for dinner, walked home in the snow, talked about life, played tic-tac-toe in seminars to pass the time, giggled, wrote email and supported each other. That bond survives, untouched by distance or lack of contact. I quite simply adore her, and consider myself to be beyond lucky that we’re friends.
She’s always loved to travel though – going to Japan with her mother, Italy and Greece for class trips, all over America with her husband, and was planning a trip to Thailand before the tsunami. When she was getting ready to take the perfect job, and in the midst of planning the perfect wedding, she confessed her fears. Too many doors were closing – all the jobs she could have done were disappearing in the face of the one she’d accept, and likely keep forever. All the wonderful men – smart, sexy, funny, talented guys in the world – the ones she’d met and the ones she’d only heard about – she was about to forsake as she married her true love. In a world where choices are endless, cutting yourself off from all the paths, even when embarking on the best one, is scary.
I couldn’t have done it – I wasn’t sure enough of who I was and what I wanted to make those big decisions. I’m still not ready. But she was – she has a strong sense of self and had carefully decided that she had the right guy (and she was right – I’ve never met a more well-matched couple) and was going to take this job. She’s been happy for the most part. There have been a few hiccups that have troubled her, but nothing has made her question graduating and continuing on with her plan.
I remember sitting up from my nest of pillows, and perching on the side of my bed. In that tiny apartment about 3 years ago, I told her that marriage and work weren’t so scary. She could still travel, switch jobs, move around – there were tons of adventures yet to be had, challenges that would test her. This wasn’t the end – she could walk this path for awhile and if it was too flat or not scenic enough, she and her husband could cut across and find another trail that was more appealing. So she adjusted to the thought of her new life, made her choices and headed off down her little road.
But I’m almost 27, and she isn’t far behind me. For me, it’s not a big deal – I’m approaching 30, but until I get there, I’m not going to worry overly much about a husband, my career or my reproductive ability. I’m giving myself some time to languish on this short path that takes me to a whole different set of possibilities. There’s comfort in knowing I still have big decisions left to make – there’s nothing out there that’s off-limits, and though I know I won’t take advantage of all the opportunities offered me, the ability to do so is exciting.
M, however, is contemplating children. She mentioned it once in an email, and I was impressed by her composure. Her plan stated that it was time, so she was thinking about it. How immature I am, I thought – I’d be freaking the hell out. But then I got the email tonight – M wants to travel, live in another country, take a break from her job for awhile, spend some of this money they’ve been saving. She’s looking around at all the beautiful things she’s built, and, I think, feeling a little claustrophobic. Adding children, as I see it, is the final step in closing off your choices. You officially stop coming first – baby’s schedule must be accommodated, her needs met, education saved for. She needs attention to develop her little synapses so she’s smart and capable later on. She needs to be challenged so she develops character, but praised so she gains confidence. Loving someone so much, placing their needs and wants far above your own, is the most profoundly beautiful thing I can think of.
But it absolutely terrifies me. I like children, and absolutely adore the little one in our family. Having one of my own though? No – I need to figure out what I want from life, get my career in order rather than messing around trying to figure things out, need to find someone to love, get that relationship all settled, start saving money, see all those places I haven’t visited but that aren’t really appropriate for babies or toddlers, take lots more naps, sleep in on many more weekends… Those little guys are worth the sacrifice, but thinking of how much of your familiar life that will irrevocably change for some abstract baby-like concept can be intimidating.
M will do the right thing in her own time, but my guess is that she’ll get pregnant right on schedule. She’ll be a brilliant mother too, just as she is fantastic at her job and lovely as a wife. She was a source of endless support and love for me in grad school and remained steady and calm in situations that caused me extreme stress. She thinks about life and God in a profound, yet simple way. She and her husband have so much to give to a child, and she’s realizing that. I respect her immeasurably for being thoughtful though – it’s not a stage of life that should be rushed. Her deliberate decision will be the source of tremendous joy for her family, and as I shy away from taking the plunge myself, I can’t help but envy her a little more. So I’m going to start looking around for the best baby gift ever, and continue to send email that tells her she’s going to be fine. How could someone so incredible be anything but?
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Glass houses
College campus are historical - every generation leaving some sort of mark. I marvel at the overall campus plan - near a lake, on the banks of a river, among rolling hills; the inclusion of parks and quads – carefully tended, leaves raked, trees planted and benches placed in memory of someone important. I have wandered down countless wide stone paths, glancing at old, sturdy buildings interspersed with structures that appear to be made predominantly of glass. The old ones are my favorites - the high arches and gorgeous stone or brick work, the gracious windows within imposing, bulky structures that often house classrooms and offices with aging heating systems and leaky pipes. Renovations are careful, in my experience, to upgrade without changing the overall structure - these buildings represent an important time in the life of a university and are usually preserved as pieces of history.
The mark that we're leaving now is one of glass - easy access to information, an almost constant ability to see in and out through floor to ceiling windows, doors that open automatically to admit you. Glass and concrete homages to the present.
As I walked through the campus where I'm currently employed, I noted the disparity. I slowed to note the decorative elements over the point of an arch that covered 4 wooden doors. Exquisite, elegant, impressive. I wandered more quickly past the building with windows that were too small and too high to be functional for anything other than letting a bit of light in. It looked like a fortress, I mused. Was it trying to keep people in or out?
Turning a corner past bare trees, altering my path a bit to avoid the men blowing leaves, I faced the biomedical library. It must be a relatively new addition to campus - floor to ceiling windows supported sparingly with slender cement elements. While inside searching for your book or journal, you can always see outside - watch the people and cars, note the weather, monitor the progression of day into night.
But outside, walking briskly through the cold morning air, my purse tucked neatly under one arm and a bottle of water swinging from the opposite hand, I look in. I see some students glancing out – pausing a moment to reflect on their reading, others bustling toward copy machines and scanners to make certain knowledge more portable. I love libraries - the muffled quiet that is disturbed only by sparse requests for help and the tapping of computer keys. But the information there is aging - the new facts and their interpretations are found online - downloaded easily to a printer or glanced over on a screen. I don't spend much time in the library - making the trip only when something is too old to be found in the online archives. The sancity of knowledge, for better or worse, has been compromised in order to make it more freely available.
The world of online journals is yet another symptom of our mark on society. Information, private thoughts and feelings, details of your life you might not otherwise share - are now public. There's something liberating in putting the information out there. I don't know anything about the people who stop by here - have no idea of what impression they carry when they leave. And because I won't meet them, I guess it doesn't particularly matter. I write things down, and maybe someone reads them. You sit in a building with walls of glass and maybe someone watches you. The lack of control could be a little exciting if it wasn't so normal. And if it’s a bit disconcerting at first, I quickly adjusted and now am quite comfortable noting the small increases in traffic.
