Thank god for anyone under 12 years of age
[After that,]
everyone goes to pieces.
- Ursula Nordstrom, book publisher
Tips for Finding Happiness in Your Daily Life
11 years ago
Sunday, December 29, 2019
Saturday, December 07, 2019
The Descendant
Today I met with Martine to bid her farewell. It was a dreary day: rainy, windy, gloomy.
She was 10 minutes late and a part of me wanted to leave. I was starving and the server had failed to bring bread at my request. I don't do hunger well.
But she did show up. She had gotten lost, arrived at a wrong lot and had to go all the way out to almost the freeway before she was able to turn back.
As I mentioned in my last post, we'd had only 3 workshops together. This was our 4th meeting. And pretty sure our last one.
She was asking me a lot of questions as if we were meeting for the first time. She had completely forgotten all these background inquiries had already been covered previously.
On the topic of friends, I made the casual (and true) statement "I don't have friends". And Martine's reaction couldn't have been more traumatized. Not having friends is that unimaginable to her.
Then I had to explain (again) how moving around means fewer friends, and friends move away. And coworkers don't stay friends. I've been on Meetup; I've tried. Nothing sticks. Etc., etc., etc.
She's in her twenties. She goes to church. She'll always have friends. I forgive her for not being able to fathom the older you get, the harder it is to make friends. In my experience, in this part of the world, it is true.
She was genuinely touched that I insisted in buying her lunch as her going away present since I had nothing else to offer.
"You are so nice!" She exclaimed. "Why don't you have friends?!" She sounded wholeheartedly incredulous.
In my mind I said to her, "Ask yourself. Why aren't I your friend?"
Such irony.
I would also like to know. Am I too old? Because I am not Christian? Wrong vibe?
Some things you cannot quantity to analyze. You will only drive yourself crazy.
No acrimony though. She's not my friend. I can accept that.
As we were parting ways in the parking lot, Martine mumbled that she'd be back in this area as they hadn't sold their house yet, and she had cousins here...
"I'll bring you pastry from Le Ciel* when I come to visit," she said as she walked away.
She did not even ask to take a selfie with me.
And I knew that this would be the last time I ever saw her.
*Not its real name
She was 10 minutes late and a part of me wanted to leave. I was starving and the server had failed to bring bread at my request. I don't do hunger well.
But she did show up. She had gotten lost, arrived at a wrong lot and had to go all the way out to almost the freeway before she was able to turn back.
As I mentioned in my last post, we'd had only 3 workshops together. This was our 4th meeting. And pretty sure our last one.
She was asking me a lot of questions as if we were meeting for the first time. She had completely forgotten all these background inquiries had already been covered previously.
On the topic of friends, I made the casual (and true) statement "I don't have friends". And Martine's reaction couldn't have been more traumatized. Not having friends is that unimaginable to her.
Then I had to explain (again) how moving around means fewer friends, and friends move away. And coworkers don't stay friends. I've been on Meetup; I've tried. Nothing sticks. Etc., etc., etc.
She's in her twenties. She goes to church. She'll always have friends. I forgive her for not being able to fathom the older you get, the harder it is to make friends. In my experience, in this part of the world, it is true.
She was genuinely touched that I insisted in buying her lunch as her going away present since I had nothing else to offer.
"You are so nice!" She exclaimed. "Why don't you have friends?!" She sounded wholeheartedly incredulous.
In my mind I said to her, "Ask yourself. Why aren't I your friend?"
Such irony.
I would also like to know. Am I too old? Because I am not Christian? Wrong vibe?
Some things you cannot quantity to analyze. You will only drive yourself crazy.
No acrimony though. She's not my friend. I can accept that.
As we were parting ways in the parking lot, Martine mumbled that she'd be back in this area as they hadn't sold their house yet, and she had cousins here...
"I'll bring you pastry from Le Ciel* when I come to visit," she said as she walked away.
She did not even ask to take a selfie with me.
And I knew that this would be the last time I ever saw her.
*Not its real name
Reeling
RJ watches a lot more TV than I. Often he has it in the background while surfing on the net. He's an intellect and needs intellectual stimuli. He's selective.
There are days when I feel if I never watch TV again I'll be okay.
RJ is constantly coming up with recommendations of what I could watch. I exclaim, "A lifetime is not long enough to watch all these shows!"
It takes me a long time to give a new show a shot, and when I do, it takes a while for me to warm up to it. Sometimes RJ is all excited about a show, and I'm just meh.
RJ has been described as stoic by his ex-wife Amelia. While that's a bit harsh, it is true that RJ does not exactly burst out laughing, for instance. I have asked him where his joie de vivre is. (This does not by any means he is not affectionate with me, however.)
