Vengeance is a sin.

I know all too well. I'm suffering from the consequences of my pseudo-vengeful, definitely off-the-cuff, on-the-whim haircut yesterday.

I woke up this morning with big hair. What girls normally refer to as "the mushroom". Poofy on top, real flat near the neck. I groaned. So much for finding someone for the holidays. With my mushroom head, the most I could hope to attract is maybe a drug addict. My fro settled down into a mullet as the day went on. I'm not sure which one is worse. I'm looking forward to the highlights tomorrow. Maybe some color will bring me out of the "white trash" category.

Good thing I got my new look right in time for my high school reunion! I also got it right in time to meet the medical student that my mom invited home for Thanksgiving dinner. She told me that he reminds her of my father when they first immigrated over together. Apparently, he's new to the country. I asked her if he spoke English. Her reply? "Well, you might have to be a bit patient with him." Great. He looked strangely reminiscent of a recent interest I had. Except with a language barrier. Just as skinny though.

So he met a "real American girl" today. I'm sure he was impressed by my mullet. And with my mom's casual comment that she'd love to have a doctor in the family. Later that night, I overheard her voice floating up to the second floor, asking him "So, do you karaoke? We have a karaoke machine you know." I could feel my ears burn, even as I was in the bathroom. Luckily, he replied no. If he busted out with my mom on karaoke, it would've been social suicide on the "attracting Nine" scale. As it was, I couldn't wait for him to leave so I could go upstairs, bury my head in my blankets, and concentrate on weighing the pros and cons of shaving my hair off.

Time is not linear. It folds back on itself, twists up, turns topsy turvy, and makes scrambled eggs out of your brain.

I'm not too familiar with Einstein's theories on time travel, but whatever he had in mind had something to do with time not really passing the way we think it does. I think it had something to do with motion velocity being inversely proportion to the speed at which time passes. The faster you go, the slower time passes. Regardless, the overall idea of it was that time is stretchable like a rubber band and doesn't follow otherwise logical rules. I've never felt more confused about the passage of time as I do right now.

I got home around 10 pm after getting my haircut in Philadelphia. I recently cancelled a trip to California after a minor showdown, so I suddenly had money to spend. I decided to splurge on myself because dammit, I deserve it. Highlights are in store for later this weekend. So, I re-entered to reclaim the kingdom of my childhood with a new super short haircut.

"So, Dad. Notice anything different about me?"
"No."
"Look closer."
"...New earrings?"
"Dad. My hair."
"Oh. I haven't seen you in so long I don't remember what length your hair was."
"I saw you in August Dad."

Mom comes down in pajamas, gives me the once-over like mothers do, and says "Nice hair" before heading back upstairs.

My brother walked in the door an hour later. For the first time since August, our family is back together in the house. This is momentous for a few reasons. First of all, it's the first time that we've had a "homecoming" in the truest sense of the word. My younger brother came home from his freshman year at college, and I, of course, returned from New York. I was super excited about seeing him again. I wanted to grill him on what freshman year was like, whether he'd made a lot of new friends, partied a lot, what kinds of fun he had. Instead, it turned into an awkward stilted affair. First of all, his head was... fuzzy. My brother used to be super anal about keeping a strict crew cut. And he was wearing the jeans I bought him 3 years ago for Christmas. The pair that I thought made him look so cool but he refused to wear because he hated them. And, there was a distance between us. Even though we were standing 3 feet apart in the foyer, I felt like we were staring across an ocean at each other. Or, more accurately, I was staring across the ocean at him, and he wasn't even looking back. He said one thing to me.

"What happened to your hair?"
"....I cut it."

He sat down to eat the dinner that my dad had cooked. My mom came flying down in her pajamas and gave him a big hug. That lasted for 10 minutes while she blinked back tears. After she let go and stroked his cheek, she suddenly remembered that I existed and brightly said "Let me give you a hug too!" Of course. But that's how my family has always been. Split down the middle. She hugged me and I tried hard not to flinch. I grew up in a very ascetic "tough love" sort of environment. Not many hugs when I was little. As a result, I'm a little freaked out when my parents want to touch me. My mom tried to rectify the situation when my brother was born, but it was too late for me.

