Friday, April 29, 2011

Take It to the Back of the Bus

Disclaimer: I realize this statement symbolizes the racial and cultural bias that has plagued America throughout history. I in no way mean to downplay this in my post.

Unfortunately, I was not aware of the historical significance of this statement until I heard it referenced in a rap song. I believe this is a greater testament to the private school education system than my dependence on hip hop for history lessons. Regardless, when my sister explained the racial implications of the chorus line, my initial reaction was that Rosa Parks was clearly missing the distinct advantages held by those seats.

When I stepped onto my bus at the ungodly hour of 6:30 and Mr. Lowe said in a jolly voice it was the elementary students' turn to sit in the back of the bus, I smiled with glee. This meant a half hour of bouncing to the ceiling every time we drove over a pebble. It meant being able to look forward and observe the behavior of the high schoolers, giving us a sense of superiority. Most exciting was the opportunity to look through the escape door and communicate with drivers behind us. We waved, performed hand puppet plays, and wrote signs. To be honest, I have no idea what those signs said, but I am quite sure they were witty and in no way offensive. In my six years of riding the bus, however, I never witnessed the scene that twenty middle school baseball players had the privilege of seeing this past week.

As with most of my stories that involve clothing mishaps, there is a very logical thought process that lands me in a terribly awkward situation. I am glad I have the opportunity to articulate this process, as normally, the situation ends with my family asking "What were you thinking?" without me getting a chance to explain what I was actually thinking.

In this case, there are three crucial bits of character to note:

1) I tend to overbook my schedule
2) Time efficiency is an overarching goal in daily activities
3) I am not as cautious when changing clothes as some, and more importantly, I never foresee this leading to humiliation

The potential consequences of referenced character traits manifest themselves nicely in the following anecdote. This past Thursday, I left work and squeezed in an intense workout prior to Changing Lives (or volunteering, but I believe this has a more austere connotation). I left the gym with a spring in my step as I always do after a solid session of lifting to intense music and gazing at beautiful men. Unfortunately, due to time constraints, it was difficult to change into more appropriate attire between functions. The most effective way to do so was using my car as a dressing room which has been my custom since the age of sixteen.

I was sitting at a light, listening to Jack Johnson and pondering which look I preferred on guys whilst working out:

- Baggy sweat pants and wifebeater/tight Under Armour shirt accentuating the biceps
- Knee length shorts and pit-stained t-shirt
- Below the knee shorts and tastefully cut-off tee

when it occurred to me this would be the perfect time to change my shirt. I briefly surveyed the surrounding vehicles. On my left there was a car whose driver, geometrically speaking, was not at an angle conducive to viewing. On my right there was no one. In front of me, there was a bus, but the time was six o'clock; the bus was most likely returning from its after school routes. If the driver behind me happened to catch a glimpse of my sports bra as I changed, so be it. We are all vehicle-operating adults.

I took off my sweaty t-shirt and searched for its alternate. The sleeves were awry, and cowl necks never cease to confuse me. As I fumbled with the shirt, I looked to make sure the light was still red and, in doing so, realized that ten heads had popped up liked daisies from the back seats of the bus. Apparently, the bus was not empty but was transporting a team of middle school baseball players. (I assume they were middle school students because high school boys are a little too close to my age for this story to be innocently cute, and I assume they were baseball players because of the caps.) My shirt finally on, I spent the next fifteen seconds attempting to avoid eye contact with the continuously growing number of googly-eyed heads, and I spent the following thirty seconds embracing the situation and returning their waves with a dashing smile. I imagine my waves were quite similar to those of Kate Middleton the following morning.

Finally, the light turned green, and we eventually parted ways. I am not sure if it was the seventh or eighth grade boys' turn to claim the coveted position on the bus. Whoever it was, they hit the backseat jackpot.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

A Broken Woman

Last year, I took a wrong turn in Cleveland, landing myself in what can only be described as an inner city street gathering where I maneuvered myself through hundreds of people slamming on my car doors at three o'clock in the morning. I have wasted no less than two tanks of gas since moving, as I take the most inefficient routes to every location in Charlottesville. Last month, I nearly severed a friendship out of frustration, as I repeatedly explained to Matt that I was on the corner of 4th and O Street. Unaware that Washington was divided into four quadrants, I was alone in the SW ghetto of D.C., when I needed to be in NW suburbia. One hour later, I arrived at my destination.

