Am I a grownup yet?

My current reading material inspired a fit of literary identification on the subway that messed me up darned good. The following paragraph leaped out of Cold Mountain and slapped my normally introspective self back to its senses.

All in all, she suspected that her performance had been glib. Or flinty and pinched. None of which she really wanted to be. True, those manners had their uses. They excelled in causing people to take half a step back and give one breathing room. But she had fallen into them out of habit, and at the wrong time, and she regretted it. She feared that without some act of atonement they would take hold and harden within her and that one day she would find herself clenched tight as a dogwood bud in January.

Shit. Flinty? Pinched? Breathing room? Somehow I've slipped closer than I'd realized to being that clichéd bitter single New Yorker never at a loss for a caustic comment about the dating scene.

I was once a petulant pigtailed girl running around the playground kicking the shins of all the boys (including the one she liked), and I'm trying very hard to feel like I've progressed in the past few decades. It's not at all clear if I have. I've always been good at getting people to take a half step back (usually several whole steps), but that seems like a second grader's security blanket. What's worse, when I get people to step back, its usually compensating for the fact that I'm hurt they don't want to get closer. How ridiculous is that?

This weekend I mumbled incoherent expressions of fondness into a closing subway door, allowed my friends to steal my mobile phone for an afternoon and send embarrassing text messages, and did laps at a party around an old crush hoping to impress upon him his obvious need to regret having given me the brush off. One saving grace of the past 48 hours is that said classy adult-like cocktail party was a perfectly decent opportunity to take the Magical Black Dress out for another unsuccessful spin. Then again, perhaps my belief in its magical powers is one more childish fantasy.

What frustrates me about the expectations of dating nowadays is that everything hinges upon this supposed lightning-bolt flash of attraction that's supposed to occur when meeting someone new. It's all about the catchy profile picture, the perfect headline, the eye contact at the opposite end of the bar, the sideways glance on the subway. But nobody meets anyone on the subway, that's ludicrous.

I also am at a decided disadvantage due to my painful shyness in the presence of cute guys and utter inability to flirt. As one of my oldest friends put it delicately:

Thea, you're awesome, but you really don't got game.

I don't. And that's okay--I'm not interested in the game, the chase, or the hunt. What does interest me is the intricate process of getting to know someone, feeling comfortable enough to share my quirks and dreams, making an intellectual connection and having someone express genuine interest in me. Genuine feeling is highly underrated around here--there's a lot of play, playing the field, and in the immortal words of Cogsworth, promises you don't intend to keep.

I shouldn't act so sanctimonious; I've been guilty of the "Oh definitely, we should do this again sometime" line, but I'd like to think that I've only used it sparingly when it was abundantly clear that "doing this again sometime" would be a wretched prospect for both parties.

In this perplexing and fascinating city I can most weeks manage to feed myself and my cat, battle my addiction to well-written television, get stuff done at work (and care about it), exercise a little and keep in touch with a few close friends. These seemingly trivial grown-up tasks require a surprising amount of effort.

Unlike every other fully-grown New Yorker don't work my social calendar from a BlackBerry (hell, like half the prepubescent ones too), hoard phone contacts and cold-call acquaintances on a whim. And I can't manage to find the headline that make people want to read the story on page A26. Or maybe I've just got the wrong headline, and they end up flipping through the damn paper for light subway reading only to find find a massive and meandering op-ed piece. I swear, it's a great story! Textured, witty--not flinty and pinched at all.

I wish I could just grow up and get over my stupid desire to hide and giggle behind the biggest tree on the playground when I run into someone I like, but I'm not quite sure how to do that.

In the meantime, I'm trying not to live my life in the sad, sad state of the January dogwood.

Online dating is strange

In a flash of extroversion, and immediately preceded by several disappointing potential romances, I joined Match.com...along with thousands of other single New Yorkers.

I've decided that I deserve someone interesting, engaging, cute, and available--all qualities that I am assured NOT to find in some bar in Manhattan. It's been about a week now but seems like much longer than that: the ups, the downs, the nervousness, the drama! Well, not so much drama I suppose.

One date down, and the search continues.

What am I searching for? That remains unclear.

