September 1, 2010
Waldo
So, I think I found him.
Not Waldo. John.
And no, I’ve not been writing about my journey to find some guy who’s going to fix everything. First of all, I can build my own extension cords, thankyouverymuch. Second, this was more about unleashing my emotional capitalist.
I grew up with a Marxist emotional economy, believing that I shouldn’t discriminate with my affections – that everyone deserved to have as much of my love and affection as I could give, no matter how they treated me. And yes, this is significantly the result of not ever being able to tell a certain parent that I didn’t deserve to be treated a certain way.
Whether or not it’s a parent’s right to treat their kids however they want within the confines of the law is a debate for someone else to engage. I’ve been a lot less interested in the should’ves of the situation than I’ve been in fixing it, because I suspected that I would enjoy life a lot more if I had more say in how it went – in the kinds of people I allowed in my sphere.
It turns out that Mr. Galt is an asshole.
Mr. Galt can walk away from needy people. His author advocates protecting one’s labor and the fruits thereof, from anyone who would unjustly share in them, with a zealot’s enthusiasm.
And no, I’m not about to tromp around proclaiming my superiority to the heavens, and making everyone “earn” the right to partake of my company. Basically, this journey has been about learning that I can, that I HAVE, to CHOOSE who is worthy of my time and attention. That I need to take responsibility for those choices, instead of passively allowing others to direct my life by treating me well or ill for as long as THEY see fit. That I am the only person who can stand up for me and be vocal about what I do and don’t like. That it’s okay – necessary, even – to be an asshole sometimes.
Who knew?
And so, I leave you with this completely unrelated advice: Should you come across one of these, and be lured by its siren call into throwing yourself astride and signaling to the operator to turn it on…
Hang on with your legs – the strap is all but useless.
August 20, 2010
Facebook hazard #932
When someone you’ve been friends with for something close to a decade posts a status that reveals views repugnant to you.
Frankly, I’m kinda pissed. I’m not sure at whom, though. At this person, for pretending to tolerance all these years? Or at myself, for ignoring other personality characteristics that would, if acknowledged, allowed me to discern these views and fade the friendship appropriately.
Even worse, part of me suspects that I’m pissed because his views reflect poorly on me. Nobody likes to say, “Oh, yeah, he’s kind of a {misogynist, racist, homophobe, bigot, ignorant asshole who has apparently forgotten how to use the rational parts of our brains that make us human), but he’s otherwise an okay guy, so I’m totally friends with him. Well, maybe some people like to say that. I don’t.
And right now, as I’m thinking of him, I’m thinking of a whole list of things about him that annoy me and make me want to not be his friend anymore. And I wonder if this is the opening of my eyes to the way I’ve always thought about this person, and the whole friendship was a lie, or if it’s just the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Either way, back broken. Now, to unfriend, block, or hide?
August 3, 2010
Odds and Ends
A long weekend of pure indulgence and somehow, my suit fits better than it did before I left. Perhaps standing around in 4″ heels for 6+ hours a night is a decent substitute for an hour or so of cardio?
I think I prefer Vegas weather.
I do not prefer Vegas cabdrivers.
Also, hanging out at places where you cannot see outside at all can lead to some disconcerting realizations – like how you somehow managed to leave at 7:30 in the morning, some 5 hours after you really, honestly intended to get back to your hotel.
The gold lamé dress was fantastic.
So were these boots – not at the same time, I assure you.
There are no photos – which might be for the best. I am, apparently, the kind of person who goes to Vegas and forgets her camera. But the beauty of Vegas is that the experience can be everything. When you leave, you have this vague, blurry sense of awesomeness, and the thought that it might be fun to go back… just as soon as you’ve had enough time to recover.
July 26, 2010
Things that are fired
I-95.
The weather.
Lord & Taylor dressing room lighting and mirrors. I have a theory about this, actually – they light & mirror the rooms to make you look as hideous as possible when naked, so that when you put clothes on your body, the contrast is so remarkable that you are grateful to no longer look like a wildebeest and you buy the clothes.
Things that are not fired:
Sibling Extraordinaire
OPI color-naming people (Coz-u-melted in the sun? heheheeeee)
W, for finding me a way home that did not involve I-95 or the B-W Parkway, and for taking me to churrascaria after I got back. 😀
July 21, 2010
Zen Ze Game of Lowered Expectations
This, I had to think about. Because, well, spas are supposed to be relaxing, first and foremost. Invigorating, sure. And I suppose there are spas out there that put the invigoration first and the relaxation second, but a spa whose entire existence is centered around chocolate, a spa with little bowls of free kisses and fun-size bars pretty much everywhere? Is not a spa that is all about Health! And Exercise! And AWAKE!
