"Stop Trying to Use "Monogamy is Unnatural" As An Excuse to Cheat"
I remember my first experience with cheating. A high school boyfriend had flagrantly cheated on me -- something I didn't find out about until after the relationship ended. I confronted him about it and he replied with, "Well, what do you want? Monogamy is unnatural, anyway."
How many times have we heard people -- from the average Joe to former A-list movie stars (I'm looking at you, Ethan Hawke) -- talk about the "unnatural" act of monogamy. How many times have been either cheated or put up with cheating, using that line as their excuse?
"Well, monogamy is unnatural, which means it is perfectly fine for me to vow to another human being that I will love only them, only to go off and have an affair with my co-worker."
I'm not here to say whether or not monogamy is unnatural. In the wild, some creatures pair up for life while other creatures pair up for 10 minutes and hope for the best. Where homo sapiens fall into that mix has been up for debate for quite a while now. Some point to the promiscuity of chimps -- both male and female -- and see it as proof that we are not naturally monogamous. Others are quick to point out that the behavior patterns of a distant cousin are not necessarily indicative of the natural behavioral patterns of modern man (the same way the behavior of "that cousin" in your family is no indication of how you act).
To be honest, I don't really care about debunking the "monogamy is unnatural" phenomena. From a evolutionary standpoint, it does make sense: those who slept around a lot were able either to pass on more of their genes or to procure a better set of resources (some believe female animals are promiscuous as a way of "hedging their bets", so to speak). Those who were monogamous were limited in how many offspring they could have. After a few millennia, the number of creatures who are "naturally monogamous" would dwindle and the number of creatures who are "naturally promiscuous" would soar.
But again, this is not why I'm writing this piece. I am not too concerned with the validity of monogamy as a natural phenomena. Because there is nothing we do in the modern world that is even remotely close to the concept of "natural". Climate controlled houses and automated vehicles are unnatural. Modern medicine is unnatural.
For crying out loud: agriculture is unnatural. But we don't seem to be losing our minds over our fields of grain just yet.
Saying that "monogamy is unnatural" is a feeble excuse -- the same way telling your boss that "working 9 to 5 in an office is unnatural" would be a feeble excuse for quitting. It's taking something that might possibly be true and using it to further whatever agenda you personally have going on. If you feel like working 9 to 5 is unnatural, you don't sign up for an office job in the first place. Or, you take the job, understanding that you can't just stop production on whim because you feel like playing the "unnatural" card.
And furthermore, there is one thing even more unnatural than promiscuity, something that is inherent regardless of your views on monogamy: the desire for those we are attracted to to be with only us.
Again, from an evolutionary standpoint, that makes perfect sense: if you are spreading your genes, why would you want your partner to be making offspring with someone else? If you are hedging your bets, why would you be okay with your partners doing the same thing with others? Being territorial, experiencing jealousy and feeling greedy are some of the most basic experiences as a human being. It's why jealousy is considered one of the biggest things to contend with in an open or polyamorous relationship. Because, at the end of the day, we have a hard time sharing.
So, what is it going to be? The unnatural act of monogamy or the unnatural act of being okay that your partner(s) are with someone else?
If you feel monogamy is right for you, do it. If you feel polyamory is right for you, do it. If you feel that whatever level of promiscuity or openness is right for you, do it. But do it understanding that it is your personal preference -- and attempting to be one or the other when you feel otherwise is levels and levels of not okay.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Day 281 of 365: Not Again
I mentioned a while back that I thought I had pulled a tendon in the back of my knee. It is quite possibly the most frustrating situation, because I don't feel it when I do 99% of my daily activities. But sometimes I'll land my foot weirdly when I walk or turn a corner awkwardly and I get an acute stab in the back of my leg, just to remind me that it's there.
And, oh yeah, I definitely feel it if I try to even jog.
My husband suggested that I might have a torn fascia. He also suggested that I might want to seek out a doctor who specializes in sports medicine (which actually shouldn't be that hard, given that Manch-Vegas has a good number of minor league teams).
So right now, the only exercise I'm doing is yoga and tai chi. The tai chi purely because I teach it, and there are certain moves I am doing with modifications (which is for the best, because my students sometimes see the unmodified moves and attempt to copy me, even when I tell them to do a variation). And the yoga purely because I'm an addict and because the stretching feels good and Dr. Internet said that, if the stretch feels good, stretch it out as much as you can.
I am frustrated beyond words. My half marathon is in two weeks and the idea of training myself to run it in under two hours is completely out the window now. In fact, I had to give myself a very specific timeline: if I can't run three miles without any injury by this coming Saturday, then I have to pull from the race.
All I can say is, "Not again." I had to pull from the Derry 16-Miler thanks to the limitations of weather and injury. The idea of pulling from a second race really, truly bothers me, especially since I thought I'd be much farther along in my marathon training. I wanted to have hit 20 miles before summer hit, and I've done half that.
I know it's silly to bemoan "only" running 10 miles, but I've never been one to set proper goals for me. And, usually, that works out. Be audacious enough to think she can work for an agency; get signed. Decide being a published author is worth all the headaches and frustrations; publishes an ebook through a popular magazine company. But sometimes it backfires on me. Get signed to an agency; be frustrated that she cannot land any steady work. Publish an ebook; still unsatisfied because she has two and three-quarters manuscripts that cannot get sold.
My biggest fear is that I'll have to give up on running completely, especially if it's a fascia tear and it doesn't heal properly. Which means the Chicago Marathon and the Boston Marathon will become pipe dreams. But that's getting ahead of myself. Not only to a set unnecessarily high goals, but I automatically turn to the worst possible consequence.
All I can do is focus on healing, refrain from any high-impact training, and hope for the best. And if that can't happen, at least I had the foresight to purchase the "running fee protection" plan in case I have to pull from the race (and I don't feel like eating the registration fee).
And, oh yeah, I definitely feel it if I try to even jog.
My husband suggested that I might have a torn fascia. He also suggested that I might want to seek out a doctor who specializes in sports medicine (which actually shouldn't be that hard, given that Manch-Vegas has a good number of minor league teams).
So right now, the only exercise I'm doing is yoga and tai chi. The tai chi purely because I teach it, and there are certain moves I am doing with modifications (which is for the best, because my students sometimes see the unmodified moves and attempt to copy me, even when I tell them to do a variation). And the yoga purely because I'm an addict and because the stretching feels good and Dr. Internet said that, if the stretch feels good, stretch it out as much as you can.
