Living with fear ain’t easy.
And I’m already exhausted, between the tremendous internal pressure I’m feeling (increasing as the days go by) and the strenous efforts I’m making for hours every day to brainstorm possibilities and contact possible allies and research possible leads. Now that I’m finally open to anything and everything, opportunities don’t seem to be just magically appearing, the way the rah-rah intention people promise they will. It’s stressing me out.
I’m trying to just walk through it, breathe through it.
**
Although I’ve resolved to blow this cow town, I’m still looking for short-term work (doing things I would never have considered in the past, like cold-call fundraising) in an effort to ease my mounting financial worries. I will be completely cleaned out of every last dime in my existing bank accounts if I stay here through the month of June without working, and that’s barring any and all unforseen or emergency expenses. As it is, I hope to be here only through May. Then, perhaps (in the least desirable case scenario), I’ll have to load my pared-down belongings into someone else’s car (obtained through one of those companies that lets you drive cars cross-country for other people) and roadtrip back to my kinfolk’s state on the East coast, hopefully with enough money left in my pocket for gas, food, and cheap motel lodging.
There was a time when such a prospect would have driven me to leap out of a tenth story window. Now, however, being in this curious place of having released just about everything to which I was formerly so attached — including my beloved 1973 VW Beetle — dying along with my former life seems redundant and unnecessary.
My best friend back “home,” bless her heart, is busy trying to line up a place for me to stay other than at my fundamentalist parents’ house, but I really would rather avoid that eventuality altogether. Today a longtime friend called to tell me that an always cheerful and caring former co-worker of ours, only a few years my senior, had collapsed at work with a massive blood clot to the heart. (She’s currently in intensive care and in need of a heart transplant. Visitors and calls are being discouraged.)
**
I haven’t seen Rachel in years, but this couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. Or to a man sweeter than her husband, who lost his younger sister to suicide many years ago. Talk about devastating loss…
Suddenly it’s thrown into even sharper relief, how fragile these bodies of ours are, and how little time we have on this mad, whirling planet to do what we will.
When I feel pangs in my legs (I’m a prime candidate for clots myself) and the odd palpitations from my idiosyncratic little heart murmur, I have weird intimations of my own demise. Nate Fisher of Six Feet Under may have been a fictional character, but he was a kindred spirit: I always appreciated and identified with the way he grappled with his own mortality, ultimately to be dispatched by AVM (yet another circulatory disorder) at the age of forty. I honestly don’t think I have the constitution for longevity, either, and like our friend Russ, half expect not to complete another decade. So I’m no longer unconcerned about wasting time.
Going back to where I came from smacks of wasting time. As does staying here. I’ve been treading water in this place for a long, long while, feeling like I don’t quite belong…but waiting, hoping, for years, for certain outcomes that never turned out.
All of a sudden — with my growing discontent egged on by online self-helpers and coaches who essentially contradict the laissez-faire spiritual teachings (about non-striving and such) I tried for so long to embrace — I find that certain long-suppressed (not necessarily “reasonable” or feasible) wishes and longings of mine have re-emerged, clamoring at maximum volume, with an urgency that won’t allow me a day’s rest or a minute’s peace. I’m casting my nets wildly in every direction, driven to tears by internalized drill sergeants who hammer and hammer and don’t care that I’m doing the best I can with no fucking clue of what I’m doing. As if my life were riding on my ability to spin gold from straw alone and overnight. Where’s that fool Rumplestiltskin when you need him?
I’m looking for a way, and I needed it yesterday.
**
Today I heard back from the American University of Paris. They won’t accept applications from foreign workers who don’t have their work papers in order. Yesterday I was on the phone for forty-five minutes with my aforementioned friend Talia, who is an associate professor there and would be happy to put me up in her spare room, but she was as discouraging as the University about coming over without the proper work visa (which is apparently a bureaucratic nightmare to obtain). France is tough. Italy, from what I’ve been able to find out, is equally tough. Apparently the entire EU has tightened up its immigration laws a lot in the past few years. You used to be able to cross over to Switzerland for a couple of hours after your 90-day no-visa visit to Italy was up, and then come back for another 90 days. No more.
There are still some shortcuts available. If you’re a student, you can obtain a student visa and work up to 20 hours a week legally (of course there are also some under-the-table cash jobs around, like au pair). If you’re an entrepreneur planning on starting a business over there, they make it much easier for you to get your working papers. If you’re in a highly skilled, high-demand field like IT and get hired by a European employer, they also pretty much wave you through. I’ve read on blogs that Ireland’s immigration authorities don’t care that much about illegal Americans, so some employers (particularly in the tourism and food and beverage industries) don’t care that much, either.
