Adventure (n): 1. an exciting or very unusual experience. 2. participation in exciting undertakings or enterprises: the spirit of adventure. 3. a bold, usually risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome. 4. a commercial or financial speculation of any kind; venture. 5. Obsolete . a. peril; danger; risk. b. chance; fortune; luck. -- dictionary.com
Everyone has those words that they absolutely hate. A former co-worker of mine hated the word "eventually" because a boyfriend of hers used to use that word a lot, and it drove her nuts when he wouldn't give a straight answer. Internet friends of mine hate "irregardless" because, as they would say, "IT'S NOT A F***** WORD!!" Others hate words for the way they sound to the ear or roll off the tongue. But for me, one such word is "adventure."
I suppose it's because of children's programming most of all: those shows that promise that every episode is an ADVENTURE filled with excitement and personal growth lessons to take from it, or worse, the word "adventure" is in the name of the program. Seriously, that's annoying. As most of the definitions above will tell you, risk or hazard is involved, and for the viewer, there is none, since a happy ending is always guaranteed, and equilibrium is always restored to normal. In fact, I'd say the only reason that definition number one gets top billing is BECAUSE of children's programming's saturation of the word, bringing that much safer, even milquetoast I would say, definition and connotation of the word to the forefront of our collective consciousness. Oh sure, the characters on the show don't know they'll be okay at the end, but for the viewer, we always know better. Like Bob and Bing sing in "Road To Morocco": "we might run into villains but we're not afraid to roam/Because we read the story and we end up safe at home." That primary definition is the reason I hate that word. At its absolute best, the word "adventure" by that meaning is a term used by super-annoying "glass is half-full" people to try and put a positive spin on something that anyone with any hint of sanity would look upon with dread, like going to the orthodontist or something. My own sister once used that word in giving me some life advice, and it came off like a "today is the first day of the rest of your life" pep talk. Sorry, sis, I know you didn't mean it like that, but grrr.....
In its truest and oldest form, however, risk is involved. The word "adventure" should give us pause. Safety is not guaranteed. We could lose something, something important (like the true definition of the word "adventure", haha!). In this sense, those aforementioned optimists would still be using it to put a spin on something dreadful, but with a much more somber tone. At its absolute best, I feel the word "adventure" should be used in past tense, and sometimes present tense, like what you would say about something risky after it was done. "Well, that was an adventure." It'd be kind of like saying, "I wouldn't mind doing that again now I that know you can live through it."
I guess it's not all bad to use that first definition. I would say my impending move across the continent would qualify as an adventure, because it is unusual, and would definitely be exciting, especially because of who awaits me at the end of it, but that's not the only reason to use the word for this circumstance. Given how much I'm giving up and how much can go wrong (even though not likely to) on the road, there is both short and long-term risk involved. But overall, I resent it being used to describe television programming, summer camps, travel holidays, etc. Yes, it's true to the first definition, but the first definition is annoying too, so knock it off. The word "adventure" should NEVER be cheerfully or perkily used.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
What's in my pants?
Some years ago, when I was working in fast food, I remember commenting to my dad at one point about how odd it was that it used to be khakis were Sunday-only pants, and jeans were for getting dirty in. Now, as an adult, my job required getting dirty in khakis, and it was pretty rare that I was wearing jeans. I'm not saying it's a huge switcheroo, but it's an irksome one, nonetheless.
There used to be a symbolism behind the khakis (admittedly, a term being used somewhat loosely to include all pants that fall between denims/jeans and suitpants on the Scale Of Dressiness). For me, they were church pants. And it made sense. Putting God first in your life meant giving Him your best, including your best attire for the times when your express purpose was to focus on Him and your relationship with Him. However, I'm not lamenting the loss of the symbolism so much as there are atheists who shouldn't be denied the right to wear khakis just because they don't acknowledge a deity to get close to; nor does it deny the suitability of khakis for other dressy occasions, because they are dressy and can really do wonders to make a good impression in an interview or when meeting your girlfriend's parents for the first time, or whenever being dapper is a major asset.
The problem for me is that khakis are NOT the pants you should be wearing at work if you work a blue-collar job. You should be working in denims. Seriously, khakis fucking piss me off. They're more expensive than denims and nowhere near as durable. When you have to walk around or twist and turn while standing all day, your pant-legs are bound to rub together. They wear thin from the abrasion and you get holes. Okay, now part of it is indeed due to the fact that I'm overweight, but look among your fast-food workers or other blue-collar laborers whose jobs require khakis... I won't speak to percentages, but simple observation says that a good deal of them also are not athletic. That's a lot of khakis getting ruined quickly.
