there's always next year

this about sums it up.

According to the NYTimes, people will read almost anything if it's in list form. Super. Because I haven't been feeling particularly loquacious on the blog front now that writing is my JOB and I've been catching a bit of heat for it. I mean, not a ton...okay fine, mostly from my dad. (hi dad!)

So i present you with my very own year-end roundup of cultural touchstones. One that seems to suggest our inevitable demise. Please, enjoy. And cringe. You should probably cringe.

In no particular order, THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL 2010:  

1. Sarah Palin's nonsensical drivel. Sarah Palin's Alaska. And most alarmingly, the support of Sarah Palin.

2. The Kardashians are inexplicably more ubiquitous, not less. 

3. Popular music is getting increasingly worse. ('twas the year of autotune and the "artists" it makes possible--like Ke$ha, for whom I just had to search for the dollar sign on my keyboard)

4. Dimwitted reality TV hits a fever pitch. (Teen Mom, Jersey Shore, Bridalplasty...need i go on?)

5. There was a 60-mile, 12-day traffic jam in China. No, really, there was.

6. Four Loko. Oh, you don't know what that is? Maybe you don't like projectile vomiting. Lightweight. For the uninitiated, one can is rumored to be the equivalent of five beers and two cups of coffee. It's not banned in 46 states.

7. That smoking baby, proving once and for all that Asians don't really love their children. 

8. A widow in Pennsylvania is discovered living with the corpses of her husband and sister. Again, yes, really.

9. Oprah is throwing in the towel. Prior to her departure, she hosts TWO final Favorite Things episodes, where paramedics are on deck in case the excitement goes beyond the typical pants-soiling.

10. Lindsay Lohan continues to dominate news wires despite not having done anything more interesting than being an incredible douche.

quiet, please

Photo: i-D magazine

Having loud, obnoxious neighbors with whom you share a wall is a special kind of hell. A few months ago, a young couple moved into the gloriously silent apartment next door--on our bedroom side. At least I think it's a couple. That's who I saw when I went over in a fury late one night when they were blaring Miley Cyrus or some other top-40 monstrosity. The girl, who had terrible teeth I might add, was apologetic. Her cohort was frying something and looked less than pleased to have company. It was midnight on a Sunday. Who fries things at that hour? Since then, I've seen other people leave their apartment looking like maybe they live there, so I'm not entirely sure to whom I should be directing my hostility. But they are the WORST.

So, after I went over to "meet" our new neighbors and politely inform them that a fundamental characteristic of all apartments is the sharing of walls, the silence lasted a good 48 hours. After which, it returned in all of its auto-tuned glory. But because M won't let me go over there again and tell them they're keeping our fake baby awake, I now have to quietly seethe and fantasize about all the nasty notes I'm going to slip under their door the next time he travels. But i digress.

They do all sorts of other annoying neighborly things. For example, one morning I saw Jenny Bucktooth dragging a cardboard box the size of her spindly body down the hall to the trash room. The trash room that is approximately the size of the box she's dragging and has signs posted explicitly stating not to leave boxes inside. This actually doesn't bother me on a personal level, but i feel it's permissible evidence in the argument that they are inconsiderate and trashy (no pun intended) individuals. 

Then there's this--we can hear them having very bad sex. And I don't mean maybe-we-should-call-the-police-because-someone-might-be-getting-hurt-sex. I mean the awkward kind. Your typical late-night bedroom antics are to be expected with most neighbors. You giggle and move on. This was the kind where you wonder, "Is this their first time? Are we being witness to the transaction of a v-card?" Unfortunately, 'tis not the case. It always sounds like something one would never want to do again. Luckily, it doesn't last long.

And here's the kicker. I was minding my own business on the treadmill the other day when I see out of the corner of my eye that the person to my left is periodically fist-pumping and letting out motivating grunts as if he's nearing the final bend of the New York marathon. Once i reestablished my stride, I looked over and realized he's Jenny Bucktooth's counterpart. I nearly flew off my machine in delight. It all makes sense. The bad playlist, the belabored boot-knocking, the general disregard for others. They're from NEW JERSEY! (and not the nice part where any of you come from.) We're living next door to people who may be known associates of the Jersey Shore cast. And that, my friends, changes everything.

under observation

 

I have the luxury of not going into the office until 1pm. That's five glorious hours of stolen time I have each day. (I know, I know, "what a bitch.") With all that time on my hands you'd think I'd at least blog on a more regular basis. But you know, I'm doing things. Lovely things like drinking tea and reading. And I run and cook almost everyday. However, maybe it often looks like I'm just being distracted by Twitter. If there was anyone there to see me, anyway. But there's not, so I'm free to flit around with a towel on my head, wearing frilly underwear until I have to face the world. It's delightful. That is, until there's someone there to witness it and ask questions like, "Is this what you do every day?!" To which I have no choice but to utter lame defenses.