I am frustrated beyond words. My half marathon is in two weeks and the idea of training myself to run it in under two hours is completely out the window now. In fact, I had to give myself a very specific timeline: if I can't run three miles without any injury by this coming Saturday, then I have to pull from the race.
All I can say is, "Not again." I had to pull from the Derry 16-Miler thanks to the limitations of weather and injury. The idea of pulling from a second race really, truly bothers me, especially since I thought I'd be much farther along in my marathon training. I wanted to have hit 20 miles before summer hit, and I've done half that.
I know it's silly to bemoan "only" running 10 miles, but I've never been one to set proper goals for me. And, usually, that works out. Be audacious enough to think she can work for an agency; get signed. Decide being a published author is worth all the headaches and frustrations; publishes an ebook through a popular magazine company. But sometimes it backfires on me. Get signed to an agency; be frustrated that she cannot land any steady work. Publish an ebook; still unsatisfied because she has two and three-quarters manuscripts that cannot get sold.
My biggest fear is that I'll have to give up on running completely, especially if it's a fascia tear and it doesn't heal properly. Which means the Chicago Marathon and the Boston Marathon will become pipe dreams. But that's getting ahead of myself. Not only to a set unnecessarily high goals, but I automatically turn to the worst possible consequence.
All I can do is focus on healing, refrain from any high-impact training, and hope for the best. And if that can't happen, at least I had the foresight to purchase the "running fee protection" plan in case I have to pull from the race (and I don't feel like eating the registration fee).
Monday, May 12, 2014
Day 280 of 365: The Best Major for a Writer
I've been thinking a lot about college in general: about the future of higher education, about the frustrating concept that college is now the place to reverse the damage created by an overly-standardized public education system, about what the end goal is to a college education these days (especially since so many schools -- especially the tier-1 schools like MIT, Harvard, Yale, etc -- put their coursework and syllabi online for free so anyone can audit).
I also started thinking about "going to college for writing".
I don't mean, "going to college to improve one's grammar, spelling, and syntax." Which everyone should do. I'm of the belief that everyone should, bare minimum, take an English 101 course after high school and learn how to actually write a sentence. There is no reason why, in this day and age, with spellcheck now part of our internet browsers, that we should be doing stupid shit like spelling ridiculous with an "e". But that's a rant for a later time.
I'm talking about people who go to college to major in something that will help them as a fiction writer. The typical go-to is the English major (which I ain't knocking; let me dust off my own English degree here and display it real quick). And, why not? Read and study major works of literature and maybe you can pick up on what previous writers were able to do.
But I decided that there's a better set of majors if you want to be a writer. If you want to write fiction, major in psychology or sociology.
Maybe I'm saying that because my second area of study was sociology. No, actually, I am saying that because my second area of study was sociology. Because I saw the overlap time and time again in both fields -- so much so that I remember taking Sociology of Boston alongside Survey of American Writers and found myself learning about Anne Bradstreet twice, and for essentially the same reason. Because, once the professor is done prattling on about symbolism and rhetoric, the meat of the work in front of you rests on motivation. Why did that character do that thing. Why did this group of characters do that thing. What was going on during that particular time that would motivate the writer to write about that character doing that thing. Context, context, context.
In my experience, the worst bits of writing come when the characters do incredulous things. When they suddenly go for Option A when no regular person would even glance at it. The books that left the worst tastes in my mouth were the ones were the resolutions came out of no where and the characters at large essentially went, "Okay, cool."
On the flipside, the best bits of writing always point out or demonstrate a very real aspect of being human. Something about how we behave on an individual or on a group level. Something about what motivates us to do the things we do, the think the way we think, and what those consequences might be.
At the end of the day, you can't dissect a piece of fiction without turning into a micro-psychologist or micro-sociologist. Talking about symbolism and analogy only gets you so far -- even in things like poetry, where the emphasis is usually on the "pretty words" and the symbolism. To get a good idea of what is going on, you need to have some understanding of what makes us tick.
...Especially when we're talking about villains in a work of fiction. I know this is personal preference, but I love it when the lines between "the good guy" and "the bad guy" get blurred -- because that's humanity for you. No one is 100% good or bad. It's all a matter of context, of the situation, of motivation, and of how it is perceived by other people.
So that's my rant about what to study if you are looking to become a better writer. To be a compelling novelist, you also have to be a compelling sociologist. Unless you're Stephenie Meyer. Then you just have to be a Mormon who had a dream about sparkly vampires.
I also started thinking about "going to college for writing".
I don't mean, "going to college to improve one's grammar, spelling, and syntax." Which everyone should do. I'm of the belief that everyone should, bare minimum, take an English 101 course after high school and learn how to actually write a sentence. There is no reason why, in this day and age, with spellcheck now part of our internet browsers, that we should be doing stupid shit like spelling ridiculous with an "e". But that's a rant for a later time.
I'm talking about people who go to college to major in something that will help them as a fiction writer. The typical go-to is the English major (which I ain't knocking; let me dust off my own English degree here and display it real quick). And, why not? Read and study major works of literature and maybe you can pick up on what previous writers were able to do.
But I decided that there's a better set of majors if you want to be a writer. If you want to write fiction, major in psychology or sociology.
Maybe I'm saying that because my second area of study was sociology. No, actually, I am saying that because my second area of study was sociology. Because I saw the overlap time and time again in both fields -- so much so that I remember taking Sociology of Boston alongside Survey of American Writers and found myself learning about Anne Bradstreet twice, and for essentially the same reason. Because, once the professor is done prattling on about symbolism and rhetoric, the meat of the work in front of you rests on motivation. Why did that character do that thing. Why did this group of characters do that thing. What was going on during that particular time that would motivate the writer to write about that character doing that thing. Context, context, context.
In my experience, the worst bits of writing come when the characters do incredulous things. When they suddenly go for Option A when no regular person would even glance at it. The books that left the worst tastes in my mouth were the ones were the resolutions came out of no where and the characters at large essentially went, "Okay, cool."
On the flipside, the best bits of writing always point out or demonstrate a very real aspect of being human. Something about how we behave on an individual or on a group level. Something about what motivates us to do the things we do, the think the way we think, and what those consequences might be.
At the end of the day, you can't dissect a piece of fiction without turning into a micro-psychologist or micro-sociologist. Talking about symbolism and analogy only gets you so far -- even in things like poetry, where the emphasis is usually on the "pretty words" and the symbolism. To get a good idea of what is going on, you need to have some understanding of what makes us tick.
...Especially when we're talking about villains in a work of fiction. I know this is personal preference, but I love it when the lines between "the good guy" and "the bad guy" get blurred -- because that's humanity for you. No one is 100% good or bad. It's all a matter of context, of the situation, of motivation, and of how it is perceived by other people.