Still, I refuse to get a GPS. Perhaps it is because I cling to my non existent innate sense of direction. It is certainly not a factor of pride, because I have no shame asking directions. I believe, ultimately, it is cheapness, and the fear that if I did get a GPS, I might become best friends with Genovieve (her name, obviously) or force her to be my therapist. Tonight, however, I am a broken woman.

After a lovely Easter Feaster in Philadelphia with my sister, Maleek and I began the journey home with a stomach full of delicious lamb and a travel mug full of coffee. I cruised through Dover and Baltimore, bopping along to classic road trip tunes. As I drove through D.C. on 95, I began to question my mental atlas, as I was not recognizing landmarks, and I was quite sure I had never crossed a drawbridge. At some point, I remember there being a 495, however, the only signs I saw pointed to 495 North; plus, I was on an interstate that included the number 95, and I was bearing South. How far off course could I be?

This question would be answered two hours later, when I realized I was twenty minutes outside of Richmond and would have to backtrack no less than fifty miles to arrive home. Thankfully for my sanity, the highway speed limit was recently increased to 70, meaning I could easily justify doing 80. The dashboard thermometer read 78 degrees, and the wind blew through my hair as I allowed David Gray to soothe my soul. Even now, my spirits were high.

It was not until I realized the coffee/water combo had taken affect that my trip took a turn for the worse. Due to past experiences (if I was technological enough to use hyperlink, I would link this to a previous post), I am very attentive to bodily beckonings, so I entered the nearest gas station. I wish it were a Speedway, Exxon, or WaWa, as I find their facilities to be the most respectable, but at this point, I could not be particular.

The bathroom was occupied, a common problem with single stall restrooms, and one I was prepared to endure. I was not, however, ready for the sequence of events that followed.

As I waited, a man approached the bathroom with his son and daughter. The young boy entered the bathroom with his father, and the little girl joined the woman currently using the ladies room. Although becoming desperate, I resisted the urge to seize the child away from the door and tell her to wait in line. I only caught a glimpse of the mother, but I believe she was Latino. Through deductive reasoning, I concluded that the family went to the mother's side for Easter dinner. Rather than the traditional American honey-baked ham and deviled eggs, they ate a medley of refried beans, spicy guacamole, and overly seasoned rice which the Caucasian stomachs could not tolerate.

By this time, the line had grown. As we stood, waiting for the family to finish, I heard the paper towel lever and was thankful I would be able to finally use the bathroom. Instead, I heard the lever pulled again, and after the tenth time, the noise had what I imagine to be similar effects of Chinese water torture. Crank, crank, rip. Crank, crank, rip. Again. And again. I am quite convinced the mother and daughter were bathing themselves, although I would not stay long enough to find out.

The young boy had emerged from the men's room. Even he was becoming worried, realizing she was using an incessant amount of paper towels. When he called through the door to see if his mother was okay, she responded she was simply drying her hands. Her hands were either very large are very furry. As I analyzed the situation to determine which was the case, the dad was finished, and at such times, the gender on the door cannot inhibit one from the task at hand. Thankfully, I made it out alive, but that is the only credit I can attribute to this experience. I hope the same was true for the mother and daughter still occupying the bathroom.

While this may not be directly linked to my lack of directional savvy, I have never encountered such problems in the Speedway on 29. Regardless, it has put me over the edge, and if anyone would like to give me a GPS free of charge, I will gladly accept.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

"Compete"

It was the second match of my senior tennis season, and we were playing Oberlin College. My dad was one of the five spectators in attendance, not only because he loved watching his daughter, but also because he loved reminding me that he was still on the university wall for his superb baseball skills. Whatever the true reason for making the journey, I was glad for his support. Since he dubbed me "Novocaine Navatsyk" after a four hour marathon match in high school, he was the fan I appreciated most. His unavoidable tendency to coach never failed to motivate. Throughout the match, his intensity encouraged me, and after a tough loss, the pillow like texture of his embrace comforted me.