M was home sick last week, and that's precisely what unfolded. I was happily drinking tea, making stuffed shells for the first time, wearing one of the aforementioned towel-headdress ensembles, when Sniffles McGee comes in and demands to know if this is my regular routine. I'm not sure who he thought I was making those stuffed shells for, but my eyebrows delivered the message that they'd be for the guy next door if he didn't rephrase his question. "I just didn't realize you had so much free time, lucky," he said (probably after sneezing on me). Well, that sucked all the joy out of it.

If this were Italy, no one would question simply enjoying the enviable number of hours I have to myself. Plus, it isn't ALL free time. I do have freelance work and my own writing, mostly when I'm not wallowing in self-doubt and questioning whether I have anything meaningful to contribute to the world. Not being accountable to anyone other than yourself is a big responsibility. And I'll tell you, one I'm not sure i'm up to on most days. Seeing that, as you might suspect, often I do a whole lot of technically non-productive things, which I do very much enjoy. At least, I think I do until there's someone there to see the tree fall. Then I suddenly feel like I need to justify myself. Though I'm not really sure why. Because let's be honest, is M really judging me for how I spend my time? Probably not. Especially considering the fact that it mostly works in his favor in the form of elaborate ("elaborate" might be pushing it) meals and a tidy apartment. 

So I'm obviously projecting. I mean, look how defensive I'm getting. It's me who feels guilty about not using her time wisely. I'm the one judging and holding myself to some warped standard rather than wholeheartedly enjoying my freedom. No one else has said a word. Of course, maybe none of you knew that I was being so frivolous with my time? Well, those of you who I haven't sent IMs to in the middle of the day containing links to things like wellthatsadorable.com. For the rest of you, this is a confession. I am frivolous with my time and I like it. But I'm going to start liking it more. Try and stop me.

the past is always rosy

I'm going to Maryland tomorrow and onward to NYC on Monday. One of my best friends is picking me up at the airport, from where we're taking a leisurely three-hour jaunt to meet our old roommates/current loveliest-ladies-we-know for dinner on Main Street in Newark, Delaware. Not a glamorous town, but the site of four fairly flawless years of my life. At least that's how I remember them. 

But did I appreciate the moments while I was there? I hope so, because when I look back on any memory of that time, I practically vibrate with happiness. I might go as far to say that from ages 18-22, everything was perfect. What I'm glossing over are the dramatic almost-break ups with my first love, panicking about grad school applications and the sadness I felt when my nana fell ill. Whether consciously or unconsciously, I've buried those memories not wrought with joy deeper. Which I guess is okay. It's probably better for one's mental wellbeing to keep the happy images more accessible. Though surely this doesn't always serve one well.

The first thing that comes to mind is the danger of forgetting what a relationship was really like. You remember the good times, the wonderful things that he/she did and said, they way he/she looked at you and all the little quirks that were so endearing in the beginning. Ignored are the arguments, the insurmountable obstacles, the reasons why you broke up and how nauseating all those little quirks were at the end. The memory can play devilish tricks. If you're not careful, you may find yourself pining for the reconciliation of a relationship that never existed anywhere other than in your mind. What a damn waste of time.

The other is forgetting the realities of a particular place. This is my fear of New York. I know that I left for a reason. I just can't remember what it was. "I was having a bad winter" doesn't seem like totally sound logic with which to justify packing up one's life and moving to the other side of the country, sight unseen. Yet, that's what I did and no one stopped me. It must not have seemed like a COMPLETELY outlandish idea. Which leads me to believe that maybe things weren't as lovely as I recall. How can this be?! I look back on New York so fondly. Could NYC be my bad relationship that I long to return to? Anything's possible. So, I guess, consider this documented evidence that I am knowingly going into the storm for the week. And like any idiot, I couldn't be more excited. 

it's not you, it's me

Image: The Book of Bunny Suicides

My disdain for San Francisco has been so steadily growing that I fear it's starting to become a defining characteristic of my personality. If it carries on this way, I'm going to be the crotchety, old cat lady before I'm either old or have cats. Not a great look. Which means I have two choices: develop a more positive attitude or move. Fine, three choices. If the third is "continue to sulk."