And let's be real here... in these kind of jobs, you're gonna get dirty occasionally. It is SUCH a pain in the ass to have to do a SPECIAL load of laundry for your work uniform because they CAN'T BE WASHED WITH ANYTHING ELSE!!! Seriously people, (hard) WORK clothes should not be FUCKING GENTLE CYCLE WASH!! Why is this so freakin' hard to comprehend?!??!! It's just a waste of energy besides to have to do a separate load! And realistically, anyone who's working blue-collar probably does NOT have a lot of gentle cycle clothes in their wardrobe besides the uniform.
Now we come to the "uniformity" aspect. Look, I get that there needs to be distinction between the employees and those who aren't employees. That's why you have uniform shirts/blouses (again, which should NOT be gentle cycle wash, but sometimes are), and name tags. And you can always mandate/allow black denim that don't have the ripped or faded effects to them. They do look nice enough and maintain the uniformity concept. But if you really want to get after uniformity, how about you get after those employees who are still wearing huge hoops in their ears, have painted press-on nails, and all those body piercings? I guess nine earrings in the left ear and seven in the right looks professional, but don't wear black denim, as you value your life and job!
And speaking of professionalism... really? Making the teenager who's spitting in my burger wear khakis is gonna somehow transmorgify him into an upstanding citizen of the American dream? When he's accepting his honor as President of a Fortune 500 company, he's gonna start his speech with, "First, I'd like to thank Burger World, for making me wear khakis, so that I could be professional!"? Let's be real. You could wear a tuxedo, and you still wouldn't be considered professional because a) you're working in a socioeconomically laughable position for a company whose global reputation is only slightly higher than that of BP, b) you're making crude jokes and using profane language with your co-workers when your back is turned to me because apparently you think I can't hear you anytime we're not making eye contact, and c) you still spit in my damn burger in the first place! Speak with proper grammar and with manners and show some social grace in your work, and maybe then I'll start considering you "professional."
Really folks... khakis should NOT be work pants! It's completely impractical. Khakis should be worn only in moderation... you know, for special occasions. Let's start a movement to get black denim in the workplace. It just makes much more sense.
There used to be a symbolism behind the khakis (admittedly, a term being used somewhat loosely to include all pants that fall between denims/jeans and suitpants on the Scale Of Dressiness). For me, they were church pants. And it made sense. Putting God first in your life meant giving Him your best, including your best attire for the times when your express purpose was to focus on Him and your relationship with Him. However, I'm not lamenting the loss of the symbolism so much as there are atheists who shouldn't be denied the right to wear khakis just because they don't acknowledge a deity to get close to; nor does it deny the suitability of khakis for other dressy occasions, because they are dressy and can really do wonders to make a good impression in an interview or when meeting your girlfriend's parents for the first time, or whenever being dapper is a major asset.
The problem for me is that khakis are NOT the pants you should be wearing at work if you work a blue-collar job. You should be working in denims. Seriously, khakis fucking piss me off. They're more expensive than denims and nowhere near as durable. When you have to walk around or twist and turn while standing all day, your pant-legs are bound to rub together. They wear thin from the abrasion and you get holes. Okay, now part of it is indeed due to the fact that I'm overweight, but look among your fast-food workers or other blue-collar laborers whose jobs require khakis... I won't speak to percentages, but simple observation says that a good deal of them also are not athletic. That's a lot of khakis getting ruined quickly.
And let's be real here... in these kind of jobs, you're gonna get dirty occasionally. It is SUCH a pain in the ass to have to do a SPECIAL load of laundry for your work uniform because they CAN'T BE WASHED WITH ANYTHING ELSE!!! Seriously people, (hard) WORK clothes should not be FUCKING GENTLE CYCLE WASH!! Why is this so freakin' hard to comprehend?!??!! It's just a waste of energy besides to have to do a separate load! And realistically, anyone who's working blue-collar probably does NOT have a lot of gentle cycle clothes in their wardrobe besides the uniform.
Now we come to the "uniformity" aspect. Look, I get that there needs to be distinction between the employees and those who aren't employees. That's why you have uniform shirts/blouses (again, which should NOT be gentle cycle wash, but sometimes are), and name tags. And you can always mandate/allow black denim that don't have the ripped or faded effects to them. They do look nice enough and maintain the uniformity concept. But if you really want to get after uniformity, how about you get after those employees who are still wearing huge hoops in their ears, have painted press-on nails, and all those body piercings? I guess nine earrings in the left ear and seven in the right looks professional, but don't wear black denim, as you value your life and job!
And speaking of professionalism... really? Making the teenager who's spitting in my burger wear khakis is gonna somehow transmorgify him into an upstanding citizen of the American dream? When he's accepting his honor as President of a Fortune 500 company, he's gonna start his speech with, "First, I'd like to thank Burger World, for making me wear khakis, so that I could be professional!"? Let's be real. You could wear a tuxedo, and you still wouldn't be considered professional because a) you're working in a socioeconomically laughable position for a company whose global reputation is only slightly higher than that of BP, b) you're making crude jokes and using profane language with your co-workers when your back is turned to me because apparently you think I can't hear you anytime we're not making eye contact, and c) you still spit in my damn burger in the first place! Speak with proper grammar and with manners and show some social grace in your work, and maybe then I'll start considering you "professional."