We spent the next ten minutes looking like a scene out of some grotesque satirical family film. My brother ate his dinner with his physics book open, studying. My parents sat at the table and watched him eat. And me, the underachieving not-as-bright-star, stood awkwardly by the kitchen counter, and watched my parents watch my brother eat. After ten minutes of awkward conversation that consisted of my dad asking my brother about his health and then chiding him on his spending habits, and my mom being all a flutter and tending to his every need, I announced that I was going upstairs to unpack.

I fled the scene. That's the only way to describe it. I had the sense of discomfort that I haven't had since I was in high school trapped in awkward social situations where I felt invisible. It was strange to feel that way in my own house, when I'm 22 and no longer an awkward teenager. I felt like every comment I made towards the stilted conversation between my parents and my brother was either ignored, or regarded with thoughts of "WHY is she saying that?" My brother answered every question my parents directed towards him, very politely and friendly-like. But the Physics book stayed open, and he took every chance inbetween questions to make it readily apparent that he was studying. I almost felt bad for my parents. They were obviously thrilled he was home, and he was keeping them at arm's length with his Physics book held up as a veritable Crucifix against us.

I went upstairs and thought about our family. How we're equivalent to planets moving in orbit around the sun of my brother. My mother would be Venus. The closest planet orbiting the sun. Or, what I think is the closest planet to the sun, my Astronomy isn't too keen. My dad would be Jupiter. Big and massive, largely ignored, but important enough to affect all the other planets with his gravitational pull. And I would be Pluto. The little planet out at the outskirts whose only claim to fame is having a large dumb cartoon dog named after it. Yay!

I unpacked my things and noticed how New York-y they were. I ugh'ed at myself. I swore I wouldn't turn into such a person, but it seems to have snuck up on me. I laid on the bed I'd slept in since I got out of the crib (a nice 20 year old full-sized mattress that has hollows and dips molded by my body. Love it.), and thought about life. I'd noticed when I left college that life is a rather lonely affair. It made me homesick for my family because I'd realized that family is really the only people you can truly count on. With my advent home, I'm realizing that maybe this too, is another childhood illusion to be shattered. The scene that played out downstairs in the kitchen, and was surely still playing out like a broken video, was evidence of that. I thought about how things were so good... before. That's when I realized that "before" was a mere 4 months ago. The 4 months felt like an incredibly wide expanse of time.

When you're little, 3 months of summer feels like forever of fun. When you're 22, a year of your life is nothing. You easily throw it away on a job you don't like, because hey, "it's only a year." And now, in a time period when so much change is happening, 4 months is an eternity to be apart. My brother came in and had a little conversation with me later on in the night. He's very good about being dutiful with such things. I felt like I was speaking to a stranger. This prior volleyball fanatic (he was captain of the high school team!) had given it all up, because "volleyball isn't going to help me get anywhere in life." He planned to study over Thanksgiving even though freshman year is pass/fail, because "freshman year is when you build your foundation for the rest of your college career." In fact, he said that he probably would never come home from MIT, not even for the summers, because he'd rather spend his time working towards winning awards and furthering his accomplishments than coming home to waste time. I asked him if he felt jealous of his fraternity brother's close-knit family. He replied no, not at all. I tried to emphasize the value of personal growth. How being a successful person isn't just about how many accomplishments you have. He gave me a line of "Well, that's the philosophy you use." I could almost hear the unspoken statement "And look where you are now."

Perhaps I shouldn't have sent him that editorial.

So. Looks like I truly am alone in the world. My brother seems to be bound to me only by duty. Because he happened to be born of the same parents. Not because he particularly likes me. But I suppose that's logical. If I'd met him outside of the context of him being my brother, I'm not sure I would've hung out with a guy that had his sorts of philosophies on how life should be lived. Likewise, I'm sure he wouldn't hang out with a girl consumed by materialistic passions (as he views my spending habits). I looked at the picture I have in my room of the two of us when we were little. I must've been 7 and he was 4. He's about half my size and he's hanging on to my waist and we're both grinning like banshees. I suppose this is part of the cycle. All good things come to an end. I blinked and all of a sudden, we were both grown up and... different. In 4 months, we've suddenly diverged.