I had lost a close first set, 5-7, and was down 1-4 in the second*. As we switched sides, I sat on the bench, inwardly pontificating the unfortunate situation that lay before me, as well as behind me. To be fair, my complaints were not unwarranted, and even as I wrote this, I began a ten paragraph rant about the sorry excuse John Carroll tennis was for a varsity sport.

I will spare exhaustive details and give a brief overview of college tennis during my tenure. I experienced four different coaches, and with that came the necessity to prove myself repeatedly. Even when I did accomplish this in my eyes, basic actions like beating an opponent one on one did not prove I was good enough. I worked out according to my own regiment, as none was planned by a coach. While this may have served me well, making me an instant hit in the weight room as I was the only girl doing squats, dead lifts and bench presses alone, I would have appreciated any sense of team solidarity cultivated in the gym. If I wanted to improve my tennis game, I needed to play beyond the hours with our coach, as practices often consisted of standing in a line of ten, hitting one ball every five minutes. The off court bonding of the girls was absent at times, for reasons that were not always the fault of teammates. However, it was difficult in early years to play on a team that seemed disconnected. Beyond that, attempting to act as captain and coach in the absence of structure within the program required maintaining a difficult balance.

I sat on that bench, tired of the seemingly wasted effort, and tired of tennis.

Walking to the deuce side to return serve, my steps were slow as I slumped to take position. I was trying desperately to convince myself I wanted to win. Voices in my head were overwhelming, declaring my college tennis career hopeless, exclaiming I had worked hard for yet another season of mediocrity and excusing my foreseeable loss with the lack of preparation in the off season. Then came another voice. It was simple, and it was strong. "Compete," my dad shouted deeply, as he sauntered along the fence.

With this simple word came so many more rushing through my head. The past three years were not relevant to the next point. More than that, nothing was relevant to the next point. Frustrations, doubts and disappointments had no bearing on whether my opponent's serve would land inside the box. Confusion that surrounded upcoming decisions and mundane everyday worries did not dictate whether my return was a down the line winner or sailed to the fence. On the court, there was only my opponent, the ball and my will to win. The ball did not take pity on me for my struggles, nor did it care about my excuses.

How should I respond? The answer was clear: Compete.


As I took steps creeping from the baseline into the court, I remembered why I loved the game. Once again, I felt the desire to play with the passion I had shown six years before on those same courts. As I swung at each shot, a bit of angst was lifted and replaced with the pure enjoyment I gleaned from tennis. I began singing, "yea buddy, rolling like a big shot," to myself as I danced a jig between points.

I do not think any amount of words can convey the power of sports to someone who has never competed. Tennis is a sport that I absolutely love, and at times, absolutely hate. I get a natural high after beating an apparent Goliath, and my greatest disappointments are matches in which I am conquered. Despite this mix of emotions, tennis has been the one constant in the vacillating pendulum of life.

When I reflect on my ten-plus years of playing, however, it is not the victories that have impacted me most, although those certainly make the celebrations more enjoyable. I go back to a mixed doubles loss in a tiebreak at team tennis nationals, and I go back to an 0 and 0 loss at the state divisional final. I go back to my loss in a third set tiebreak on this particular day, after rallying to win the second. In each instance, I left the court heartbroken, but knowing I had competed without excuse.

I still play tennis in two leagues and during every match, I hear voices. Whether it is the voice of my annoying high school coach telling me to "watch the alleys", the voice of my pro telling me to reach just one more ball after ten hours of tennis in the blistering summer sun, the voice of my father, or the voice of Dorrough, I am driven to leave everything on the court. And after a tough loss, I still crave a comforting hug from my dad.

* I apologize in advance for those reading who do not understand tennis scoring; for the sake of simplicity, just know the higher the number, the more favorable your position

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Sunday Dinners



Tuesday nights have become one of my favorite evenings in Charlottesvile. No, I am not dancing on tables* or watching sports, two of my greatest passions. Instead, I meet with girls from local churches for a couple hours of chatting, commiserating, and mentally justifying the fifth cookie I eat. It has been one of the greatest blessings since I moved, as week after week, I covet their love and friendship more. While reading and digesting passages of Scripture or books, we are able to challenge one another, encourage one another or be slightly overwhelmed together.