And secrets – personal, professional, political - rarely exist for long. In a society filled with members who are accustomed to satiating any fleeting curiosity, the thought of not being allowed to know something is foreign and unappealing. But with the steady flow of information, thoughts, ideas, the critical interpretations can get lost in the noise. If there's a signal that represents truly valuable knowledge, how can it possibly rise above all the chatter that exists not only in the huge body of scientific literature, but in the news, on blogs where writers are still figuring themselves out, trying to make sense of the world around them, but sometimes getting things wrong.
But this glass world that exists online fascinates me. I watched less television and bought fewer books in the last 3 months than I have since getting a job at 16. I wasn’t working more – I was online, impressed with the speed of my cable modem and enjoying the few blogs that I had found in my later days of grad school, when I was desperate for any kind of distraction. But those blogs lead to others – sometimes whole communities of people with riveting stories of family, dating, children, difficulty in conceiving one, work ... life. While I know that I’m only getting part of the author – often the most negative as these journals provide a place to vent – to release all the rage and irritation that we subdue in order to function in this society. But I’ve gotten to know people – I read what they write and consider it, I hope good things for them, I’ve cried over bad news.
It’s basically entertainment though. Whether a reflection of someone’s reality or a well-crafted story, I don’t see how it matters, but there is a sense that scripted drama is no long sufficient to hold my attention. Instead I prefer snippets – stories that are impacted by events that I can sometimes relate to, the puzzle of interpreting some words and deciding what they mean while appreciating a particular phrase.
There’s this ability to look out from my own space – one where I’ve made smaller margins to fool you into thinking my posts aren’t quite so lengthy – and watch my words, sometimes edited several times – enter the world. Then peer over site statistics and wonder over who came to see my work – did they find something interesting? Stay to read another post? Understand what I was trying to say? Become distracted for a moment? Then I wander farther – through diaries of women trying to build families, highly-educated people forming careers; laugh over bad blind date stories, and sigh when someone’s in love, become indignant when someone’s brother-in-law is a jackass, and wonder whether a homeless man found his bags.
But it leaves me wanting more. I’ve been completely disappointed when some people stop writing. I’m completely invested in your story! You can’t just leave! At least give me some sort of season finale! But there is no predictability – no way of saying “there are 10 minutes left in the program so some sort of resolution is coming soon”. My parents watch the last 15 minutes of Walker, Texas Ranger. Dad says you get to watch him kick the crap out of the bad guy, then see that everything’s fine in the end. But with blogs, you read as people go along – making decisions, finding their balance after a stumble, dealing with heartbreak and disappointment, and examining their lives and how they are turning out. And yes, people become characters. Some offer comic relief – I read archives if I’m particularly in need of laughter. Another is heroic and his claims to the contrary only make him fit more neatly in that role for me. There are some tragic characters, but with too much strength and talent to dismiss them with sympathy. I follow their stories closely – fascinated with their struggles and confident in an eventual happy ending.
As I turn people’s lives into little more than a daily 5 minute break from my own, I feel more interested in the people around me. Yes, you’re learning Spanish because you’re painfully bored at your job. But what do you wish you’d done differently? Stayed with your husband? Finished your degree? Not switched jobs so many times? I know you’re trying to prove you’re smart when you say you’ve studied my textbooks. Is that covering insecurity? Or are you trying to make me more comfortable? That librarian is helpful – good at her job. Is she happy with her husband? Does she go home to blog about all the irritating college students who are rude to her during the day? Does she have a plan for a different job? That guy I walked past on my way to my car after work looked vacant. Did he lose someone special to him? Is he sick? Does he have somewhere warm to sleep tonight?
As this curiosity burns, fanning the flicker by learning more about those who live on my bookmark list, will I eventually just start to ask? Abandon all sense of social grace and start demanding the information for entertainment – something to think about to make my day a little more interesting? Expect that any curiosity be satisfied quickly and easily? Because already reading what people give you isn’t enough – commenters have questions, topics in mind, requests for more information and clarity. The police are studying friendster profiles in a murder case – looking over information these teenagers put into a public forum for insight into their character and motives. And it’s out there – protected only by the sheer number of people and the sense of privacy you have when nobody knows for sure that you’re writing it.
Where are we going with this? The constant flow of information, the ability to always see in and out, ask questions and expect answers, know intimate details of other people’s lives? It’s interesting – having a generation who will rely more on CDs and online archives rather than encyclopedias. One that will feel even more entitled to every bit of information that might be available. But I participate even now. I’m going to share details – thoughts that don’t exist for me anywhere but here.
Looking in the window at me? The screenshot above is part of my desktop at work. There’s no real reason to show it to the world, but no real reason not to. I went into work late today - the roads were icy. I came home early - some kids were tormenting my dog through the fence and I wanted to be home to protect her and shoo them away. I got my IRB done and found some articles at the library. And I was preoccupied with writing this out, worried over my aunt and uncle who are moving this week, talked to some people at work, answered some personal email, and now I'm watching Gilmore Girls. It's the only show I never miss, and I forgot to change the channel as I was here making a point. It's a rerun. But you probably already knew that.
Monday, December 05, 2005
poor little me
Things that irritated me this morning:
1. Having to reset the wireless router. I like to check my email soon after awakening, and the laptop wasn’t getting any signal. So I had to go to the office, unplug the cable modem, then wireless router, then shut down the computer. Then I had to turn it all back on. It took 10 minutes I didn’t have, and I was already running late.
2. My garbage men were early, so I had to run outside to stop them because I had forgotten to wheel the can out to the curb.
3. My car is making some sort of woofing noise even though it was just at the dealer.
4. I forgot to charge my cell phone, so I couldn’t answer an incoming call on the way to work.
5. I commute on the interstate. The point of large highways like that is that you can continuously GO – there should be no stopping unless there’s an accident. If you’re in one of the left lanes, and someone is trying to merge into the right lane, it should have no effect on you. If you’re in the right lane, you should slow down, make some room between you and the car in front of you, and let people ease into traffic. And yet, we stop. At every exit. In every lane. Every day.
6. Being able to hear Asian music (why so twangy?) from the guy who sits behind me in the office, and not wanting to worsen my headache by listening to my own headphones.
7. Wondering if I turned off the headlights since it was dark when left home, but light when I arrived at the office. I was still distracted over how much I hate traffic and wasn't paying attention when I got to the parking structure.
Thing I realized this morning when I was thinking about all my problems: I don’t really have any. I seem to have lost all perspective in terms of what’s important and what shouldn’t even register because it’s so insignificant. So I present a list of things that make me look terrible for being upset about them in order to remind myself to suck a little less in the future.
Instead of worrying about why I’m so shallow and irritable lately, I visited VolunteerMatch, read through the listings, and decided I want to read to children. I could tutor math too (and I will if they offer), but there are several elementary schools near my house, and I can think of nothing more appealing than leaving work a little early to go read a book with someone.
I also continued to consider yesterday’s "cheerful giving" sermon to some posts online. The Waiter, whose writing I greatly enjoy, makes me think about issues and situations I might be more comfortable ignoring. He linked to the Homeless Guy, whose Christmas wish seems quite reasonable. I have a house that’s far too big for me, a laptop (and wireless high-speed internet) I use mostly for fun, a car that is covered under extended warranty, and my “problems” could be best characterized as minor inconveniences. In answering my email, Kevin provided some advice on how to help, so I have plans to do that too.