I’m definitely leaning toward Ireland, but then again, I was already. Surprised? I thought not. Every time I listen to Damo now I feel this deep if irrational conviction that I need to go over there, with an inexplicable certainty that “soul-honoring,” mythically inclined authors like David Whyte and John O’Donohue and Thomas Moore would encourage me to trust. (Are any of you readers in Ireland? Need somebody to tutor your kids or hoe your garden? Wash your car? Write your dissertation? My email is right there on the sidebar. Seriously. Help me out.)
My highly skeptical friend Karl, probably the biggest pessimist I have ever met, tried to dissuade me from my mad notions by reminding me of the global recession and how difficult it is to find jobs anywhere — but I still managed to find out that he has a good friend in Dublin, and got him to agree to put us in touch. I didn’t try to enroll him in my crazy scheme, I just asked him for a favor. (You have to choose your battles.)
There are some volunteer opportunities over there with Simon Communities for the homeless, as well as with an international Catholic group assisting the disabled…they give you room and board for your troubles, and a tiny spending allowance of 50-65 euros per week. Frankly, I’m not so keen on going that route. I was a VISTA volunteer when I first came out here, so I’ve been there and done that. And twenty years of living on a shoestring has gotten pretty dang old. A girl needs non-holey socks and underwear, for crying out loud. Besides which, keeping basic cell phone service could eat up at least one-quarter of a month’s stipend.
Yahoo has a decent-paying Web editor job over there (and I bet they help Yanks get their legal ducks in a row), but you have to be fluent in at least one European language besides English, and even my strongest secondary language, Spanish, isn’t very good. I don’t think I could fake it. Should I apply anyway? Lord knows, I’ve been searching everywhere for jobs for which I might be qualified, through international recruiters and international job sites and even EU government sites. I spent five hours Saturday updating my profile on Monster.com (making very clear my desire to relocate) and doing just this kind of research. Today I was online for at least another four, clicking around and brainstorming, while also lining up possible buyers for what’s left of my poor VW and setting up a job interview at Telefund (ugh).
I’m effing wiped. And I’ll wake up tomorrow in a cold sweat and do it all over again.
**
Last Friday I started reading through my 2006 Italy diaries again. And I thought, damn, these are pretty good. I had the time of my life, really, living those singular experiences and then translating them to the page to share with my closest friends. In many ways, I felt like I was doing what I was meant to do. I loved it. Sonny even said to me (and I forget this, but it makes me pause and wonder whether he loved me more unselfishly than I loved him) that I should remind myself of that more expansive time, and try to get back to the feeling of what it was like.
So bittersweet: both being with him and being over there were wonderful, but mutually exclusive, dreams come true. He told me he was happy I found someone to laugh and love with — meaning that ultimately rejecting English s.o.b. — the memory of which makes me want to cry my eyes out for another hundred years or so.
(Cough.) Moving on…
Anyway, this is one case where internet research quickly became demoralizing. My coach recommended that I look into travel writing, so I started doing some searching, and turned up innumerable articles and blogs that basically all conclude “Don’t expect to be Rick Steves” or “Don’t expect to make a living at this.” My scarcity prejudices were heartily and repeatedly reinforced. The world and the Web are overflowing with wannabe travel writers, and there’s no demand and no market for all of you. The best thing to do, apparently, is to write those little 200-400 word “shorts” for magazines and Web sites at $25-50 a pop, and hope for the best, but keep your day job.
So fuck me, I guess.
**
But speaking of fucking me — on a lighter note — a quite young man (23, to be exact) I’ve known for several months seemed to be pitching me totally unexpected vibes the other day. I found myself perspiring a little, and feeling very Anne Bancroft. He’s an attractively geeky, bespectacled vegan philosophy student with a self-deprecating sense of humor who (now that I recall) once tried to buy me a drink at the coffeehouse/bar where we both sometimes hang out. I was on my way out at the time, but now I’m sorry I didn’t take him up on it. Damn.
Given that I could have a stroke tomorrow, and that I may wind up moving back to my birthplace or a whole other country within the next couple of months, maybe a little carpe diem is in order. Or should I say carpe vegan? Seize the vegan! (I just put a really filthy joke about eating meat here and then thought better of it. You can make up your own.) I haven’t laid a hand on anybody since you-know-who. I haven’t really wanted anybody, other than that impossible Brit. But Dexter (I’ll call him that, it seems to fit) really is pretty hot, in his skinny, brainy hipster sort of way. And he’s so fricking young! I’m absolutely floored, if that was actual electricity I felt crackling in the air. I don’t know that he’s not spoken for, but he was complaining that women don’t exactly flock to philosophy majors. (He should have gone to my college.) Holy crap, how many more years do I expect to be able to attract snackable young things like that? What am I waiting for?