Really folks... khakis should NOT be work pants! It's completely impractical. Khakis should be worn only in moderation... you know, for special occasions. Let's start a movement to get black denim in the workplace. It just makes much more sense.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
What's in a calling?
I don't usually like to unload my spiritual problems on anyone. And even less so on my blog here since most of the followers of my blog are not Christian. But recently, I began making some fundamental efforts to rejuvenate my spiritual life and strengthen my connection to God and His people. I feel like I'm really making strides in this regard, but one thing I feel is really missing for me: a way to give back, ministry-wise. I've wanted to get involved with a ministry at my church, but kept getting a "no" from God, and this is starting to get frustrating now with this newer and more concentrated effort to reconnect. I mean, right now the most I'm doing for God is defending Christianity on internet message boards. Whoop-de-doo. I'm not changing anyone's minds really about anything, or anything that can even be considered remotely close to saving a soul or converting someone. The best I'm doing is just showing that not all Christians are complete douchebags, and considering I just used the word "douchebag", I'd say I'm not exactly doing this job all that perfunctorily either.
So, I've really wanted to get involved again with the church. Back in... oh man, how long ago? 2003 or 2004 I'd guess... I had thought about joining the choir. I'm not gonna be added to the cast of "Glee" anytime soon, but I'm no William Hung either, at least I think I'm not though nuclear family members have told me otherwise growing up. Well, one Sunday morning in August or September, just after the morning service, I was having juice and cookies with a friend from high school and her then-boyfriend (they're now married) who had just transferred to the graduate program at MSU, just talking with them. The choir director walked up to us and introduced herself to the three of us. She was fishing for new recruits. Keep in mind, I only knew who she was because she's at the front of the sanctuary leading the choir... we'd never met. She looks at me and said, "I've seen you around before..." and she then turns and looks directly at my friend and starts trying to recruit her. I'm still standing there, kinda upset that she didn't even ask me if I'd ever considered joining choir. While my friend is being invited, my brain and heart are screaming, "HEY! Where's my invitation?!?!?!!! Ask me to join!!!" I left the building feeling... pre-emptively rejected. Like walking onto a Broadway stage and hearing "NEXT" before I even open my mouth. I left that day fairly certain that God doesn't want my larynx melodiously meshed with the men and women of the chorale.
Two or three years later, once again in fall, I had asked if there was gonna once again be a Welcome Back BBQ for the students, like they'd done in years past. I was told that there had been no plans made, but hey great idea. So, I was thinking maybe I should be a leader in the Campus Ministry program. Why not? I was familiar with the program, and last year, there was no leader, causing it to just fall apart for the school year. As I was cooking burgers and hot dogs that morning for the cookout (not really a bbq, but you know what I mean), I was thinking about asking the senior pastor about possibly heading it up or at least leading in some capacity. While I was cleaning my grill, the pastor got up and welcomed everyone there, and then proceeded to introduce the new campus minister, who'd be leading the program. As the pastor kept talking, I felt God put His arm around me and say, "See I have provided for them already. This is not for you." I just about cried, and probably would have if a friend hadn't walked up to me that instant and made chit-chat with me. It still makes me tear up a little to remember this.
The next calling I felt pulled towards was prison ministry. Our church has a group of volunteers that regularly goes to a prison in the next county over and in addition to sharing the Word, also helps inmates in the process of getting ready to re-enter society. I thought this would be great for me. I called the lady at the church who headed this, and she put me in touch with the prison chaplain who gave me a phone interview and said everything looked in order. I would hear from them soon about going through orientation. Only, that was the last time I spoke with them. I even asked the lady from our church about it. It just simply appears that I must have been lost in the bureaucracy and wouldn't be allowed to join them. Another rejection.
That was maybe a year ago. The latest one happened last week. Our church's full-time custodian is retiring, and they were looking to hire two or three part-time custodians to help fill in. I sent a resume, had an interview and tour of the storage areas in the church. Then Friday, I got the call. I was not selected. For other reasons I don't wish to get into here, this made going to church this past Sunday slightly awkward for me.