But here's the thing. As much as I bitch and moan about missing my family and friends, and there being practically no social scene here that doesn't make me want to poke my eyes out with compostable forks, I'm totally in love with my boyfriend who's really not in any position to transfer at the moment. How's that for setting back the feminist movement a few decades? It's just that, well, I'll say it, I love love. I'm not too proud to be trite. For me, a satisfying romantic relationship with someone whom you adore and who adores you right back for just who you are is--while somewhat nauseating for the general public--an absolute fucking gift.

And then, there's my other foil. Somehow, after all of the seeming missteps in my budding career, I finally have a job I like. One that I like more than just a little bit. For me, that's saying something. So what does one do when one has ticked two of the very big life boxes, but something still feels off? Well, one takes to her blog and finds reasons to justify her unrest. But how long can that go on without realizing that you're just being a big sorry sack? In fact, I'm actually beginning to get a little sick of myself. How must the rest of you feel? 

So, I won't go as far as to say that I'm putting a stake in the ground here or anything, but I'm at least thinking about making more of an effort. Because I'm not going anywhere any time soon. And what's the worst that could happen? I might like it. Oh, the horror. The next time any of you see me, feel free to put me in a headlock. God knows, I deserve it.

bras. whatever.

I held out hope until about twenty-five that I would wake up one morning with an enormous rack. It didn't happen. Which, for all intents and purposes, is probably for the best. I think if I'd gotten the jumblies I always wanted, I'd be all Katy-Perry-bikinis-on-top every chance I got. Apparently, someone thought I couldn't be trusted with a large chest. They might have been right. We'll never know.

If nothing else, I find that it's healthy to have a running joke with yourself about a physical shortcoming. Not that it even IS a physical shortcoming. The only reason that I even categorize it this way is because it's not the ideal. I can be certain of that because Victoria's Secret no longer carries my size in anything other than a push-up variety (save for their Pink line, which is quite obviously meant for teenagers and women with daddy issues). Now then. What does that say? I know. How dare I be comfortable in my own skin. "Yes, unhelpful-lady-in-unflattering-black-suit-with-unnecessary-headset, I am seeking a 34A WITHOUT padding. Oh, that doesn't exist? That's awesome. Please, point me in the direction of something else that might lower my self-esteem."

Surely I'm not the only woman who isn't interested in strapping two pounds of padding onto her chest in the name of better fulfilling the fantasies of men who she doesn't know, nor would like to get to know. That seems like something one would jump to pay $48 for, right? It's pretty appalling that our perfection-obsessed culture has pushed a brand to believe that women with only modest lady lumps couldn't possibly be content, and are simply seeking a solution until we can spring for surgery. Note to VS: this is not the case. A few of us might still just like a lovely bra that subtly swathes our bosom. And we'll shop elsewhere.

Every now and then I'll put on something that makes me think, This would look better with a nice pair. Sure. But that's as deep as my self-loathing runs (in this arena anyway). That is until Victoria's Secret just stops carrying 34A altogether, and I'm forced to continue my adult life with band-aids over my nipples. That would be sad.

calling it quits

 Photo: GQ Russia

I'm beginning to believe that there is too much value placed on sticking it out, and not nearly enough on the benefits of foregoing another moment doing something you can't stand. Yet we're told from the time we're very young that quitting is for losers and underachievers. People of character and substance grin and bear it. Well, that's rather bleak if you ask me. Not to mention puts an awful lot of pressure on the decisions you make.

I'd like to propose this instead. You have one life. You should spend it as happily as possible. Of course, it should go without saying (though it seems nothing ever does) that this doesn't mean going about our lives shallowly dipping our toes into things for a minute or two, and writing them off if the initial experience doesn't live up to expectations. What I'm talking about is giving something a real go, and if it doesn't work out or it feels wrong, find an alternative, hand in your notice, offer your apologies and hightail it the hell out of there.

If the only reward in staying where you are is being able to say that you suffered long and hard, well, what exactly does that equate to other than wasted moments when you could have been doing something you enjoy--or, at the least, something that didn't make you question the point of your existence. We no longer live in a world where martyrs are revered. No one is going to build a monument to the hours you lost doing demeaning work. Save yourself the agony. 