I have mentioned that it is rare I capture his (very endearing) smile on camera. Heck, it is rare to get him to crack a smile out of amusement. It's a real accomplishment in my mind.
The other night, at RJ's suggestion, I was ready to, as he likes to put it, "audition" a British series called The Coroner. I love crime and mystery as a genre, and RJ has watched his fair share of such shows. We delight in hollering "Muurrdah!" the way we deem the Brits pronounce "murder".
S1 E1 was instantly gripping. The writing was good. The acting was good, in that subtle, believable, relatable way that American shows often lack. I applaud the U.K. for letting women star in a show, and having more than one important female character per series, and portraying women in a real, messy, gutsy, human way. They're people, interesting people. And they just happen to be women.
I once read an article in the NY Times which theorized, in essence, the better the actresses' hair is, the less noteworthy the story will be. Conversely, the worse the actresses' hair, the better the show.
I have tested this theory in real life and it does seem foolproof. Try it out yourself! You'd be amazed. It's quite eye-opening.
But I digress.
At the end of E1 of The Coroner, I announced to RJ, enthused, waving my right arm in the air, "This is a winner! Good choice!"
With a slight chuckle, RJ replied, "That means more to me than my smile means to you."
I didn't hear him right at first. When I realized what he had said, I was astonished. I had no idea my "approval" would carry any weight. Definitely not this kind of weight.
That my opinion matters is such a breath of fresh air, in stark contrast to my experience growing up, I am not sure I'll ever get used to it.
If my delight means RJ's satisfaction, hey, win-win.
There are days when I feel if I never watch TV again I'll be okay.
RJ is constantly coming up with recommendations of what I could watch. I exclaim, "A lifetime is not long enough to watch all these shows!"
It takes me a long time to give a new show a shot, and when I do, it takes a while for me to warm up to it. Sometimes RJ is all excited about a show, and I'm just meh.
RJ has been described as stoic by his ex-wife Amelia. While that's a bit harsh, it is true that RJ does not exactly burst out laughing, for instance. I have asked him where his joie de vivre is. (This does not by any means he is not affectionate with me, however.)
I have mentioned that it is rare I capture his (very endearing) smile on camera. Heck, it is rare to get him to crack a smile out of amusement. It's a real accomplishment in my mind.
The other night, at RJ's suggestion, I was ready to, as he likes to put it, "audition" a British series called The Coroner. I love crime and mystery as a genre, and RJ has watched his fair share of such shows. We delight in hollering "Muurrdah!" the way we deem the Brits pronounce "murder".
S1 E1 was instantly gripping. The writing was good. The acting was good, in that subtle, believable, relatable way that American shows often lack. I applaud the U.K. for letting women star in a show, and having more than one important female character per series, and portraying women in a real, messy, gutsy, human way. They're people, interesting people. And they just happen to be women.
I once read an article in the NY Times which theorized, in essence, the better the actresses' hair is, the less noteworthy the story will be. Conversely, the worse the actresses' hair, the better the show.
I have tested this theory in real life and it does seem foolproof. Try it out yourself! You'd be amazed. It's quite eye-opening.
But I digress.
At the end of E1 of The Coroner, I announced to RJ, enthused, waving my right arm in the air, "This is a winner! Good choice!"
With a slight chuckle, RJ replied, "That means more to me than my smile means to you."
I didn't hear him right at first. When I realized what he had said, I was astonished. I had no idea my "approval" would carry any weight. Definitely not this kind of weight.
That my opinion matters is such a breath of fresh air, in stark contrast to my experience growing up, I am not sure I'll ever get used to it.
If my delight means RJ's satisfaction, hey, win-win.
Elusive
Friday morning I woke up to some bunched up tissues on the nightstand, as if I'd been crying. I had no recollection.
I asked RJ if I may have overindulged the night before. He said I'd been a bit chatty.
That was the worst hangover in a long time. I don't usually get the classic symptoms. But on this day, my fact hurt. My brain was dragging. I longed for quiet.
By afternoon, some memory returned. I remember ranting about a business associate who had made assumptions based on my ethnic background when she had no idea how I'd grown up or who I was.
When I was ready for my evening routine at my desk at home, I found a handwritten note. I was taken aback for a second, but then I remember hastily sitting down to scribble it before the thought fleeted. I had laid it there to be found by future me.
It read:
I didn't feel right
Until I took a swizzle and then I realized:
That's where
all the tears hid.
I grabbed the missive and waved it at RJ. "Here's a clue to my mental state last night," I declared, and read it to him.