And the worst part is, there is a ministry out there... our denomination's version of the Boy Scouts, that my mother has suggested to me in the past about getting into. On more than one occasion. It feels like nagging. And when the head counselor got wind that I'd been one such scout when I was a boy, he started talking really friendly to me about it. The thing though is.... I don't WANT to do this one. There are a few reasons that I haven't tried to get involved, but the main one is I just. Don't. WANT to do it! Nothing about it feels or sounds right. Me a role model for young boys in our church? Are they nuts?! Me trying to teach them about tying knots, map reading, or building model rockets... me, the guy whose tool sets are filing for separation? This CAN'T be it! But I feel like others are trying to SHOVE me into it. And I'm resentful and angry about it. How can it POSSIBLY be a calling for me? Isn't a calling supposed to be a gentle, friendly invitation to serve? It's not supposed to feel like a forceful push over the cliff! I know following Jesus involves taking up a cross, but how can I go into His service with a feeling of DREAD towards that particular ministry? Surely there has to be something else God wants me for! (cue voice from above saying, "No, and don't call me Shirley!")
So, among the other aspects which are actually coming together relatively well, this is just a rut for me. It's something I've felt and said before, but I feel the need to say it again: it's a horrible, horrible feeling for me to believe in God but be left feeling like maybe He doesn't believe in me. Maybe this is one of those things that won't fall into place until after I move to British Columbia and start my new life with my true love, but for right now, it hurts so badly.
So, I've really wanted to get involved again with the church. Back in... oh man, how long ago? 2003 or 2004 I'd guess... I had thought about joining the choir. I'm not gonna be added to the cast of "Glee" anytime soon, but I'm no William Hung either, at least I think I'm not though nuclear family members have told me otherwise growing up. Well, one Sunday morning in August or September, just after the morning service, I was having juice and cookies with a friend from high school and her then-boyfriend (they're now married) who had just transferred to the graduate program at MSU, just talking with them. The choir director walked up to us and introduced herself to the three of us. She was fishing for new recruits. Keep in mind, I only knew who she was because she's at the front of the sanctuary leading the choir... we'd never met. She looks at me and said, "I've seen you around before..." and she then turns and looks directly at my friend and starts trying to recruit her. I'm still standing there, kinda upset that she didn't even ask me if I'd ever considered joining choir. While my friend is being invited, my brain and heart are screaming, "HEY! Where's my invitation?!?!?!!! Ask me to join!!!" I left the building feeling... pre-emptively rejected. Like walking onto a Broadway stage and hearing "NEXT" before I even open my mouth. I left that day fairly certain that God doesn't want my larynx melodiously meshed with the men and women of the chorale.
Two or three years later, once again in fall, I had asked if there was gonna once again be a Welcome Back BBQ for the students, like they'd done in years past. I was told that there had been no plans made, but hey great idea. So, I was thinking maybe I should be a leader in the Campus Ministry program. Why not? I was familiar with the program, and last year, there was no leader, causing it to just fall apart for the school year. As I was cooking burgers and hot dogs that morning for the cookout (not really a bbq, but you know what I mean), I was thinking about asking the senior pastor about possibly heading it up or at least leading in some capacity. While I was cleaning my grill, the pastor got up and welcomed everyone there, and then proceeded to introduce the new campus minister, who'd be leading the program. As the pastor kept talking, I felt God put His arm around me and say, "See I have provided for them already. This is not for you." I just about cried, and probably would have if a friend hadn't walked up to me that instant and made chit-chat with me. It still makes me tear up a little to remember this.
The next calling I felt pulled towards was prison ministry. Our church has a group of volunteers that regularly goes to a prison in the next county over and in addition to sharing the Word, also helps inmates in the process of getting ready to re-enter society. I thought this would be great for me. I called the lady at the church who headed this, and she put me in touch with the prison chaplain who gave me a phone interview and said everything looked in order. I would hear from them soon about going through orientation. Only, that was the last time I spoke with them. I even asked the lady from our church about it. It just simply appears that I must have been lost in the bureaucracy and wouldn't be allowed to join them. Another rejection.
That was maybe a year ago. The latest one happened last week. Our church's full-time custodian is retiring, and they were looking to hire two or three part-time custodians to help fill in. I sent a resume, had an interview and tour of the storage areas in the church. Then Friday, I got the call. I was not selected. For other reasons I don't wish to get into here, this made going to church this past Sunday slightly awkward for me.
And the worst part is, there is a ministry out there... our denomination's version of the Boy Scouts, that my mother has suggested to me in the past about getting into. On more than one occasion. It feels like nagging. And when the head counselor got wind that I'd been one such scout when I was a boy, he started talking really friendly to me about it. The thing though is.... I don't WANT to do this one. There are a few reasons that I haven't tried to get involved, but the main one is I just. Don't. WANT to do it! Nothing about it feels or sounds right. Me a role model for young boys in our church? Are they nuts?! Me trying to teach them about tying knots, map reading, or building model rockets... me, the guy whose tool sets are filing for separation? This CAN'T be it! But I feel like others are trying to SHOVE me into it. And I'm resentful and angry about it. How can it POSSIBLY be a calling for me? Isn't a calling supposed to be a gentle, friendly invitation to serve? It's not supposed to feel like a forceful push over the cliff! I know following Jesus involves taking up a cross, but how can I go into His service with a feeling of DREAD towards that particular ministry? Surely there has to be something else God wants me for! (cue voice from above saying, "No, and don't call me Shirley!")