To this day, I'm grateful that I didn't have those parents who force their offspring to continue with dreaded extracurriculars for the sake of "showing commitment." Quitting ballet, Girl Scouts, soccer, and probably a few other activities that escape me at the moment, allowed me to find another outlet. One that resonated with who I was (it was cheerleading). And you know what, I never regretted giving up the other things. I wouldn't have been able to find something I loved if I'd been tied up with something I loathed. I had a professor in grad school who gave a poignant lecture on the value of "bumping up against" as many opportunities as possible, to see what fits. You can't do that if you're encumbered by something that doesn't. 

Maybe I'm simply exemplifying my generation's supposed overwhelming sense of entitlement (I do feel entitled to happiness, actually). But consider for a moment that maybe I'm not. Maybe people have been feeling tied to too many things that haven't worked for them for too long. Maybe this is part of the reason that more Americans than ever are being prescribed psycho-pharmaceuticals to quell their anxiety and depression. Personally, I'd rather earn myself a reputation as non-committal than join the ranks of the miserably complacent.

Full disclosure: Friday is my last day at my current job. I quit, and now I'm going to be paid to write, exclusively. How wonderful is that? 

the curious thing about joy

As far as I can tell, my wonderful friend Miranda is the kind of mom everyone would hope for, and hope to be. I've suggested perhaps she'd like to adopt me, but she's mostly ignored it. Fair enough. I come with frightening student loan debt and I've probably outgrown my cute stage. Nevertheless, she said something the other day that struck me so deeply that I actually wrote it down. We were discussing how easy it can be to err towards cynicism. It's a perspective we've generally shared. But now, as a mother, she feels differently. What say you, dear friend? You no longer want to be mopey? How can this be? This is what she said: "Since I've had Fiona, I want to be happy. I want to make her life happy and sunny." It melted my heart and made me think, Do we all need a reason to be happy? 

I often imagine all sorts of things will transform me into one of those unflappably cheerful people. Moving back to New York, seeing my favorite people more than once a year, making more money, etc. But as current psychological research suggests, even if all of those things line up, I'll soon feel the same as I do today. Which is not to say UNhappy by any means, but I'm not particularly over the moon about anything. My baseline typically hovers around "meh." But, what if it didn't? What if I simply made a conscious decision to be more joyful? Could I even do it? My visceral reaction to even typing that was, "but what if I LIKE not liking things?"

I suspect that's the differentiator. A desire to be happy. Most of us have scores of things to be happy about, but mix them in with a hearty dose of daily trials and tribulations, and they can quickly get lost. Unless of course, you are actively looking beyond the minutiae. And what better reason to embrace the bigger picture than some good, ol'-fashioned unconditional love? Like the early stages of a romantic relationship, when the whole world looks rosy, I imagine the kind of love one has for their own baby evokes feelings of the technicolor variety. I won't go any further making assumptions about motherhood, as I'm completely out of my depth there. My point is simply that happiness seems like the result of a conscious action, rather than it passively washing over us only when the stars align. 

Whether the motivation to be happy is a boundless love for your little one or some other inspiration, I'm beginning to think it's up to us. We make the choice, every day, how we are going to feel. So maybe tomorrow I'll resolve to be happier than usual. Typically when I make such a resolution, I fall off the bus or spill coffee on myself, testing the limits of my contentment. But we'll see. Maybe I can do better if I really want to.

single living

M has gone away for work this week. It's not an uncommon occurrence. As a designer, part of his job is to travel to far-flung corners of the world for research. It sounds especially glamorous to those not going--retail exploration in Tokyo, a tour of the world's largest Rolls-Royce collection in France, sampling lager in Brazil. I would trade my left arm to do any one of those things as part of my job, but the reality is that he's typically jet-lagged, towing a client around, and run ragged from morning till night. Yet as the one constantly left at home, I'm hard-pressed to feel sympathy for him.

Though as much I might envy his professional gallivanting, it's not as if I'm sitting at home wondering what to do with myself. I'm afforded the opportunity to return to the single-girl habits I used to hold so near and dear. Which is not to say that I forget my man and hit the town in something one of those awful Kardashian sisters would wear. What I'm actually doing is eating tater tots and baked beans for dinner, relocating all of the books I'm currently reading onto the couch and waking up early to do workout dvds that I wouldn't be caught dead practicing in the presence of someone who I'd like to continue to find me attractive. None of this is particularly noteworthy, but it's what I choose to do when I'm on my own. And every now and then it's just nice not to have to consider anyone else's desires. (I hope this doesn't mean I'll be a bad mother. Surely this is exactly what grannies and summer camp are for, right?)