Then I quickly continued through my bookmarks – not very many updates – and stopped again at Cubbiegirl who mentions a list of Little Wishes. My most and least favorite moment of the day was shopping there. I found several things I had to buy, but reading over some of the requests and knowing my young niece has everything on one list broke my heart. I was pleased to know that I’m giving something to 4 children – a Winnie the Pooh mobile, a Leapfrog counting pal (though I’m personally fond of the counting farm book with Farmer Tad), a desk globe (I still have the one I received in grade school – spinning it around, thinking about all the places and people and possibilities has always been completely lovely), and a Star Wars lego set. But for every gift I purchased, there were at least 5 listed next to it.
My only issue with giving is that it never seems adequate. The problems are too huge for me to even comprehend. And chipping away at them with small donations of time or money seems shallow somehow. More shallow still is how I ignore them though – content in reading online journals, both professional and personal, in buying gifts for the babies in my family, and being irritated by small inconveniences while remaining ignorant of the real struggles that others face. So I hope that reading the thoughts of others will continue to remind me that there are problems much bigger than my own, and that when I can offer aid, I hope I will.
1. Having to reset the wireless router. I like to check my email soon after awakening, and the laptop wasn’t getting any signal. So I had to go to the office, unplug the cable modem, then wireless router, then shut down the computer. Then I had to turn it all back on. It took 10 minutes I didn’t have, and I was already running late.
2. My garbage men were early, so I had to run outside to stop them because I had forgotten to wheel the can out to the curb.
3. My car is making some sort of woofing noise even though it was just at the dealer.
4. I forgot to charge my cell phone, so I couldn’t answer an incoming call on the way to work.
5. I commute on the interstate. The point of large highways like that is that you can continuously GO – there should be no stopping unless there’s an accident. If you’re in one of the left lanes, and someone is trying to merge into the right lane, it should have no effect on you. If you’re in the right lane, you should slow down, make some room between you and the car in front of you, and let people ease into traffic. And yet, we stop. At every exit. In every lane. Every day.
6. Being able to hear Asian music (why so twangy?) from the guy who sits behind me in the office, and not wanting to worsen my headache by listening to my own headphones.
7. Wondering if I turned off the headlights since it was dark when left home, but light when I arrived at the office. I was still distracted over how much I hate traffic and wasn't paying attention when I got to the parking structure.
Thing I realized this morning when I was thinking about all my problems: I don’t really have any. I seem to have lost all perspective in terms of what’s important and what shouldn’t even register because it’s so insignificant. So I present a list of things that make me look terrible for being upset about them in order to remind myself to suck a little less in the future.
Instead of worrying about why I’m so shallow and irritable lately, I visited VolunteerMatch, read through the listings, and decided I want to read to children. I could tutor math too (and I will if they offer), but there are several elementary schools near my house, and I can think of nothing more appealing than leaving work a little early to go read a book with someone.
I also continued to consider yesterday’s "cheerful giving" sermon to some posts online. The Waiter, whose writing I greatly enjoy, makes me think about issues and situations I might be more comfortable ignoring. He linked to the Homeless Guy, whose Christmas wish seems quite reasonable. I have a house that’s far too big for me, a laptop (and wireless high-speed internet) I use mostly for fun, a car that is covered under extended warranty, and my “problems” could be best characterized as minor inconveniences. In answering my email, Kevin provided some advice on how to help, so I have plans to do that too.
Then I quickly continued through my bookmarks – not very many updates – and stopped again at Cubbiegirl who mentions a list of Little Wishes. My most and least favorite moment of the day was shopping there. I found several things I had to buy, but reading over some of the requests and knowing my young niece has everything on one list broke my heart. I was pleased to know that I’m giving something to 4 children – a Winnie the Pooh mobile, a Leapfrog counting pal (though I’m personally fond of the counting farm book with Farmer Tad), a desk globe (I still have the one I received in grade school – spinning it around, thinking about all the places and people and possibilities has always been completely lovely), and a Star Wars lego set. But for every gift I purchased, there were at least 5 listed next to it.
My only issue with giving is that it never seems adequate. The problems are too huge for me to even comprehend. And chipping away at them with small donations of time or money seems shallow somehow. More shallow still is how I ignore them though – content in reading online journals, both professional and personal, in buying gifts for the babies in my family, and being irritated by small inconveniences while remaining ignorant of the real struggles that others face. So I hope that reading the thoughts of others will continue to remind me that there are problems much bigger than my own, and that when I can offer aid, I hope I will.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Peace be with you
It’s hard for me to do new things. I find tremendous comfort in routine, and hesitate to change, even when it’s unavoidable. For that reason, I’ve lived in my new house for almost 5 months, and haven’t started going to church. I find the search process exhausting, to be honest. I did it in grad school – some were too liberal, others too traditional, some sang too much, some congregations were overly aloof. Others just didn’t feel right. There’s a certain sensation when I’m in the right church, and I spent a long time looking for it. I eventually returned to the Methodist church where I started my search. It was familiar, and so I stayed there.
When I moved here, to this place which is not part of the Midwest, rather undeniably southern (so I’m a liar in my profile), I was worried. I’d heard some churches, and there are many down here, were intensely conservative. So I was paranoid about even visiting and making some sort of blatant error and offending people during worship. Anyway, I continued to half-heartedly research churches online, then made excuses for why Sunday morning found me at home in pajamas, reading blogs or books, and watching football.
I sent email to some friends last week. My first paragraph read “I'm unhappy some of the time, without really knowing why. I don't know if it's growing pains - looking around and wondering how I got here and if I'll still be looking around in 10 years and thinking I somehow stumbled into my life. Because there's really no reason to be upset or sad right now."
My friend, who I lived with or near for 4 years of undergraduate study, wrote back with some general platitudes, but her last paragraph read “One thing I've been meaning to ask you and I keep forgetting - have you found a church there that you are attending and like? I know that [post-doc] away from happy church stuff is an unhappy [post-doc].”
And that’s why it’s important to have people who know you. When I first heard that the Holy Spirit lives within each of us upon acceptance of Christ, I pictured Him taking up residence in the center of my chest. I feel weird even writing that out, but that’s how I make sense of it. It’s where I feel flutters of happiness when I sing my favorite hymns, the place that doesn’t feel so tense and panicked anymore after I pray. So I think of that little place as being ecstatic when He gets to talk to God – when all my attention is focused in worship or prayer. And He gets sad – despondent and lonely – when I neglect my spiritual life.
I found a local Methodist church online months ago and often drove by it on my way home from work. I could hear the Holy Spirit chirp “Let’s go! Let’s see how it is!” every time I glanced over, but inertia kept me from getting ready and going on Sundays. This morning, I missed the early service, though my plan had been to go. As I watched Sex & the City on DVD, letting minutes ease by, I continued to note the time I had left to get ready if I hoped to make the later service. I continued to think of the email - my friend gave me a solution to my general unhappiness, one that has always worked for me before, and I wasn't using it.