So, among the other aspects which are actually coming together relatively well, this is just a rut for me. It's something I've felt and said before, but I feel the need to say it again: it's a horrible, horrible feeling for me to believe in God but be left feeling like maybe He doesn't believe in me. Maybe this is one of those things that won't fall into place until after I move to British Columbia and start my new life with my true love, but for right now, it hurts so badly.
Monday, December 13, 2010
What's in the middle drawer?
"Faded photographs, covered now with lines and creases; tickets torn in half--memories in bits and pieces."--the Classics IV.
I'm not a Classics IV fan, but that's one of their better songs. And of course, it's pertinent.
I really thought I was moving on from the past, letting go of it. I thought one of the reasons I'm moving to Vancouver is because I just wanted to get the heck away from the remnants of my past. I went home to visit my parents, and while there, they suggested I go through my old drawer and sort out what I did and did not mind my niece and nephews, who often spend the night at their house, "borrowing" from me. So I proceeded to do so. A good portion of it I could throw away, like old notes or nicknacks from my college days. Some of it I had to keep, such as returned checks and bank statements. But a lot of it ended up being of sentimental value.
I found an old alabaster white elephant. The trunk had broken off before I moved out of my parents' place, and now a leg is broken courtesy of the kids of my sister. I also found parts of an old music box. The housing for the actual musical mechanism is ceramic, I believe, and shaped like an upright piano. Had three parts: a stool, an upper part where the mechanism actually is, and a lower, hollow part for what would be the pedals and upright support. The stool is still intact, the bottom piece is completely broken and missing. The upper shell is cracked. The clockwork mechanism is missing and stopped working years ago. The tune it played, by the way, I don't know the name of it, but it sounds very much like that crazy tune they play in "The Addams Family" when Gomez and Fester go down to the vault for this first time.... only done in a pretty, music box style. These are two of the four things I still have to remind me of my maternal grandparents. They let me have the elephant and the music box when we moved them out of their home and into a nursing home. (The other two items are a picture of them that's still in a frame, and a sleeping bag they gave me one Christmas that used to be on my bed even after I moved out... but now I believe is packed away somewhere.)
I found my old Cadets scarf and slide.... Cadets is my denomination's version of the Boy Scouts. The scarf and slide were part of the uniform.
My old "president trading cards".... many years ago, Little Debbie's tried to promote education by making trading cards of the U.S. Presidents. I had the complete set way back when. Now, I'm missing McKinley and Teddy Roosevelt, and I think there were cards for HW Bush and maybe Clinton... but I only have through Reagan.
And then I found a bunch of senior pictures of classmates. A lot of the girls I had a crush on mainly (hey, I was a lonely teenage boy, I had a crush on about 80% of the girls I was in school with). Brought back some memories. Then I decided to leaf through an old yearbook I'd found laying around.
*smacks forehead repeatedly* Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot!
Oh the faces... saw the picture of a girl who was my first kiss. She went to another elementary school in our district had been held back a grade, and moved away a couple years after the year of the yearbook I was flipping through. Old classmates came back to haunt me, people I'd treated like crap, people that treated me like crap. Wow. Didn't think it'd evoke such an emotional reaction from me, but there was a lot of anger, remorse, affection, and humor resurrected within me.
I thought it was over, that I was done with it. But the past never truly goes away. Oh it passes, sometimes like a stone, but it's never gone. The Law Of Conservation of Memories... while they can be created (unlike matter or energy), they can never be destroyed, except perhaps by amnesia or Alzheimer's. Buried, twisted, perverted, warped, yes... but never destroyed.
So my woman's gonna have to accept that when I come to BC to be with her, it won't be a clean slate. Mostly erased, but silhouettes of past lessons and specks of chalk once used to express ideas and concepts will still be on that slate, and they always will be. There's still room for her to write, but the slate will never be clean.
Maybe that's what getting over it is: rather than burying it, it's trying to find ways to keep writing on that slate as it progresses, because it's the only slate you're gonna get.
And for all that, I actually feel the most healed I've felt in awhile by actually going through it, and putting all that important stuff in the middle drawer of my old dresser. And telling the niece and nephews not to touch anything in there unless they ask me first, the brats.
I'm not a Classics IV fan, but that's one of their better songs. And of course, it's pertinent.
I really thought I was moving on from the past, letting go of it. I thought one of the reasons I'm moving to Vancouver is because I just wanted to get the heck away from the remnants of my past. I went home to visit my parents, and while there, they suggested I go through my old drawer and sort out what I did and did not mind my niece and nephews, who often spend the night at their house, "borrowing" from me. So I proceeded to do so. A good portion of it I could throw away, like old notes or nicknacks from my college days. Some of it I had to keep, such as returned checks and bank statements. But a lot of it ended up being of sentimental value.
