I fear that the holiday season has gotten the best of me. I broke communication with the blogosphere, but please do not be offended, as I also broke correspondence with the gym and the scale. Since my two alternatives this evening are to put an end to my sedentary lifestyle or unpack, I return to discuss my journey home.
Holiday travel has been a source of minor controversy between my father and me. He obviously is not thrilled by the idea of me driving for eight hours, and I do not blame him. My driving record could certainly be referenced to prove the dangers of such travel. However, I like the sense of control gained from being behind the wheel, and thoroughly dislike the unreliable organization of flying. Yes, I have to be on time for the flight or I am cast aside with no consideration, but the flight has no loyalty or responsibility to me. What kind of dysfunctional relationship is that?
This Christmas, upon his relentless insistence, I decided to fly home. I departed Wednesday before the sun rose, and the journey was surprisingly pleasant. I met a lovely woman en route D.C. and we spent the entire flight talking entirely too much considering the ungodly hour. My father met me in Cleveland, and it was great to have a captive audience for forty-five minutes as I rambled about the current events in my life. Although this drive may have made him reconsider asking me to fly, I believe he enjoyed the conversation as much as I did.
However, the fates were clearly on a mission to vindicate my apprehension toward air travel. Saturday night, I received a text offering me a sideline pass to the Browns game. Despite my disdain for communication via text, if there is a chance I will make eye contact with Colt McCoy involved, I will accept them. As it was, I had a plane to catch Sunday afternoon, so I would not be able to make the game. Since my presence may have spurred the Browns to victory, this was not only a major loss for myself, but also a devastating blow to the city of Cleveland.
Yes, I was going to miss the opportunity to stand in the twenty degree, snowy weather and witness yet another Cleveland loss, but at least I would get to Charlottesville at a decent hour. As is the case with flying in the winter, though, this was not true. I walked to the gate of my plane, only to learn that the flight had been delayed two and a half hours due to inclement weather in Charlotte- meaning there was a small dusting of snow.
At this point, I was faced with various options. I could read a book, take a nap, or drink a beer and watch football. Since I am opposed to intellectual stimulation, I opted not to read, and if I took a nap, I would not be able to sleep on the plane. Instead, I decided to drink a beer in the hopes that I would be in a prime state to pass out before the stewardess told me how to fasten my seat belt. Practical, I know.
I sat down at the bar and decided to order a glass of wine, showing a bit of class. It was during my glass of wine that a man ordered Christmas Ale. I immediately told everyone within earshot of my family's recently discovered method of drinking the beer in a honey-rimmed glass dipped in cinnamon and brown sugar. Obviously, this led to vocal accolades of the Great Lakes Brew, and as the man returned to his table, the girl beside me and I began talking. Conversation started with a mutual love of Christmas Ale and expanded to our jobs, school, and family. While I do not believe I will ever see Lisa again, I do wish her well in Seattle.
All this talk of Christmas Ale had made me seriously reconsider my initial choice of beverage, and since I still had an hour until boarding, I paid eight dollars for my final beer of the season. As I took my first sip, a gentleman took Lisa's seat and ordered his first Christmas ale. How an individual can go through twenty two years in Cleveland and have never tasted the beer is a crime, but I forgave the guy since he had skin of a perfect mocha shade and glistening green eyes. After reprimanding him for avoiding the beer all these years, our conversation blossomed. He was a charming individual who now lives in Dallas and is beginning a start up website comparable to Facebook. Honestly, I think it could be a great idea; it is a site where one can anonymously vent and ask for advice, and everyone I know always needs advice. Of course, with those eyes, he could have told me he was thinking of starting a site dedicated to only foreplay involving feet, and I would have told him to sign me up. This relationship ended as quickly as the last, although he did leave me with a new R&B CD and his full name. I went to hand him my business card, but alas, I had already given it to the woman I met on an earlier flight. Apparently, those puppies are in higher demand than I anticipated.
When he left, the guy sitting to my left initiated conversation. He had tried to do so multiple times before, but I was as politely callous as possible, discretely trying to relay the message that I had a gorgeous guy on my right who was consuming my attention. Harsh, perhaps, but I did not feel as bad once I discovered he had a girlfriend. He only plays a significant role in my story because he was escorted off our flight after being rude to the stewardess who told him he would need to check his bag. Again, this is a shame, but entertaining nonetheless.
As anticipated, the alcohol knocked me out, and I slept quite unattractively the duration of the flight. Upon landing in Charlotte, I was met with similar choices, and again, I opted to sit at a bar. As I drank my water, the guy beside me asked where I was flying, a very non-threatening question at an airport. One cannot judge creeps as quickly in an airport, as everyone is by themselves, and who am I to blame another for craving interaction. I am not opposed to conversation, and I had just overheard him order a sandwich, so we spoke. When his meal was delivered, I expressed my intense craving for fries; he obviously could not resist my starving eyes and gave me a handful. I rewarded him with continued conversation.
The last leg of my journey had finally arrived, and at twelve thirty, we landed in Charlottesville. Of course, I still had to catch a cab ride home, during which the driver and I chatted about his daughter, grandchildren, and years on the job. He told me I was lovely, and I think I made his night, but probably more because I was his only customer and paid sixty five dollars as he took the longest way possible to my house.