I continue to send witty emails to intriguing guys, but I haven't quite figured out the protocol for this new world of cyber-flirting. I am not a fan of the "wink," as I see it as basically a cop-out: if you think someone is cute and interesting send them a damn message. That said, I did wink at someone yesterday, and they winked back. What this interaction means, no one knows.

The most bizarre part of this whole deal is the anonymity that it provides, in contrast to the clear expectations of outcome. I had a totally lame date this weekend with a perfectly nice guy. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, and yet it was just kind of like meeting some acquaintance from college to catch up on superficial stuff. As it was my first date in about 4 years, I didn't really know what to expect, or how to interpret certain interactions. In the end, prodded by well-meaning friends, I sent him a message about meeting up for drinks. Shockingly, he wrote back exactly what I didn't have the courage to say:

"Nice to meet you, but I really didn't feel any spark, so let's just leave it at that."

Okay, so he might not have said those exact words, but you get the point.

Completely honest, and in a city of nearly nine something million people, we'll never run into each other, and it'll never be awkward! How liberating. This whole "directness" thing is strange to me, and will take some getting used to. We were on a date, this was clear. There were expectations of attraction and "chemistry" (whatever the fuck that means), and there really wasn't any. So it didn't work, and we both move on to other options. Then I realized, I don't even know this guy's last name--and what's more, I don't need to! Everything is so factual, cut and dry, with none of the bullshit that goes along with "dating" in college...

...we're hooking up but we're not dating...we're dating, but we're not exclusive...we're hanging out and we're dating, but we're not hooking up...we're studying and I wish we were dating but we're not...

There's none of that here!

It's a crazy world out there, the New York singles scene, but this seems for the moment to be the best way to navigate through uncharted waters without capsizing in an overwhelming sea of uninteresting assholes. I haven't quite gotten my sea-legs yet, but I'll get there eventually.


oh, and P.S. 2008 is shaping up to be the bizarre Japanese connections year. Remind me to tell you about that sometime.

Unease

Right now, I'm tired. My emotions have been run through the wash, spun dry, and frizzed out in the drier over the past month, and I don't quite have it in me to talk to people right now. Klu, if you're out there, I've opened up my phone a dozen or so times and tried to call, but for some reason I haven't gotten to it. Same goes for my older sibling up north. And Sarah.

I think I'm still reeling a bit and trying to readjust to my life down here without Dave. Being apart now isn't the same as last year; we've both got jobs that require to be up and about around the same time the sun rises, and we have households to maintain. We're becoming disconnected already, and I don't know what to do about it.

What I really want to do is retreat further from my relatively social existence down here. The people in my immediate vicinity are pretty amazing, and I enjoy hanging out with them a lot, but I'm getting to that point where I feel stifled by anyone, even people I like. My thoughts as of late have hearkened back to the old days, when I'd spend a Saturday engrossed in a book, then go watch a movie and cook dinner by myself. This weekend was like that, and it did me a world of good. Unfortunately, there was only about a day that belonged truly to me, and I need more than that.

School is, well, school, and things aren't really getting that much better. I was on campus by 7:00 am this morning for a parent conference for a a kid that thinks that his gold teeth are going to make him the next 50 Cent; I was stood up. At some point during 6th period (nobody's really sure when) a child put a wad of gum in my ponytail. It took me over an hour to notice it, and that was only after a well-meaning student pointed it out. The children in the class after them then put a 5-piece gum amalgamation on the seat of my chair in the hopes that it would stick to my ass when I sat down. I took one look at it, stuck it in the middle of the whiteboard, and proceeded to ignore the entire class for 35 minutes. The charming instigator of this stunt is a girl who showed up to class after 3 weeks of school, was absent for 2 weeks, then returns to class on a Monday morning. She proceeds to whip out a bottle of hooker-hot-pink nailpolish and paint her nails. This should not be normal, but hey, that's my life. But hey, at least I don't cry once a week after school, right? That's at least something.

I cried at the end of "Emma" last night. What's wrong with me? Maybe I should restrict my Netflix viewings to comedies and historical dramas.

Another factor that's subtly unsettling me is the encroaching birthday. After last year's success, I have this premonition that something horrible is going to happen, to bring back the litany of wretched September 18ths that plagued my young life: fights at pool parties; soccer girls and private school girls spreading rumors at slumber parties; lonely middle school parties; scum-like ex-housemates throwing spitballs in freshmen math classes; deadlines; unrequited love; etc. Rationally, there's not much that can top the things that have happened, but I'm on the lookout nonetheless.