So that's my rant about what to study if you are looking to become a better writer. To be a compelling novelist, you also have to be a compelling sociologist. Unless you're Stephenie Meyer. Then you just have to be a Mormon who had a dream about sparkly vampires.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Day 279 of 365: Pobrecito
Editor's note: this is very much a rough draft that I wrote today. I wasn't exactly sure where I was going with this. I simply woke up with the first sentence of this story in my head and I did the nosey writer thing of asking why the narrator was called that. This is what I got from today's writing session.
She used to call me pobrecito.
She was of Polish descent, but her neighbors were from Venezuela. Her eyes lit up when she talked about Mamá Fernández and Papá Fernández, about their daughter, who had become her best friend when they were both around three years old. She always had a story about her "second family", her mouth blossoming into the widest smile I had ever seen. Stories about hijinx, stories about extended family members visiting America, stories about meals so intricate and vast that she thought she'd burst. She'd get so caught up sometimes that she'd lapse into Spanish, talking about this or that event from her childhood.
When I found out her father died when she was eight, she simply shrugged her shoulders and said, "That's life. It ends."
One of the things that drew me to her was her sarcastic wit. No one was spared from her quips. She'd dramatically pout her lips and go, "Ah, pobrecito. Lo siento," whenever I had any type of complaint or mentioned any type of setback. I'd ask her what she had said and she'd reply with, "I said, 'I'm sorry you fell asleep during Spanish in high school.'"
I watched the way she would spin whatever someone was saying into innuendo, facetiously pushing away other men's shoulders or knees. For all our conversations, she never did that with me. When I got the most jealous, when my own smile would become like a snarl as she joked with another person or shrugged off a guy's only-semi-joking suggestion to become his wife, I would tell myself that she had this border with me as a safety measure. Like she was afraid of making a comment that would cross into a different set of territories and reveal more than she was ready to reveal.
I found out about her father years later, sometime after we had started sleeping together -- after splitting away from a group outing one evening and letting one thing lead to another, with me never knowing if she was going along for the ride or orchestrating the whole thing; after waking up the morning after and hearing her warn that she wasn't looking for anything serious. It was Father's Day, and I was busy frying bacon in my kitchen as she strolled around the house, cell phone pressed to her temple. She downright sang into the phone; I couldn't tell if it was just the language or the way she let the words dance and twirl as she laughed and rolled her eyes to nobody in particular. She ended her called with, "Te quiero mucho, Papá. Te quiero mucho," and downright waltzed into the kitchen.
"Is breakfast ready?" she asked, her elbows propped against my kitchen counter.
"Not for a while, actually," I replied. "I guess I assumed you had more phone calls to make -- that you would call your dad up before breakfast as well."
"I did call my dad," she replied, her voice completely devoid of the melody from just minutes before.
"Oh, I'm...I'm sorry, I guess I didn't..." I stammered, bacon burning right in front of me. "That was rude of me. I just assumed..."
"My biological father died when I was eight," she interjected, as if she were reciting a line from a History Channel special, informative but disconnected.
"My God, Rosalind...I'm so sorry..."
She shrugged her shoulders as if I had been apologizing over her missing a train or a meeting.
"Don't be," she replied, looking up at me eyes that were dark in a way I had never seen before.
"That's life. It ends."
She still called me pobrecito and still shied away from the more inappropriate remarks -- as if she were now afraid that making such a comment would reveal the truth to everyone around us. I asked her why she kept calling me pobrecito -- "poor thing", as I eventually learned -- and she said, "Because, when you complain, no matter how big or small it is, it sounds like it's a second way from ruining your life. You have a flair for the dramatic."
I had spent so many years assuming she was always single, never without a man -- that the attention she got when she walked into a room was more than sufficient and spent her time alone as a result. I slowly realized that I couldn't have been more wrong -- that how she was with me was probably how she was with a million other men before. Together, but not. Casual, but steady. Nothing, but everything.
It took learning that her own father had died to make me realize that there was a reason why I knew so much about her "second family" but absolutely nothing about her biological family. She'd mention a sister from time to time. She would tell a story about her best friend -- "mi hermana" -- and perhaps add in a cameo from her actual family -- "my older sister" or "my mother" -- the words hanging in the air as if she had only learned the words the day before. Most of her stories involving her older sister were from when she was young. Any stories from her teenaged years and onward showed no sign of that sister.
I tried to balance it out with stories about my own family. I talked about my own mother, my little sister. I talked about my own father, and how I knew what it was like, to lose a parent. Mine had died just a few years prior, from cancer.
"No, it's different," she'd say distantly.
"How so?" I pressed, finding myself oddly defensive that she was so quick to remove my experience from the same category as hers.
She shrugged again.
"It just is."
I complained about my mother exactly once. It happened when my mother called me while I was driving around with Rosalind. I answered my twenty questions, assured her twice that I loved her, and hung up, laughing as I shook my head from side to side, saying how my mom still can't admit I'm grown up, that she just tries to mom me from a thousand miles away.
"Aye, pobrecito," she downright whispered, her eyes glued to the passenger window. Her words lacked the flavor and tone that I had grown so used to. I never mentioned anything again.
For that first year, I forced myself to believe that what we had was more than enough. And I mean, why not? I had spent so long wanting to do more than a friendly pat on the shoulder. I spent so long wishing I could just adjust a piece of hair along the nape of her neck, wishing I could turn my head toward her and stay just a moment longer when we hugged. I spent so long wanting such little scraps that what I had landed was a feast in comparison. I forced myself to believe that there was an unwritten rule; that, even though we were not serious, we were something -- a something that was held sacred at least on some level.
I have analyzed and overanalyzed that sacred "nothing" a million times at this point, pinpointing exactly where things went wrong or exactly where things could've gone right. When the dust had settled and I was left with nothing but a broken heart, I immediately went to "daddy issues". Of course things couldn't work out: how could she carry my heart when both hands were wrapped tightly around such baggage? That was the easiest explanation. The injustice was clear as day to me: she had opened up to me, slowly unraveling the truth about her addict of a father, her sister who had fallen down the same path, her mentally fragile mother. She showed a side to herself that felt so vulnerable and raw, something that she couldn't have possibly shown to the other men who dance alongside her and gaze back at her for just a little too long. It was all figured out for me back then. I had everything defined so neatly that I couldn't accept that it might be messier -- or simpler -- than that.