What do you think? Shall I invite him over for some quinoa pasta and fill him up with organic wine? Steal up behind him as he’s looking around my apartment and nuzzle his slender neck, murmuring Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
**
Looking around this apartment myself, I imagine I’ll start my possession eliminations with things like the television, which is all but useless without a digital converter box. The hardest thing to let go will be books and CDs, but they’ve got to be scaled back if I’m going to ship them cross-country or stuff them in a car. Scanning the kitchen, it makes me vaguely anxious to think about having to start over from scratch after how long it took to build up a decent stock of spices and secondhand dishes and utensils…but that’s assuming I’ll always be as poor as I have been.
It’s strange to consider that just six months ago I was still trying to acquire things for this apartment, to turn it into an inviting place where I would hopefully entertain a certain more-than-friend, eventually. I got art for the walls, and a desk, and a baker’s rack for the kitchen, and a new comforter and duvet (all, I should add, with a little help from my friends). I do love this space, it’s one of the nicest and brightest I’ve ever lived in on my tiny budget. If I were going to spend my life in one room, like Emily Dickinson, I might stay here. But I also know I can’t stay here forever, and it seems like Big Change Time is now or never.
The voices of pessimism start in, and tell me that things will get worse rather than better…that I’ll be lonely…that I’ll miss my friends…that I’ll be sorry. And I can’t tell those voices that I know they’re wrong. But I’ve let them hold me in suspended animation for far too long.
**
This evening I waved from the steps as the pleasant young couple who had just given me three hundred dollars for my rusty and problem-ridden Beetle pulled out into the street: he driving, having just gotten the motor running again, and she following in their battered pickup. They crossed the intersection, and I watched as they disappeared up the hill, the unmistakable put-put-put-put of the VW engine fading away for good.
I have had a recurring dream that I’ve somehow wound up somewhere very, very far away with that car — usually my state of origin — and I start to panic about not being able to get it back home (here) in its dilapidated condition. One time it rolled down an incline into a lake, and I was trying to pull it out of the mud even as it sank! Such symbol-laden dreams, telling of anxious, encumbering attachments to things that don’t last, and the lifelong horror I’ve had of getting stuck back in New England with my fervently religious family. I would wake up depressed and fearful every time.
Now my most dreaded relinquishings are becoming easy. After the job, after the community, after the man, the car is a piece of cake. Nonattachment will be forced upon you, whether you like it or not, and when it comes…
Well, maybe you’ll sleep better, after all.
Things are sounding grim. Fight the good fight as long as you can, is all I can advise on that front. I’m one of the few people I know who isn’t looking for a job, or re-locating. Even Hammerhead is thinking about pulling up stakes and telecommuting from wherever he lands. The Object Of My Obsessions will be laid off on the 15th, and My Crazy Ex-Roommate is calling suicide prevention hotlines back in Baltimore, apparently. Wish I had more encouraging news.
Have you tried the employment boards on our alumni website?
Best of luck with the 23-year-old doesn’t-know-what’s-about-to-hit-him guy. I’ll send my (modest) advice off-book, so as to avoid going TMI on you. Remember, I’m no expert at this myself. Of course, you know who writes a sex advice column, right?…
Grim? It all depends on how you look at it, I guess. I was trying to end on a slightly more upbeat note, believe it or not. I’m amazed by how easy it’s become to let things go. All of my worst fears came true, and here I am on the other side — still alive! — thinking about the pulls I sometimes felt in other directions that I’m now at least theoretically free to pursue.
Most days it just seems like the future is a big question mark, but that question mark contains all kinds of unexplored possibilities…the feasibility of which have yet to be explored. Ever notice that fear and excitement cause almost the exact same physiological changes in the body? If I’m nervous, I can tell myself I’m excited.
Anyway, tonight I had my first live training at Telefund, and it really wasn’t that bad. I decided to think of it as a game (in the spirit of Ben Zander), and even though I got the toughest trainer/observer in the place, I wasn’t all that freaked out jumping in after only two hours of preparation, and having her listen in. I always thought I’d be terrified. Then I walked home from downtown at ten-thirty through rough streets. Know what’s great about having your worst fears realized? The remaining ones just aren’t that bad!!! Even the prospect of going back East doesn’t have the effect it once did.
You already know what I think, but you’re totally entertaining and lovable, A.B. The philosophy major is a lucky guy. Please excuse me for being cloyingly rah-rah.
Here’s an interesting perspective (which you’ve probably thought of already) — nonattachment is actually the key to really pursuing a goal with all you’ve got. If your self-worth is riding on your success at work or in some other project, that’s actually when anxiety and procrastination take root (think about when you’ve done a really “make or break” project at school or work, for instance). I write and teach about this kind of stuff a lot.