The most exciting event, no question, is what I've been looking forward to for about a year; this afternoon, I drove home atop a 2006 Vespa LX 150, "aurora blue." Feeling the crepuscular light on my forehead as the wind blew whisps of gum-free hair past my temples, I felt miles away. My beautiful scooter whisked me home and off to dinner at our favorite cafe, and then we took a couple of laps around the apartment complex just for kicks. I mean, shit, if it gets 65 miles per gallon, I can afford a few victory laps. Happy birthday, me [grin]. Hell yeah.

So I'm driving the Vespa to school tomorrow, soccer practice be damned. My cleats can fit in the the bottom of the seat. The only problem is that my helmet is on back order, so it could be a week before that comes in. Oops =). Perhaps I should reevaluate tomorrow. I guess I'll sleep on it.

It's late already, and I've got forms to fill out for the District before bed, so I'm outie. Bleh. Something still just doesn't feel right.

Storm Front

Well, thunder still crackles through a grey sky here in Miami, but the bront of the storm has passed. Katrina burst into my life in not quite a happy time, thoroughly disrupting my already disjointed routine with more catastrophic news.

Wednesday night, on my way to our first PLC (Professional Learning Community; TFA likes to throw new acronyms at us every month or so) meeting, I got the news that Dade County Public schools would be closed do to an approaching category 1 hurricane called Katrina. Well, I thought, at least I won't have to be at school while enduring a painful, awkward breakup. Whenever things get really, really bad, fate seems to find a way to release the pressure until it's just barely tolerable.

"Just barely tolerable" consisted of me watching Dave pack up his belongings, clean out his half of my closet, and nervously load up the green volvo station wagon that had been parked outside of my apartment since May. Tears abounded, as did unanswered questions as he drove away. I walked out into the very beginnings of Katrina and stood in the rain until I got cold, not really understanding what was happening to me. The wind picked up, and seemed to blow every emotion out of me. There was this huge emptiness in the pit of my stomach that didn't want to go away, so I curled up in my bed and cried myself to sleep.

Hours later, I awoke to the sound of rain on my windows, and the voice of my roommate: "Thea, Dave's car broke down in Ft. Lauderdale. We're going to go get him. If you don't want him to be here, let me know, and he can stay somewhere else." I honestly thought that when he left that would be the last time I saw him for a long, long time. Sure enough, DDH was back in dPlace along with a pizza for our housemates. We all watched "Moulin Rouge," and right at the climax of the movie the flickering lights finally cut off for good. Feeling about as fried as a blown transformer, I went to bed without a word. Out, as they say, like a light.

The irony of this situation is that *our* lights would continue to stay out for 5 more days.

I got up early on Friday morning to assess the damage from the storm (that's the literal storm, not the figurative one going on in my personal life), and walked down the street towards our local park. Along the streets, there were trees down, and dead stoplights, but it looked like a bunch of people were going to work. I stopped to take pictures of a crushed hotel sign from "The Bayside Inn," a run-down ex-brothel two blocks from our apartment complex. A white van pulled up beside me, and an emaciated middle aged man with a dirty beard poked his head out of the window. "Taking pictures of the damage?" "Uh, yeah," I replied with a hesitant smile. "Wanna go for a ride?" "Uuuuh, no thanks." More than a little unsettled, I walked more quickly than normal into the gated commmunity that surrounds our park. As I strolled through debris filled streets, the bizarre encounter started to make more sense. Biscayne Boulevard, where I had been walking earlier, is pretty much office space for hookers. Even in my recently-awakened state, I guess this man just thought I was a prostitute. Oh, fantastic. At least he wasn't trying to abduct me, right?

On with the day.

Our first place of refuge was Aventura Mall. I left Dave at home to try and deal with his car, mostly because I didn't feel like dealing with him. A movie and some shopping later (not so successful distractions), I still didn't feel like talking, or eating. I sat through an awkward dinner at our friendly neighborhood cafe with my 3 roommates and ex?-boyfriend before returning home and proceeding to get drunk on the steps of our darkened house with a bottle of pinot noir.