As for me, although it cost four hundred dollars for the ticket, twenty dollars for airport alcohol, six dollars for the bag of trail mix, fifty dollars to check my bags, and sixty five dollars for a ride home, I did get a free CD and a handful of french fries. Perhaps flying is not so bad, after all.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
My New Address
I was sitting on my porch this evening, imbibing the crisp fall air as my dinner digested, when I received a call from a 216 number. Some people screen their calls, and I think this is a bit pretentious, unless you are running from creditors, bookies, or the cops. Personally, I love the excitement of not knowing who is on the other end. Perhaps it is a long lost friend whose number had been erased throughout numerous phone changes or that random guy to whom I accidentally gave my number after a few drinks. Whoever it is, if they are calling, they deserve to talk to me. I answered, only to be met with the voice of a young college student requesting I give money to the John Carroll Blue and Gold Club... and that is why people screen their calls. Although not prevalent to my story, I did get suckered into donating money; I also requested that my money be funneled toward the tennis team fund, which, with the addition of my twenty five dollars, would probably increase two-fold.
The young gentleman informed me of his position and went on to ask for my information. Was I still residing at 12444 Woodin Road? (Although he did not use the word residing, as it has three syllables and is too robust for a freshman at John Carroll.) No, I was not. Giving him my new address, I recited the only other address I have ever verbalized, 4193 Wyncote Road, that small college street that once made the news for its exorbitant number of robberies. But no, that was not my address, either.
Earlier this week, I was visited by a dear friend from home. It was refreshing to see a familiar face and rewarding to reveal a glimpse of my new life to someone so close to me. It was also bizarre. As I rambled about my job, roommates, and miscellaneous Charlottesville adventures, I realized that he was no longer a part of these stories. Beyond that, no one was. Those whose company I have always cherished, and always will cherish, have become part of my past. They will, of course, be part of my future as well, but this particular adventure is one all of my own.
Perhaps it is because the holidays are quickly approaching, but I have been thinking about going back to Cleveland recently. I am very excited, and it will be wonderful to enjoy the company of friends and family. I will go out for dinner or a drink and it will be as if no time has passed. I will go to Grandma's on Thanksgiving and fight over who gets the turkey skin and inevitably eat way too much, no matter the pep talk I give my stomach beforehand. We will sit at home and watch hours of football, possibly breaking out the classic Navatsyk home videos. I will hug Caleb and Briella and hope that my absence has only made their hearts grow fonder, although I fear this adage only applies after a certain age. However, when I pull into 12444 Woodin Road, I will not be entering the driveway of my home. My home is 983 Pintail Lane. Honestly, I would not have it any other way.
The young gentleman informed me of his position and went on to ask for my information. Was I still residing at 12444 Woodin Road? (Although he did not use the word residing, as it has three syllables and is too robust for a freshman at John Carroll.) No, I was not. Giving him my new address, I recited the only other address I have ever verbalized, 4193 Wyncote Road, that small college street that once made the news for its exorbitant number of robberies. But no, that was not my address, either.
Earlier this week, I was visited by a dear friend from home. It was refreshing to see a familiar face and rewarding to reveal a glimpse of my new life to someone so close to me. It was also bizarre. As I rambled about my job, roommates, and miscellaneous Charlottesville adventures, I realized that he was no longer a part of these stories. Beyond that, no one was. Those whose company I have always cherished, and always will cherish, have become part of my past. They will, of course, be part of my future as well, but this particular adventure is one all of my own.
Perhaps it is because the holidays are quickly approaching, but I have been thinking about going back to Cleveland recently. I am very excited, and it will be wonderful to enjoy the company of friends and family. I will go out for dinner or a drink and it will be as if no time has passed. I will go to Grandma's on Thanksgiving and fight over who gets the turkey skin and inevitably eat way too much, no matter the pep talk I give my stomach beforehand. We will sit at home and watch hours of football, possibly breaking out the classic Navatsyk home videos. I will hug Caleb and Briella and hope that my absence has only made their hearts grow fonder, although I fear this adage only applies after a certain age. However, when I pull into 12444 Woodin Road, I will not be entering the driveway of my home. My home is 983 Pintail Lane. Honestly, I would not have it any other way.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Post-graduate Intramurals
I was told by a former student that the University of Virginia was ranked the "most active university" in America. I often wonder how these rankings are calculated, as the process seems a bit arbitrary. I would like to note that John Carroll University holds a ranking of similar prestige: it is the number one binge drinking Jesuit school in the nation. I decided to research these rankings the most reliable way, Wikipedia. Indeed, "In 2005, the University was named "Hottest for Fitness" by Newsweek magazine, due in part to 94% of its students using one of the four indoor athletics facilities." There you have it; what Wikipedia states cannot be denied.
Facts and rankings aside, I have discovered the wonders of Charlottesville sports, what I consider the equivalent of intramurals for professionals. My immersion began with softball, on a day when the RKG team was a woman short. After committing to play, I realized that not only did I have no glove, I had never thrown a softball in my life. I know what you are thinking. Anna, you are an athlete; I see you walking toward me and sometimes cower from sheer intimidation. True, I may have the thighs of a collegiate middle linebacker and a list of weight room stalkers who could attest to my work out habits; however, my hand eye coordination has yet to be tested.
I arrived at the field, and being my first game, I was relegated to catcher, where all you have to do is lob the ball back to the pitcher; even if a play at the plate should occur, the male pitcher will cover. While catching is not an integral part of slow pitch softball, I would argue that you are involved more than most. I think I played my roll well; I even yelled, "balls in, coming down." Of course, there were no balls in the field at this point, but I have always wanted to say that. I made conversation with the batters, and at one point, our pitcher asked me if I was going to get the umpires number- yes, he was sixty years old, but something about old men just makes me want to talk.
Perhaps defense is not my forte; my Manny Ramirez-esque career would have to manifest itself at the plate. I grabbed the aluminum bat, assuming that I could step to the plate, harken the intimate knowledge of hitting I had gathered from years of listening to my father yell at his little league team, and hit a homerun. If there is one aspect of baseball I understand, it is rotating the hips. The pitcher wound his arm and the ball floated toward the plate; I believe I was a bit overzealous and did not wait for my pitch- although I am not quite sure what my pitch is. I did make contact; however, the ball barely dribbled to second base, and it was an easy out. The next at-bat, I made solid contact, but the shot went directly to the pitcher. Now I can sympathize with my brother who seems to hit the ball well, but to someone. Why are the fielders out there, anyways?
