Seeking John Galt

Fin.

*edit*

I might, just maybe, have been feeling a little overwrought yesterday.  That hasn’t changed my decision - Taggart Transcontinental is closing down this little operation. 

Of course, I’m grateful for the people - the insights, the commentary, the snarkful witticisms.  Of course.  I’ll be doing my best to keep in touch (such as that is).

But much the way Dagny’s railroad stopped being her own, this space stopped being mine.  It likely seems otherwise, but I actually don’t like being Darth Vaguer all the time.  I want to write about the things that I know, my own way, in my own space.  But as many of you know - when people start to read, people you know in the real world, people involved in those places and events - well, nobody’s going to agree with your perspective, every time.

A few have managed to retain a sense of humor about the whole thing - have let me have my perspective, or have my fun slightly distorting a situation (hi, D & J!) for comedic effect, or to make a particular point.  Others have been hurt or offended by what I’ve had to say - regardless of whether that was the fault of poor writing on my part, or hypersensitivity on theirs, I heard about it. 

Let’s rephrase - the second I started to write my perspective, about situations for which I was and am more than entitled to have a perspective, I was subjected to diatribe.  And frankly, if I’m going to take that much heat for what I have to say, it’ll be from the agents and (hopefully) editors to whom I hope to submit a finished manuscript one day.

I wish I could say that I never meant to hurt anyone - I think, maybe once or twice, I did.  That was not the case yesterday, and anyone who tries to claim otherwise is, quite frankly, wrong.  I will, of course, continue to read the offerings of those who rock (see sidebar for a sampling).  But I strongly suspect that I’ll enjoy reclaiming my privacy, as well as the ability to confide only in those whom I trust.

It’s been a lovely journey - but I think it’s time for us to explore different paths.  Best of everything to you all.  And should you happen to see a rather glum-looking alter ego roaming about, you might offer her some Nutella. 

So, there’s a guy who falls down a hole. The walls are so steep, he can’t get out on his own.

A doctor walks by, and the man calls to him, “I’m stuck in this hole. Could you help me out?”

The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down the hole, and moves on.

A priest walks by, and the man calls to him, “Father, I’m stuck in this hole. Could you help me out?”

The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down the hole, and moves on.

A friend walks by, and the man calls to him, “Hey, buddy! I’m stuck in this hole, can you help me out?”

The friend jumps into the hole, and the man says, “What’d you do that for? Now we’re both stuck here.”

The friend says, “No, we’re not. I’ve been down here before - I know the way out.”

~ The West Wing - Season Two: “Noel”

Thanks to all of my friends who jumped into the hole with me, and helped me find my own way out - by distracting me, keeping me company, or leaving me be, as I requested. That information I was waiting for? Turned out to be a map so’s I could find my way out.

Thanks again, lovely people. I honestly don’t think I could have done it without you.

The one who tracks the dates, yo. Some of them are easy, some of them are hard. This one? Easy enough, as all I had to do was sniff through the archives to confirm my suspicions. And to visit an online dictionary to ease my fears - Blogiversary is still not a real word. Phew!

I’ve been using this space and this alias for about a year - and I swear, it is not now, nor has it ever been, my intent to bore anyone. Especially not to tears - stop crying, K!

So what I’d like to do today, is thank those I read for inspiring me along the way. Without further ado, Dagny’s Allstars:

January:
Ms. Jordan Baker makes me laugh. Frequently.

February:
When my sister shared her very, very new and wonderful news, I passed along some of Dooce’s wisdom.

March:
I learned the LMNts of finding a date in the blogger community!

April:
I’ve been following She Walks for some time now - this is just one of many reasons why.

May:
Beach Bum joined the community and provided some invaluable methods for pest unwanted suitor control…

June:
If anyone could pull of an orange mustache, I’m sure Lemon Gloria could. Have I also mentioned I kind of wish we’d met ages ago?

July:
The invariable well-dressed Virgle Kent provided the guy’s perspective on honest communication, and inspires me to even more respect for guys who are honest, even when they say things I don’t want to hear.

August:
Back to the inimitable Lemon Gloria for words of wisdom - it should surprise no one that I could have chosen a post of hers for every month of the past year!

September: It’s no wonder that the Cheerful Cynic has such a devoted circle of friends. Not only is she fiercely loyal and protective of her inner circle, but would you want to get on her bad side? Didn’t think so…

October: He who Throws Hammers made me a little more comfortable about having conversations with my alter ego.

November: The incredibly talented Nato began his NaNoWriMo effort - I’m completely addicted. Can I have more, please sir?

December: Dooce’s husband tells his tale at Blurbomat. I cried.

There are at least twenty others I wanted to include, people whose words have had an impact on my life, people I know, people whose sites I’ve just discovered and look forward to reading. For those of you that made me laugh just when I needed it most, or moved me to tears, who informed me, who shared themselves - thank you so much.

Karma:  Well, now.  You do have quite a bit on your plate, haven’t you?