At the last minute, I quickly finished drying my hair and curled it, dressed and put on my heels. I strode quickly to the garage after throwing a few treats for the dog, eager to leave before I decided it was too inconvenient to go, and headed off to church. I pulled into the parking lot, and promptly introduced myself to the woman who was also walking in. She began to drawl her way through information – special advent worship times, Sunday School classes, volunteer opportunities, choir concerts – her pleasure at introducing me to the church clear. I took my program at the door – a direct entrance into a small sanctuary – a sharply vaulted wooden ceiling, single aisle and 2 rows of 10 light wooden pews.
I smiled at a woman seated on the aisle, slipped past her and sat down. Looking around at the large wreaths up front and the Christmas tree all dressed in white, I quickly wrote my check for the offering and read through the bulletin so I wouldn’t make foolish mistakes. My parking lot friend (whose name escapes me – I make a terrible Southerner) came over to provide a bit more information, introduced me to several more women, then hugged me. Before I could sit back down, another woman decided to give me an embrace of welcome as well. I returned to my seat, a bit out of my element among the many conversations and disproportionate amount of winter gear for the actual temperature, smiled at the baby seated one pew forward, and settled in.
Service was lovely, but I was most grateful for communion - a structured way to admit sin, ask forgiveness, and take strength to do better. All of us marched slowly to the altar to get bread and wine, and as I was waiting my turn, I watched a grandmother with 2 young girls. She ushered them in front of her – their blonde hair a contrast to the hat she wore. I assumed she was undergoing or recovering from chemotherapy – she looked physically frail. The three of them knelt together to pray – her arm wrapped around both of the girls. The nearest child wrapped her arm around her grandmother’s waist in return. The farthest reached back and held the hand placed on her arm. The cohesive display of strength and weakness was striking to me. The supported each other, and were in the presence of God asking for help. I prayed for them, almost missing the cue for us to stand and proceed forward.
What I remember is that I didn’t feel the familiar tightness in my chest that normally accompanies seeing a cancer victim. While those patients and their families certainly have my sympathy, I’m also filled with anger at the unfairness of the disease and frustration at the medical and research community, myself included, to make swift progress to help. Looking at this woman, I felt strangely peaceful – sure that she was being cared for, knowing I was doing all I could to help in my small but fervent prayer. Leaving, that spot in my chest wasn’t so tight and miserable. I felt peaceful and centered.
That sadness – the general discontent, the hopelessness that my life isn’t improving in any real way, the lack of direction, the unwillingness to meet new people because I’d rather be left alone – is something I’ve dealt with many times before. It always eases after I start going to church again. I’m just not so sad anymore. I’m more gentle and forgiving; I didn’t feel the need to glare at the woman who was driving 10 mph under the speed limit in the far left lane, though she was also talking on the phone; I have faith that work will teach me something valuable and that I’ll be glad I chose this job over some of the others; I feel comforted, connected and peaceful. I'm also able to start seeing all the hope and joy that I missed while I was focused on the negative.
The other amazing factor is that even when I'm ignoring God, he sends messages. My friend, not at all spiritual, prodded me to go to church, succeeding where my family had failed. I'm blessed with feeling God in a very emotional way - I get miserable without Him, so I'm reminded of needing to direct attention toward the Holy Spirit. The rewards are immediate and profound - I always long for this peaceful feeling inside. Lastly, I'm grateful for the welcome - having a positive experience in a new place, experiencing peace that I haven't felt in some time, and upon returning to my car after the service, smelling perfume other than my own from welcoming hugs.
When I moved here, to this place which is not part of the Midwest, rather undeniably southern (so I’m a liar in my profile), I was worried. I’d heard some churches, and there are many down here, were intensely conservative. So I was paranoid about even visiting and making some sort of blatant error and offending people during worship. Anyway, I continued to half-heartedly research churches online, then made excuses for why Sunday morning found me at home in pajamas, reading blogs or books, and watching football.
I sent email to some friends last week. My first paragraph read “I'm unhappy some of the time, without really knowing why. I don't know if it's growing pains - looking around and wondering how I got here and if I'll still be looking around in 10 years and thinking I somehow stumbled into my life. Because there's really no reason to be upset or sad right now."
My friend, who I lived with or near for 4 years of undergraduate study, wrote back with some general platitudes, but her last paragraph read “One thing I've been meaning to ask you and I keep forgetting - have you found a church there that you are attending and like? I know that [post-doc] away from happy church stuff is an unhappy [post-doc].”
And that’s why it’s important to have people who know you. When I first heard that the Holy Spirit lives within each of us upon acceptance of Christ, I pictured Him taking up residence in the center of my chest. I feel weird even writing that out, but that’s how I make sense of it. It’s where I feel flutters of happiness when I sing my favorite hymns, the place that doesn’t feel so tense and panicked anymore after I pray. So I think of that little place as being ecstatic when He gets to talk to God – when all my attention is focused in worship or prayer. And He gets sad – despondent and lonely – when I neglect my spiritual life.
I found a local Methodist church online months ago and often drove by it on my way home from work. I could hear the Holy Spirit chirp “Let’s go! Let’s see how it is!” every time I glanced over, but inertia kept me from getting ready and going on Sundays. This morning, I missed the early service, though my plan had been to go. As I watched Sex & the City on DVD, letting minutes ease by, I continued to note the time I had left to get ready if I hoped to make the later service. I continued to think of the email - my friend gave me a solution to my general unhappiness, one that has always worked for me before, and I wasn't using it.
At the last minute, I quickly finished drying my hair and curled it, dressed and put on my heels. I strode quickly to the garage after throwing a few treats for the dog, eager to leave before I decided it was too inconvenient to go, and headed off to church. I pulled into the parking lot, and promptly introduced myself to the woman who was also walking in. She began to drawl her way through information – special advent worship times, Sunday School classes, volunteer opportunities, choir concerts – her pleasure at introducing me to the church clear. I took my program at the door – a direct entrance into a small sanctuary – a sharply vaulted wooden ceiling, single aisle and 2 rows of 10 light wooden pews.
I smiled at a woman seated on the aisle, slipped past her and sat down. Looking around at the large wreaths up front and the Christmas tree all dressed in white, I quickly wrote my check for the offering and read through the bulletin so I wouldn’t make foolish mistakes. My parking lot friend (whose name escapes me – I make a terrible Southerner) came over to provide a bit more information, introduced me to several more women, then hugged me. Before I could sit back down, another woman decided to give me an embrace of welcome as well. I returned to my seat, a bit out of my element among the many conversations and disproportionate amount of winter gear for the actual temperature, smiled at the baby seated one pew forward, and settled in.