I woke up this morning, took one look at myself in the mirror, and the sentence my brother uttered to me when he first walked in that night echoed in my head. "What happened to my hair?" 22 years of long hair exchanged for a short poofy thing. But maybe some color will help it.

Are you gonna live your life wonderin' standing in the back lookin' around?
Are you gonna waste your time thinkin' how you've grown up or how you missed out?
Things are never gonna be the way you want.
Where's it gonna get you acting serious?
Things are never gonna be quite what you want.
Or even at 25, you gotta start sometime.
I'm on my feet, I'm on the floor, I'm good to go.
Now all I need is just to hear a song I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
Are you gonna live your life standing in the back looking around?
Are you gonna waste your time?
Gotta make a move or you'll miss out.
Someone's gonna ask you what it's all about.
Stick around nostalgia won't let you down.
Someone's gonna ask you what it's all about.
Whatcha gonna have to say for yourself?
I'm on my feet, I'm on the floor, I'm good to go.
Now all I need is just to hear a song I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
Crimson and clover, over and over.
Crimson and clover, over and over.
Our house in the middle of the street, why did we ever meet?
Started my rock 'n roll fantasy.
Don't don't, don't let's start, why did we ever part?
Kick start my rock 'n rollen heart.
I'm on my feet, I'm on the floor, I'm good to go.
So come on Davey, sing me somethin' that I know.
I wanna always feel like part of this was mine.
I wanna fall in love tonight.
Here tonight.
-Jimmy Eat World

Today's the kind of day that makes me want to crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling and think about my life. Analyze it bit by bit, tear it apart slowly and examine its innards, figure out why and how it works the way it does. Determine the source of the problem and fix it. Debug.

As I was walking back today alone with my rollerblades, I found myself deep in thought, with just one main thought - I need new friends. I had the sudden realization that there is nothing tying me to the east coast any longer. I could potentially take off for foreign lands and not look back once. Not because I've stopped loving my friends, but maybe because I've outgrown them. I'm tired of the college thing. I want to expand. Have new experiences. Meet new people. Do new things. And yet I had a sense that no matter where I went, I'd be predominantly alone. Because being a young adult with no roots and nothing to tie me down makes me transient by definition. And transience always gives off a sense of loneliness. It made me a little sad.

Perhaps I'm a social nomad. Perhaps I'm a solitary creature by nature. After all, it's not like I've ever really had a stable set of friends. They've evolved and changed like fashion magazines every year. At the same time, I'm wondering if maybe I'm making a big fuss over nothing. After all, it can't be that everyone has best friends since forever except me. People lose touch, make new friends, lose old ones. I imagine the majority of the world must feel very alone. I imagine that's the appeal of getting married and starting a family. Marriage may be an empty promise for a good 50% of the U.S. population (according to the divorce rate in my old college Sociology book), but the mere idea of the promise itself is what has those of the female gender enthralled. Not to say that women are lonelier than men, but just that women seem to feel it more intensely. Perhaps because we're more willing to admit it, maybe beacus we're more in touch with our feelings, maybe because of our hormone cycle. Who knows. Who cares. After all, does it really matter why we feel this way? We feel it. Fix it.

It's human nature to look for a port in the storm. Some stability in a life that's ever changing around you. And what is more tumultuous and more subject to sudden change than your early 20's? A lot of people seem to mistake this need for stability as a need for a significant other. For that reason, a lot of my friends have been on a mission for the ever elusive "serious relationship". Even the boys are taking part in this one. It's a manifestation of the port. The anchor. The constant in a life that seems to have no reason these days with the economy in the shape that it is. I think in reality, a significant other is the mistaken impression for a search for direction. What people really need is a mentor. Someone to help give shape to the tangled core of confusion within. Someone to create direction from the knot of ideas and desire that tug and pull every which way. And we all know that significant others complicate things more than they simplify things.