Some time around 2:00 am, I wander next door, where Dave is sleeping on the couch, and try to talk to my housemate, whose bedroom door is locked. As my outlet for rage and/or self-pity is stymied, I stumble back to my own appartment, now having woken up Dave. He, of course, wants to talk. I want to yell. There was much talking, a little yelling, and of course more tears all night long. But along the way we somehow got clear that 1. Dave wants to go to D.C. for a job. 2. I still love Dave. 3. Dave still loves me. and 4. Long-distance relationships, while sucky, are not the end of the world. Maybe I hadn't made clear my desire to stay together; we sure as hell didn't make our short-term plans clear; and all over there had been misunderstandings (pretty much unbeknownst to me) for about a month.

By the time the sun started to rise, I was officially spent, emotionally and physically, but at least I was sleeping back in his arms again, instead of alone with Eeyore.

"On account of the car" AKA in order to salvage our relationship, DDH stuck around for another week, sleeping in other people's apartments after the heat got to be too much to stand in our power-less place, watching marathons of the O.C. at Mary's boyfriend's apartment, seeing more movies (the only places with power in Miami), and acting as refugees on Lincoln Road: camping out at coffee shops and cafe's to plug in our cell phones/computers.

The weekend ended, and still 40,000 customers in South Florida had no electricity. We were 3 of those customers, sweating like mad and mopping melted ice cream out of our freezer. I chose to spend my last day of freedom at the beach, the one place where it didn't feel disgusting to be hot. We went back to work on Tuesday, still without power in dPlace, and I was pissed as hell about that. Sometime on Tuesday evening, the lights lights flickered back on, and things began to return to normal.

I tried to get things back together, but there were some damages from the hurricane that can't be mended quite as quickly as the ruined contents of a refrigerator. Dave still had to leave, and I still had a job to do, which I *hadn't* done in over a week due to lack of power.

Somehow, I got through the week of school, saw Dave off on Thursday morning as he drove his now-healthy car up north, and also re-stocked the fridge. Things aren't quite back to normal, and it's been pretty hard adjusting to the long-distance thing again after living together this summer, but at least I don't have this awful emptiness inside of me like I did before. We're hoping for no more storms this summer; Katrina was a bitch, even if she might have kept Dave and me together. Hurricanes are just end badly all around.

Dramatic Irony

Ever since I left for vacation in July, things have been happening in my periphery which effect me. For some reason, the powers that be have decided not to involve me in their decision-making process.

At first, it was professional; I was transferred to a new school, our administration left and the district didn't see the need to hire new people to help us do our jobs.

Then, wheels started moving in the educational department. The eternal summer semester at FIU turned sour (as if it weren't awful already, right?), and finished off with a pathetic whimper. Scheduling was a bitch as usual; we got locked out of one class, another was on Monday nights, and suddenly there were no options left. With two angry emails and very little protest on the part of the administration, I quit the masters' program.

Then, it turned to my everyday life. Things every day at work happen while I'm totally in the dark. They hired a new assistant principal, unbeknownst to me. This man in a suit walks into my class, yells at some boys, drags one off by the collar, and disappears. Bewildered, I turn to my students and ask *them* if they knew who this strange man was. Nobody really knew, but they had the vague impression that he "works for Central." Superb. I return to the main campus after 4 weeks, and on a whim go to the main office to see if my mailbox was still there (I have a new one at the middle school). Sure enough, there was my box, spewing papers and memos out onto the floor. In it I found such gems as "the uniform policy" "professional development" and trivial things like memos about curriculum changes and, oh, the hiring of a new principal. Way to keep everybody informed.

Now, it seems to have become personal. I don't really give a shit if he reads this, because we're not "together" anymore; if he doesn't want to think about me, then he doesn't need to read this. D. left Miami just about two weeks ago, mentioning in passing that he'd gotten a second interview with a prospective job. He leaves a note on my pillow, and that's the last I hear from him, more or less, until I get a phone call saying "I'm moving to Washington." Oh, that's nice.

Nothing for 5 more days, so I go about my shitty life down here, staying up late on the weeknights, getting up at 5:45 to rush off to a 9 hour day of teaching ungrateful, insulting children assisted by an either nonexistent or incompetent administration. I spend ten hours of my Saturday at professional development training that I'VE ALREADY HAD LAST YEAR, then sleep all Sunday because I'm so exhausted. If you're trying not to think about someone, take my advice and don't do their laundry. It's quite difficult to keep someone off of your mind when you're folding their underwear and washing their socks.