Clearly, the aluminum was not working; it was time to mix it up. Not realizing the physics that go into manufacturing bats, I picked up a wood bat, thinking that it could be my charm. This was met by an outcry of protest from my bench: "Anna, you do not have to use the wooden bat, you're a girl." Well, I was about to prove the sexism of slow pitch softball wrong; my co-workers had yet to see the capability of these thighs. I took a deep breath, reminding myself to keep my eyes open as the ball crossed the plate, turned on it, and swung. Indeed, the ball dropped into short center field, and I arrived safely at first base.
This was both the beginning and end of my illustrious intramural slow pitch softball career, at least for now. Perhaps feeling the pressure of sexist stigmas, I reverted to the aluminum bat; I ended the two game season 1-6, a .176 batting average. Solace can be found in the fact that even the best hitters in the major leagues only convert 30% of the time; in this light, I am comparable. Further, it is safe to say I was the first girl to record a hit with a wooden bat on a Wednesday night when the temperature was between fifty and sixty degrees and there were sixteen clouds in the sky. Yes, like all athletes, I am in possession of a record.
My next athletic endeavor was flag football. Now, I can throw a football; in fact, I can throw a football pretty well, with a beautiful sideways spiral. Unfortunately, since the ball only goes ten feet, I am of no use at quarterback. Defensively, I have one major problem- the flag. Yes, I can catch someone; I can even beat them in a foot race. However, pulling the flag is a different story. I will blame this on my eyesight that is less than crisp, therefore, inhibiting a clear vision of that yellow flag whipping in the wind. Obviously, I could remedy this through contacts or glasses, but here lies another problem. I failed to reorder contacts three months ago, and have yet to muster the will to pay sixty dollars for sight. Glasses are a logical alternative, but since I currently have a zit the size of a small mountain where the bridge lies, I would like to avoid any potential build up of sweat. So my laziness, cheapness, and vanity all put me in a position where I am grabbing like a pathetic puppy jumping for cheese, napkins, or any such table scraps; inevitably, I fall to the ground as my opponent sprints away gracefully. I then find myself chatting with the ref about the injustices of the college football bowl system as slants and routes are run around me. At the end of the game, I became distracted discussing Ohio State football and missed our team's love and happiness cheer. I really like love and happiness, too, and what if I just missed my opportunity to attain it?
My favorite aspect of sports is one can always derive a lesson, and I do believe intramural sports taught me a bit more about myself. When someone is less than two feet away from me, I feel compelled to engage in conversation, no matter the circumstance. This is why my best success comes in a sport where the opponent is barely within shouting distance. I think I will stick to tennis with the elderly. Plus, there are plenty of men over sixty I can talk to after the match.
Facts and rankings aside, I have discovered the wonders of Charlottesville sports, what I consider the equivalent of intramurals for professionals. My immersion began with softball, on a day when the RKG team was a woman short. After committing to play, I realized that not only did I have no glove, I had never thrown a softball in my life. I know what you are thinking. Anna, you are an athlete; I see you walking toward me and sometimes cower from sheer intimidation. True, I may have the thighs of a collegiate middle linebacker and a list of weight room stalkers who could attest to my work out habits; however, my hand eye coordination has yet to be tested.
I arrived at the field, and being my first game, I was relegated to catcher, where all you have to do is lob the ball back to the pitcher; even if a play at the plate should occur, the male pitcher will cover. While catching is not an integral part of slow pitch softball, I would argue that you are involved more than most. I think I played my roll well; I even yelled, "balls in, coming down." Of course, there were no balls in the field at this point, but I have always wanted to say that. I made conversation with the batters, and at one point, our pitcher asked me if I was going to get the umpires number- yes, he was sixty years old, but something about old men just makes me want to talk.
Perhaps defense is not my forte; my Manny Ramirez-esque career would have to manifest itself at the plate. I grabbed the aluminum bat, assuming that I could step to the plate, harken the intimate knowledge of hitting I had gathered from years of listening to my father yell at his little league team, and hit a homerun. If there is one aspect of baseball I understand, it is rotating the hips. The pitcher wound his arm and the ball floated toward the plate; I believe I was a bit overzealous and did not wait for my pitch- although I am not quite sure what my pitch is. I did make contact; however, the ball barely dribbled to second base, and it was an easy out. The next at-bat, I made solid contact, but the shot went directly to the pitcher. Now I can sympathize with my brother who seems to hit the ball well, but to someone. Why are the fielders out there, anyways?
Clearly, the aluminum was not working; it was time to mix it up. Not realizing the physics that go into manufacturing bats, I picked up a wood bat, thinking that it could be my charm. This was met by an outcry of protest from my bench: "Anna, you do not have to use the wooden bat, you're a girl." Well, I was about to prove the sexism of slow pitch softball wrong; my co-workers had yet to see the capability of these thighs. I took a deep breath, reminding myself to keep my eyes open as the ball crossed the plate, turned on it, and swung. Indeed, the ball dropped into short center field, and I arrived safely at first base.
This was both the beginning and end of my illustrious intramural slow pitch softball career, at least for now. Perhaps feeling the pressure of sexist stigmas, I reverted to the aluminum bat; I ended the two game season 1-6, a .176 batting average. Solace can be found in the fact that even the best hitters in the major leagues only convert 30% of the time; in this light, I am comparable. Further, it is safe to say I was the first girl to record a hit with a wooden bat on a Wednesday night when the temperature was between fifty and sixty degrees and there were sixteen clouds in the sky. Yes, like all athletes, I am in possession of a record.