Didn't know I still had poetry in me.
Again this is why writers and musicians and otherwise creative types need to be under the influence one way or another to unleash the beast.
I want to say I didn't know I still had such profound sadness in me. But who am I kidding? It's always gonna be there. Just sometimes I forget.
I asked RJ if I may have overindulged the night before. He said I'd been a bit chatty.
That was the worst hangover in a long time. I don't usually get the classic symptoms. But on this day, my fact hurt. My brain was dragging. I longed for quiet.
By afternoon, some memory returned. I remember ranting about a business associate who had made assumptions based on my ethnic background when she had no idea how I'd grown up or who I was.
When I was ready for my evening routine at my desk at home, I found a handwritten note. I was taken aback for a second, but then I remember hastily sitting down to scribble it before the thought fleeted. I had laid it there to be found by future me.
It read:
I didn't feel right
Until I took a swizzle and then I realized:
That's where
all the tears hid.
I grabbed the missive and waved it at RJ. "Here's a clue to my mental state last night," I declared, and read it to him.
Didn't know I still had poetry in me.
Again this is why writers and musicians and otherwise creative types need to be under the influence one way or another to unleash the beast.
I want to say I didn't know I still had such profound sadness in me. But who am I kidding? It's always gonna be there. Just sometimes I forget.
Wednesday, December 04, 2019
Monday, December 02, 2019
Losing Footing
Last year between spring and summer, I joined three groups RJ and I jokingly call cults.
You'd think I would have made a ton of friends by now. No.
Over Thanksgiving weekend, we were invited to Amelia's shindig to "inaugurate" her new wine room. I'd been psyched looking forward to it.
Instead of the intimate family reunion I'd dreamt it to be, there were friends and friends of friends. About 11 years ago, with a little social lubricant, I could get by such a night more than fine. On this night, though, I certainly did not thrive.
If ever there was any doubt I really was an introvert, I was true blue proven yet again. Classic introvert for ya.
There is just something with the dynamic in larger groups that just makes me wanna hide.
"And I wonder why I don't have friends," I thought.
Fast forward to this morning, when I learned through social media that my "sponsor" in one of my cults, Martine*, was moving away. I felt many emotions well up: shock, sadness, disappointment, betrayal. Yes, betrayal. She didn't even tell me she was leaving.
Given, we weren't exactly "friends". We'd had a couple of workshops. OK, three. She's two decades my junior. Even though we share the same first language, and, yes, we are in the same cult. That's hardly a valid BFF basis.
Then I realized my abandonment knee-jerk reaction was still there. After all these years. Will it ever be gone?
The news was such a blow, I was surprised. I was actually tearing up. Over someone I'd only met three times. In a group.
Not like she's been on my mind otherwise, either. But it matters little. How dare she leave me behind?
Those little thinking patterns are awful, how, like grooves in a record, they don't change. But you can change the record, they say.
I am now tired just having mulled over this whole self diagnosis.
*Not her real name
You'd think I would have made a ton of friends by now. No.
Over Thanksgiving weekend, we were invited to Amelia's shindig to "inaugurate" her new wine room. I'd been psyched looking forward to it.
Instead of the intimate family reunion I'd dreamt it to be, there were friends and friends of friends. About 11 years ago, with a little social lubricant, I could get by such a night more than fine. On this night, though, I certainly did not thrive.
If ever there was any doubt I really was an introvert, I was true blue proven yet again. Classic introvert for ya.
There is just something with the dynamic in larger groups that just makes me wanna hide.
"And I wonder why I don't have friends," I thought.
Fast forward to this morning, when I learned through social media that my "sponsor" in one of my cults, Martine*, was moving away. I felt many emotions well up: shock, sadness, disappointment, betrayal. Yes, betrayal. She didn't even tell me she was leaving.
Given, we weren't exactly "friends". We'd had a couple of workshops. OK, three. She's two decades my junior. Even though we share the same first language, and, yes, we are in the same cult. That's hardly a valid BFF basis.
Then I realized my abandonment knee-jerk reaction was still there. After all these years. Will it ever be gone?
The news was such a blow, I was surprised. I was actually tearing up. Over someone I'd only met three times. In a group.
Not like she's been on my mind otherwise, either. But it matters little. How dare she leave me behind?
Those little thinking patterns are awful, how, like grooves in a record, they don't change. But you can change the record, they say.
I am now tired just having mulled over this whole self diagnosis.
*Not her real name
Quote 274
I drove by your house
but you don't live there anymore.
- "I Really Wish I Hated You", Blink-182
but you don't live there anymore.
- "I Really Wish I Hated You", Blink-182