After all, we've always had a direction to work towards till now. In college, we worked towards finding jobs after graduation. We're here. Now what? We work everyday, but there's no next step laid out before us. It makes it easy to feel lost as we toil through the daily grind, asking ourselves, "What is this all for?" We're working towards nothing. In the absence of direction, significant others provides an easy filler. We're working towards making ourselves better profesionally and thus more appealing for significant others. Does anyone really think that professional lives will affect the course of true love? We're trapped in a cycle of lost chaos, and are forced to provide empty reasons in order to psychologically comfort ourselves, to provide reasons for doing what we're doing so that we don't go crazy with how dissatisfied we are with our lives at the moment.

Or, are we doomed to never be content with our lives? To always want more because by nature, man is greedy?

In a young heart, fairies still flit around sprinkling magic dust, mermaids sun themselves on mysterious seashores, baby angels laugh as they play heavenly hymns on tiny harps, and a kiss from a princess really does turn a frog into a Prince Charming.
-Lisa Jane

It is impossible to maintain a young heart once you hit the real world. If anything, a young heart is likely to be a liability once you're an adult. A young heart, by definition of Lisa Jane, is a heart that has been unsullied by the gritty reality of the world. A heart that can still believe in fairy tales and prince charmings. Basically, a heart that is naive, that hasn't experienced much. A heart that is therefore unprepared and ill-suited to dealing with the world. It's a process of natural selection. Weed out the weak, and only the strong remain. Sadly, beauty and wonder is contained within the weak and stamped out in the strong. That is, after all, what makes them strong. They've lost the ability to feel devastated or incapacitated when disaster strikes. And they've lost this capability by expecting disaster to strike. By killing all dreams and lowering all ideals so that the disappointment doesn't run as deep. After all, the higher you fly, the further you have to fall, the harder you hit the ground, and the more bones you break.

These past few months, I feel like I've experienced more of the real world than I care to know. I'm starting to see how my parents became the people that they are. I used to think they were unnecessarily negative, but now I see that you naturally become such as you get older. The older you get, the more ugly you see of the world. Last night, I realized that some of the people I had considered friends are completely unreliable. I found myself making a mental note when I got back to my apartment, tagging them as a researcher would tag animals in the wild.

FRIENDUS IMPOSIBLUS
This species of the genus FRIENDS is notoriously undependable.
They show exuberant bursts of affection at times, so that they can
feel like they're "great friends", but in reality care for their own needs
first and foremost. Evidence of this behavior can best be seen through
their actions, since their words should be taken lightly and with a
grain of salt. When sober, they can leave you stranded because they
felt like it. When drunk, they can be downright dangerously inconsiderate.
Always profoundly sorry afterwards when attention is brought to their
indiscretions, but hope not, their behavior will not change. Individuals
of this species together in large grous continually treat each other with
the same lack of courtesy. However, no offense in these cases is taken
since they all treat each other as such and thus expect such behavior from
others. Blame cannot be pinned on these people because they are not aware
of the negative impact of their actions and will most likely treat you like
you're a spazz when you bring it up.
**Handle with care.**

I'm completely blown away by how large groups of these people exist. I can't figure out whether they were always like that, and became friends because they're all similar. Or whether they used to be normal and got caught in a vicious cycle of inconsiderate actions through "revenge" for others' inconsiderate actions. But "blown away" is a sentiment I've been feeling a lot lately. Between my so-called-friends and Project Manager, I've been meeting a lot of individuals that I find hard to understand. I have trouble conceiving that such people even exist. I can't wrap my mind around that idea. That these people grew up in the same world as I did and turned out with such a different set of standards of how people should be treated. Were we all taught a different set of morals and ideas of right and wrong as children? Why is there no universal standard for social etiquette and common courtesy?