My next athletic endeavor was flag football. Now, I can throw a football; in fact, I can throw a football pretty well, with a beautiful sideways spiral. Unfortunately, since the ball only goes ten feet, I am of no use at quarterback. Defensively, I have one major problem- the flag. Yes, I can catch someone; I can even beat them in a foot race. However, pulling the flag is a different story. I will blame this on my eyesight that is less than crisp, therefore, inhibiting a clear vision of that yellow flag whipping in the wind. Obviously, I could remedy this through contacts or glasses, but here lies another problem. I failed to reorder contacts three months ago, and have yet to muster the will to pay sixty dollars for sight. Glasses are a logical alternative, but since I currently have a zit the size of a small mountain where the bridge lies, I would like to avoid any potential build up of sweat. So my laziness, cheapness, and vanity all put me in a position where I am grabbing like a pathetic puppy jumping for cheese, napkins, or any such table scraps; inevitably, I fall to the ground as my opponent sprints away gracefully. I then find myself chatting with the ref about the injustices of the college football bowl system as slants and routes are run around me. At the end of the game, I became distracted discussing Ohio State football and missed our team's love and happiness cheer. I really like love and happiness, too, and what if I just missed my opportunity to attain it?
My favorite aspect of sports is one can always derive a lesson, and I do believe intramural sports taught me a bit more about myself. When someone is less than two feet away from me, I feel compelled to engage in conversation, no matter the circumstance. This is why my best success comes in a sport where the opponent is barely within shouting distance. I think I will stick to tennis with the elderly. Plus, there are plenty of men over sixty I can talk to after the match.
Monday, November 1, 2010
My Soul Mate
Vulnerability is a common human experience. I consent that conquering the fear of vulnerability is rewarding; however, it remains my least favorite human experience, next to death and my yearly trip to the dentist. Throughout my life, there have been many instances of inadvertent vulnerability; generally speaking, my pride suffers little due to embarrassment, harassment, humiliation, and the like.
However, in relationships, I do not often choose to make myself vulnerable. I may have an uncanny imbalance between hopeless romanticism and cynical skepticism. There are numerous theories that have been developed about why this is so after two bottles of wine and a bag of Redvines; these range from fear of failing, to fear of commitment, to fear of rodents and winged creatures. Suffice it to say, I remain aloof.
This weekend, I am proud to say, I took a small step toward putting oneself out there, although I will never be certain where "there" is. Perhaps it is the infinite abyss described in Garden State, or perhaps it lives in the common, mundane situations of every day life. Laying such musings aside, and accepting that "there" can be frightening, to really understand the story, we must begin with my notions of soul mates. I do not hold there is one person for all, or that destiny binds two people for eternity, but I do like to believe in soul mates. I have yet to form a concrete definition, but I enjoy Elizabeth Gilbert's opinion that, "Soul mates come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave." She of course goes on to elaborately expound on the challenges of living with soul mates, but for personal purposes, this definition will do. There are a few people I consider soul mates, ones with whom my relationship has lasted years, and others who have walked in and out before a true relationship can be formed; all have impacted me.
How did I meet this particular soul mate? Fret not, it was not some ridiculous way such as listening to his coffee order. I heard him singing. Laying aside the fact that I could instantly fall in love with anyone who shares my affinity for mumbling songs in public places, he happened to be singing the Scientist, by Coldplay. If you have not heard the Scientist, it is a moving song and the reason I began listening to the band a year ago. You may be surprised that I just started listening to Coldplay a year ago, but one must keep in mind that my tastes in music are roughly eight years outdated. Although it could appear obvious as to why this makes him my soul mate, for inquiring minds, I will explain. Again, I fear the explanation has very little depth; I had been raving about the song the day before, and it is one of my all time favorite songs (along with Wyclef Jean's "Staying Alive" and Leona Lewis' "Bleeding Love"). Anna, meet soul mate.
I realize this story is romanticized; it is entirely probable that I simply formed this crush for motivation to blow dry my hair in the morning. The details of the relationship can be spared, because they are few and far between. There were smiles exchanged, witty comments and emails passed, even a beer toasted. Unfortunately, as is the case with most crushes, it was not to last. As quickly as he appeared, sporting his worn hat, a sweet smile, and a boisterous laugh whose gusto was matched only by my own, he was leaving. Yet, his departure meant we would grow a bit closer, as I was receiving his responsibilities. This was the classic worker/trainer relationship with a Navatsyk twist, meaning that I asked the most inane questions imaginable and prayed a smile could redeem me. I do not know if the smile worked its magic, but when our time drew to a close, he was gracious enough to say that I was the most active/interested trainee- although that does not mean I was not also the least competent.
Whatever his opinions, I wanted to see him before he left. Not to confess my love or to tell him I wanted to follow him as Ruth did Naomi, or even to suggest we try a Drew Barrymore/Josh Long and "go the distance." I just wanted to see him. And here, before me, stood my Goliath. If I did want to see him, I would have to put forth an effort, pick up the phone, and call. At this point, I will resist the urge to digress into a pontification regarding the break down of human communication caused by the onslaught of technology. Regardless, after a motivational speech and a shot- don't judge me, I ignored the butterflies and called. Thankfully, I received the answering machine and left a thoughtful, witty message (that I had recited to myself about one hundred times in preparation).
Now, it was out of my hands. Whatever the response, I had made myself vulnerable, something that had not been done in a very long time; it felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulder.