No. It is a spa about languid relaxation with a schmear of decadence.
So, I signed up for my package, and it included something called a “Rain Shower”. I had no idea what this was, but figured it was probably something enjoyable, and why not give it a go?
(hint: I’m about to tell you why not)
I changed into my bathing suit, and was escorted into a very complicated shower stall with many shower heads placed so that water could be directed towards the center of the stall from pretty much every angle. These shower heads, I could see, were connected to some very impressive looking gauges, with some complicated knob arrangements alongside. And, a hose.
The technician started the bottommost set of showerheads, and it was cold, and then it wasn’t, and then it was kind of hot, and then I stepped out of the stall and refused reentry until the temperature was readjusted downward. The flow was similarly opened to subsequent sets of showerheads, progressing upwards, with a similar shock of cold followed by (thankfully, not so close to boiling) warm water. The hose was aimed at various muscle groups, and the water pressure allegedly massaged the major muscles, and I repeatedly told myself that this was a new experience and I should keep an open mind, because I WAS NOT RELAXED, NOT AT ALL, NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST, because there was a GROWN WOMAN WITH A HIGH-PRESSURE HOSE POINTED AT ME.
And then, she stopped, and for a spit second, the warm water emitting from the showerheads created a rather pleasant cocoon. And then, she turned on the final part of the shower – something she called a “waterfall deluge”.
All of those pictures of people happily cavorting in waterfalls? LIES.
Freezing cold water poured directly onto my head and took my breath away. Nothing could save me, not the warm water from the horizontal showerheads, not the fluffy towels stacked on the other side of the room, past the lady who STILL HELD THE HOSE, as though she’d use it to corrall me like some unfortunate wayward calf. “Get back in the stall!” I imagined her shouting, as I struggled to regain sufficient control over my person to fill my lungs with air.
And then it stopped, and she told me, in that calm, quiet “spa voice”, to use as many towels as I liked to dry off, pointed out the plastic bag for my swimsuit, and said she’d meet me outside the outer door, so she could take me to my “soak”.
At this point, I was more than a little afraid of what might happen next.
July 19, 2010
Zen? Zen. Zen what? Zen we take care of ourselves.
You might think that a hyperindulgent weekend would result in one feeling terrible on Monday. You might think that six women in a condo 500 feet from tax-free outlet stores and .5 miles from a cocoa-centric spa would result in excessive purchases of clothing that would refuse to button the following week.
You might be wrong.
I’d been apprehensive about the weekend – I tend to feel gargantuan around most of my female friends anyway, as I am 3.5″ taller than the next tallest (who, it might be noted, wears clothes 3 full sizes smaller than mine), and they are all athletic and gorgeous. Not to mention smart and funny. Lovely and intimidating.
Also, I’d never been to a spa before. I signed up for one of the packages, thinking that the people who put these things together probably know a thing or two about producing enjoyable spa experiences. And we’ll talk more about the “rain shower” another time. But the massage? The massage induced the most blissfully languid epiphany:
I want to take care of myself.
I’ve had this body for kind of a while now, and I’ve hated it since I was six. For a while, I hated it passively, making it sit around on couches while I fed it all manner of junk food. Then I hated it slightly more actively, engaging in mild exercise while swearing off almost all foods, save a bizarre ritualized assortment of things I consumed only when alone. Then I hated it more damagingly, partaking of “tiny little flaming sticks of death” on a regular basis. And then I hated it a litte more responsibly, working out 4-5 times a week and eating more healthfully than I ever had before (though that’s not saying much). But I’ve never not hated it.
At least, not until somewhere in the middle of that massage, when it occurred to me that I didn’t. For at least 3 minutes, I not only didn’t hate it, but I loved it, and wanted to take care of it, rather than beat it into submission.
And this morning, I slept for an extra 45 minutes and neglected to put sugar in my tea. I also cringed at a few photographs from the weekend.
Baby steps.
July 7, 2010
Putting Out
You know what would make me happy? If people took more responsibility for what they put out there.
So if you want me to think you are capable, hardworking, intelligent, and worth my best effort, you should probably do things that are in line with those qualities. And not, say, continually engage in undermine-y, petty behavior. Yes, you are successfully telling me that you don’t like me. But you’re also telling me that you’re not adult or professional enough to work around that, even if I’m the best person to work on a particular task. And when you get all wide-eyed later, and say that you never suggested any such thing, bless my heart, I’m going to call you on it, and recount the ways in which you very much suggested all of those things.