Monday rolls around, and it's more of the same old shit. Then, on a beautiful Tuesday night, me none the wiser minus a vague sense of foreboding, I make the drive up to Ft. Lauderdale to pick him up at the airport, using a third of a tank of gas to do so in my rickety old car. Right now in South Florida, that's $10 worth.

On the way home, I'm informed of his plans. He's leaving "Wednesday or Thursday." For those of you unfamiliar with the Gregorian calendar, that's tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. Oh, that's nice of you to let me know.

Back at the ranch, he's decided that he "needs some time to figure things out," and that we shouldn't be together because he's not sure that he really wants to be with me. Again, great advance warning. Exactly how long has this been going on? Not really sure, but maybe after he met my entire family this summer. That must have been the clincher.

It was fantastically cliched, my reaction. It disgusts me how sickeningly predicatable I am; at first I wanted to cry (check, already done that this week, last week too); then, I get nauseuous. I go outside to get some fresh air, and what should happen? What would be the most ridiculous situation to be in? Oh, it starts pouring rain. Somewhere up above (because when in search of spiritual guidance in this all-too-random and meaningless existence, we look to the sky), there's someone wiht a dark sense of humor, maybe as dark as mine, and they're having one hell of a laugh at this. I hope someone's getting some enjoyment out of it, because being on the inside of the irony isn't all that fun.

Future Plans

I had an idyllic weekend, a nice little break from reality. My body has finally beaten out the sickness that had been kicking my ASS for two weeks, and I am starting to belive that the block schedule and extended day is not, in fact, a premonition of the apocalypse. True, there were several truly bad moments at school this week involving my "stolen" wallet [in the back of someone's car]; racism in 9th grade Reading; and several stopped class periods due to frustration and/or the implementation of Read 180, but after 48 hours of absolutely no school work, I'm starting to finally look ahead to the future.

My graduate plans are in full swing, even if it's costing me more than a small car; I've decided that intellectual engagement (however mediocre) is worth the money, and the classes are now at least relevant to issues that are in play in my class every day. Race matters, as I begin to understand more clearly every time I walk in the door and sign my initials on the time card at school. Serious, systemic, and dangerous instances of discrimination and inequality exist in so many parts of the country, and while I was exposed to this in theory during my time in college, I didn't really "get" what it meant. Telling someone that there exist 15 year olds who read at a 3rd or 4th grade reading level is one thing. You may be shocked, you may say something about how it's a travesty that the American public education system could have let a child slip through like that. What is entirely different, however, is seeing that child practice avoidance behavior when he is asked to read, "solving" his problem by abusing students physically and calling them faggots. Xenophobia, prejudice, and ignorance, are unfortunately not only the provenance of white society, and the inquisitive interest in all things different which was subtly taught to me as child is not the normal way of dealing with newness.

That said, it's all well and good to talk about these things, address and deconstruct biases, but I'm ready to actually do something about it.

Moving on to less socially conscious agendas, I'm ready for my personal life to get off the ground. I am consistently dumbfounded by my relatively easygoing relationship. Each time that one of us travels back and forth from PHL to FLL, after every hug at the airport hello and goodbye, more delicate connections are made between the two of us. By now, hundreds and thousands of little stretchy strings pull us closer and farther apart as we go about our daily lives, and I truly feel that the past 6 months apart have made us so much closer. We've both had to honestly think about why we're still together, what we want from each other, and what we're willing to do in order to keep things going.

This evening, as we drove down the familiar 21 miles of 95 to the Fort Lauderdale airport, talking calmly about David moving to Miami this year felt so good. Having someone be a huge part of my life has been a gradual process, and sometimes when I think about just how much of me I share with him it scares me. I mean, if I couldn't share my day with him, if he wasn't part of my life, I'd feel like a chunk of me was literally taken away. It's melodramatic, it's illogical, it's pretty unoriginal, but that's the way that I feel. Starting to plan for two instead of one is interesting. It's not easy, but neither is it bad. For the present, that's all I've got to say about that.