A child's heart is revered so, because people realize the value of being eternally optimistic, having unwavering faith in people, of being oblivious to the evils of the world. It makes for a happier carefree person. And the process of losing the child's heart is always a painful process. When you realize that your friends really can't be depended on. When you realize that people like Project Manager really do exist in the world, and not only do they exist, but they exist successfully and oblivious to their own shortcomings. When you realize that the percentage of good people is in reality, a lot smaller than you'd like it to be. When you realize that these good people are exceedingly hard to come by. When you realize that when it comes down to it, you really -are- alone, it really -is- you against the world. It's a catch-22. In order to protect yourself against the majority of the world, you find yourself retracting, not going out of your way for people, pulling back on the generosity bit because it will most likely fall on deaf ears, go unappreciated, and probably rewarded only by poor behavior on the part of the recipient. But then, if you become such to protect yourself, you become, by definition, one of them. And thus we gird our loins against each other.

You'd think that by this age, I would know better and expect such things. Apparently, I don't learn very well. Everytime I meet people with dubious morals, I'm caught flat footed, off guard, surprised. I can't count how many times I've had the feeling of incredulousness that people actually find ways to justify their behavior and genuinely believe that they're right. Yet, I can't foresee myself being any more prepared the next time around. Perhaps I'm too trusting. I'm forever-suspicious, but trusting nonetheless. With every cloud comes a silver lining however. The experiences of the past few months have made me all the more grateful for the good ol' standby's. The Dana's and Ken's and Winnie's of the world who are few and far-between, and unfortunately are currently residing in different states than I am.

I discussed this at length with my roommate A. She said, "It's so sad that we're so bitter already, and we're only 22." I can't imagine that we're probably only standing in the shallow end of the Bitter Sea of Adulthood.

If I was as big of a hit with hetero guys as I am with gay guys, I'd be set.

Gay men love me.

Last night, I went out to G and XL, two gay bars in Chelsea with my friend N. It was a bizarre experience at first. Women as a whole, are so used to always being checked out wherever they go, that it's become a part of everyday life. If you've got two legs and breasts, chances are, someone somewhere is going to give you the onceover. Being at a gay bar is a singularly bizarre experience, because the eyes slide over you like you're another piece of furniture in the area. It was a little disquieting at first, but once I got used to it, I didn't mind being a piece of furniture and feasted my eyes on the treasure trove of beautiful men before me. Not only were the men beautiful, but they all talked to me. Imagine that. Oddly enough, I felt completely comfortable chatting back with them. I felt strangely... safe.

Even odder, they all thought I was wonderful. The bartender (who served drinks topless) told N. that I was "a-DOR-able. I mean, look at her! Isn't she SO cute?" Sneaky strategy, but effective. I left him a nice tip. A steady stream of men paid me compliments and talked to me all night. "BEAUT-iful. I just -had- to come over here and find out who you were!" I loved it. Granted, my popularity is most likely a reflection of N's popularity instead. N. is an extremely good looking guy, and what easier way to get an introduction to him than to talk to his female friend with him at the bar? I knew this, but didn't really care. And I managed to hand out a phone number that night too. T. works at Diesel and wants to go rollerblading in the park with me sometime. And he told me I was FAB-ulous and that he wanted to eat me up. Then he piggy-backed me all the way to the diner at 4 AM where we all ate together. I was afraid I'd crush him, T. looks on the fragile side, but he bore up under the extra weight like a real trooper. I love gay men.

Gay men, however, are still men. Testosterone still runs strong in the bodies of these males. A fight almost broke out between T. and a guy he was talking to. It was reminiscent of college frat parties. Except it wasn't over a girl, it was because the guy poured his drink all over T.'s 300 dollar Burberry sweater. Gay men epitomize everything a girl wants in a male friend. They provide the ever-important male perspective on situations, without any of the sex getting in the way. Plus, they love to shop. What more could you ask for?

Last night was one of the best times I've had in a long time. Ironically enough, there's nothing like a bar full of gay guys to boost your self-esteem and make you feel sexy. I even came home with a hickey on my arm. Courtesy of T. following up on wanting to eat me up. I love New York. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that I'd be sitting inside a super trendy bar with an incredibly good looking gay man gnawing on me like a koala would gnaw on a palm tree. But New York is all about fulfilling wild dreams. I love this place.

xmas list.