That very weight returned the next day, when I saw that I had received a voice mail. Silly, perhaps, but I am quite sure that everyone has moments in which they are anticipating rejection, no matter how slight and insignificant, and they are never pleasant. Instead of avoiding the message for three days until he was gone (which I seriously considered), I took a deep breath, listened to the preceding messages regarding my absence at the weekly AARP tennis match, the necessity of Drano in our shower, and the message from my last date (which, interestingly enough, made me swear off dating for the near future). Would the anticipated message ever come? This is why you do not let your voice mail fill. Five messages later, I heard his voice. He was busy this week. Shoot. But wait... he could eat dinner tonight. He accepted my invitation.
We went to dinner, and it was lovely. I ordered ribs, which are risky enough when you have napkins and utensils, but the lack thereof makes it much more adventurous. We discussed boxes and moving, shoes, zombies, sports. When the waitress came with the ticket, I did reach for my wallet out of obligation, but when he offered to pay, I did not protest too emphatically. He walked me to my car, we wished each other the best of luck, realizing that interstate mingling is not very practical, and hugged.
I think I will resume my dating hiatus, and my work wardrobe may digress from a t-shirt and blow-dried hair to a t-shirt and ponytail. Will our paths cross again? Perhaps. I hope they do; I will then buy him the dinner I promised. Presently, I am happy with the reward of embracing vulnerability, if only slightly. Unknowingly, he revealed another layer of myself, and for that, I am grateful.
However, in relationships, I do not often choose to make myself vulnerable. I may have an uncanny imbalance between hopeless romanticism and cynical skepticism. There are numerous theories that have been developed about why this is so after two bottles of wine and a bag of Redvines; these range from fear of failing, to fear of commitment, to fear of rodents and winged creatures. Suffice it to say, I remain aloof.
This weekend, I am proud to say, I took a small step toward putting oneself out there, although I will never be certain where "there" is. Perhaps it is the infinite abyss described in Garden State, or perhaps it lives in the common, mundane situations of every day life. Laying such musings aside, and accepting that "there" can be frightening, to really understand the story, we must begin with my notions of soul mates. I do not hold there is one person for all, or that destiny binds two people for eternity, but I do like to believe in soul mates. I have yet to form a concrete definition, but I enjoy Elizabeth Gilbert's opinion that, "Soul mates come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave." She of course goes on to elaborately expound on the challenges of living with soul mates, but for personal purposes, this definition will do. There are a few people I consider soul mates, ones with whom my relationship has lasted years, and others who have walked in and out before a true relationship can be formed; all have impacted me.
How did I meet this particular soul mate? Fret not, it was not some ridiculous way such as listening to his coffee order. I heard him singing. Laying aside the fact that I could instantly fall in love with anyone who shares my affinity for mumbling songs in public places, he happened to be singing the Scientist, by Coldplay. If you have not heard the Scientist, it is a moving song and the reason I began listening to the band a year ago. You may be surprised that I just started listening to Coldplay a year ago, but one must keep in mind that my tastes in music are roughly eight years outdated. Although it could appear obvious as to why this makes him my soul mate, for inquiring minds, I will explain. Again, I fear the explanation has very little depth; I had been raving about the song the day before, and it is one of my all time favorite songs (along with Wyclef Jean's "Staying Alive" and Leona Lewis' "Bleeding Love"). Anna, meet soul mate.
I realize this story is romanticized; it is entirely probable that I simply formed this crush for motivation to blow dry my hair in the morning. The details of the relationship can be spared, because they are few and far between. There were smiles exchanged, witty comments and emails passed, even a beer toasted. Unfortunately, as is the case with most crushes, it was not to last. As quickly as he appeared, sporting his worn hat, a sweet smile, and a boisterous laugh whose gusto was matched only by my own, he was leaving. Yet, his departure meant we would grow a bit closer, as I was receiving his responsibilities. This was the classic worker/trainer relationship with a Navatsyk twist, meaning that I asked the most inane questions imaginable and prayed a smile could redeem me. I do not know if the smile worked its magic, but when our time drew to a close, he was gracious enough to say that I was the most active/interested trainee- although that does not mean I was not also the least competent.
Whatever his opinions, I wanted to see him before he left. Not to confess my love or to tell him I wanted to follow him as Ruth did Naomi, or even to suggest we try a Drew Barrymore/Josh Long and "go the distance." I just wanted to see him. And here, before me, stood my Goliath. If I did want to see him, I would have to put forth an effort, pick up the phone, and call. At this point, I will resist the urge to digress into a pontification regarding the break down of human communication caused by the onslaught of technology. Regardless, after a motivational speech and a shot- don't judge me, I ignored the butterflies and called. Thankfully, I received the answering machine and left a thoughtful, witty message (that I had recited to myself about one hundred times in preparation).
Now, it was out of my hands. Whatever the response, I had made myself vulnerable, something that had not been done in a very long time; it felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulder.
That very weight returned the next day, when I saw that I had received a voice mail. Silly, perhaps, but I am quite sure that everyone has moments in which they are anticipating rejection, no matter how slight and insignificant, and they are never pleasant. Instead of avoiding the message for three days until he was gone (which I seriously considered), I took a deep breath, listened to the preceding messages regarding my absence at the weekly AARP tennis match, the necessity of Drano in our shower, and the message from my last date (which, interestingly enough, made me swear off dating for the near future). Would the anticipated message ever come? This is why you do not let your voice mail fill. Five messages later, I heard his voice. He was busy this week. Shoot. But wait... he could eat dinner tonight. He accepted my invitation.
We went to dinner, and it was lovely. I ordered ribs, which are risky enough when you have napkins and utensils, but the lack thereof makes it much more adventurous. We discussed boxes and moving, shoes, zombies, sports. When the waitress came with the ticket, I did reach for my wallet out of obligation, but when he offered to pay, I did not protest too emphatically. He walked me to my car, we wished each other the best of luck, realizing that interstate mingling is not very practical, and hugged.