We were at the movies at one point, one of our rare outings with just the two of us. In a similar turn of events like just a few months before, a mother had called while we were in my car. She answered the phone in English, her voice soft and patient like a nurse working with an invalid, asking questions in a way that would make anyone feel calm, even if the questions were things like, "What did Dr. Novak say about your dosage?"
I took a left instead of a right, looping around the city instead of going straight to the theatre. When she hung up, I blurted out, "You never talk about your mother."
I got met with one of her infamous shrugs.
"What is there to say?"
"Well, she's your mother," I pressed, my mind trying to wrap around what the previous phone call could've meant. "I mean, she raised you."
She sighed and looked at me with eyes that were way older than anyone's I had ever seen before.
"I love her, and she is the sweetest lady I have ever known," she spoke clearly. "I don't think there is a malice bone in her entire body. But, at the end of the day, Mamá Fernández raised me. End of story."
"I don't understand. Was she not around?" I found myself saying, not getting why I was pressing forward the way I was.
"You could say that," she replied. "I found that growing up was a lot easier -- that forgiving her for everything had happened was easier -- if I didn't view her the way society told me to."
I kept silent until we got to the theatre. I stepped forward to the cashier, buying two sets of tickets like a man out on a proper date, and offered to get us popcorn. When she refused, we went straight to our seats. She sat in the spot next to me that already had the armrest separating the two seats lifted up, creating a bit of a loveseat by the screen. She crossed and then uncrossed her legs before settling on crossing her arms and shifting forward in her seat. I left my hands rest by my side, my right hand slowly drifting closer to her left leg.
"How did your father die?" I blurted into the silence, the back of my hand now tentatively resting against her thigh, waiting for the moment when she'd cross her legs again and become the creator a new set of space.
"Liver cirrhosis," she replied flatly. She sat back in her seat, her arm now pressed against mine. I felt the heat against my bicep and felt a shiver race up my spine.
"I'm so sorry."
"Why?" She turned to me, her arm now against the back of her chair, my arm suddenly cold.
"Because..." I began, nervously licking my lips, staring at the floor, wondering how I could word how I felt about my own father's passing without turning the conversation over to me.
"Please stop apologizing for my father's death. Because I am not," she said slowly, the vibrations of her voice resonating around and against my heart. "He was a good man with a bad addiction. He could not overcome it, and it overcame him. It happened when I was old enough to know it wasn't my fault and young enough that his behavior had had only a small influence on me. There are worse situations to find yourself in."
Somewhere in the second year of whatever it was that we were, I had decided that she was slowly unraveling around me, showing that vulnerable side to her that the rest of the world never saw, a world that never fully made the connection between the funny & witty and the broken. I kept an ear out for whenever she would talk about her biological family.
Looking back, I don't know what I was expecting. I guess part of me felt like, if I pressed hard enough, if I dug deep enough, she would collapse into tears, with me there to catch her before she hit the ground. Some days I would fantasize about her revealing just how much it hurt her to have had such an unstable upbringing, the same time she would reveal just how deep her love was for me, and how afraid she was to admit it given all her damage.
Or maybe I genuinely believed that what she was telling me were deep, dark secrets. I would hear a rumor about her and someone, anyone -- a guy from work, a friend of a friend, whoever -- and decide that he didn't know about her family life, that he didn't hear the words drain of emotion when she talked about her biological family.
As far as I knew, I was the only one she'd facetiously call pobrecito.
With nearly half a decade between then and now, it's safe to say I see things differently. I used to pinpoint one particular day as that day she broke my heart without any provocation. I then pinpointed that day as the day that I blew it. Now I recognize that this was just how things were going to turn out eventually. It's just that it ended up happening in a more explosive manner.
It started out because of the pit of jealousy in my stomach. I had developed a downright compulsive ear for any possible outing with her and any other man. The newest one seemed to get at me in a way that I couldn't properly quell, like this particular rumor brought out the most territorial side of me. I found myself saying things in ways I never meant to say and almost watched from the sidelines as the conversation built up and up.
"I told you a long time ago that I wasn't looking for anything serious," she said, her arms crossed.
"Look around you!" I cried out. "We've been doing this for two years. 'Casual' went out the door a long time ago."
In my mind, my word had hit her square in the chest, forcing her to blink away tears and show a different type of vulnerability, a side I hadn't seen before but swore it was there, somewhere.
"Maybe for you," she replied solemnly.
"Can you see what this is?" I continued. "It's not fair for us that you keep me at arm's length like this."
"Who said I was keeping you at arm's length?" she asked.
"I'm sorry that there was so much going on when you were a child, but it is not fair to refuse love because of it," some part of me -- the part of me that was in control of quelling my jealousy -- said.
Again, in my mind, this would have been the part where she broke down and admitted how much it hurt to try to love. In some alternative universe, this would have been the beginning of our deep bond, a relationship where I saved the day and she gave me a new lease on life. The type of intricate love that people only read about. It would've been like the movies, where the main character saves the offbeat girl and the offbeat girl helps the main character find true meaning in his life.
"I think this needs to be over," she replied, shaking her head the same way a teacher shakes her head at a failing student. "This has gone on long enough."
Something in me ignited and suddenly I was in even less control of myself than I was before.
"Is that it?" I shouted, my hands flung in the air, my arm muscles rigid and unforgiving. "That's how it's going to be then, huh? It's because I'm not broken too, isn't it? Because I had a good childhood with good parents and a good life and I can't ever know what it was like for you, huh. Because my father's death is not as tragic as your father's death and my issues will never be as tragic as yours."
"No," she replied coolly. "But that right there -- the fact that you just said all that -- is part of the reason." She looked me up and down before adding: "I am not a tragedy, and my past is not to be fetishized."
I found out that she had gotten married three or so years later, to a guy she had met through a client at work. Before I had broken away from our group of friends, she brought him out to meet everyone almost as soon as they had started dating. Back then, I consoled myself by saying that I had been the lesson that she had needed to learn about love. I wasn't ready to admit that maybe, just maybe, we were nothing serious, and she never had any intention of having things get as far as I wanted them to.
I ran into them recently. It was the first time in years, especially since she got engaged. It was an innocent as being in the same aisle at the same grocery store at the same time. The man had a slight French accent about him, talking quietly to Rosalind as they scanned a shelf. I was half tempted to turn around and leave the aisle, but she caught my staring before I could move.
"Well, hey there, stranger," she said, turning to me, her hand reflexively touching her belly. "How have you been?"
"Oh, you know, the usual," I said. In a flash, I imagined me mentioning the issues at work, if only to watch her pout her lips, place her hands to her heart, and go, "Oh, pobrecito. Lo siento." Instead, I said: "Overall, through, pretty good. How about you?"