This past week, we broke from the usual routine of delving into Scripture and instead, simply relaxed. After catching up on the week’s activities, Dorothy suggested we describe childhood meals. Answering this would be no problem, and perhaps I could make it through one Bible study without flirting with an emotional breakdown. Alas, my anecdotes rarely go as planned.

I spent every Sunday evening of childhood at my grandparents**. I anxiously awaited my parents at the bottom of our stairs around five o'clock, as I knew we were running late. Indeed, when we arrived at 5:05, someone reprimanded the family for tardiness. After saying hello, I was again scolded for stealing a Reese's cup before dinner. Definitely worth it.

As I stepped sheepishly into the adjacent dining room, barefoot so as not to stain the carpet, I beheld the veritable smorgasbord Grandma had prepared for family. Like ravenous animals, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and significant others filled their plates with spaghetti, hamburgers or beef. Of course, one optimistic aunt always brought salad, but we did not bother with unnecessary greens. Unless it was deep fried cauliflower or scalloped potatoes, vegetation was a means to the end of a balanced diet, which one does not consider on Sundays.

The adults had their tables and as children, we had ours. Of course, the children's table emptied much quicker than the adults', as we were anxious to frolic. We swung on the tire, teased the neighbor's dog, played a game of tag, or climbed the tree. Every backyard should have a tree with branches perfectly spaced apart so a child can accomplish reaching the top, and in doing so, prove to themselves that they are capable of making that climb, metaphorically relating to the obstacles of life. Grandma, however, did not appreciate the tree on this deeper level. She constantly yelled at us, as only grandmas can, warning of the dangers of falling and breaking legs. In the winter months, we kept ourselves occupied with school, which I believe was merely an excuse for the elder cousins to boss the younger around, and candy poker, which I often lost because tootsie rolls are irresistible.

Sometimes, I would sneak to the adult table, acting as the "little piggie with big ears." Around that table, discussion and outrageous laughter flourished. Aunt Jill made fun of Dad, and Mother immediately jumped to his defense. My cousins discussed their "big kid" problems, aunts picked out the best coupons from the paper and someone demanded that a child do the dishes so Grandma did not have to. In the middle of the table, there was always dessert. Brownies, cheesecake, peanut butter cups, apple pie - since there were roughly thirty of us, there was always a birthday to celebrate. The list of baked goods is endless, and my extensive palette for sweets can be credited to a family who loved sugar - so much so I have witnessed physical fights over gobs. Although in my opinion the cinnamon roll is the pastry worth a punch, it is nonetheless enjoyable to watch two forty year old women go at it for chocolate cakes filled with an insufficient amount of frosting. (To be fair, my motto in life is, "Everything is better double-stuffed", so the correct cake to frosting ratio is debatable.)

The most impacting memories of that small house, however, came in a more intimate setting. When I was near the age of eight, Grandpa was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Before that point, I remember him sitting in the garage on a summer day, drinking a beer and laughing heartily, his plump belly bouncing. I loved Pappy's hugs just as I love my father's.

After he was diagnosed and as his condition worsened, my father took us down on a nightly basis. My older sisters had school, jobs, and friends, but I was fortunate enough to have no care in the world greater than the choice between playing PIG or knockout. Therefore, my nights were quite available, and I spent many of them repeating a routine I still cherish. We watched Wheel of Fortune followed by Jeopardy, and Grandma rarely failed to outperform the WoF contestants. After those programs, there was usually an Indians game, murder show or Lifetime movie to view. Sometimes we would listen to old time country music and do a small version of the twist, Grandma’s specialty. Grandpa lay on the couch and a box of nuts sat on the side table, as my father and he shared a mutual love for salty cashews. He also had a neat device that broadcast the communications of local policemen, and his ears perked each time it began to beep. Grandma always sat at the end of the couch, ready to tend to his every need, be it pills, water, or assistance using the bathroom. She loved him.