The other perk of this periodic solitude is the return of the kind of excitement a relationship holds before you merge all of your belongings, wash each others' underpants, and ask questions like, "Do i smell?," while wafting air from your underarms. As i write this, I'm awaiting his call to tell me how his day was in [undisclosed location]. And I'm genuinely excited to hear his voice (unless he phones during Gossip Girl. In which case, he'll have to wait). It's so easy to get comfortable with someone. To forget how much anxiety they provoked in the early days. To assume they'll always be there. His travel renews the intrigue we each possessed when we had no idea what the other was doing every moment of the day. In all likelihood, he probably assumes that I'm just reading and making questionable dinner choices. And he'd be right. But the point is that I COULD be doing anything. I am, once again, a woman of mystery. 

This is my first foray into cohabitation. And I have to say, M is the best (and cleanest) roommate I've ever had. But i've always been a pretty independent lady, one who likes to have her reading material strewn about the living quarters. He can have his fancy, foreign car tours. I'll happily indulge in some of my less charming habits for a week or so. Or, perhaps this is another one of those "things i tell myself" (because in truth, I miss him terribly).

an interesting tale about happiness

I wish I had a better excuse for the recent blog hiatus. Unfortunately, nothing plausible comes to mind. Mostly it's been due to the trepidation of writing the promised report of our road trip, for the exact reason that Alain de Botton recently noted: "It takes genius to make an account of one's last holiday interesting. It is impossible not to be gripping when admitting inadequacies." Perhaps this is why most of my posts are about my personal foibles and things that I can easily find fault with. Am I simply a mediocre writer, with no imagination beyond identifying areas for (mostly others') improvement? I certainly hope that's not the case. 

But what can I say about a week of near bliss, with no obligations, spent with someone who I adore, that won't make you ill from the saccharine sweetness of it all? My first instinct is to point out the less-than-perfect moments, like when I came upon a nest of baby lizards, immediately thought Snakes!, and bolted past M so fast he probably thought I'd been suddenly possessed. Or when we got a tiny bit lost and I kept pointing in the direction we should go, rather than using words, which are ever more effective in navigational co-piloting. Or, on our last night, when we indulged in unnecessarily decadent fare and ended up moaning in bed for hours about our upset stomachs. That's all I've got. Truly. 

During a full week, much of it spent in the car, there were many more laughs and poorly executed raps along with artists like Fannypack (download their song Cameltoe, you're welcome), than there were annoyances or fervid wishes to be anywhere else but here. Literally, it was seven days of sunshine, beaches and birds singing. (sickening, isn't it?) There was a night out in LA with friends, one who is incidentally named Sunshine, that concluded with whiskey-fueled interpretative dances and the unveiling of a pretty impressive sea shell collection. Minus the whiskey, you couldn't get any closer to the idealized joyfulness of Disney lore. And yet, I feel more exposed admitting that than if I'd had to divulge that this trip was our undoing.

Maybe I err on the side of negativity because it's less threatening. Humor has often been labeled a defense mechanism. And let's be honest, angst is inherently more amusing. I mean, what's funny about everything going right? So, maybe De Botton hit the nail on the head. Perhaps only genius can find humor in contentment or weave an interesting tale out of happiness. I'm still working on it.

the road trip as relationship litmus test

 That is a terrible idea. This is probably why they're not married.

In a few weeks, M and I are embarking upon a week-long road trip from San Francisco to San Diego and back. We could fly to San Diego for $49 and lay on the beach for six days, but where's the fun in that? Plus, we haven't done a proper road trip yet, and we should. How one's patience fares after several days in a confined space with one's lover, critiquing each other's driving and succumbing to frequent pleas for a restroom is a good indication of the health of the relationship.

I have no doubts that I will still adore this man by the time we get to San Diego, but that does not mean there won't be moments during which I'll feel compelled to shout expletives and wonder how I could ever consider having children with someone who nearly drove us into the ocean. That happens on our regular weekend jaunts just across the Bay. A week-long journey to multiple destinations, necessitating map navigation, is a different breed of beast. I imagine we could find out all sorts of things about one another that we won't like very much. Or perhaps we'll be pleasantly surprised at how delightful we both are at the helm of our adventure wagon. 