Benetton coat. (hopefully subsidized by my parents)
Guitar.
Sixers zip-up hoodie.

Warp Speed Ahead!!

God has come through for me, even though I opted to shop at Bergdorf's last Sunday instead of going to church. I'll make an extra effort to go to confession this Saturday. I feel like I ought to give him something in return for his generosity, a token of respect, an expression of my gratitude. And since the one thing I never seem to be able to give Him is my time, I'll make sure to do that this weekend.

Maybe he's forgiven me for my college days, when I only went to church during Finals.

I'm leaving Delaware and Project Manager next Wednesday. I originally thought that my roll-off date was late December, but apparently, it had been End of November the entire time and I JUST DIDN"T KNOW IT. I feel like I've gotten an early Christmas present. The little glimmer at the end of the tunnel has suddenly become a blinding glare. I'm almost out. Go into the light...

I was thinking today of the plethora of sins I had to confess. A good 10 year's worth. I haven't been to Confession since 8th grade, when we had to go before Confirmation. At the time, I didn't know what to say. I was sitting in the cool dark box, with my feet dangling (I had just barely hit 5 foot at the end of eighth grade), in my crisp white church dress, staring at the mesh through which I could see the profile of my priest. I remember the way the wooden confessional smelled. I realized that most people knelt before confession, but I figured, with infallible 12 year old logic, that the priest couldn't see me anyways, so I might as well sit down instead of tormenting my poor knees. Besides, my dress might wrinkle. I cleared my throat. It was hard. I couldn't think of any sins to confess. Not because I was a particularly good child, but because I couldn't think of any -bad enough- to confess. I felt lame saying something like "I pulled my brother's hair when my mom wasn't looking yesterday." I had a sense of the dramatic, even at that age. And like any good Catholic school kid, I felt like I wasn't merely confessing before the priest, but confessing before God. And God, in my mind, was a VIP. A Very Important Person. A Very Powerful Individual. A Very Busy Guy. And all the other Very's. I felt small and insignificant. And like any good child, I felt like I was wasting His time. He's got wars to stop and epidemics to prevent. If I had to confess something, I felt like it should be something worthy of his attention. A Real Sin. Before I spoke, I had a slight worry that the priest might recognize my voice, so I tried to talk like a man. I cleared my throat again. "Er. I pulled my brother's hair yesterday when my mom wasn't looking." There was a pause and some shaking of robes. I had the sneaking suspicion that He was laughing. I tried to justify myself before God. "Well, he started it. He ripped the legs off my Barbie. And it's the ONLY Barbie I have because my mom won't buy me any dolls. She says they're too expensive." There was another pause. I swallowed and finally confessed, "So, I ate the legs off his GI Joe."

There was a cough. I got ten Our Father's. And a recommendation that I see the doctor in case plastic GIJoe's are toxic. I did the Our Father's, but ignored the recommendation. It was the mini Gi-Joe, the kind that stand on flat bases. It was nothing. As I knelt in the empty church with my hands neatly folded in prayer, I peeked up at the giant crucifix with one eye. Jesus looked back at me with his eyes closed, his hands nailed on the cross, and his loincloth half hanging off. I wondered briefly if Jesus had ever fallen in love, or had a crush on a girl. Maybe a prostitute since he seemed to enjoy helping them. If you can count on anyone to see a prostitute's inner beauty, you can count on Jesus.

Ten years later, I find myself thinking along the same lines. What am I going to say at confession? I've got a whole lot of unconfessed sins built up since 8th grade. I wonder whether the priest would be appalled. I imagine he hears his share of things though. "Bless me father for I have sinned. I used birth control." Birth control, and a whole gamut of other modern things that make life better, seem to be against Catholicism. It boggles my mind why God would want a poor woman to have baby after baby after baby, just to appease her husband's unsatiable appetites.

I'm what they call a CAGE Catholic. This means I only go to church on Christmas, Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, and Easter. If even. But,despite my blissful ignorance of all things holy, I can't deny the impact that religion has had on my life. I am undeniably, irrevocably, and unalterably Catholic. Those nuns did a damn good job beating religion into me when I was younger. It's a permanent part of who I am. I'm Catholic through and through, down to every irreverent bone in my body. I've got a good chunk of Catholic guilt to boot.