I wish the rest of the world felt the way you do, Chris! (You can be rah-rah that way all you want. I was talking about innumerable other cheerleaders…I’ve been consuming e-books and change-your-life whatnot like crack lately.) Then maybe I could travel on that momentum, get some backing from Oprah and a nice book advance to write about my journey/adventure/pilgrimage. I guess I’d have to come out of the closet, but even that doesn’t scare me so much anymore. What the hell?
That paradox you mention drives me crazy, because by the time I reach this nonattachment phase I just don’t f*n care anymore! (Not that I’ve ever fully been here before.) I walked through a grief and fear I dreaded more than death, and it didn’t kill me, but on the other side there’s not much desire driving me. I’m actually kind of “meh” about the whole Dexter biz right now…seems like too much of a bother to go seek him out if he’s not right in front of me! I’m lacking what the Spanish call GANAS. I’m not used to not having GANAS!
But this weird “whatever” zone sure is making the phone fundraising work more fun than it would have been in my old anxious state. I never thought I’d actually enjoy milking people for donations, but tonight I netted nearly $1000 for MoveOn while schmoozing some nice liberal folk. A game! A game! And at the same time, oddly enough, I’m not feeling terribly competitive with my coworkers. I’m usually highly competitive — even if I keep it quiet.
Two women on my floor are having a yard sale this weekend, so looks like I’ll have a opportunity immediately to unload some stuff if I want. Is it a sign? I don’t know. Should I just act like I’m going somewhere, and trust that I will be? I don’t know. I don’t know nothin’ except that I’ve been in the same dead-end comfortable place too long.
While it’s worrisome to be in the nothing-left-to-lose situation, it can see where it would be liberating. All too often we’re held back by our fears of the worst outcome, and as Epictetus told us, most of the time our feared outcomes never come to pass, and a lot of the time they’re not as bad as we’d thought. I remember getting mugged at gunpoint back in ’90; when I didn’t flinch at the sight of the gun, he decided to give me a good pounding. What I realized is that it doesn’t hurt as much to get punched in the face as you might think. Still don’t recommend it, but I’m no longer in fear of it.
Odd how this sense of freedom you’re experiencing is livening up your work ethic. Here’s to your new-found fearlessness. Grab your boy Dex, and treat yourself to a double-shot of tequila. Feliz Cinco de Mayo!
Dude!!! Was that in MD or WA? That’s rough. Can’t say as I’ve ever had a gun pulled on me, and nobody’s tried to sock me since grade school.
Feliz Cinco de Mayo! Another good day with the pledges…more kudos from the higher ups. This isn’t something I’d want to do for an extended period, but I really like the people who work there. Mostly smart, educated, political types who do it part-time.
Funny, but I was just thinking about Epictetus myself. I really liked the Stoics at the time we read them, although I wasn’t sure how anyone could live that way. Now I suspect that their status as slaves who had no real control over the external circumstances of their lives probably put them in the “nonattachment zone” as a matter of course, after some initial anguish.
Still don’t know what I’m gonna do re Dex. If he shows up again at the grocery store (another place I seem to run into him) maybe I’ll chat him up a bit and ask him for a raincheck on that drink.
I was mugged just around the corner from the house I grew up in, down in Tacoma. All I can say is that the two assailants (one black, one white), weren’t from the neighborhood. My jaw was swollen for about two days, but no lasting damage.
I don’t remember much of Epictetus, other than the t-shirt that was going around freshman year, “Epictetus Say: Relax”. I’ve read some Marcus Aurelius, and in general consider myself to be a stoic (like my father before me). I’ll say that a stoic outlook is a very good thing to have on any job, makes even bad jobs bearable. Sounds like you’re enjoying the gig you have now, which is something.
Good luck with Dex the BoyToy. Never forget, that as the chick, you OWN the situation (even if it doesn’t feel that way all the time). You can be a lot more aggressive with him and still be within socially acceptable paramenters than he can be with you, if it comes down to that, so don’t be afraid. Just keep it friendly, and everything should go fine.
Darlin, I don’t think there’s a situation I’ve owned. I’m not sure there’s been a situation I’ve so much as rented. I will tell you that my aggression with one guy at my workplace when I was in my 20s almost resulted in a formal complaint. So much for owning and for reading a situation, eh! Weird thing is that he let me kiss him once, before that. And it wasn’t an ambush like with Brendan, either. So f* if I understand the male mind…
I kicked so much booty at work today, though, my confidence is way way up. Maybe it’ll infect every arena. The hippie boys over there did seem to be chattier and more attentive than usual. I kept catching the very friendly stoner next to me staring at my breasts. Duuude! XD
Well, just to be clear: while male desire/interest can be taken as a given more or less, that doesn’t translate into predictable action. Again, I’ll point to all the social conditioning that’s been hammered into place in the last thirty years to get men to act in a totally non-sexual way, especially in the workplace. The social risks may be higher if you’re female, but the employment, disciplinary, and legal risks remain much higher for men. Keep this in mind if you engage Dex in banter when he’s at large vs. behind the counter. (Which is what makes your move on that Brendan character SO delicious.) Any luck on that count?