"Oh, you know." She looked down and moved her hand in a circular motion around her torso, emphasizing a small bump that I hadn't noticed before.
"Oh wow, congratulations," I replied, doing my best to look both her and her husband in the eye when I said this.
"Thanks," she said. "It's been interesting. I've learned the hard way that 'morning sickness' doesn't exactly mean it'll only happen in the morning."
"Aww, pobrecito," I said, my hands dramatically to my heart.
"Your accent is terrible," she replied with a roll of her eyes and a slight grin. "And also, it would be pobrecita. Unless you're calling me a man."
All I could do was smile at her, wishing I could maybe tuck a lock of hair behind her hair and place my hand on her shoulder, my thumb rubbing the nape of her neck.
"Besides, I'll be fine. Nothing a little ginger ale can't fix," she added, looking up at her husband with a warmth that I had once seen only when talking about Mamá and Papá Fernández.
"Anyway, we have to get going, but it was good running into you."
"And likewise."
She slipped her hand into her husband's -- Michael, I want to say his name was? -- and walked past us. I turned around to watch her disappear down the aisle. In my mind, she would look back one last time before turning the corner. A look that would encapsulate all the love, the regret, the longing that I prayed she felt all this time.
But then again, that is where my problem will always lie. In my mind, I fell in love with the girl with the sharp tongue and incredible stories. From the moment I met her, I regarded her as this infallible entity, clearly meant to be with me. That girl became the broken one -- the girl that couldn't love me because of her past. I built up this fictional character in my mind to the point that I believed it wholeheartedly. And I believed that all I needed to do was do the right things, say the right things, probe into her past in just the right way, for everything to work out for me. I had decided that the girl I was in love with sang in Spanish and cried in English and eventually she would need me to be a translator. I was too busy labeling her the pobrecita that I missed seeing the woman in her entirety in front of me.
She used to call me pobrecito.
She was of Polish descent, but her neighbors were from Venezuela. Her eyes lit up when she talked about Mamá Fernández and Papá Fernández, about their daughter, who had become her best friend when they were both around three years old. She always had a story about her "second family", her mouth blossoming into the widest smile I had ever seen. Stories about hijinx, stories about extended family members visiting America, stories about meals so intricate and vast that she thought she'd burst. She'd get so caught up sometimes that she'd lapse into Spanish, talking about this or that event from her childhood.
When I found out her father died when she was eight, she simply shrugged her shoulders and said, "That's life. It ends."
One of the things that drew me to her was her sarcastic wit. No one was spared from her quips. She'd dramatically pout her lips and go, "Ah, pobrecito. Lo siento," whenever I had any type of complaint or mentioned any type of setback. I'd ask her what she had said and she'd reply with, "I said, 'I'm sorry you fell asleep during Spanish in high school.'"
I watched the way she would spin whatever someone was saying into innuendo, facetiously pushing away other men's shoulders or knees. For all our conversations, she never did that with me. When I got the most jealous, when my own smile would become like a snarl as she joked with another person or shrugged off a guy's only-semi-joking suggestion to become his wife, I would tell myself that she had this border with me as a safety measure. Like she was afraid of making a comment that would cross into a different set of territories and reveal more than she was ready to reveal.
I found out about her father years later, sometime after we had started sleeping together -- after splitting away from a group outing one evening and letting one thing lead to another, with me never knowing if she was going along for the ride or orchestrating the whole thing; after waking up the morning after and hearing her warn that she wasn't looking for anything serious. It was Father's Day, and I was busy frying bacon in my kitchen as she strolled around the house, cell phone pressed to her temple. She downright sang into the phone; I couldn't tell if it was just the language or the way she let the words dance and twirl as she laughed and rolled her eyes to nobody in particular. She ended her called with, "Te quiero mucho, Papá. Te quiero mucho," and downright waltzed into the kitchen.
"Is breakfast ready?" she asked, her elbows propped against my kitchen counter.
"Not for a while, actually," I replied. "I guess I assumed you had more phone calls to make -- that you would call your dad up before breakfast as well."
"I did call my dad," she replied, her voice completely devoid of the melody from just minutes before.
"Oh, I'm...I'm sorry, I guess I didn't..." I stammered, bacon burning right in front of me. "That was rude of me. I just assumed..."
"My biological father died when I was eight," she interjected, as if she were reciting a line from a History Channel special, informative but disconnected.
"My God, Rosalind...I'm so sorry..."
She shrugged her shoulders as if I had been apologizing over her missing a train or a meeting.
"Don't be," she replied, looking up at me eyes that were dark in a way I had never seen before.
"That's life. It ends."
She still called me pobrecito and still shied away from the more inappropriate remarks -- as if she were now afraid that making such a comment would reveal the truth to everyone around us. I asked her why she kept calling me pobrecito -- "poor thing", as I eventually learned -- and she said, "Because, when you complain, no matter how big or small it is, it sounds like it's a second way from ruining your life. You have a flair for the dramatic."
I had spent so many years assuming she was always single, never without a man -- that the attention she got when she walked into a room was more than sufficient and spent her time alone as a result. I slowly realized that I couldn't have been more wrong -- that how she was with me was probably how she was with a million other men before. Together, but not. Casual, but steady. Nothing, but everything.
It took learning that her own father had died to make me realize that there was a reason why I knew so much about her "second family" but absolutely nothing about her biological family. She'd mention a sister from time to time. She would tell a story about her best friend -- "mi hermana" -- and perhaps add in a cameo from her actual family -- "my older sister" or "my mother" -- the words hanging in the air as if she had only learned the words the day before. Most of her stories involving her older sister were from when she was young. Any stories from her teenaged years and onward showed no sign of that sister.
I tried to balance it out with stories about my own family. I talked about my own mother, my little sister. I talked about my own father, and how I knew what it was like, to lose a parent. Mine had died just a few years prior, from cancer.
"No, it's different," she'd say distantly.
"How so?" I pressed, finding myself oddly defensive that she was so quick to remove my experience from the same category as hers.
She shrugged again.
"It just is."
I complained about my mother exactly once. It happened when my mother called me while I was driving around with Rosalind. I answered my twenty questions, assured her twice that I loved her, and hung up, laughing as I shook my head from side to side, saying how my mom still can't admit I'm grown up, that she just tries to mom me from a thousand miles away.
"Aye, pobrecito," she downright whispered, her eyes glued to the passenger window. Her words lacked the flavor and tone that I had grown so used to. I never mentioned anything again.