Although i stand in the back of the church, watching everyone else stand and mumble the Lord's Prayer in unison, I can't help but draw parallels to how cult-ish this scene looks. As if everyone's been brainwashed. We all look up towards the one Holy Man, who could easily put hallucinogenic substances into the communion wafers, making them literally and figuratively, the Lord's holy bread. Whenever I take communion, I always taste the bread and try to guess what kind they bought from the store. 12-grain seems to be a favorite.

Despite it all, I can't go anywhere else. I tried attending Christian fellowships in college, and was complete repelled by the entire thing. Catholicism is a religion of pride and stoicism and privacy. In fact, it's criticized the most often for this very reason. It's become a huge part of my faith, however twisted it may be. My relationship with God is intensely private. Catholics talk to God on a one-on-one basis. And I come from the old-school Catholics, having gone to Catholic school in Italy. I don't even like to hold hands during the Our Father, and a lot of Catholics have taken up that habit. It freaks me out. You're not supposed to touch each other when you're at church. There's a healthy respect for someone else's faith, and you don't encroach upon their tryst with God by wanting to touch them. My old manager's father stopped going to church for that very reason, the holding hands thing. He stormed out in the middle of Mass, calling them "flippin' Protestants!" This from the man who would drive his family around on Sundays while they were on vacation, looking for a Catholic church to go to.

What bothered me about the Christian fellowships at school wasn't just the touching. It was all the sharing. I hate praying out loud. Why's it anyone's business what I say to God? Like any good healthy relationship, I don't kiss and tell. All the outpouring of emotion. It just... gave me the heebie jeebies. And it made me suspicious. The newly converted who are always the most devout made me the most suspicious. You're either faking it, or you're so easily gullible that you would've fallen just as hard for any other religion that happened along at that moment. What does that say about the sincerity of your faith if it could've just as easily been placed elsewhere? I labeled them "cult prone" in my mind. Those were the ones who consistently cried (or had some other emotional outburst) during prayer or fell on the floor speaking tongues. Why were these people doing these things? What compels them to share such personal things with such strangers? Is it sheer loneliness? Are they naive? Or are they merely "showing" how faithful they are by crying in the middle of prayer, much like how you'd show how "cool" you are back in high school by acting aloof? Am I supposed to say "Aw..." at the tears and pat them on the back and tell them reassuringly, "Don't worry. Jesus loves you."? To be realistic, I'm willing to bet that a good half of them are truly faithful and do cry at home as well. I'm not too sure about the other half.

The praise songs however, were the hardest for me to handle. They made me squirm with discomfort. All this blatant groveling at the feet of God. "We are not worthy!". I felt uncomfortable singing the words so I stood there uncertainly. I agreed with the sentiment, but I felt awkward saying it out loud. Much like how women in the past enjoyed sex but never talked about it. I prefer the hymns with "Hallelujah" and the ever traditional "Glory be to God". I grovel to God on my own time, in my own bedroom, without an audience to witness my piety.

However, the last straw happened at Small Group. We stood in a circle holding hands, and went around, each saying a small prayer out loud. I felt like I was in third grade and had been called on by the teacher when I wasn't paying attention. I wracked my brain for something meaningful but not too personal to say. But before I could even open my mouth, the girl across the circle from me cried out "I can see an angel standing behind your shoulder!" It made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Not because I believed her, but because I realized that I was trapped in a room full of potentially hallucinating psychos.

Just like how I don't feel comfortable with group sex, because sex is just too personal, I don't feel comfortable with group worship, because God is just too personal, even as I stray into agnosticism at times. I imagine God knows how to cut through the bullshit anyways. So I try not to present him with too much of it. He's a busy man.