Getting the stoner hippie attention, gotta love it. I recall admiring your decolletage at numerous waltz parties myself–very nice. How to deal with that in the co-worker next to you? When you see him checking you out, slyly (but somehow conspicuously) look down at his crotch. Don’t look him in the eye if he catches you–and no matter what you see, smile to yourself (sly/conspicuous).
And again I say: XD
Did I say that I mind him looking? Thanks for the compliment, by the by. I figure I’ll never, EVER get the leg men, but at least I can hook some of the titty-lovers. I don’t think I’m supposed to say that in polite company, but I guess we stopped being polite company a long time ago…
I really REALLY like stoner hippie boy, possibly even more than Dex, because we’ve got incredible chemistry, and I netted $2000 the day I sat next to him (perhaps for that reason). He can’t be a day over 30, and I’d give him a shave and a haircut if I had my way, but even making like grunge Jesus he manages to be attractive — his face could wear any look, and he’s got great eyes. Plus he keeps me laughing.
See, I couldn’t entirely fault Sonny for his roaming tendencies, because when I’m not in love with somebody, I pretty much want to sample all the chocolates in the box myself. Where once looking at other guys made me unhappy and sick to my stomach, now I’m like Augustus Gloop set loose in candy wonderland. Greedy with appetite, I don’t know which to grab first or where to start. I keep seeing something else I like.
And what the hell is wrong with that? You’re talking to a hedonist–gobble up all the chocolates, by the handful if you want. I understand that somewhere in the mid-30s, a woman’s estrogen levels go into decline, allowing androgens to assert themselves more fully. Translation: sexual peak. Perhaps now the behavior and proclivities of high school males are beginning to make some sort of sense (in the concrete, not in the abstract). All I can say is, yes, it’s better to have a partner for this. Hail the first testosterone taxi that comes by and ride wherever you please.
Again, common cause. Women and men aren’t *that* different.
The crotch-watching thing with the hippie, if I didn’t make it clear, is a showing of interest. See if you can line something up for Friday. When Friday rolls around, ask him if it’s still a go. When he says yes, ask if there’s any chance of him getting a close shave, since beards tend to scratch you up. That’d be the clearest signal of what’s to come, but it’s just forward enough that you could play it off if it looks like the wrong thing. I get the impression that being so forward isn’t really your nature…or hasn’t been. If that’s the case, I say: take a page out of Sonny’s book. I’m not thinking you’ll be breaking any hearts.
Testosterone taxi? XD
Actually, like I was saying, I’ve always had this tendency. Remember Candy Candy Candy? I did get bolder in my 30s, and I made a pass at a guy about a decade younger who was overtly flirting with me…but turned out he didn’t mean business. I think I’ve stuck my neck out more than the average female and gotten shot down a lot more. I’m nearly always the aggressor.
But just because you don’t experience jealousy and other attendant painful emotions doesn’t mean all men don’t! I do try to take care with people. And I have to learn to take care with myself — I know I have a propensity to derail my own intentions and plans when I get attached to a guy to almost any degree. I’ve stayed in this town repeatedly for that reason when another part of me was pulling me elsewhere. How much I like these two personally is almost worrisome. It’s as if it would be better to stick to men I find physically appealing but with whom I can’t carry on a conversation. Not that they’re beating down my door!
Also, I was just wondering where bm3 had got to. It’s been kind of quiet around here. He’s the one who was clamoring for me to move on…
Good to hear that you’re willing to take initiative–sometimes that’s the only way to get things going. Let me take this opportunity to say that a lot of women out there are convinced (or convince themselves) that being the initiator never works, that men are turned off by it: to which I resond, NO NOT AT ALL. What that shows is just how difficult it is to successfully ask someone out (let alone in). It’s something that every guy learns by the time he gets to high school, but that most chicks don’t realize until much later in life, if at all. And I’ll repeat your own observation back to you: just because you understand this and play fair, doesn’t mean that other women do–and nine times out of ten (by my guesstimate), the person you’re approaching isn’t necessarily suspicious because of what *you’re* doing, but rather all their previous experiences which have left them gun shy. (At least this is what I tell myself when I get rejected, which is 100% of always–)
So don’t give up, and don’t give in. Yes, attachment is a risk (and not necessarily a bad one, after all), but you talk about a sense of freedom, so why not indulge that for a while? Your judgment and perception are fairly good, so trust that and hope for some good luck. I’d say you deserve it (if deserving has anything to do with it…).