More than that, he loved her, and he loved us. I could hear it when he chuckled weakly at the silly jokes I made. I could feel it in his feeble hug when we embraced every night upon our departure. But most apparently, I could see it in his frail body. As he lay on his back, I saw bent knees too small for the frame of a coal miner. His arms were perpetually every shade of purple, blue and black from the multiple IVs that kept him alive. Grandpa clung to life as long as he could for his wife, his children and his grandchildren.

One night, we were watching television, and although I cannot quite remember, I would bet the discussion revolved around a ref's bad call, crazy politicians, or a local Chardon family. I looked at Dad, sitting on the recliner, and a tear was rolling down his face. It was the first time I saw Dad cry. I would see it again when he baptized Grandpa using a cup of sink water in the presence of the whole family and again when he held me on his lap the morning Grandpa passed.

Looking back, I have a better understanding of those tears and why they were shed. It is the same reason Grandma still gets a small glimmer in her eye anytime she talks about Grandpa and the Jive, the way he preferred his eggs prepared or "quitting" him multiple times. My grandpa loved, and in that love, he sacrificed. I am grateful that I was able to experience a taste of that love. More than that, I am grateful his love has lived on in his son and his wife, who continued to have the family over every Sunday for dinner at 5 (5:05 for the Navatsyks.)

*Keep reading, as some day, I will explain my theory as to how Bible studies and dancing on tables do not have to be mutually exclusive in one's life.

** Keep reading, as some day, I will write about my immense adoration and respect for the love and strength of Grandma.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

A Tradition Unlike Any Other


Timeless sophistication. The epitome of class. Announcers with foreign accents. Amateurs baptized by fire as they compete against experienced virtuosos. The drives down the middle of the fairway, the cheers and gasps from spectators, the clutch putts. The Nike dry-fit adorning extremely fit individuals. Awful hat lines at the trophy presentation. The Green Jacket.

The Masters conjures many inspirational stories to mind when it returns annually to Augusta. For me, watching the Masters brings back sweet nostalgia of golfing with my dad. Some of my finest childhood memories came on the links of Chardon Lakes and Sandridge. Summer nights were spent accompanying my father as he searched for the key to golf - which he found at least five times, and then inevitably lost. My brother, sister and I would act as his caddies, raking sand traps, holding the flag hole marker, bending down on one knee, Jack Nicklaus style, to judge the slope of the green and better advise him on putting. He was even gracious enough to use the iron we determined most appropriate after looking at the sprinkler heads for yardage. Johnny Schmoker was Dad's fictitious companion on the course who consistently shot bogeys. If Dad was having a particularly off day, Johnny Schmoker would be busy with his girlfriend or other social engagements.

Earlier years were spent on the public golf course; however, with the announcement of a private golf club came anxious anticipation. After a round of golf, we would drive to the site of the new course and admire as our Jerusalem came to fruition. When it was finally finished, Sandridge Golf Club was nothing short of incredible. Standing at the first tee, watching my dad swing his inaugural mulligan, we were transported to another place. A place where every breath was fresh, the only sound was the club striking the ball, and green ensconced us. We were certainly no longer in Chardon.

I wish I could say that I accurately represented golf's classy tradition, but as we know, the elusive standard of class is harder to reach for some. When I was seventeen, I pleaded with my father to go golfing Easter Sunday, as the weather was gorgeous - sadly, an anomaly for Chardon in April. After much convincing, we headed to the links with my siblings and brother-in-law. The course began the usual way: we negotiated who would drive the cart, praised my father when his fairway shot landed on the green, "dancing like a Mexican jumping bean." (This saying never seemed strange to me, but five years later, I still have no idea what a Mexican jumping bean is. I do know they dance.)

Around hole four, my bladder began to sharply exclaim that it required attending to. It is true that I have been known to do so in less than socially acceptable places, but I would never defile the sacred Sandridge golf course. Unfortunately, there were no bathrooms within this Pebble Beach-esque paradise, so I pressed onward, doing the occasional jig in hopes the pangs would subside.

It was at hole seven, after my father had sunk an impeccable putt and was outplaying Johnny Schmoker, that any attempts to uphold the classy reputation of golf was thwarted beyond repair. The fresh spring air quickened my step to the cart, and as I skipped to my destination, I tripped and fell. Not only did I lose control of my balance, but also of all bodily functions. There I lay, curled in the fetal position, my pants soaked with urine for once one loses control of the bladder, it is nearly impossible to retrieve. Lydia ran to see if I was seriously injured. My body was only a bit sore, but as usual, my dignity took the hardest blow.