DT:  So glad you noticed.  You’re not planning anything I should know about, are you?

K:  Well, you know, I was actually just about to ask you the same thing.

DT:  Waitaminute.  Aren’t you supposed to be the annoyingly omniscient and vengeful being capable of unparallelled schadenfreude?

K:  Normally I don’t act on anything unless you’ve already done it.  Fortunately for you, merely contemplating evil deeds doesn’t count - though some of those uncharitable thoughts are going to come back at you later - I’m still working out the details.

DT:  Thanks for the heads up.  Frankly, I’m too busy to get into trouble at the moment - that birthday party, Super Bowl plans, a trip to see Things One and Two - and that’s all starting after this class is over with. 

K:  And then there’s that turning thirty thing.

DT:  Yes.  And that.  In April.  I can always count on you to remember such things.

K:  Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten.  Well, I really must toddle off.

DT:  Always a pleasure, K.  Oh - before you go.  About that other thing?  Thanks.

K:  No need to thank me.  My job does work in both directions, you know.  Here - have some Nutella, too.

Just in time for a new season filled with weekly doses of Tim Gunn, I’ve discovered another infestation.

They’re in my closet, this time.  And frankly, I’m not at all sure how they’re pulling this off.

Because I no longer own a scale, my clothes are generally the way I determine whether I’ve been eating/working out in an appropriate ratio.  And the gnomes?  Have clearly been messing with them.

My work pants all either fit perfectly well, or are slightly loose.  Except for one pair that, when I bought it last year, was loose.  Now?  They are snug.  

But they are the only pair.  Every other pair, even those that were tight-ish last year?  Loose or just right.  And unless I have more concrete evidence, I’m not giving up nutella for a pair of pants that’s trying to defy the laws of physics.

Either my closet, or my drycleaner, has an infestation. I’d buy a wretched scale, but:

(1)  What woman in her right mind sets herself up for her first weigh-in in 3 years, at Thanksgiving?

(2) Wouldn’t the gnomes just mess with that, too?

I think I might need to conduct an experiment, which of course would involve the purchase of new pants.   In the name of science, and all…

I do this a lot, actually.  I forget that there is such a thing as “too much” of a good thing.  That less really is sometimes more.  That sometimes, the effort expended on the margin is not only not helpful, but can be detrimental past a certain point on the spectrum.

It has come to my attention that militant breeziness might not be the best tactic to take if one is hoping to have a mature, adult, successful relationship.  At some point, one of you has to admit to caring whether or not you ever see the person again. 

Which, of course, is extraordinarily difficult to do while maintaining a completely nonchalant, detached attitude. 

“I suppose I might find the energy to be mildly less content if I didn’t hear from you within the next month or so… maybe.”

Doesn’t quite convey actual interest or investment, now does it?

So at what point does one have to stop being breezy, lest nihilism take hold and before long, one stops caring about very much of anything at all?

I don’t think I care to find out.

But thankfully, that’s just me.  

Alternate Title:   How NOT to Get Engaged.

Don’t do it six weeks after you met the person, for starters.  Definitely don’t do it less than three months into your freshman year of college.  Really don’t do it when you’ve lived most of your life controlled and sheltered by well-meaning, but overprotective parents, so you have no idea of how to be independent before latching onto another human being.

Don’t do it because he’s the first guy who’s interested in all of you - not just your 18-year-old physical self, but your brain and your heart.  Don’t do it just because he’s the first male non-relative with whom you’ve had all-night conversations every night for the first week since you met. 

Don’t do it when he tries to humiliate you in front of your mutual friends, to make himself seem like an alpha male who’s in control.  Don’t do it when he maybe gets a little pushy in arguments, and don’t do it just because he never actually closed his fist.

Don’t do it because he’s obviously beside himself to get to show you off.  Don’t do it when you realize that you come from completely different backgrounds/upbringings, because you think it would be boring to have developed the same goals and values.  Don’t do it because you’re both so terrified of being alone that you feel safer being miserable, together.

And really, REALLY.  Don’t ever, ever do it in a bowling alley.  Just take my word for that, please.

*******************************

I know a fair amount about how not to do it. 

The great thing is that lately, I’ve been getting to see some wonderful examples of how it should be done, ways that are unquestionably the right way.  People who have figured out who they are, and then found each other, and developed an understanding of how they’ll work as a team.

Miss Andrist, best wishes for your upcoming nuptuals. And thank you, and your intended, for providing such an excellent example of how to do it the right way.  I’m so happy for you I could plotz!

It’s a misnomer, but I think it’s a funny one.  This guy obviously had things he cared about in his life, things that were really important to him.  What was almost too amusing to be insulting, was his complete and utter lack of motivation to actually go on a date with (just) me.

So I met him through friends, during a celebration.  It was a great night, and I certainly thought there was some chemistry - at least, more so than with other people I had met recently.  After the main event, we had a great conversation at a bar, and went our respective ways at the end of the night.  He got my number, and a light peck.