That was nice, Russ.
Funny thing, I’m sitting there all day, having taken greater care with my appearance than usual (I’ve been a slob at T-Fund because there’s zilch dress code and it was never my goal to attract anyone in the first place) and craning my neck toward the door every time someone comes through. Where is he? Where is “Rick?”
And I realize…I’m bloody infatuated. Which is always more about how you feel AROUND someone than it is about them…but nevertheless, it’s a kind of vulnerability, after that spell of blessed detachment. God DAMN it!! It GOT to me, our razzy back-and-forth banter, the unabashed sizzle, the way he squeezed my arm, the sparkle in his frickin’ huge hazel eyes. Jeez, he’s not even my type. Maybe he would have been circa 1992, when your town’s grunge scene was all the rage and Eddie Vedder was whipping his glorious mane all around. Handsome hippie stoner bastard, hiding behind that Renaissance Festival dork look. Bet he listens to heavy metal, or something else I can’t stand.
Take me, you Metallica-loving fool!
And you’re *complaining*? I don’t know about you, but I missed feeling like this for all of my 30s. The Object Of My Obsessions is one of the best things that’s happened to me in recent memory–and may turn out to be one of the best of my life (still too early to tell, of course–this is no place for hyperbole, you know–). Isn’t this a great way to feel?
OK, so you have to compromise some of your new-found independence. But…what good is the currency of your independence if you can’t spend it to buy what you want?
Behold, this cup wants to become empty again, and Zarathustra wants to become man again.
Roll with it/him. He’s a hippie, after all, and you landed in Denver for a reason. The chemistry sounds great. And you know what great chemistry makes for.
Just remember that he’s a hippie, so be conscious of your appearance, but don’t over-do it. You can go as informal as you want, if you present it as non-establishment and an expression of yourself. Free spirits tend to go for highly individualized people, and you’ve got that locked up.
And so, Ms. ‘thustra, allow yourself to become woman again.
I’ll bet the man in him wants that.
hi guys,
I’m still here…currently I have tons of stress…couldn’t yet read all the comments..but I got that you two have met personally? wow
I must admit, at least when reading at normal speed I don’t get half of the comments above…
I was thinking that I was talking too much about therapies and maladaptive schemas for your taste, therefore I kept quite for a while, and because of the stress…
I clamored for you to move on?
I recommended to forget Sonny. Do you think that was a bad recommendation?
Did you really put him out of your heart? Maybe not, and that is not your fault, it would be completely normal if that was a difficult task. It is one thing to stop contacting someone, another thing to have him out of your heart.
I see that you have some kind of job now, I’m not sure what it is exactly, something were you call people and raise money, is my limited understanding, not a dream job, but it seems to be ok – and that’s good – you don’t have to live under the bridge.
Comes time, comes different opportunities and you keep your neurotransmitters at normal levels.
Some kind of regular activities, like working, where you get *some* kind of sense of achievement, even if it is tiny… is good for our brains, some regular social contacts, too – we need everything flowing right in the brain, and not only that, we need the brain structures themselves to be right, for example the amygdala can grow too big because of how we lived for the past 10 years, or the hippocampus can be too small and so on.
Does it make sense? This is written in a hurry, so please be kind.
R: I guess I just really want to remain aware…I tend to get so swept away, and forget everything else. Powerful opposite-sex attraction is, after all, such an elemental thing for me, practically as old as I am, and I tend to feel like a child when it happens. I’m so good with people when that ISN’T a factor, and then once these feelings appear I’m as nervous and awkward as a besotted fifth grader. With about as much perspective on the big picture. I’m going to observe myself as best I can, and try to remain in the moment. Already I find myself rehearsing what I’ll say when I see him, and that’s a good way to waste hours. I’ve already spent too much time fantasizing my way through life, and setting aside my other intentions and plans while I “check out” and lie back letting that mental heroin take me away. The fact remains that I’m tired of this town, and I’ve felt the rest of the world calling.
B: Russ and I are old college friends. We’ve known each other over twenty years!
Clearly, I’m moving on — two new crushes in one month? — but I’ll never forget Sonny. If I live to be one hundred (which I won’t!), I’ll never forget Sonny. We were connected in inexplicable ways, and he’ll always live in part of my heart. Maybe I should never have aspired to be his lover, I lost him as a friend, but I’m not sorry about any of it. Right now the way I feel about him is a line out of a Fine Young Cannibals song: We’re not together, but I’m still alive/I’d rather not see you for a really long time.
My job involves making calls to raise funds for progressive causes. What Russ and I were on about is this latest crush of mine there. Definitely an unexpected thing.
I don’t remember what the amygdala or the hippocampus do, but I guess I could Google!