For now, that's also all I'd like to say about the future. I'd like to put off school, the rapidly encroaching FCAT, taxes, applications, FAFSA, and all sorts of real-world dilemmas and projects for another time, and spend a few sweet moments wallowing in my weekend.

[WEEKEND]

My hiatus from life began on Friday afternoon, circa 3:35 pm. Fiametta arrived in the Central parking lot to sweep me off to the 27th Avenue DMV for my Floriday driver's lisence. 45 minutes later, I left the ghetto with a legal state ID in my hand. My surname is no longer the irritating "Williamsen" from Virginia, and I'm one more step closer to completing FIU's irritating paperwork. I ran off to the gym briefly, and then Dave and I ended up getting caught up in conversation for 3 hours straight, completely missing dinner. At 10:00 pm, hungry as hell, we whipped up a gourmet salad and perfectly blissfully simple penne with cilantro and garlic. I ingested far too much of the delectable goodness too soon before falling asleep, so I conked out into unconsciousness pretty damn fast.

Saturday began at a reasonable hour, a leisurely light breakfast after the feasting of the night before, and we headed off on a sunshiney day to Key Biscayne. It's crazy tht there's this whole little island 5 minutes from Downtown, a little island oasis of white/affluent hispanic suburbia. Luckily, there's also beautiful state parks down there too. Our $4 parking fee at the south beach lot was more than worth it: ibises, sleeping terns, [I officially am becoming my parents], kite surfers, beach paths, and velvety sand kept us occupied for several windblown hours before we were forced to head back to civilization in search of sustenance. Craving seafood but seeing none, we settled for a late lunch at this crazy Argentinian place on Normandy called Vacas Gordas. I think we were a bit of an abberation to the serving staff since we 1. were white, 2. were not drinking alcohol, and 3. didn't order meat. They thought we were crazy, but luckily the staff didn't effect the taste of the food, which was stellar.

Also stellar was Saturday night. After a rousing game of scrabble to segue into the evening fun, we made Amaretto Angelfood cake for a midnight strawberry shortcake, then gave the Kitchenaid a workout with oatmeal cookies. It makes me so happy to share a part of my life that I love with the man I love. Grin. Cooking is fun.

When the other DPlace residents arrived home, we piled onto the yellow couch next door to watch "Start the Revolution Without Me," and really, if you can finish that movie without feeling good, then you must not be human. Sigh. Good night.

On that note, as I glance up to the top right-hand corner of my screen to see 10:06 staring at me nervously, I realize that it's time to wrap things up before the IMMEDIATE future kicks me in the rear. No plans for tomorrow as of yet, but hey, there's always 5:30 am for planning. I've got to break that habit eventually. Oh well, in the future I'll try to change that. =)

Homecoming

“Welcome home” he said to me, as I packed up my computer to go. I felt like I’d been away from Haverford for ages, not less than 48 hours. It’s a little ridiculous.

As I walked westward to Ardmore from the North dorms, the stars above caught my eye in their brilliance. I turned around to see the big dipper standing on end, balanced precariously on its handle, the flashing red lights on the radio towers to the north up by King of Prussia that reflect onto the duck pond, and a mist-swathed string of streetlights leading up the hill into the trees. A disembodied pair of headlights emerged from Duck Pond Lane as I passed Barclay into another soupy cloud of fog, and I couldn’t think as a result of all my conflicting sensations. The cool night air should have woken up my brain, sharpened my mental processes, but it only made the twinkling constellations more diamond-like on that dark navy velvet sky, and confused me even more. One of the things that I’ve learned about my often invasive introspection is that although I may be very critical about things and flatter myself observant, other phenomena take a surprisingly long time to sink in. It’s been nearly a month, and I still don’t really want to acknowledge that it’s real. It's hard enough to tell myself that I'm actually in a functioning relationship, let alone attribute my newfound peace of mind to the actions and/or presence of another person besides myself. Yes, I know I can be perversely self-reliant at times, not the most flattering of characteristics.

“Welcome home” he said, and it felt true, it felt right. “You sound happy,” Rachael said today on the phone (post-Rhodes-congratulation), and it sounded like the truth. I can’t quite admit it straight faced yet, but it shows through to the people that know me well, despite the wishes of my black little sarcastic heart. I am happy, and the scary thing is I know why.