Though, let's be honest, obviously I won't be driving. This is dangerous because it places me in the unfair position of constant passenger. No one wants to be the passenger for an entire road trip. Which means I might get a little cranky and M will probably get tired of driving. If that's not a recipe for resentment from both sides, I don't know what is. Let's just hope we don't have the "I can't believe you failed your driving test" conversation while on the open road, or I might just be the one who drives us into the ocean. 

I'm making this sound very bad. I'm sure it will be wonderful. Maybe even better than some of our other journeys together. Surely better than when we traveled back from London so hung over that I had to leave the security line twice to be sick. If our relationship is still beautifully in tact after making him hold my place in a winding queue of people who were very annoyed by my behavior (TWICE), perhaps we have a solid enough foundation to embark upon "the road trip." I guess we'll see.

smooth operator

I was just flipping through the new issue of POP when I came across a lovely interview with Sade. I have such a soft spot for her. Her music always reminds me of cruising around as a kid with my dad--also a big Sade fan. 

ANYWAY, one of the questions she's asked is, "What do you think has changed for women in terms of cultural visibility?"

"I think me and my peers grew up during a unique time of emancipation which followed oppression. It was a golden age, we were encouraged to be intelligent and individual. Now young girls are under great pressure to be physically perfect. We are bombarded with images of flawless women. Now beauty is everything and women hanker for an unattainable perfection since that are so often judged primarily by looks before their real qualities."

RIGHT ON. I love fashion and models and the whole deal, but it is truly an impossible standard for women to live up to. I know, I know, no one actually expects anyone to look like that in real life. Especially when the physical ideal is represented by a coltish, 16-year-old sex bomb. But on some level, I think we internalize it. And as a result, the longing to be as young, angular and glowing as possible can overshadow the value of cultivating real character. It's completely warped.

Perhaps worst of all, so much of what we see is inauthentic anyway. If we were going to displace the importance of intelligence and character with extraordinary beauty, perhaps it should be real. And god knows, in most cases, it's not. These gorgeous women who we aspire to be are so often augmented in every way possible, and on top of that, the photos are airbrushed within an inch of reality. So what exactly are we comparing ourselves to? Basically caricatures of human beings. 

I'm not speaking as if i'm above it. I'm very much misguided in my thought processes at times. Take Marissa Mayer, for example. She's the VP of Search Products and User Experience at Google. Lady is only in her mid-thirties. She is WILDLY successful. But I don't find her very interesting to look at. In other words, I don't envy her.  

I wish I could go back to the era when Sade grew up. Or better yet, that I could harness logic in those moments of pure insanity when I believe it's more important that I remain a size 2 than finally finishing my book.

the ability to compartmentalize and other masculine oddities

me: I really want to see The Runaways. It's about the first all-girl rock band.

bf: Is it in space? 

me: What? 

bf: Is the movie set in space? 

me: No, of course not. But they do make out. 

bf: If it's not at all about space, I don't think it's worth seeing in the theater. 

me: That's your logic?

bf: It could also be about the future. I would go see it if it's about the future. The future, or space. 

me: It's set on earth, in the past. 

bf: You're not selling it.

That was an actual conversation. With someone whose happiness I deeply care about. But he's coming to see that movie with me. I've sat through more episodes of Star Wars, Red Dwarf and Discovery Channel specials on the construction of things using robots than I'll ever be happy about. He owes me. 

Though I kind of owe him, too. (Which is why he's not regularly dragged to lady films) I'm the first to admit, I'm no peach sometimes. And in those moments when I'm being, we'll call it less-than-charming, a frequent thought that pops into my head is how lucky men are to be wired a bit differently. Sure, many of you have a propensity towards completely odd entertainment choices in my opinion, but the typical guy won't immediately dissolve into emotional regress because his friend is acting shitty or he saw pictures of his ex with her new man. (I said "typical." I know there are others of you that are bat-shit crazy. I've seen Jersey Shore.) What I wouldn't give to be able to tuck my feelings away until an appropriate time arises to deal with them. As in, not at 10am at the office. Or better yet, to recognize that some things aren't worth reacting to at all. That's a damn gift. One that I've been watching very closely to see if I can emulate any of this seemingly mature and controlled behavior.