For that first year, I forced myself to believe that what we had was more than enough. And I mean, why not? I had spent so long wanting to do more than a friendly pat on the shoulder. I spent so long wishing I could just adjust a piece of hair along the nape of her neck, wishing I could turn my head toward her and stay just a moment longer when we hugged. I spent so long wanting such little scraps that what I had landed was a feast in comparison. I forced myself to believe that there was an unwritten rule; that, even though we were not serious, we were something -- a something that was held sacred at least on some level.
I have analyzed and overanalyzed that sacred "nothing" a million times at this point, pinpointing exactly where things went wrong or exactly where things could've gone right. When the dust had settled and I was left with nothing but a broken heart, I immediately went to "daddy issues". Of course things couldn't work out: how could she carry my heart when both hands were wrapped tightly around such baggage? That was the easiest explanation. The injustice was clear as day to me: she had opened up to me, slowly unraveling the truth about her addict of a father, her sister who had fallen down the same path, her mentally fragile mother. She showed a side to herself that felt so vulnerable and raw, something that she couldn't have possibly shown to the other men who dance alongside her and gaze back at her for just a little too long. It was all figured out for me back then. I had everything defined so neatly that I couldn't accept that it might be messier -- or simpler -- than that.
We were at the movies at one point, one of our rare outings with just the two of us. In a similar turn of events like just a few months before, a mother had called while we were in my car. She answered the phone in English, her voice soft and patient like a nurse working with an invalid, asking questions in a way that would make anyone feel calm, even if the questions were things like, "What did Dr. Novak say about your dosage?"
I took a left instead of a right, looping around the city instead of going straight to the theatre. When she hung up, I blurted out, "You never talk about your mother."
I got met with one of her infamous shrugs.
"What is there to say?"
"Well, she's your mother," I pressed, my mind trying to wrap around what the previous phone call could've meant. "I mean, she raised you."
She sighed and looked at me with eyes that were way older than anyone's I had ever seen before.
"I love her, and she is the sweetest lady I have ever known," she spoke clearly. "I don't think there is a malice bone in her entire body. But, at the end of the day, Mamá Fernández raised me. End of story."
"I don't understand. Was she not around?" I found myself saying, not getting why I was pressing forward the way I was.
"You could say that," she replied. "I found that growing up was a lot easier -- that forgiving her for everything had happened was easier -- if I didn't view her the way society told me to."
I kept silent until we got to the theatre. I stepped forward to the cashier, buying two sets of tickets like a man out on a proper date, and offered to get us popcorn. When she refused, we went straight to our seats. She sat in the spot next to me that already had the armrest separating the two seats lifted up, creating a bit of a loveseat by the screen. She crossed and then uncrossed her legs before settling on crossing her arms and shifting forward in her seat. I left my hands rest by my side, my right hand slowly drifting closer to her left leg.
"How did your father die?" I blurted into the silence, the back of my hand now tentatively resting against her thigh, waiting for the moment when she'd cross her legs again and become the creator a new set of space.
"Liver cirrhosis," she replied flatly. She sat back in her seat, her arm now pressed against mine. I felt the heat against my bicep and felt a shiver race up my spine.
"I'm so sorry."
"Why?" She turned to me, her arm now against the back of her chair, my arm suddenly cold.
"Because..." I began, nervously licking my lips, staring at the floor, wondering how I could word how I felt about my own father's passing without turning the conversation over to me.
"Please stop apologizing for my father's death. Because I am not," she said slowly, the vibrations of her voice resonating around and against my heart. "He was a good man with a bad addiction. He could not overcome it, and it overcame him. It happened when I was old enough to know it wasn't my fault and young enough that his behavior had had only a small influence on me. There are worse situations to find yourself in."
Somewhere in the second year of whatever it was that we were, I had decided that she was slowly unraveling around me, showing that vulnerable side to her that the rest of the world never saw, a world that never fully made the connection between the funny & witty and the broken. I kept an ear out for whenever she would talk about her biological family.
Looking back, I don't know what I was expecting. I guess part of me felt like, if I pressed hard enough, if I dug deep enough, she would collapse into tears, with me there to catch her before she hit the ground. Some days I would fantasize about her revealing just how much it hurt her to have had such an unstable upbringing, the same time she would reveal just how deep her love was for me, and how afraid she was to admit it given all her damage.
Or maybe I genuinely believed that what she was telling me were deep, dark secrets. I would hear a rumor about her and someone, anyone -- a guy from work, a friend of a friend, whoever -- and decide that he didn't know about her family life, that he didn't hear the words drain of emotion when she talked about her biological family.
As far as I knew, I was the only one she'd facetiously call pobrecito.
With nearly half a decade between then and now, it's safe to say I see things differently. I used to pinpoint one particular day as that day she broke my heart without any provocation. I then pinpointed that day as the day that I blew it. Now I recognize that this was just how things were going to turn out eventually. It's just that it ended up happening in a more explosive manner.
It started out because of the pit of jealousy in my stomach. I had developed a downright compulsive ear for any possible outing with her and any other man. The newest one seemed to get at me in a way that I couldn't properly quell, like this particular rumor brought out the most territorial side of me. I found myself saying things in ways I never meant to say and almost watched from the sidelines as the conversation built up and up.
"I told you a long time ago that I wasn't looking for anything serious," she said, her arms crossed.
"Look around you!" I cried out. "We've been doing this for two years. 'Casual' went out the door a long time ago."
In my mind, my word had hit her square in the chest, forcing her to blink away tears and show a different type of vulnerability, a side I hadn't seen before but swore it was there, somewhere.
"Maybe for you," she replied solemnly.
"Can you see what this is?" I continued. "It's not fair for us that you keep me at arm's length like this."
"Who said I was keeping you at arm's length?" she asked.
"I'm sorry that there was so much going on when you were a child, but it is not fair to refuse love because of it," some part of me -- the part of me that was in control of quelling my jealousy -- said.
Again, in my mind, this would have been the part where she broke down and admitted how much it hurt to try to love. In some alternative universe, this would have been the beginning of our deep bond, a relationship where I saved the day and she gave me a new lease on life. The type of intricate love that people only read about. It would've been like the movies, where the main character saves the offbeat girl and the offbeat girl helps the main character find true meaning in his life.
"I think this needs to be over," she replied, shaking her head the same way a teacher shakes her head at a failing student. "This has gone on long enough."
Something in me ignited and suddenly I was in even less control of myself than I was before.