I think I will resume my dating hiatus, and my work wardrobe may digress from a t-shirt and blow-dried hair to a t-shirt and ponytail. Will our paths cross again? Perhaps. I hope they do; I will then buy him the dinner I promised. Presently, I am happy with the reward of embracing vulnerability, if only slightly. Unknowingly, he revealed another layer of myself, and for that, I am grateful.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
My Soul-Searching Drive
So here I am, an outgoing, slightly spunky, typically confident young girl in a new city. This should be an easy adjustment. I will meet a few people, find instant kindred spirits, and develop lasting friendships; perhaps I will even find Bobby Joe, the toothless man of my dreams, and he will sweep me away with PBR in hand. Ahhh blissfully ignorant of reality. My overzealous outlook failed to consider various factors:
1) It has never taken me less than six months to develop close relationships, unless of course you consider those relationships kindled by intoxication, typically built on the foundations of a mutual passion for Taco Bell.
2) I was not moving to a remote county where cell phone service is scarce and David Allen Coe is every man's idol. In fact, I was surprised to find nearly every male in his early twenties to be married, engaged, or in a serious relationship. Apparently, the happy medium between asking me home at a bar and asking me to cook dinner as our three children scurry around the kitchen has been lost in this city. (As an uplifting side note, the PBR is plentiful.)
Unfortunately, these realizations hit me harder than I would have liked. I have always been certain that whatever life threw my way, if I tried hard enough, I would prevail. At times, however, it is not how hard you try, but how long you wait.
This entry is not about the numerous revelations I have had recently, but of one particular experience that lifted my spirits.
Earlier this week, I was feeling especially homesick, and adherent to the wise words of my brother, I went for a drive. When you are feeling low, apparently, driving helps. I am not sure that this is the wisest outlet for angst, as I can only see it leading to further distraction on the road, and the last thing Charlottesville needs is another driver who cannot merge properly. However, I got in my car, turned the volume up as I belted the Shins- which, incidentally, is not the best band for such purposes- and hit the road.
Where would it take me? I did not know. However, I realized my own shortcomings and knew the highway could only lead to me being pulled over and despite being on the verge of a break down, I would only manage a look of disgust as the cop approached my vehicle to give me my eleventh ticket. I drove along, hoping that perhaps I would end up in the city ghetto, add a little culture to my life, and move on. As I turned down a street, I saw a bar. This appealed to me on many levels. First, I like beer; I do not believe this statement demands explanation or justification. Second, I like bars. Third, I have a working theory that in order to truly be at peace with yourself, you must put yourself in the most pathetic situations and leave just as confident (the theory is still developing, obviously). Most importantly, Lebron James and the Heat were opening against the Celtics, and after his appalling commercial release that day, I wanted nothing more than to see him dethroned. It was as if Providence led me to this small Jerusalem, calling me to sacrifice self respect with the promise of witnessing the demoralization of a King. A bit dramatic, yes, but I kind of like the metaphor.
At any rate, I answered the call and walked toward the bar in my University of Virginia sweat pants and over-sized Bowling Green football t-shirt. When the bouncer demanded my ID, I wanted to ask: "Would I really be trying to sneak into a bar and drink illegally on a Tuesday night at nine o'clock in sweatpants by myself? And... why are you carding at nine o'clock on a Tuesday night?" As it was, I took the only seat at the bar, next to a creepy sixty year old man. Usually, I love conversation; however, I find I can only I feign interest in game 2 of the 1965 AL championship for so long. I ordered my water, making sure to avoid eye with said neighbor, focusing mainly on Lebron, who I was praying could feel my glare. Normally, I hate Boston, but for one night, they were the potential bearers of sweet justice.
The time at the bar was interesting, as I had apparently walked in on a trivial pursuit competition. My intelligence was insulted as I did not know the answer to simple questions like "How many sides does a octagon have?" I always did hate my high school Geometry teacher- absolutely worthless. I also found an answer to my previous question regarding males. The skipped intermediate step of male development is working for a corporation that sends you on all expense paid trips where you are able to act like a college student for two weeks, go out, and hit on random girls, despite a ten year age gap. I feel weird talking to any male who is between 10 and 15 years older than me; I realize they see me as a potential girlfriend/wife/one night stand, while I think about the fact that I was building forts and playing alisharks when they were my age. In their defense, they very well could have thought they were doing the girl in sweats a favor. Regardless, whether they were trying to take me home or just take pity, I did get a free beer.
As I sat, watching Lebron fail to rally the Heat, I was comforted, and though no one in the bar had a vested interest, I felt connected to the collaborative Cleveland spirit. The game came to a close, and while it was well past my bedtime, I was not ready for the night to be over; neither was the night done with me. A close friend from home called, and though the gentlemen had bought me another beer- I initially said no, but after three offers, I simply could not refuse- I sat on the curb to talk. The conversation was wonderful, but sitting on the street could have been the more interesting experience. During my talk, a homeless man kept pacing by. I imagine his conversation with the bouncer was something along the lines of:
Can I see your ID?
Really? Look at me, I am in a wife beater, my pants are nearly to my ankles, and I have not shaved since 2006. Do you really think I am doing anything illegal? And why are you carding on a Tuesday night?
Whatever the bouncer's response, it was not pleasing, for the bum stomped away, infuriated and cursing. It was after the fourth time he passed me that a cop pulled beside the curb and confronted the man. I desperately tried to focus on my own conversation, but this was too intriguing. I am sad to say that after ten minutes of heated discussion and a back-up cop car, the bum was sent on his way. No handcuffs, no gun shots, no shady exchange of drugs, only weird glances shot my way once in awhile, probably wondering why I was sitting on the sidewalk in the rain. I thought about asking the cops to breathalize me before I entered my car, just to be safe, or making friends with them so next time they pulled me over we could reminisce on this shared experience... after which, I would inevitably still receive a ticket. However, I simply observed, happy when they did leave that I could walk to my car in peace, leaving a beer and group of disappointed engineers behind.