Service was lovely, but I was most grateful for communion - a structured way to admit sin, ask forgiveness, and take strength to do better. All of us marched slowly to the altar to get bread and wine, and as I was waiting my turn, I watched a grandmother with 2 young girls. She ushered them in front of her – their blonde hair a contrast to the hat she wore. I assumed she was undergoing or recovering from chemotherapy – she looked physically frail. The three of them knelt together to pray – her arm wrapped around both of the girls. The nearest child wrapped her arm around her grandmother’s waist in return. The farthest reached back and held the hand placed on her arm. The cohesive display of strength and weakness was striking to me. The supported each other, and were in the presence of God asking for help. I prayed for them, almost missing the cue for us to stand and proceed forward.
What I remember is that I didn’t feel the familiar tightness in my chest that normally accompanies seeing a cancer victim. While those patients and their families certainly have my sympathy, I’m also filled with anger at the unfairness of the disease and frustration at the medical and research community, myself included, to make swift progress to help. Looking at this woman, I felt strangely peaceful – sure that she was being cared for, knowing I was doing all I could to help in my small but fervent prayer. Leaving, that spot in my chest wasn’t so tight and miserable. I felt peaceful and centered.
That sadness – the general discontent, the hopelessness that my life isn’t improving in any real way, the lack of direction, the unwillingness to meet new people because I’d rather be left alone – is something I’ve dealt with many times before. It always eases after I start going to church again. I’m just not so sad anymore. I’m more gentle and forgiving; I didn’t feel the need to glare at the woman who was driving 10 mph under the speed limit in the far left lane, though she was also talking on the phone; I have faith that work will teach me something valuable and that I’ll be glad I chose this job over some of the others; I feel comforted, connected and peaceful. I'm also able to start seeing all the hope and joy that I missed while I was focused on the negative.
The other amazing factor is that even when I'm ignoring God, he sends messages. My friend, not at all spiritual, prodded me to go to church, succeeding where my family had failed. I'm blessed with feeling God in a very emotional way - I get miserable without Him, so I'm reminded of needing to direct attention toward the Holy Spirit. The rewards are immediate and profound - I always long for this peaceful feeling inside. Lastly, I'm grateful for the welcome - having a positive experience in a new place, experiencing peace that I haven't felt in some time, and upon returning to my car after the service, smelling perfume other than my own from welcoming hugs.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
text-transform:uppercase? I think not.
I just spent the last 2 hours playing with my template. I didn’t even mean to. I have my IRB paperwork all laid out, and I started to read it. I’m all set, Diet Pepsi on the table, random college football on TV, laptop charged. I’m well rested, thrilled about finally starting the human study I’ve planned for so long, yet the sitemeter called to me. So I was seeing who had been around, and decided to glance over a post one visitor read.
Then my margins bugged me – why all the white space on the edges? Yes, some sort of margin is nice, but I was only using half my screen, and let’s be honest. That’s just wasteful. The problem is that I don’t know html or CSS or any methodology of changing these things. But my simple template is very well documented (cheers to Douglas Bowman, who obviously does nice work), so I was able to figure out what I thought certain lines might do. The problem with not really knowing is that I’d alter a value, then preview. Oops – no margins at all. To read Jason Mulgrew yesterday, I had to copy and paste into a word document because the page was so wide. While I do have time to waste, I prefer not to spend it arrowing back and forth across a webpage. And I’ve donated money to him, so I think I’m all good to complain.
When I finally decided I was using the appropriate amount of screen, nothing was lining up. So I had to figure out where all those lines were, switch them around, change some of them back (Bowman knows what he’s talking about sometimes), then I finally got the layout to look somewhat normal. Then, I went through and took out all the uppercase lines – I don’t discriminate against lowercase letters. I think they have an appropriate place in the middle of words. I once got an email all in capital letters and I backed away from the computer, sure that I was being yelled at. So while I wrinkle my nose at emails in all lowercase letters, they are better than screaming at me online. But I dream of a world where upper and lowercase letters exist in harmony, and apart from my title (which just looked weird otherwise!), my blog is now that place.
So things are good – I’ve changed colors to be soothing and mellow, the margins are more appropriate, things appear to be centered. But now the posts bother me – justify them. Makes some of the old ones look all freaky, but that’s fine. The new ones will be OK. I think the headings on my sidebar should be underlined. But that underlines the date stamp at the top of each post, so that’s annoying. Change and preview. Change back and preview. Think. Leave it alone.
I was finished at least 3 times. Then I decided to alphabetize my links, because that would be lovely, right? But that lead to re-titling the sections a couple of times. Change and preview. Then I gasped as I rolled over the links and they turned orange! No, no, no. Turns out that’s the hover color, so I changed that a couple of times. On the fourth preview, I was content with it. Then I thought it would be better to put the description above the title. Nice. But then it should be bigger. Oh, and with different text. In a different font. With different padding.
So I’m done for now – I found it more aesthetically pleasing the last time I looked, and I promised myself I wouldn’t refresh it again until I had finished some real work. The reason I wrote all this out, apart from a small amount of pride that I had accomplished the margin change, which was my original goal, is that it’s a recurring theme for me. I’ve spent days in Photoshop making figures. Altering shades of black in the background, moving images around, playing with how they’re grouped, how much space between them, arrow color and placement… I can also do that with Matlab – write a functional script that contains too many for loops, then spend weeks reading manuals and checking examples for a way to be more efficient and elegant in my coding.
I’m very example-driven. So if you give me an m-file and some instructions, I’ll just mess with it, then try to run it. Fix errors, and try again. Not get the right results and fill scratch paper with matrix sizes, trying to figure out if something’s read in wrong or I used the wrong command to manipulate it, or if I changed something critical in the write-out section. So even at my most productive, I can get distracted and, like a raccoon with a shiny object, become completely entranced with something trivial. I think that’s why it’s important for me to get reminders – that what I’m trying to do shouldn’t just be a job, and that there should be some profound goal that we’re trying to reach.
So while distractions can be incredibly useful – I’ve done some of my best, most innovative work after letting my brain rest by doing Photoshop for a couple days, I try to be aware of what I’m doing. And in changing the margins of this site, I was engrossed without being conscious of it, realizing with absolute shock that so much time had passed when I looked at the clock. So rather than dwell on it anymore, I really should work. And I’m going to – as soon as I make sure this post looks right.
Then my margins bugged me – why all the white space on the edges? Yes, some sort of margin is nice, but I was only using half my screen, and let’s be honest. That’s just wasteful. The problem is that I don’t know html or CSS or any methodology of changing these things. But my simple template is very well documented (cheers to Douglas Bowman, who obviously does nice work), so I was able to figure out what I thought certain lines might do. The problem with not really knowing is that I’d alter a value, then preview. Oops – no margins at all. To read Jason Mulgrew yesterday, I had to copy and paste into a word document because the page was so wide. While I do have time to waste, I prefer not to spend it arrowing back and forth across a webpage. And I’ve donated money to him, so I think I’m all good to complain.