About five or six days later, there was a message in my voicemail.  We traded correspondence, and we made plans to meet up for an event he had already planned to attend with his roommate.   I was fine with this - having other people around gives you a chance to get to know the person’s friends, and takes some of the pressure off.

The next date was also tandem, largely due to preplanned activities and scheduling conflicts elsewhere.  When the third outing proposed was also a group event, I had to back away slowly.  It was becoming readily apparent that this was never going to be a one-on-one activity.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that - it’s just not my cup of daquiri tea.

Anyway, I’ll see you all tonight, hopefully!

K:  Nooooboooddyyy knooowwwws… the trouble I’ve seeeennnn…

DT:  Ha.  ha.  You know you’re even worse at singing than I am, right?

K:  Yeah, I do.  Just like you know you’re sucking at life, right?

DT:  Has anyone told you how closely you resemble my mother?

K:  Hey now, that’s uncalled for.

DT:  (steely gaze)

K:  I was merely suggesting that perhaps you just need to get over yourself and stop wallowing.  It’s decidedly unattractive.  People want to be around cheery and happy, and not someone who’s sulky and tired all the damn time.

DT:  Well, but… I have been a lot more tired for no good reason.

K:  Fake it.  You made it through three years of law school, two bar exams, and I don’t even know how many times you’ve had to pretend to be happy to wear some godawful satin dress and carry a bunch of flowers around.  You’re a much better actress than you give yourself credit for.

DT:  And then what?

K:  I suspect that if you just pretend to be cheery, you’ll eventually get over yourself and just, well… be cheery.

DT:  That’s your brilliant plan.

K:  Yep.

DT:  Fantastic.

…is the scariest place I’ve ever been.  And I grew up in Jersey, yo.  I’ve been to Camden, and walked half a mile from a bar there in the wee hours.  I’ve been in the dressing room at Loehmann’s annual sale, and to the Fast Eddie’s in Jacksonville, NC.  I do not scare easily.

Granted, my arrival at said Travel Plaza (July, 2002) was preceded by the failure of my vehicle’s master cylinder on I-95 (northbound), while in the Fort McHenry tunnel.  For those of you unfamiliar, the master cylinder is essential to brake operation.  So I had to keep my car under 10 mph through the tunnel, through the toll both, to the exit, shift into neutral, and emergency brake my way into a parking spot, where I called AAA*.  I was, perhaps, not in the most calm or collected frame of mind.  Overwrought, even.

I called my sister, who volunteered to drive down and pick me up.  Returning to DC wasn’t an option, as I had a basketful of bridal shower paraphenalia (you know that stupid poem with the cereal and the Joy dish detergent?  that stuff) and was hosting said shower the next day, so I had to get to my parents’ house.

While I waited, with my suitcase and wicker basket o’ girliness and LSAT teacher’s manual encumbering me to the point where I couldn’t really move… anywhere, lest something get stolen, I was greeted by a man. 

He was thin, and though probably in his late twenties or early thirties, had turned fifty as a result of hard living in that way some people do.  He asked to sit across from me while he waited for his ex-wife to bring him his stuff.  He sat before I could think of what to say, and tried to make small talk.

Except, he kept falling asleep.  And then waking up, and excusing himself, only to return five or ten minutes later.  And falling asleep/passing out again.  At first, my naive self was too concerned for his well being to worry much about my own.   Was he ill?  Did he need food?  Water?

And then, it dawned on me.  Maybe he wasn’t… himself.  Maybe he had ingested something that might make him not only a danger to himself, but also to others.  Maybe he’d want more of that in the near future.  And maybe I looked like someone who might have the means to help him get it, if his ex didn’t show up with his “stuff”.

When one grows up in a relatively affluent neighborhood, recreational drugs are there.  Expensive ones.  But I didn’t go to those parties, and didn’t know what I was looking at, not for sure.  I made eye contact with every state trooper and local officer who stopped in the place - with startling regularity, about 6-8 in the three and a half hours I waited. 

My sister arrived in the middle of a torrential downpour, and took one look at me - still seated across from a semi-articulate, semi-conscious semi-ghost whose barely audible mumbling dwindled to nothing from time to time.  She grabbed my things, including the bag still strapped across my shoulder, and hauled me into the storm.  I can only guess she thought I’d be safer there.

Looking back, I wonder if I was ever in any real danger.  I kind of like to think that I wasn’t.  But I probably wouldn’t go back there unless another vehicular mishap steers me that way.  Frankly, if I need to sit across from a semi-comatose man for several hours, I’ll just have someone set me up with a guy studying for a bar exam.

*Yeah, I’m still proud of that.  IN the parking space, well within the lines.  Also, I’m proud of the fact that my cell (trusty StarTac, I miss thee) was charged AND the AAA membership was paid up.  AND of the fact that when the tow guy got there, and didn’t believe that there was anything wrong with the car, I made him stay there until the cylinder lost pressure again.  I know from broken cars, okay?