"Is that it?" I shouted, my hands flung in the air, my arm muscles rigid and unforgiving. "That's how it's going to be then, huh? It's because I'm not broken too, isn't it? Because I had a good childhood with good parents and a good life and I can't ever know what it was like for you, huh. Because my father's death is not as tragic as your father's death and my issues will never be as tragic as yours."
"No," she replied coolly. "But that right there -- the fact that you just said all that -- is part of the reason." She looked me up and down before adding: "I am not a tragedy, and my past is not to be fetishized."
I found out that she had gotten married three or so years later, to a guy she had met through a client at work. Before I had broken away from our group of friends, she brought him out to meet everyone almost as soon as they had started dating. Back then, I consoled myself by saying that I had been the lesson that she had needed to learn about love. I wasn't ready to admit that maybe, just maybe, we were nothing serious, and she never had any intention of having things get as far as I wanted them to.
I ran into them recently. It was the first time in years, especially since she got engaged. It was an innocent as being in the same aisle at the same grocery store at the same time. The man had a slight French accent about him, talking quietly to Rosalind as they scanned a shelf. I was half tempted to turn around and leave the aisle, but she caught my staring before I could move.
"Well, hey there, stranger," she said, turning to me, her hand reflexively touching her belly. "How have you been?"
"Oh, you know, the usual," I said. In a flash, I imagined me mentioning the issues at work, if only to watch her pout her lips, place her hands to her heart, and go, "Oh, pobrecito. Lo siento." Instead, I said: "Overall, through, pretty good. How about you?"
"Oh, you know." She looked down and moved her hand in a circular motion around her torso, emphasizing a small bump that I hadn't noticed before.
"Oh wow, congratulations," I replied, doing my best to look both her and her husband in the eye when I said this.
"Thanks," she said. "It's been interesting. I've learned the hard way that 'morning sickness' doesn't exactly mean it'll only happen in the morning."
"Aww, pobrecito," I said, my hands dramatically to my heart.
"Your accent is terrible," she replied with a roll of her eyes and a slight grin. "And also, it would be pobrecita. Unless you're calling me a man."
All I could do was smile at her, wishing I could maybe tuck a lock of hair behind her hair and place my hand on her shoulder, my thumb rubbing the nape of her neck.
"Besides, I'll be fine. Nothing a little ginger ale can't fix," she added, looking up at her husband with a warmth that I had once seen only when talking about Mamá and Papá Fernández.
"Anyway, we have to get going, but it was good running into you."
"And likewise."
She slipped her hand into her husband's -- Michael, I want to say his name was? -- and walked past us. I turned around to watch her disappear down the aisle. In my mind, she would look back one last time before turning the corner. A look that would encapsulate all the love, the regret, the longing that I prayed she felt all this time.
But then again, that is where my problem will always lie. In my mind, I fell in love with the girl with the sharp tongue and incredible stories. From the moment I met her, I regarded her as this infallible entity, clearly meant to be with me. That girl became the broken one -- the girl that couldn't love me because of her past. I built up this fictional character in my mind to the point that I believed it wholeheartedly. And I believed that all I needed to do was do the right things, say the right things, probe into her past in just the right way, for everything to work out for me. I had decided that the girl I was in love with sang in Spanish and cried in English and eventually she would need me to be a translator. I was too busy labeling her the pobrecita that I missed seeing the woman in her entirety in front of me.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Day 278 of 365: Kitchen Table and the Empty House
One of the unwritten rules about owning a house for the first time is -- unless you're buying a very small house or are a supreme hoarder -- there will be a bit of emptiness to it. We were practically spilling out of our two-bedroom apartment; we had bought furniture with a more long-term mindset, which meant buying a couch that awkwardly fit our living room area and having our vast collection of books proudly on display in the guest room. We went into house hunting praying we'd find The Right House on our first round, because God help us if we had to renew our contract.
Within three months, we found The Right House and moved in. Some rooms -- like that living room with furniture that actually fit in it -- filled up nicely. Other rooms were downright sparse. Our dining room had zero furniture in it. Count it: zero pieces of furniture. I set up a our side table as well as card table draped with a tablecloth to keep things looking a little cohesive.
Meanwhile our actual dining room table was in the kitchen area. Our dining room table -- a gift from my in-laws after our wedding -- is a lovely, maple table that can expand out in a way to give everyone elbow room at Thanksgiving. And it has absolutely no place in the kitchen.
I never thought I'd be one of those people who actually held opinions about what style of furniture went where, but, now that we had the room to do it, I could see how our table was way too ornate to be considered a kitchenette table. But we weren't all to concerned at first: I mean, we had the monstrous task of actually getting settled into the house and figuring out how to juggle what seemed like 5 or 6 major payment plans (house, new car, two sets of tuition, rent on an empty apartment, payments for all the bells & whistles & services that go into making a house a home).
Once things seemed to be smoothed out a bit (minus a broken well pump, which I am still in sticker shock over...), I finally felt like I could start looking for a proper kitchen table. Being the Type A personality that I am, I already had an exact type of table in mind and I refused to compromise on a single aspect. After a few months, I found exactly what I was looking for, and at a steal, too.
One of the chairs looks like it's on its last legs (har har...) and it might need another coat of varnish, but it is exactly the table meant for this house. This is the part where I wax philosophical about something flawed being perfect for what you need, or something, but, really, this whole post has been more quasi-diary-ish anyway, so...yeah.
Regardless, I'm thrilled with finally having a kitchen table (and finally having furniture in our dining room). Time to put away the card table. Because, much like putting lipstick on a pig, putting a tablecloth on a card table does not make it a lady ... or a table. Or something. I need to start thinking these posts out better.
Within three months, we found The Right House and moved in. Some rooms -- like that living room with furniture that actually fit in it -- filled up nicely. Other rooms were downright sparse. Our dining room had zero furniture in it. Count it: zero pieces of furniture. I set up a our side table as well as card table draped with a tablecloth to keep things looking a little cohesive.
Meanwhile our actual dining room table was in the kitchen area. Our dining room table -- a gift from my in-laws after our wedding -- is a lovely, maple table that can expand out in a way to give everyone elbow room at Thanksgiving. And it has absolutely no place in the kitchen.
I never thought I'd be one of those people who actually held opinions about what style of furniture went where, but, now that we had the room to do it, I could see how our table was way too ornate to be considered a kitchenette table. But we weren't all to concerned at first: I mean, we had the monstrous task of actually getting settled into the house and figuring out how to juggle what seemed like 5 or 6 major payment plans (house, new car, two sets of tuition, rent on an empty apartment, payments for all the bells & whistles & services that go into making a house a home).