When I finally decided I was using the appropriate amount of screen, nothing was lining up. So I had to figure out where all those lines were, switch them around, change some of them back (Bowman knows what he’s talking about sometimes), then I finally got the layout to look somewhat normal. Then, I went through and took out all the uppercase lines – I don’t discriminate against lowercase letters. I think they have an appropriate place in the middle of words. I once got an email all in capital letters and I backed away from the computer, sure that I was being yelled at. So while I wrinkle my nose at emails in all lowercase letters, they are better than screaming at me online. But I dream of a world where upper and lowercase letters exist in harmony, and apart from my title (which just looked weird otherwise!), my blog is now that place.
So things are good – I’ve changed colors to be soothing and mellow, the margins are more appropriate, things appear to be centered. But now the posts bother me – justify them. Makes some of the old ones look all freaky, but that’s fine. The new ones will be OK. I think the headings on my sidebar should be underlined. But that underlines the date stamp at the top of each post, so that’s annoying. Change and preview. Change back and preview. Think. Leave it alone.
I was finished at least 3 times. Then I decided to alphabetize my links, because that would be lovely, right? But that lead to re-titling the sections a couple of times. Change and preview. Then I gasped as I rolled over the links and they turned orange! No, no, no. Turns out that’s the hover color, so I changed that a couple of times. On the fourth preview, I was content with it. Then I thought it would be better to put the description above the title. Nice. But then it should be bigger. Oh, and with different text. In a different font. With different padding.
So I’m done for now – I found it more aesthetically pleasing the last time I looked, and I promised myself I wouldn’t refresh it again until I had finished some real work. The reason I wrote all this out, apart from a small amount of pride that I had accomplished the margin change, which was my original goal, is that it’s a recurring theme for me. I’ve spent days in Photoshop making figures. Altering shades of black in the background, moving images around, playing with how they’re grouped, how much space between them, arrow color and placement… I can also do that with Matlab – write a functional script that contains too many for loops, then spend weeks reading manuals and checking examples for a way to be more efficient and elegant in my coding.
I’m very example-driven. So if you give me an m-file and some instructions, I’ll just mess with it, then try to run it. Fix errors, and try again. Not get the right results and fill scratch paper with matrix sizes, trying to figure out if something’s read in wrong or I used the wrong command to manipulate it, or if I changed something critical in the write-out section. So even at my most productive, I can get distracted and, like a raccoon with a shiny object, become completely entranced with something trivial. I think that’s why it’s important for me to get reminders – that what I’m trying to do shouldn’t just be a job, and that there should be some profound goal that we’re trying to reach.
So while distractions can be incredibly useful – I’ve done some of my best, most innovative work after letting my brain rest by doing Photoshop for a couple days, I try to be aware of what I’m doing. And in changing the margins of this site, I was engrossed without being conscious of it, realizing with absolute shock that so much time had passed when I looked at the clock. So rather than dwell on it anymore, I really should work. And I’m going to – as soon as I make sure this post looks right.
Friday, December 02, 2005
First, you have to find the hospital.
I finally got my file today. After almost 10 pages to the dreaded beeper, 4 conversations, and 2 missed meetings, I figured out a time to meet the Resident. My office is located outside the hospital, so when he asked me to meet him at a workstation in critical care, I wanted to know how to get there. I have an extremely poor sense of direction, and easily become paranoid, get turned around and become lost. It’s my extreme desire to not look stupid that distracts me and lands me not knowing where to go next – then I have to look idiotic and ask someone for help.
Anyway, I had this little scrap of paper with his pager number on it (though I now have it memorized), and I took it to the phone so I could write down where he was. I sometimes relax and find places when I have written directions to consult. Since I can see the hospital from any door I exit, I figured it couldn’t be that complicated. But there were 3 different way to get to the hospital, each with at least 2 entrances. Then I had to find one set of elevators – apparently magical in that they, and only they, went to the top of the multi-level hospital. That’s apparently what happens when you build something and add on. Some elevators stop at 4, others go only as high as 8, and some make it all the way to the top.
My scrap of paper was filled with directions. If/then statements on how to find the elevators, the difference between service and patient elevators and how if you found this magical set, then they’d each take me to the file I needed to obtain. However, depending on the set of elevators I took, there were different hallways, turns, landmarks… all carefully recorded on a very crowded note.
I walked out of my office, headed down the hall, and promptly headed in the wrong direction. In giving me excessive choices, the Resident had me completely turned around. I wasn’t sure how to even approach the hospital filled with countless entrances, lobbies and banks of elevators. Luckily, I ran into my boss (who already knows I can’t find new places) and asked him where the main elevators were in the hospital. I rambled on quickly about how it was important that I find this particular set. I could take the patient or service ones, and held out my scribbled note that hadn’t helped me at all so far.
Close to retirement, and having enjoyed considerable success in the field, Boss still reminds me of a grandfather – benevolent, patient and wise. He smiled at me.
“First you have to find the hospital. Then you go from there.”
I must have continued to look confused, because he continued, turning to point down the hall.
“If you go straight out those doors, you’ll walk right in front of the main entrance. Walk through the lobby, take the elevators up and there will be signs.”
In 2 sentences, he simplified my indecipherable scribbles, enabling me to easily find my location.
The Resident wasn’t there, so I had to page him from my cell phone. Then I couldn’t get reception (freaking hospital), so I had to call my voice mail to hear that he had been called away and would soon return. So I backed away from the workspace and leaned against a wall to stay out of the way. Only then did I see the sign cautioning against cell phone use in these patient areas. I had been leaning against it while making my calls. Feeling like I needed a sign announcing that I was stupid, I winced and continued to wait.
It was lunchtime, and staff members were delivering meals to patients on the floor. The covered plates were joined by fruit cups and juice on the stacks of trays. I remembered those being delivered to family members while I sat beside them. Think about something else, I warned myself. I don’t like to get upset at work, but hospitals – the smells, the routine, the bustle of staff and stress of family members – evoke uncomfortable memories. I considered leaving, but knew I’d have to return later. I needed that file.
The Resident arrived, we shook hands and I had time to think he looked tired, but smart. He handed me a large file, and tried to explain some of what it contained. His beeper continued to demand attention though, and he apologetically excused himself. His interest in the project was clear – he wanted to share what he learned and hear what I was planning, but other responsibilities were more demanding.
I hope I get to work with him – I’m sure he has insight and experience that would be valuable to me. But what I hope more is that I continue to seek the right people, like Boss, who are able to simplify the tangle of options that I always see. The ability to look at a sea of possibilities, whether in research or life, and condense them into something that can work is critical. I sometimes become paralyzed by making pro/con lists, continuing to think of yet another alternative rather than coming closer to an actual plan.
One day, I hope I see someone and am able to smile, and patiently give her a set of simple instructions. In a day where I finally accomplished a simple goal that has frustratingly eluded me in the past, that moment in the hallway will remain most memorable. The kindness and the wisdom – that’s what I want to see in myself. I just need to find a path within all these choices that will get me there.