And if you want me to think that you’re a pretty good human person, who is generally respectful of others and worth establishing a friendship with, you should probably do things that support that thesis. For example, you could respect my boundaries, and not try to foist your agenda on me when that agenda clearly conflicts with my boundaries. And when I call you out on it, you could admit to egocentricity and lack of consideration, at the very least.
And I, in turn, should take responsibility for giving the impression that I might be okay with a little foisting, (which I sometimes do by dint of being confrontation-abhorrent). And, remember that for next time, and be less confrontation-abhorrent.
June 24, 2010
Decisionmaking
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” shouted the count, burning himself badly.
If you’re not happy with your situation, you have three main options. You can do absolutely nothing and continue on the Path of Unhappy. You can do something about your situation to make it better. Or, you can remove yourself from that situation entirely.
But you cannot do any two of these things simultaneously, and have an real hope of success. For example, if you quit your job, you cannot also hope to have some positive influence on the way the job is, after you’ve left. You cannot do nothing, and hope to make changes happen. And since removing yourself is, by definition, doing something, you can’t do nothing and remove at the same time.
So my advice is to think about it for as long as you need, but then pick one, and stick with it.
June 23, 2010
I do not suppose you could, ah, speed things up?
“Look, if you’re in such a hurry, you could lower a rope or a tree branch, or find something useful to do.”
“I could do that. I got some rope up here, but I do not think you would accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you.”
“That does put a damper on our relationship.”
It’s safe now. The explosion has passed, thanks to the powers of catharsis and excellent musical suggestions from my friendly neighborhood gas pump. So, thanks for that.
I spent 23-24 hours in a pool hall last weekend, attempting to win a free trip to Vegas for me and my team. We’d almost locked it up the first day, but couldn’t quite close, and had to come back the second. After some hard-fought battles, we made it to the final round, where we ran into a team that wound up having some issues.
We were up 2 matches after the first 2 matches – so we had three more chances to win the last match we needed to get to go. I lost – which wasn’t entirely unexpected, and was a strategic move (playing me enabled my team to put up some higher skill level players). And then something became readily apparent.
The other team’s players were sandbaggers. All but one of them were blatantly under-ranked. And the last one? The one who won the last match to enable his team to come back and win the round? Nobody who legitimately holds the rank next to his name on the scoresheet can play as well as he did. And the referees saw.
And so, we mentioned it to the local league authority. Who then talked to the team, and couldn’t get a straight answer out of any of them about, well, anything. They claimed that some of them weren’t legally able to travel, so they couldn’t field a full team in Vegas. And then they said never mind, they’d rent a van and drive there, if they couldn’t get on a plane. And then, they admitted that their last player could probably be ranked at least two levels higher than what the scoresheet said.
Except, that if you go up two or more levels in this kind of tournament, your team gets disqualified.
Basically, every member of that team was playing dirty pool. And so now, we’re waiting to hear whether the national HQ for the league is going to disqualify them and give us the slot for Vegas, or, well… not.
I hate waiting.
June 21, 2010
Please, Go Away.
Don’t ever think about me again. Don’t ever think about anything that might lead you to think about me again.
Don’t come here and read what I write.
Don’t talk to people I know, and mention my name in an artfully casual manner, just to see what they might have to say.
While we’re at it, don’t say my name at all.
There has been a strong correlation between how much better my life has gotten, with less of you in it. Statisticians be damned, I’m going to go with causation on that one – so stay the fuck away.
You will never, ever, have the foggiest notion of what is actually going on in my life, if I can help it. So don’t ever start rumors about me in any capacity, because you will be wrong and I will hear about it, and it will just make me want to tell people the truth about you.
Truths like how you propositioned me while you knew I was in a serious, committed relationship – and while you were living with your then-girlfriend.
Truths like how you think that people are things you can barter – something you tried to do TWICE, though you thought I only knew about the first time.
Truths like how you’re willing to stab anyone in the back if you think it will get you laid.
Truths like how you’re willing to lie for the sole purpose of making others feel bad.
Truths like how you’re a shitty excuse for a person, and how absolutely nobody deserves to have you inflicted on them.
So, please stop reading. Close your browser, go elsewhere, and just leave me alone. Because I am a good person, and don’t deserve this bullshit.
And, kindly fuck off and die.
Seeking John Galt 