Once things seemed to be smoothed out a bit (minus a broken well pump, which I am still in sticker shock over...), I finally felt like I could start looking for a proper kitchen table. Being the Type A personality that I am, I already had an exact type of table in mind and I refused to compromise on a single aspect. After a few months, I found exactly what I was looking for, and at a steal, too.
One of the chairs looks like it's on its last legs (har har...) and it might need another coat of varnish, but it is exactly the table meant for this house. This is the part where I wax philosophical about something flawed being perfect for what you need, or something, but, really, this whole post has been more quasi-diary-ish anyway, so...yeah.
Regardless, I'm thrilled with finally having a kitchen table (and finally having furniture in our dining room). Time to put away the card table. Because, much like putting lipstick on a pig, putting a tablecloth on a card table does not make it a lady ... or a table. Or something. I need to start thinking these posts out better.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Day 277 of 365: Time Limit on Writing
Last night, I had a dream that I suffered from sort of mortal wound. I did not dream about getting it, and I did not dream about what it was, but I had some wound in my torso that spelled a soon death. I was able to get some type of surgery to delay the inevitable, but I still didn't have long.
In this dream, I only had one concern: "I'm going to die soon and I didn't even finish my third manuscript yet."
I think that should give you an idea as to where my mind is right now.
I'm creeping along and a downright snail's pace through the last few chapters of my book. I maybe have 20,000 words to go, but I swear I'm going to need 20,000 days to get it done. And, apparently, it's weighing on my mind enough that I am starting to fret about dying before I finish it.
I refuse to query for my first manuscript again until I finish the third. This also gives me time to sell a few more copies of my ebook. But it's meant to force me to actually finish this, because there are few things that frustrate me more than an unfinished project.
The biggest thing is letting go of that need to have the passages be perfect. I already know there are three or four major changes I need to make -- scenes that need to be added or rewritten, characters who have to be changed around -- and instead of letting that give me the freedom to just write, I'm using it as something to drag me down.
So I guess I have no choice to, once again, force myself to write, even if it's just a little bit, every day, until the book is done. I found that I can't do a "page a day" deadline, because it limits me both ways (if I write more than one page a day, I feel like I'm accidentally overdoing myself; also, on days when I don't feel like writing, I really don't feel like writing a whole page, so I don't even try). But if I can just write something -- a sentence, a bit of dialogue, even an idea or two -- then I'll be on the right path. And if I can write more, awesome.
Because -- really -- who knows what's going to happen in the future. I could get that mortal wound in my torso. We do live in interesting times.
In this dream, I only had one concern: "I'm going to die soon and I didn't even finish my third manuscript yet."
I think that should give you an idea as to where my mind is right now.
I'm creeping along and a downright snail's pace through the last few chapters of my book. I maybe have 20,000 words to go, but I swear I'm going to need 20,000 days to get it done. And, apparently, it's weighing on my mind enough that I am starting to fret about dying before I finish it.
I refuse to query for my first manuscript again until I finish the third. This also gives me time to sell a few more copies of my ebook. But it's meant to force me to actually finish this, because there are few things that frustrate me more than an unfinished project.
The biggest thing is letting go of that need to have the passages be perfect. I already know there are three or four major changes I need to make -- scenes that need to be added or rewritten, characters who have to be changed around -- and instead of letting that give me the freedom to just write, I'm using it as something to drag me down.
So I guess I have no choice to, once again, force myself to write, even if it's just a little bit, every day, until the book is done. I found that I can't do a "page a day" deadline, because it limits me both ways (if I write more than one page a day, I feel like I'm accidentally overdoing myself; also, on days when I don't feel like writing, I really don't feel like writing a whole page, so I don't even try). But if I can just write something -- a sentence, a bit of dialogue, even an idea or two -- then I'll be on the right path. And if I can write more, awesome.
Because -- really -- who knows what's going to happen in the future. I could get that mortal wound in my torso. We do live in interesting times.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Day 276 of 365: So Far for a Go-See
Usually my go-sees take place in Boston. Part of me tries to keep my Boston time within very specific parameters (in after 10 a.m., out before 2:30 p.m.) because traffic in the Boston area around anything even remotely close to rush hour is horrendous. But still, I'll make sure to get into Boston early and arrive late: the go-see might take up a whopping 10 minutes of my time, and I'll probably spend an additional two hours just enjoying my city.
Today, I had a go-see in Framingham, of all places.
The go-sees that are in the suburbs are simultaneously easier and harder. They're quicker, because I can drive directly there, instead of parking outside of the city and taking the T in. But they're also quicker because I'm in and out. I don't stick around to enjoy all of Framingham; I just get back in the car and go, with maybe a detour at a Dunkie's.
On days like today, I don't mind it. Get some good music on the radio, open up the sunroof (after the go-see, of course, because you never want to mussy up your hair beforehand), and just have a fun time, even though you are spending a combined total of 3 hours in a car for a go-see that will last you ten minutes on the absolute outside.
But still, so far for such a small amount of time. You really have to have faith that the payoff is worth it, be it in experience or landing the actual job itself (this go-see had walk-in hours of 8 to 2 p.m., with plenty of people coming in. I'm not delusional enough to think I'll land this sucker). For now, it's no problem, since most of my work, aside from my tai chi classes, is pretty fluid and can be done at any time and from anywhere. But who knows what will happen down the line.
This is a whole lot of rambling that is essentially going nowhere, but, hey, what can I say: my brain is frazzled from dealing with both 95 and the Mass Pike.
Today, I had a go-see in Framingham, of all places.
The go-sees that are in the suburbs are simultaneously easier and harder. They're quicker, because I can drive directly there, instead of parking outside of the city and taking the T in. But they're also quicker because I'm in and out. I don't stick around to enjoy all of Framingham; I just get back in the car and go, with maybe a detour at a Dunkie's.
On days like today, I don't mind it. Get some good music on the radio, open up the sunroof (after the go-see, of course, because you never want to mussy up your hair beforehand), and just have a fun time, even though you are spending a combined total of 3 hours in a car for a go-see that will last you ten minutes on the absolute outside.
But still, so far for such a small amount of time. You really have to have faith that the payoff is worth it, be it in experience or landing the actual job itself (this go-see had walk-in hours of 8 to 2 p.m., with plenty of people coming in. I'm not delusional enough to think I'll land this sucker). For now, it's no problem, since most of my work, aside from my tai chi classes, is pretty fluid and can be done at any time and from anywhere. But who knows what will happen down the line.
This is a whole lot of rambling that is essentially going nowhere, but, hey, what can I say: my brain is frazzled from dealing with both 95 and the Mass Pike.
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