The events of the evening led me to a satisfying conclusion: although transitioning can be difficult, one can sit at a bar in sweat pants, discuss what Presidency was doomed by the Financial Scare of the mid 19th century- I was insistent that it was the President between Woodrow Wilson and Teddy Roosevelt until I realized that the 19th century meant the 1800s- sit on the sidewalk during a storm as college students scurry past, and walk away with unscathed confidence. No one ever needs to know.
1) It has never taken me less than six months to develop close relationships, unless of course you consider those relationships kindled by intoxication, typically built on the foundations of a mutual passion for Taco Bell.
2) I was not moving to a remote county where cell phone service is scarce and David Allen Coe is every man's idol. In fact, I was surprised to find nearly every male in his early twenties to be married, engaged, or in a serious relationship. Apparently, the happy medium between asking me home at a bar and asking me to cook dinner as our three children scurry around the kitchen has been lost in this city. (As an uplifting side note, the PBR is plentiful.)
Unfortunately, these realizations hit me harder than I would have liked. I have always been certain that whatever life threw my way, if I tried hard enough, I would prevail. At times, however, it is not how hard you try, but how long you wait.
This entry is not about the numerous revelations I have had recently, but of one particular experience that lifted my spirits.
Earlier this week, I was feeling especially homesick, and adherent to the wise words of my brother, I went for a drive. When you are feeling low, apparently, driving helps. I am not sure that this is the wisest outlet for angst, as I can only see it leading to further distraction on the road, and the last thing Charlottesville needs is another driver who cannot merge properly. However, I got in my car, turned the volume up as I belted the Shins- which, incidentally, is not the best band for such purposes- and hit the road.
Where would it take me? I did not know. However, I realized my own shortcomings and knew the highway could only lead to me being pulled over and despite being on the verge of a break down, I would only manage a look of disgust as the cop approached my vehicle to give me my eleventh ticket. I drove along, hoping that perhaps I would end up in the city ghetto, add a little culture to my life, and move on. As I turned down a street, I saw a bar. This appealed to me on many levels. First, I like beer; I do not believe this statement demands explanation or justification. Second, I like bars. Third, I have a working theory that in order to truly be at peace with yourself, you must put yourself in the most pathetic situations and leave just as confident (the theory is still developing, obviously). Most importantly, Lebron James and the Heat were opening against the Celtics, and after his appalling commercial release that day, I wanted nothing more than to see him dethroned. It was as if Providence led me to this small Jerusalem, calling me to sacrifice self respect with the promise of witnessing the demoralization of a King. A bit dramatic, yes, but I kind of like the metaphor.
At any rate, I answered the call and walked toward the bar in my University of Virginia sweat pants and over-sized Bowling Green football t-shirt. When the bouncer demanded my ID, I wanted to ask: "Would I really be trying to sneak into a bar and drink illegally on a Tuesday night at nine o'clock in sweatpants by myself? And... why are you carding at nine o'clock on a Tuesday night?" As it was, I took the only seat at the bar, next to a creepy sixty year old man. Usually, I love conversation; however, I find I can only I feign interest in game 2 of the 1965 AL championship for so long. I ordered my water, making sure to avoid eye with said neighbor, focusing mainly on Lebron, who I was praying could feel my glare. Normally, I hate Boston, but for one night, they were the potential bearers of sweet justice.
The time at the bar was interesting, as I had apparently walked in on a trivial pursuit competition. My intelligence was insulted as I did not know the answer to simple questions like "How many sides does a octagon have?" I always did hate my high school Geometry teacher- absolutely worthless. I also found an answer to my previous question regarding males. The skipped intermediate step of male development is working for a corporation that sends you on all expense paid trips where you are able to act like a college student for two weeks, go out, and hit on random girls, despite a ten year age gap. I feel weird talking to any male who is between 10 and 15 years older than me; I realize they see me as a potential girlfriend/wife/one night stand, while I think about the fact that I was building forts and playing alisharks when they were my age. In their defense, they very well could have thought they were doing the girl in sweats a favor. Regardless, whether they were trying to take me home or just take pity, I did get a free beer.
As I sat, watching Lebron fail to rally the Heat, I was comforted, and though no one in the bar had a vested interest, I felt connected to the collaborative Cleveland spirit. The game came to a close, and while it was well past my bedtime, I was not ready for the night to be over; neither was the night done with me. A close friend from home called, and though the gentlemen had bought me another beer- I initially said no, but after three offers, I simply could not refuse- I sat on the curb to talk. The conversation was wonderful, but sitting on the street could have been the more interesting experience. During my talk, a homeless man kept pacing by. I imagine his conversation with the bouncer was something along the lines of:
Can I see your ID?
Really? Look at me, I am in a wife beater, my pants are nearly to my ankles, and I have not shaved since 2006. Do you really think I am doing anything illegal? And why are you carding on a Tuesday night?
Whatever the bouncer's response, it was not pleasing, for the bum stomped away, infuriated and cursing. It was after the fourth time he passed me that a cop pulled beside the curb and confronted the man. I desperately tried to focus on my own conversation, but this was too intriguing. I am sad to say that after ten minutes of heated discussion and a back-up cop car, the bum was sent on his way. No handcuffs, no gun shots, no shady exchange of drugs, only weird glances shot my way once in awhile, probably wondering why I was sitting on the sidewalk in the rain. I thought about asking the cops to breathalize me before I entered my car, just to be safe, or making friends with them so next time they pulled me over we could reminisce on this shared experience... after which, I would inevitably still receive a ticket. However, I simply observed, happy when they did leave that I could walk to my car in peace, leaving a beer and group of disappointed engineers behind.