But I can't wrap my head around it. You hear startling, potentially upsetting news right before going into a meeting, and you do not vomit or bail on said meeting. You put this nugget of information into a drawer in that very interesting brain of yours, where it neatly sits until you decide to open the drawer and investigate its contents. And until then, you've not thought about it, dealt with it, or assigned any kind of emotional weight to it? That can't be true. Something must be festering under the surface in the meantime, right? Yet, I've known guys to blow off dealing with some major events for ages. At least that's how it looks.

Is it that you're actually just maintaining a cool exterior? Is it the duck analogy--calm and collected above water and paddling like hell below? Of course I don't mean to imply that you're all members of one giant, unfeeling gender. It's just that this particular behavior is so foreign to me. I act how I feel, when I feel it. It's terribly inconvenient. So, if any of you can offer any insight, tips perhaps, on how to "acknowledge now, express later," or whatever it is you're doing, I'd really appreciate it. I wouldn't mind having better command of my tear ducts.

i totally paused

I failed my driving test today. Which would be bad enough, except that my boss is the one who escorted me to the DMV and let me borrow his car. So it’s worse. There’s nothing quite like displaying your incompetence to the person who signs your paychecks—especially after he’s taken two hours out of his morning to cheer you on.

What did I do wrong, you ask? I failed to do the one thing that I was specifically warned about: Be sure to pull into the bike lane before making a right-hand turn. Honestly, I thought I did. Then my tester started scribbling notes on her clipboard. Apparently, I wasn’t entirely IN the bike lane before making the turn. Or maybe she didn’t appreciate me looking at her notes. I did have to take my eyes off of the road to do so. It pretty much went downhill from there. After the unsatisfactory right-hand turn, she took me to an intersection full of construction and asked me to make a left-hand turn from a lane that was almost completely blocked. I panicked and ended up in the intersection when the light turned red. More scribbling. Awkwardness and anxiety ensue.

As I pull back into the parking lot, my tester casually delivers the news that I’ll “have to try that again,” and launches into a diatribe on my driving indiscretions as if I’d run over puppies and babies at every intersection. Thanks, lady, I get it. Now I have to tell my boss that I’m a failure. He takes it better than I did, of course. Though I imagine he regretted lending me his car.

I keep thinking to myself, “I have a masters degree from an Ivy League university, yet the state of California deems me too inept to be trusted behind the wheel of a car. How can this be?” Maybe it’s unrelated. I don’t know. Either way, I feel like kind of a loser. Good thing I have a bike.

new year, same old lex

I've never been big on New Year's resolutions. I always let myself down within the first week, so why bother? Plus, it's just another day. I could choose to do something differently starting on February 17, but I probably won't do that either. Because I've been basically the exact same person since I was four. I may have changed my hair style or my attitude about boys in bands a few times, but overall, who I am today is likely who I'll be when things start shifting southward--an over-analyzer whose internal monologue goes on unstoppable diatribes about completely embarrassing topics that I rarely share with anyone. This is the tip of the iceberg, people. I drive myself nuts, and the result is a bizarre sense of humor and sometimes a boatload of tears. In short, I'm a fucking nightmare. 

That being said, you guys can expect pretty much the same out of me this year as last. However, here are a few things that happened in 2009, which i hope will not/never happen again:

1) I flew off my bike and busted my head open. Since I was wearing a very cute hat, I thought, "okay, so it's kind of a lot of blood but I will not let it ruin my night. Please just find my hat and bring me a cocktail. It will be fine." (Alright fine, a resolution: wear helmet)

2) I got laid off. It sucked. Despite a rational belief that it was in fact the fault of the economy and not my work performance, it felt personal and my ego took a major beating. One day I'm sure I'll admit it was for the best, but sometimes I still feel a little bruised. I should really get over it. (resolution: get over getting made redundant)

3) I had a health scare. I'm totally fine now, nothing to worry about, but suffice to say, it's incredibly alarming to realize that you don't have complete control over this vessel you toddle around in. Nonetheless, I could take better care of it. (resolution: be more mindful of my body, i.e. begin very sensible Taco Bell diet)

4) I missed my parents more than I ever thought possible. I live really far away from almost everyone I love. Last year, it seemed more severe than ever. I saw my dad ONCE in a whole calendar year. My mom and sisters, twice. That's absurd. And it made me sad. I can do better than that. (long-term resolution: return to the east coast) 

You know what though, lots of good stuff happened last year too. But who wants to be subjected to someone else's laundry list of accomplishments and happiness? No one. It's annoying. (see Facebook post) So i'll end with this. I hope that 2010 will involve less mangled body parts and more hugs. Happy New Year.