I found an old alabaster white elephant. The trunk had broken off before I moved out of my parents' place, and now a leg is broken courtesy of the kids of my sister. I also found parts of an old music box. The housing for the actual musical mechanism is ceramic, I believe, and shaped like an upright piano. Had three parts: a stool, an upper part where the mechanism actually is, and a lower, hollow part for what would be the pedals and upright support. The stool is still intact, the bottom piece is completely broken and missing. The upper shell is cracked. The clockwork mechanism is missing and stopped working years ago. The tune it played, by the way, I don't know the name of it, but it sounds very much like that crazy tune they play in "The Addams Family" when Gomez and Fester go down to the vault for this first time.... only done in a pretty, music box style. These are two of the four things I still have to remind me of my maternal grandparents. They let me have the elephant and the music box when we moved them out of their home and into a nursing home. (The other two items are a picture of them that's still in a frame, and a sleeping bag they gave me one Christmas that used to be on my bed even after I moved out... but now I believe is packed away somewhere.)
I found my old Cadets scarf and slide.... Cadets is my denomination's version of the Boy Scouts. The scarf and slide were part of the uniform.
My old "president trading cards".... many years ago, Little Debbie's tried to promote education by making trading cards of the U.S. Presidents. I had the complete set way back when. Now, I'm missing McKinley and Teddy Roosevelt, and I think there were cards for HW Bush and maybe Clinton... but I only have through Reagan.
And then I found a bunch of senior pictures of classmates. A lot of the girls I had a crush on mainly (hey, I was a lonely teenage boy, I had a crush on about 80% of the girls I was in school with). Brought back some memories. Then I decided to leaf through an old yearbook I'd found laying around.
*smacks forehead repeatedly* Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot!
Oh the faces... saw the picture of a girl who was my first kiss. She went to another elementary school in our district had been held back a grade, and moved away a couple years after the year of the yearbook I was flipping through. Old classmates came back to haunt me, people I'd treated like crap, people that treated me like crap. Wow. Didn't think it'd evoke such an emotional reaction from me, but there was a lot of anger, remorse, affection, and humor resurrected within me.
I thought it was over, that I was done with it. But the past never truly goes away. Oh it passes, sometimes like a stone, but it's never gone. The Law Of Conservation of Memories... while they can be created (unlike matter or energy), they can never be destroyed, except perhaps by amnesia or Alzheimer's. Buried, twisted, perverted, warped, yes... but never destroyed.
So my woman's gonna have to accept that when I come to BC to be with her, it won't be a clean slate. Mostly erased, but silhouettes of past lessons and specks of chalk once used to express ideas and concepts will still be on that slate, and they always will be. There's still room for her to write, but the slate will never be clean.
Maybe that's what getting over it is: rather than burying it, it's trying to find ways to keep writing on that slate as it progresses, because it's the only slate you're gonna get.
And for all that, I actually feel the most healed I've felt in awhile by actually going through it, and putting all that important stuff in the middle drawer of my old dresser. And telling the niece and nephews not to touch anything in there unless they ask me first, the brats.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
What's in a childhood romance?
I got my first kiss in kindergarten. Nothing special, really. A quick peck behind the school, in the woods where we weren't supposed to go but did anyway. Still, it wasn't really a girlfriend. But that was the closest thing I'd had to a girlfriend in my elementary school days. And my junior high days. And high school. And college. I was legally drinking before I had my first serious girlfriend, and while I've been spared the heartache of teenage romance gone wrong, I actually wish I hadn't. All those fun and silly things associated with it, like being teased by friends on the playground. Oh, I was teased, a lot, even for having a crush on a certain girl, but not for being any girl's boyfriend. Not even ribbing from my friends. Never played Spin The Bottle, never been to a make-out party while the host's parents were gone for the night or weekend. Never been in the closet with a girl for those Seven Minutes In Heaven. Never held hands while walking in the hallway between classes. No chasing after her while she giggles. Shit, I never even went to either of my proms. And at school dances, I had a total of TWO dances with girls, both of whom were friends of mine (though one I admit I had a major crush on).
Maybe I have no one to blame but myself for that. Whatever, not the point. My shyness really isn't the topic of discussion. And may not even be completely to blame either. Whatever. The point is, I feel like I've missed out on so much. Even things I didn't think I'd miss, it turns out I do. I see younger Facebook friends calling and being called "Boo" by their significant others. As silly as it is, I wish that could have been a part of my life.