Yes, A.B., I felt your power and resolve when you said rehearsing what you’ll say is a waste of time. You don’t need to rehearse or create an appearance for anyone. Hear A.B. roar!
Haha! Thanks Chris.
Though I think I do look a lot hotter with my contacts in and a snug rather than baggy shirt (c.f. Russ, ‘decolletage’).
As the only regular commenter who hasn’t experienced your decolletage, I’ll stay out of that debate.
LOL
I’ve never met bm3 either — he’s in Germany. Russ is the only one I know personally who comments here.
Being self-aware is good. Living in the moment is good. Also: rehearsing what you’re going to say/do is good. All of these things can be taken too far, and all are necessary to at least *some* initial degree, or you’re losing out on the potentiality of any given encounter. Trick is, as always, trying to strike the correct balance. You’ll never get to the point where the juggling is no longer necessary–nor would you want to.
I think I’ve mentioned how fretful I’d get about meeting up with the Object Of My Obsessions…only to have all that anxiety evaporate as soon as I was in her presence. (That’s one of the strongest arguments for why she’s The One–in 40 years I’ve *never* been with anyone that I feel so at-ease with.) And I can say that some of that easy confidence comes from the fact that I’ve rehearsed a few topics of conversation, scripted a few salient points of what I want to say to her, things I want to say and things I want to make a point of avoiding. It’s always off-the-cuff, but it’s good to have a few things at the ready. (My only major gaffe, I think, was in referring to The Pope as “the Holocaust denier”, which may have offended her sensibilities slightly, both because it was glib and not *entirely* accurate.)
Everything is sounding positive. Doesn’t sound like you need any further encouragement–this as opposed to last month, when you wrote this post originally. What a difference a few weeks–and some leering hippie attention–can make! Ain’t life grand that way?
I’ll repeat, though, that you should be sparing in how much effort you put into your appearance. He’s a hippie, after all, he should be looking beyond outer appearances. A little of that is fine, will give him something further to appreciate, but I’ll point out that this is a common mistake chicks make, in pushing male desire when you’ve already got him hooked in that regard. (Not to mention the fact that he may *prefer* chicks with glasses and baggy clothing. I know I do!) Don’t floor it in first, get rolling then shift easily into second. Floor it in third, and you’ll be up to speed very quickly and smoothly. (By which I mean, to flesh out the analogy: move from initial desire to engaging his ideas and experiences, and reveal more of your personal and intellectual self. After the second glass of wine, ask him if he’s one of those Free Love hippies, or something like that. Exactly how you go about taking him down is your own story and your own glory. You’ll be there in no time–hopefully by the weekend–)
I can tell you, rehearsing does not, I repeat DOES NOT, work for me. It’s one thing to have a spiel to rattle off to potential donors on the phone at my job, but I cringe to think of all the pre-rehearsed cute lines (like the free love one) I’ve tried to pull off, and wound up just sounding awkward, and, well, rehearsed, and even strangely creepy. Ugh. With this dude in particular (and I’m 99% sure, based on a vocabulary question he asked me, that he’s not an intellectual of any stripe – thank god! – so I’m not eager to show off) I do much better being spontaneous. If I rehearsed, I’d be rehearsing to choke.
Not that I’ve had an opportunity to do anything at all in the past two days. Ironically, he’s been nowhere! And, like with Dex, the intensity of the feeling is fading. (Again, thank god.) You may have found my last post to be a downer, but I have to say that there’s peace, not to mention possibility, in relinquishing attachments.
I’m just pleased to be aware enough, in this situation, to know that neither of these crushes has THAT much to do with the gentlemen themselves, whom I barely know…and I’m watching myself with amused bemusement. It’s fun to ask: what’s happening? Why have I found myself full of over-the-top inordinate longing for Rick’s presence? What is it this thinner version of Silent Bob does for me?
What The Hell Is This?
with “out of your heart” I did not mean to erase the memory of him. Maybe I should have said “is he out of the center place in your heart”. I wondered if you did push him from the center (where the gods live) a little aside, where he can remain as a nice memory. That can be very hard – but If I got you right, you have completed just that.
So, fine. Everything is fine. La, la, la
Even possible that Sonny falls on your head, once he’s really pushed aside a little bit. But I guess I confuse you now.
Thanks for your explanations & have a nice weekend!
Now you’re just being silly.
I don’t know about what you said about that “center place,” though — perhaps the gods do live there, but perhaps so does Sonny, and Max Vujevic, and Luke Taylor, and everyone who’s touched me on that deep a level. Why does anyone need to be pushed anywhere?
don’t listen to me…it would take too long to explain.
you need to push nobody, you need to do nothing at all, you know yourself what you need to do.