Anyway, I had this little scrap of paper with his pager number on it (though I now have it memorized), and I took it to the phone so I could write down where he was. I sometimes relax and find places when I have written directions to consult. Since I can see the hospital from any door I exit, I figured it couldn’t be that complicated. But there were 3 different way to get to the hospital, each with at least 2 entrances. Then I had to find one set of elevators – apparently magical in that they, and only they, went to the top of the multi-level hospital. That’s apparently what happens when you build something and add on. Some elevators stop at 4, others go only as high as 8, and some make it all the way to the top.
My scrap of paper was filled with directions. If/then statements on how to find the elevators, the difference between service and patient elevators and how if you found this magical set, then they’d each take me to the file I needed to obtain. However, depending on the set of elevators I took, there were different hallways, turns, landmarks… all carefully recorded on a very crowded note.
I walked out of my office, headed down the hall, and promptly headed in the wrong direction. In giving me excessive choices, the Resident had me completely turned around. I wasn’t sure how to even approach the hospital filled with countless entrances, lobbies and banks of elevators. Luckily, I ran into my boss (who already knows I can’t find new places) and asked him where the main elevators were in the hospital. I rambled on quickly about how it was important that I find this particular set. I could take the patient or service ones, and held out my scribbled note that hadn’t helped me at all so far.
Close to retirement, and having enjoyed considerable success in the field, Boss still reminds me of a grandfather – benevolent, patient and wise. He smiled at me.
“First you have to find the hospital. Then you go from there.”
I must have continued to look confused, because he continued, turning to point down the hall.
“If you go straight out those doors, you’ll walk right in front of the main entrance. Walk through the lobby, take the elevators up and there will be signs.”
In 2 sentences, he simplified my indecipherable scribbles, enabling me to easily find my location.
The Resident wasn’t there, so I had to page him from my cell phone. Then I couldn’t get reception (freaking hospital), so I had to call my voice mail to hear that he had been called away and would soon return. So I backed away from the workspace and leaned against a wall to stay out of the way. Only then did I see the sign cautioning against cell phone use in these patient areas. I had been leaning against it while making my calls. Feeling like I needed a sign announcing that I was stupid, I winced and continued to wait.
It was lunchtime, and staff members were delivering meals to patients on the floor. The covered plates were joined by fruit cups and juice on the stacks of trays. I remembered those being delivered to family members while I sat beside them. Think about something else, I warned myself. I don’t like to get upset at work, but hospitals – the smells, the routine, the bustle of staff and stress of family members – evoke uncomfortable memories. I considered leaving, but knew I’d have to return later. I needed that file.
The Resident arrived, we shook hands and I had time to think he looked tired, but smart. He handed me a large file, and tried to explain some of what it contained. His beeper continued to demand attention though, and he apologetically excused himself. His interest in the project was clear – he wanted to share what he learned and hear what I was planning, but other responsibilities were more demanding.
I hope I get to work with him – I’m sure he has insight and experience that would be valuable to me. But what I hope more is that I continue to seek the right people, like Boss, who are able to simplify the tangle of options that I always see. The ability to look at a sea of possibilities, whether in research or life, and condense them into something that can work is critical. I sometimes become paralyzed by making pro/con lists, continuing to think of yet another alternative rather than coming closer to an actual plan.
One day, I hope I see someone and am able to smile, and patiently give her a set of simple instructions. In a day where I finally accomplished a simple goal that has frustratingly eluded me in the past, that moment in the hallway will remain most memorable. The kindness and the wisdom – that’s what I want to see in myself. I just need to find a path within all these choices that will get me there.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Am I winning?
“Would you say you’re a competitive person?”
I raised my eyebrows and looked across the desk piled high with reprints from journals at a professor at the University of Chicago. He was the second of many meetings on this visit to decide whether I should apply for graduate admission there. I thought the interview had been going well until then – I knew the right answers to the questions, and could finesse the truth until I thought I at least came close to what he wanted to hear. But are you supposed to be competitive in grad school? Hell – I wasn’t sure. So I went with the truth.
“I guess I am. I like to do well, and I’m motivated to try harder when surrounded with successful people.” I replied, and relaxed when I saw him smile. He explained that he liked people who wanted to be the best – they tended to work harder, delve deeper into research, and explore various opportunities more carefully.
The problem came when I stopped wanting to try harder, but retained the competitive drive. When that happens, you’re left only with hoping, sometimes desperately, that everyone else drops the ball – misses that question you failed to study for, decides to take a long weekend because you really need the break too, needs 3 hours to write a lab you wrote in 2 so you can get a little more sleep. If you don't want to do better yourself, the only way to get ahead is to have other people do worse.
I hated to hear that people studied all weekend. Because I rarely did – I like to shop, love to read, and wanted to make time for dating and friends. But I’d feel guilty and inferior for not putting in the time, so I’d volunteer that I hadn’t needed to spend the whole weekend studying (so you think I’m losing now, but I’m not) because I had more copies of old exams making myself more efficient. Ah, 2 strategies, so it’s critical to decide which is more effective so you can declare a winner.
I won some – not as many as I would have liked. But I’m concerned with the fact that winning was often more important to me than learning. I crammed for tests, memorizing, using mnemonic devices to shove information into my short term memory. When you have 3 midterms in a week, taking an hour to understand a concept just wasn’t feasible to me. Some students did that – worked constantly, did extra reading, worked more practice problems to obtain this overall understanding of our specialized field. I saw them do badly on tests, and decided that my memorize-critical-information method was more effective.
It depends on your overall goal, right? Instant or delayed gratification? It's determined by your personality, maybe on how competitive you are and where you see the major battles for superiority, as to what is most important. I wanted the grade, and to be fair, I eventually got the concepts. When I was frantically memorizing my 50 pages of condensed notes for the qualifier, something clicked, and I saw how all the facts fit together to form some cohesive theories. So I got it, but almost inadvertently, stumbling over it as I was chasing a high test score.
People will tell you, myself included, that grades aren’t important in grad school. I believe that – very few people have asked to see my transcript (though one university did upon receiving my CV, and fellowship applications require a listing of grades). Also, professors were generally kind in my department. If you attended class, attempted the homework, turned in lab reports that were appropriate, and demonstrated that you understood something on the exams, you generally came out OK in the end. I also don't at all advocate my self-inflicted torture of wanting to do better than students who I now see were incredibly talented and prepared.
The problem is that showing the distribution of scores to students who were likely always near the top in undergrad, students who really like to be a little bit better than everyone else, who derive confidence and self-esteem from doing well in school, creates an environment where people at the top fight to stay there and people at the bottom will eventually grow desperate to claw their way up.
I occasionally hear about people who burn out and leave the field – unable to handle the constant rejection on papers and grants, unwilling to subject themselves to the endless competition to be invited to speak at conferences, to obtain federal and private funding for research, to get tenure, to actually become a professor. It’s not particularly easy to get into graduate programs, especially those that are particularly well known and ranked. But it’s even harder to get that faculty positions after grad school. And for competitive people, it grates that you have to lose so often.