The events of the evening led me to a satisfying conclusion: although transitioning can be difficult, one can sit at a bar in sweat pants, discuss what Presidency was doomed by the Financial Scare of the mid 19th century- I was insistent that it was the President between Woodrow Wilson and Teddy Roosevelt until I realized that the 19th century meant the 1800s- sit on the sidewalk during a storm as college students scurry past, and walk away with unscathed confidence. No one ever needs to know.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Mucho gusto, mi amigo nuevo
The blogging world has always been both mysterious and intriguing to me. Yes, I was addicted to xanga at the age of sixteen, and I did post, hoping whoever I was so inconspicuously addressing would read, know it applied to them, and obey my subliminal commands. After a long hiatus, during which time I learned that simply asking is a much more effective way to approach situations, I have returned. So what brings me?
I am twenty-two and until graduating college, I had never been away from family and home for more than two weeks. Feeling the allure of adventure and experience, I moved to Virginia- and while its residents would insist that it is infinitely superior to Cleveland, I find myself skeptical. No, it is not across the world, but for a girl who loved nothing more than Sunday dinner at Grandma's, at times it feels like Jupiter.
Although there were many factors influencing my decision, the most obvious is that I was fortunate enough to get a job post-grad. Excited? Certainly. Prepared to leave a world where skipping class was routine and a midnight beer always an option? Not necessarily.
Thomas Jefferson's city of Charlottesville was completely foreign to me prior to interviewing, but we have become acquainted quite quickly. Still, I feel something is missing; as someone who typically spends her summers working three jobs, clocking 70 hours a week, the usual nine to five is simply not fulfilling. Sure, I play tennis. I have considered bartending- I actually applied once, but I feel this would negatively affect my performance as an analyst, and since I expect this to be a stepping stone in my illustrious career, my sensible side advised against it. Then. I thought about cooking. Two things prohibited me from pursuing this passion. While I love a good meal, I am perfectly content eating grilled chicken, and when no one is singing the praises of my hard work or paying for the ingredients, I lack motivation. I have been told I could volunteer, which sounds wonderful in theory, but if I followed every appealing theory, I would be collecting money from those working hard while I eat spoonfuls of peanut butter and pickles. I also attempted to teach myself piano, but promptly gave up when I could not find the power button- since when were pianos electric?
I do love to write, though. I am not a writer, nor do I aspire to be. Coming from a family of English majors, I stand proudly by the fact that I went through four years of college without taking a single English class. Please excuse my lack of metaphors or witty idioms and references to great literature, because the last book I read in its entirety was "O, the Places You Will Go" by Dr. Seuss at Pedro the bird's funeral.
I am not sure what will come of this relationship. My neglected journal can attest to my inconsistency. I can promise, though, that whatever and whenever I write, it will be honest. Perhaps it will be a humorous anecdote of my ridiculously awkward life (should I feel my life is temporarily stagnate, I can certainly pull from the overflowing archive); perhaps we will meet on a day when I have watched one too many romantic comedies and feel that Prince Charming is, in fact, the boy who had my exact Starbuck's order - coffee. Fear not, however, if this is the case, a week later I will be relaying our embarrassing love affair that inevitably ends with coffee all over me as I tried to make small talk at the condiment bar. Wherever this venture leads, I hope to make someone laugh.
I am twenty-two and until graduating college, I had never been away from family and home for more than two weeks. Feeling the allure of adventure and experience, I moved to Virginia- and while its residents would insist that it is infinitely superior to Cleveland, I find myself skeptical. No, it is not across the world, but for a girl who loved nothing more than Sunday dinner at Grandma's, at times it feels like Jupiter.
Although there were many factors influencing my decision, the most obvious is that I was fortunate enough to get a job post-grad. Excited? Certainly. Prepared to leave a world where skipping class was routine and a midnight beer always an option? Not necessarily.
Thomas Jefferson's city of Charlottesville was completely foreign to me prior to interviewing, but we have become acquainted quite quickly. Still, I feel something is missing; as someone who typically spends her summers working three jobs, clocking 70 hours a week, the usual nine to five is simply not fulfilling. Sure, I play tennis. I have considered bartending- I actually applied once, but I feel this would negatively affect my performance as an analyst, and since I expect this to be a stepping stone in my illustrious career, my sensible side advised against it. Then. I thought about cooking. Two things prohibited me from pursuing this passion. While I love a good meal, I am perfectly content eating grilled chicken, and when no one is singing the praises of my hard work or paying for the ingredients, I lack motivation. I have been told I could volunteer, which sounds wonderful in theory, but if I followed every appealing theory, I would be collecting money from those working hard while I eat spoonfuls of peanut butter and pickles. I also attempted to teach myself piano, but promptly gave up when I could not find the power button- since when were pianos electric?
I do love to write, though. I am not a writer, nor do I aspire to be. Coming from a family of English majors, I stand proudly by the fact that I went through four years of college without taking a single English class. Please excuse my lack of metaphors or witty idioms and references to great literature, because the last book I read in its entirety was "O, the Places You Will Go" by Dr. Seuss at Pedro the bird's funeral.
I am not sure what will come of this relationship. My neglected journal can attest to my inconsistency. I can promise, though, that whatever and whenever I write, it will be honest. Perhaps it will be a humorous anecdote of my ridiculously awkward life (should I feel my life is temporarily stagnate, I can certainly pull from the overflowing archive); perhaps we will meet on a day when I have watched one too many romantic comedies and feel that Prince Charming is, in fact, the boy who had my exact Starbuck's order - coffee. Fear not, however, if this is the case, a week later I will be relaying our embarrassing love affair that inevitably ends with coffee all over me as I tried to make small talk at the condiment bar. Wherever this venture leads, I hope to make someone laugh.
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