As is the case with all of my humiliations, I gleaned a positive life lesson from having to walk the remainder of the course with stained pants. I learned that while golf is touted as a sophisticated sport, it is still a sport. Those playing, watching, or assisting are still human and do not exude this sophistication at all times. Tiger Woods may have cheated on his wife - arguably a classless maneuver. However, I pissed my pants on the golf course, so who am I to judge him? Plus, when I see him flaunting the Sunday red and aggressive fist pump, perhaps the most motivating and intimidating expression of confidence in all sports, I cannot help but want him to rise to uphold the tradition unlike any other, which is simply golf.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Bagpipes Are Playing in My Backyard, and It Is Lovely

As I lounged about my house yesterday, I determined this afternoon would be the perfect time to write. The national championship game was not until nine, the weather forecast was impeccable, and I was finally feeling rested. This morning, while at the gym, I was asked out by a black prison security guard who was no less than two and a half times my size. A perfect entry topic, indeed, and even more appropriate following the analysis of my butt and thighs.

Further, I could discuss the tactics and strategy of weight room stalking and help hundreds of gawking gentlemen land the girl of their dreams on the elliptical to their left. I say gentlemen because I believe it is unfair to judge in this situation. If a guy approached a girl anywhere else, aside from perhaps Victoria's Secret or a construction site, it would not be considered creepy. However, because sweat is involved, said suitor is assumed to be perverted. Such judgment is completely unwarranted, I feel, especially since if you go to the weight room on a consistent basis, you could see each other for one hour a day. If I spend 8% of my waking hours around another, how can I be upset if he asks me out, when a random guy at a bar would ask me home when the only words I have spoken to him were "thank you for spilling beer on my shirt." This is not to say that I will not reject your proposal, as I did this morning. Actually, I told him I would go to lunch with him if I saw him in the weight room again. Thus begins my eight month hiatus of going to the gym - I say eight months because if I have not been on at least one successful date in eight months, I will gladly accept his invitation to dine.

After work, however, I had little desire to address my weight room romance in today's entry. Believe it or not, I could have written more about the subject were it my actual topic of discussion. Anyways, I opened my email this afternoon and found an announcement of the death of a former classmate. Though we were merely acquaintances, we shared the scholarly bond of the marketing major. We had the occasional friendly chat and wished each other happy birthday on Facebook. So perhaps the fact that her life was tragically cut short because of a skiing accident should not affect me; yet, it does.

Since moving, this has been an adventure all my own, cultivated by my independent personality. In many ways, this is great and undoubtedly lends itself to humorous and exciting escapades. For instance, this weekend I befriended an entire men's softball team at a bar. We danced on picnic tables, they bought me drinks that were spilled because I kept putting them on the table/dance floor, and we chatted about sophisticated topics such as how beautiful I thought Mark Wahlberg was in the Departed... and Shooter... and the Fighter. At the end of the night, though, I bid them adieu and did not give them my number, though they asked. After all, it would be silly to think we would meet again.

You are most likely wondering how my rodeo dancing at a bar relates to a young woman's life being ended much too soon. I looked on her Facebook wall, and it was crowded with comments about the love, joy and happiness Andrea brought to people's lives. She clearly impacted those close to her and even those who entered her life only briefly. She will undoubtedly be missed by many.

Perhaps the two incidents are not related in the slightest, but perhaps they are. I think we are supposed to impact others and allow them to impact us on all of our adventures. To what extent I have impacted others, I do not know, but I do know I would be lucky if the guys from the weekend - or even my weight room suitor - remembered anything more than the awesome trench coat or my impeccable form while squatting. (To clarify, I was squatting in the weight room, not the bar.) I suppose what I am saying, in a most round about way, is that I think we all have both the ability and desire to impact the lives of others but do not do so because we are too scared, tired or lazy. Many times, giving ourselves to others leads to disappointment, rejection or failed relationships. Ultimately, though, it is definitely more fulfilling than a lonely adventure.