So you’re faced with deciding whether you want to go play another game – one where you’re smart and educated and hard-working instead of average in the academic world. Or are you going to look up at the people who are truly successful, and plot your strategy to get there, knowing you’ll face failures along the way and that the outcome, sometimes regardless of your talent and determination, is not at all guaranteed? I’m still deciding. And for the record, I think it takes strength to get out and pursue something that might make you happier. I also respect those who stay in and try to make things better for future students. I just don't know where I'm going to fall.
I also read, as I was trying to complete my degree, about scientific misconduct. Professors had faked data, and manipulated studies to obtain grants. Someone substituted results using one disease strain for another to get a good-sized federal grant. And while I find the idea repulsive, there’s a part of me that gets it. When you’re winning – getting money and publications – you want to keep winning. And when you’re losing, you have to do something, anything, to change your situation. I can imagine how that feels. I was never at the point where I felt I was losing (or on the verge of losing) so badly that I considered cheating or lying to try to do better. But if I try to put myself in their shoes, I appreciate the desperation that this field can bring.
I think that professor in Chicago had the right idea though. Are you competitive, and if so, can you understand what that means to your education and employment? If you’re incredibly motivated by the performance of those around you, perhaps you should remind yourself that honor and integrity always trump victory. The worst year of my life was my first one in grad school, spent constantly keeping track of how I was doing in direct comparison with other people and berating myself when I came up short. I was finally able to dial it back, perhaps because the energy to maintain that level of competition was too demanding, and am happier for it.
But as I start to resent people who appear to be making more progress more quickly than I am, I’m reminded that I am competitive, and being conscious of that is sometimes necessary to bring focus completely to myself - my goals, my abilities and steps I need to take. I'm still not thrilled that someone who started a post-doc 2 months after me is in the middle of a study while I'm still trying to start mine, but I'm not also not willing to cut any corners to move faster. So far so good.
I raised my eyebrows and looked across the desk piled high with reprints from journals at a professor at the University of Chicago. He was the second of many meetings on this visit to decide whether I should apply for graduate admission there. I thought the interview had been going well until then – I knew the right answers to the questions, and could finesse the truth until I thought I at least came close to what he wanted to hear. But are you supposed to be competitive in grad school? Hell – I wasn’t sure. So I went with the truth.
“I guess I am. I like to do well, and I’m motivated to try harder when surrounded with successful people.” I replied, and relaxed when I saw him smile. He explained that he liked people who wanted to be the best – they tended to work harder, delve deeper into research, and explore various opportunities more carefully.
The problem came when I stopped wanting to try harder, but retained the competitive drive. When that happens, you’re left only with hoping, sometimes desperately, that everyone else drops the ball – misses that question you failed to study for, decides to take a long weekend because you really need the break too, needs 3 hours to write a lab you wrote in 2 so you can get a little more sleep. If you don't want to do better yourself, the only way to get ahead is to have other people do worse.
I hated to hear that people studied all weekend. Because I rarely did – I like to shop, love to read, and wanted to make time for dating and friends. But I’d feel guilty and inferior for not putting in the time, so I’d volunteer that I hadn’t needed to spend the whole weekend studying (so you think I’m losing now, but I’m not) because I had more copies of old exams making myself more efficient. Ah, 2 strategies, so it’s critical to decide which is more effective so you can declare a winner.
I won some – not as many as I would have liked. But I’m concerned with the fact that winning was often more important to me than learning. I crammed for tests, memorizing, using mnemonic devices to shove information into my short term memory. When you have 3 midterms in a week, taking an hour to understand a concept just wasn’t feasible to me. Some students did that – worked constantly, did extra reading, worked more practice problems to obtain this overall understanding of our specialized field. I saw them do badly on tests, and decided that my memorize-critical-information method was more effective.
It depends on your overall goal, right? Instant or delayed gratification? It's determined by your personality, maybe on how competitive you are and where you see the major battles for superiority, as to what is most important. I wanted the grade, and to be fair, I eventually got the concepts. When I was frantically memorizing my 50 pages of condensed notes for the qualifier, something clicked, and I saw how all the facts fit together to form some cohesive theories. So I got it, but almost inadvertently, stumbling over it as I was chasing a high test score.
People will tell you, myself included, that grades aren’t important in grad school. I believe that – very few people have asked to see my transcript (though one university did upon receiving my CV, and fellowship applications require a listing of grades). Also, professors were generally kind in my department. If you attended class, attempted the homework, turned in lab reports that were appropriate, and demonstrated that you understood something on the exams, you generally came out OK in the end. I also don't at all advocate my self-inflicted torture of wanting to do better than students who I now see were incredibly talented and prepared.
The problem is that showing the distribution of scores to students who were likely always near the top in undergrad, students who really like to be a little bit better than everyone else, who derive confidence and self-esteem from doing well in school, creates an environment where people at the top fight to stay there and people at the bottom will eventually grow desperate to claw their way up.
I occasionally hear about people who burn out and leave the field – unable to handle the constant rejection on papers and grants, unwilling to subject themselves to the endless competition to be invited to speak at conferences, to obtain federal and private funding for research, to get tenure, to actually become a professor. It’s not particularly easy to get into graduate programs, especially those that are particularly well known and ranked. But it’s even harder to get that faculty positions after grad school. And for competitive people, it grates that you have to lose so often.
So you’re faced with deciding whether you want to go play another game – one where you’re smart and educated and hard-working instead of average in the academic world. Or are you going to look up at the people who are truly successful, and plot your strategy to get there, knowing you’ll face failures along the way and that the outcome, sometimes regardless of your talent and determination, is not at all guaranteed? I’m still deciding. And for the record, I think it takes strength to get out and pursue something that might make you happier. I also respect those who stay in and try to make things better for future students. I just don't know where I'm going to fall.
I also read, as I was trying to complete my degree, about scientific misconduct. Professors had faked data, and manipulated studies to obtain grants. Someone substituted results using one disease strain for another to get a good-sized federal grant. And while I find the idea repulsive, there’s a part of me that gets it. When you’re winning – getting money and publications – you want to keep winning. And when you’re losing, you have to do something, anything, to change your situation. I can imagine how that feels. I was never at the point where I felt I was losing (or on the verge of losing) so badly that I considered cheating or lying to try to do better. But if I try to put myself in their shoes, I appreciate the desperation that this field can bring.
I think that professor in Chicago had the right idea though. Are you competitive, and if so, can you understand what that means to your education and employment? If you’re incredibly motivated by the performance of those around you, perhaps you should remind yourself that honor and integrity always trump victory. The worst year of my life was my first one in grad school, spent constantly keeping track of how I was doing in direct comparison with other people and berating myself when I came up short. I was finally able to dial it back, perhaps because the energy to maintain that level of competition was too demanding, and am happier for it.
But as I start to resent people who appear to be making more progress more quickly than I am, I’m reminded that I am competitive, and being conscious of that is sometimes necessary to bring focus completely to myself - my goals, my abilities and steps I need to take. I'm still not thrilled that someone who started a post-doc 2 months after me is in the middle of a study while I'm still trying to start mine, but I'm not also not willing to cut any corners to move faster. So far so good.
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