No problem buddy. I figured the fall-on-my-head thing was a joke.
UPDATE: Looks like Rick has either quit or been let go…I asked the day supervisor about him, and he didn’t know anything, but said it wasn’t unusual for people to just disappear like that. “It’s a high turnover job.” I got sent home early (along with about half the room) for low performance, but I only reached nine actual people in two hours. It was all answering machines and call backs. Think the problem was endemic.
I am, as I mentioned before, both amused and bemused. I’ve attached to AND apparently already had to let go of this appealing Rick character. My own job is most likely in jeopardy…while at the same time my old bookstore is on the verge of sending me to collections for an outstanding bill, which I fully planned to pay “now that I have an income!” (I also feel weird at this job because another supervisor asked me to do her a favor that feels not quite kosher. I’ll back out tomorrow.)
Like the Queen song goes…easy come, easy go, a little high, a little low, any way the wind blows. Maybe I really will wind up living back in my parents’ house, waiting tables nearby or something to save money for my big dream. I just don’t know. I would certainly prefer a more direct route…
hi babe,
thanks.
I’m even more in a hurry today then yesterday and I slept only 3 hours, so I better don’t write anything complicated now.
btw. PPC is of course right, Russ said it also, and even I said it before – you are great, that’s why we keep reading you. We just can’t stop, slaves to our good taste
I wish you fantastic moments, preferably a constant never ending stream of them
Aw geez, thanks B.
More for the self-observation project: Rick suddenly appeared tonight, late, but situated himself in another row. When I finally caught his eye over the cubes, I tried to kid with him and gestured “where have you been?” and he responded that he’d worked last night. At closing, I approached him at the place we hang the headsets. I was as guileless and childlike as an elementary playground crush when I nudged him and said “I was looking for you!” He just blinked at me and said “If you see me, say hi,” then walked away.
I felt a tremendous letdown and a flush of vulnerability. Because, really, I was approaching him with that unabashed openness of feeling that we learn to hide as we grow up. And our exchanges had been so spicy before! Without that, he was just some random hippie guy I just met who was copping the Kevin Smith look.
Now I just feel kind of dumb for blowing things all out of proportion, but at first I was overwhelmed by shame. Walking home in the rain I started singing the line from Tori Amos’s early masterpiece “Precious Things,” which encapsulated for me my anguishing and loveless youth: ‘running after Billy, running after the rain.’ My biography could be called Boys Who Liked Me And Then Didn’t. But whence all the shame?
That’s what I realized is a carryover. What have I been, especially in this case, but an open book? Ask any of our surrounding coworkers, they’d probably opine that my feelings were obvious. But we learn that this isn’t okay. The vulnerability of openly liking somebody is not something adults encourage or appreciate. Especially if that vulnerability is ultimately left swinging in the wind.
I put myself out there. Again. To be left swinging. Perhaps this will happen over and over again, until I’m no longer ashamed, and the results don’t matter. We hope for a response from the world…but none is guaranteed. Maybe the best we can do is to learn not to apologize for being ourselves.
OK, so rehearsing doesn’t work for you; works for me, but as you may recall, I’m somewhat stagestruck. Have been since I was young. Also, I grew up watching stand-up comedy (my TV defaults to Comedy Central, and most nights I fall asleep on the couch to it). I’m just used to having some sort of script, even if I don’t stay with it–I’m always amused by the fact that I’ll have all these talking points ready when I meet the Object Of My Obsessions, and then later on realize that I didn’t touch on many of them.
Too bad about Rick the Kevin Smith. His loss, though it sounds like, absent his “bright” and engaging personality, he isn’t holding any cards: his demeanor goes flat, and suddenly he’s nobody you’d want to spend time with. That doesn’t make rejection any easier to deal with (well, actually, it should–), it still feels bad putting yourself out there and getting nothing for it. I repeat, this happens to men on a much, much broader scale–so much so that a lot of guys never really develop a good, genial way of themselves dealing with attention that, at any given moment, may be unwanted. Which is not to excuse his behavior, but at this point in life I find myself trying to give others the benefit of the doubt. Look at it this way: he wasn’t a keeper anyway, right? Easy come, easy go. Take some reassurance in the attention he was giving you initially. Better luck with Dex, who sounds like he’s got more going on in the conversational department.
Why the passing interest in these two disparate guys who’ve crossed your path? You on the rebound from Sonny, or high tide on hormone beach, or just bored? How much does it really matter? As a hedonist, I say it’s all good. And all natural. I say go for it/them. One of ‘em will bite, sooner or later.
You should check out my latest for the update. I’ve been so busy with getting that posted and cranking out another yoga article (those folks sure get on my case when I’m late!) and trying to work 30+ hours at T-fund that I barely have time to answer my email!