And now that I have The One for me, I'm too old, too "grown-up" for that stuff. It sounds silly to call her "Boo", besides which she has a cat named "Boo." Can't really play spin the bottle with only one possible outcome, and besides which, what if the bottle isn't pointing to her? We're too old for Truth Or Dare. And is it worth going into the closet for those seven minutes when the only people outside the door tittering at what's going on in there are her family members? Methinks not. Walking hand-in-hand through Metrotown isn't the same as the school hallways where you actually KNOW the people who see you two together. And the friends who do kid me are good natured about it, but it's not like there's an element of sacrifice there, since my time with her isn't cutting into my time with them.
In some ways, it's nice, because in her case, she didn't have a lot of that either. So in some ways, we're like two little kids, growing up and loving up together. So I'm glad I have her for that, that we can experience that stuff for the first time together. But still I can't help but feel like it's all ersatz, like there's no substitution for the real high school romance experience. And any attempts to incorporate some of that in our experiences (outside the bedroom, you gutter-minds) is just going to appear and feel something like mid-life crisis and trying to recapture youth.
They say the past makes you who you are. Still, I can't help but wonder if I'd have ended up that much different if I had at least experienced some of those things. Besides which, sometimes the only thing I like about myself is that I have her. So screw you, Past. I don't care if I am all the more willing to uproot my life and get the fuck as far away from familiarity as possible because of you, you still fucking suck.
Still trying to get in touch with the inner child, in a good way if possible.
Sorry to those who read this. I didn't really mean to sound as bitter as I probably do. And to The One I refer to, I just hope you realize more and more how lucky I truly am to have you. I love you very much.
Maybe I have no one to blame but myself for that. Whatever, not the point. My shyness really isn't the topic of discussion. And may not even be completely to blame either. Whatever. The point is, I feel like I've missed out on so much. Even things I didn't think I'd miss, it turns out I do. I see younger Facebook friends calling and being called "Boo" by their significant others. As silly as it is, I wish that could have been a part of my life.
And now that I have The One for me, I'm too old, too "grown-up" for that stuff. It sounds silly to call her "Boo", besides which she has a cat named "Boo." Can't really play spin the bottle with only one possible outcome, and besides which, what if the bottle isn't pointing to her? We're too old for Truth Or Dare. And is it worth going into the closet for those seven minutes when the only people outside the door tittering at what's going on in there are her family members? Methinks not. Walking hand-in-hand through Metrotown isn't the same as the school hallways where you actually KNOW the people who see you two together. And the friends who do kid me are good natured about it, but it's not like there's an element of sacrifice there, since my time with her isn't cutting into my time with them.
In some ways, it's nice, because in her case, she didn't have a lot of that either. So in some ways, we're like two little kids, growing up and loving up together. So I'm glad I have her for that, that we can experience that stuff for the first time together. But still I can't help but feel like it's all ersatz, like there's no substitution for the real high school romance experience. And any attempts to incorporate some of that in our experiences (outside the bedroom, you gutter-minds) is just going to appear and feel something like mid-life crisis and trying to recapture youth.
They say the past makes you who you are. Still, I can't help but wonder if I'd have ended up that much different if I had at least experienced some of those things. Besides which, sometimes the only thing I like about myself is that I have her. So screw you, Past. I don't care if I am all the more willing to uproot my life and get the fuck as far away from familiarity as possible because of you, you still fucking suck.
Still trying to get in touch with the inner child, in a good way if possible.
Sorry to those who read this. I didn't really mean to sound as bitter as I probably do. And to The One I refer to, I just hope you realize more and more how lucky I truly am to have you. I love you very much.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
What's in a year?
“We’ve only just met, and yet, I feel like I’ve known you all my life. We’ve just said ‘Hello’, I know, but still it’s like I’ve known you all my life.”—The Four Preps
A year ago today, I finally summoned up the courage to send a message to a girl who seemed pretty cute and pretty much my type. Sending that message proved to be one of the best decisions ever in my life. Since I often find joy in hearing the stories of how couples came to be… how they met, their early dates where they try to figure out if there’s something there, etc., I’d like to share mine, too, in case anyone reading this is like me in that regard.
For some time, my online friend Linda had been pestering me to join a particular dating site. I was rather reluctant, having tried online dating services before with absolutely no luck. Besides which, I had a girlfriend at the time, and I was happy with her, or so I thought. But Linda saw right through me. The more I talked with Linda, the closer of friends she and I became, and she could tell I was miserable. Actually, I knew I was miserable too, but I figured a sad love or a bad love was better than no love at all. That’s not to say I was dating a witch; my ex is really a nice girl with a lot to offer, but it just wasn’t meant to be for a number of reasons. And it’s not really germane to the story, either.
Back on track, what finally got me to that site was Linda told me of the fun questions and quizzes, plus the instant chat function so that we could talk together more like in real time than by private messages. So on September 19, 2009 , I joined that dating site and started having fun with the questions and quizzes. And filling out a profile too, because, hey, why not? And of course, soon enough I began perusing other people’s profiles… and by “other people’s”, I mean “women’s.” I created a list of “Favorites,” those whose profiles and pictures appealed to me most (mostly the pics, ‘cause I’m still a guy). One of them was this irresistibly cute girl with a girl-next-door/possible naughty librarian look to her. And each time I read her profile, the more I was intrigued. The only thing that marginally worried me was her love of swing-dancing. Mind you, I’m not scared of dancing, I just know I suffer from the Caucasian overbite. But other than that, there wasn’t anything I didn’t like.
But I was a chicken. I could not bring myself to send her a message. She was in British Columbia
So the next night I logged on while doing an air shift and saw her listed as being online, I gulped and started typing a message to her. No backing out now. I sent it to her. After I hit “Send,” the page refreshed, and she was listed as offline. Crap! I logged off in frustration and browsed my favorite forums. But the obsessively creepy weirdo in me wanted to go back to the dating site just in case. So I went back and logged on a half hour later.
I don’t really remember how long I was on the site when my instant messenger window popped up. It was the girl I’d finally gotten the cajones to write who was instant messaging me! I talked to her for a solid three hours on chat, and I think I even got her to webstream the station I was at and dedicated a song to her. Just as a lark.
I went home that night thinking, “Holy cow, she responded!” Lame, right? Well, I didn’t really have any hopes up. It was just a conversation. That lasted for three hours. And seemed to end too soon. But hey, we’re just meeting, so why shouldn’t we have a lot of ground to cover… in one night. But I had no expectations of the next night, for tomorrow is promised to no one. But the next night, there she was again, ready to talk to me. Whodathunkit? And whodathunk it would be another three-hour conversation, this time having her call me at the station…voice contact! Going home that night, I thought, “Cool, I found a friend!” Because that’s how it usually ends up for me… stuck in the Friend Zone. So again, no hopes up… especially after the third night (a Thursday), when after another three-hour conversation I found me saying to myself, “Aw dammit, you’re falling in love with her.” Note: the “dammit” was because I figured there was no way she was going to feel the same way that I was beginning to feel.
I still talked to her on Friday night. And Saturday night. And Sunday afternoon, when she called me “Hon.” I figured that was a pretty good sign. So by Monday evening, at the end of another three-hour conversation, I finally let slip those three little words. I said them kind of meekly, bracing for rejection or “We don’t even really know each other yet!” or something like that. Instead, a return volley of those three words with a “too” added to them. I couldn’t believe my luck. She was in love with me, too! Just don’t ask me why. I had no clue then, and I still don’t now.
And that was just within a week of “meeting” each other. Since then we’ve spent two weeks together in person and we still talk on the phone everyday. It’s still a long-distance relationship for now, but that distance will shrink considerably and will soon be as non-existent as the emotional distance between us.
I have truly found my other half. The other half of my life. I knew it within a month, which sounds really odd, but it’s true. And now a year later, I’m still incredibly in love with her. It’s been the best year of my life, and though it’s been only a year, I feel I’ve known her forever, and that I always have known that she’s what I’ve been looking for.
Happy Anniversary, Erica. One year down, a lifetime to go.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
What's in the past...
"Separated, I cut myself clean of a past that comes back in my darkest of dreams"--DC Talk
Ah, if only it were that easy. To just cut off the unpleasantries of the past and be done with them, and to no longer be haunted by the past pains.
And to some degree it's actually happening. The things that I've done that made me depressed no longer suck out my soul like a Dementor from Azkaban, well for the most part anyway. They say the past is what makes you who you are today. Non je ne regrettien... or something like that. I don't speak French.
And I guess it's finally coming true. There are a couple memories that still truly haunt me. A few things in the past that I truly would change if I could. I'm not growing from them, and they sure as fuck haven't made me stronger. No good has come from them.
But for the most part, it's finally starting to scab over. It doesn't make me cringe like it did. I guess maybe finally I'm starting to grow up and mature the way I've always tried to present myself.
And now I find myself with the overwhelming urge to shoot peas out of my nose.
Ah, if only it were that easy. To just cut off the unpleasantries of the past and be done with them, and to no longer be haunted by the past pains.
And to some degree it's actually happening. The things that I've done that made me depressed no longer suck out my soul like a Dementor from Azkaban, well for the most part anyway. They say the past is what makes you who you are today. Non je ne regrettien... or something like that. I don't speak French.
And I guess it's finally coming true. There are a couple memories that still truly haunt me. A few things in the past that I truly would change if I could. I'm not growing from them, and they sure as fuck haven't made me stronger. No good has come from them.
But for the most part, it's finally starting to scab over. It doesn't make me cringe like it did. I guess maybe finally I'm starting to grow up and mature the way I've always tried to present myself.
And now I find myself with the overwhelming urge to shoot peas out of my nose.
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