I never went back to the fellowship. Regardless of how much criticism is made of how cold and backwards Catholicism is, it suits me just perfectly. I love the ritual of it all. I go through the motions with the knowledge that centuries of people have gone through the same motions. It adds timelessness to faith. It makes me feel like I'm in touch with the past, like faith in God has transcended time through this ageless ritual. And what better way to relate to a Being as old as the cosmos than by rituals that are centuries old? The quiet of the church and the peaceful hymns serve as a good backdrop for the voice inside my head that speaks to God about how much I'm grateful for. How lucky I feel. How I need him to protect and bless my family while I'm gone. How I need some guidance in life, to lead me down the right path, because I sure as hell have no idea what I'm doing on my own.

And despite my misgivings and surely blasphemous thoughts about He Who Created Us, things crop up sometimes to remind me of my religious roots.

[today]
"May the force be with you."
"And also with you."
"Huh?"
"Er, sorry. Habit. I think it's part of Mass. It's what you say in response to 'May the Lord be with you.'"
"I think it's 'Peace be with you.' And the response is 'And also with you.'"
"Oh. I haven't gone to church in a long time."
"I can tell."

The color of the sheep never changes, even as it strays from the flock.

I am.

Moody. Contradictory. Self indulgent. Borderline narcoleptic. Stubborn to a fault. Indecisive. Overanalytical. Anal. A creature of habit. Absent minded. Painfully shy at times. A chatterbox at others. Indifferent. Easily exasperated. Pessimistic. Impatient. An idealist nonetheless. Tall for my frame. Lanky if you ask some. Elegant if you ask Dana. A giraffe if you ask Jen.

I like.

To be alone, but have company. To read fantasy novels about woodcutter's daughters who save the world.

I love.

Cello music. Children's books. Musicals. My family. Down comforters. The fall. Stinky tofu.

I hate.

Not knowing. All talk and no action. Cutesy. My nose.

I wish.

I could be smart enough to recognize true love if it slapped me in the face.
I could have the courage to do the things I want.
I could stand up in the face of adversity.
I didn't cry over little things.
I could cry over the big things.
I still danced.

Sometimes I am, but wish I was not.

Hot-tempered. Naive. Too forgiving.

I was.

Raised on fairy tales and Disney movies.
Very small for my age. Until I hit 14.

I pride myself on.

Being fair and objective.

Sometimes I think.

I am a seriously flawed individual.
I'm going to die young.
Too much.

I have.

An 18 year old brother. A perm that's falling out. A scar on my lower lip. Ears that stick out. Double jointed thumbs, hips, and elbows. Orangutan arms. A mole on my collarbone. No birthmarks. No curves, just lines.

I'm amazed at.

The thought of love forever. How can anyone love someone forever?

I need.

A new job.

Right now, at work, I feel like.

I've been beat down. Multiple times. With a cattle prod.

"There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

"The important thing is to be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become."

"I can't make you love me, if you don't.
I can't make your heart feel, something it won't."

No one's happiness but my own is in my power to create or destroy. -Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand

There are times when I think I complain too much about work. After all, I should be happy to be employed at all. My friend M. said that she thinks it's funny. But I think she only finds it funny because she works at the same firm that I do. No one else really gets it. They just feel vaguely sorry for me, but not really, because how can they? They have no idea what it's really like.

Today's been a particularly bad day.

Quote: "So. I'm confused. You didn't look at any of this while I was gone. I don't know what you did the whole time then."
Translation: "You are a total slacker. You were obviously goofing off while I was gone, even though the Team Lead sits right beside you and our cubicle walls are only waist high so everyone can see what you're doing. You suck."
My Response: "I worked on the test plans while you were gone." I sounded lame, even to my own ears.
His Translation: "You're so dumb that it took you that long to do that one thing."
My Translation: "Those things take forever. Especially when I'm petrified of getting it wrong. You haven't even read the manuals. You don't even know what the task entails. Slacker."

Quote: "You haven't said anything for a while. What do you think? You -do- think, right?"
Translation: "What, you think you'll sit there and stare at my screen and I'll give you all the answers? YEAH RIGHT. WORK for those answers. Get down on your knees and beg."
My Response: "What file are you looking at? Shouldn't we check the Apache log file?"
Translation: "I haven't said anything because I don't know the damn answer. If I knew the answer, would I be asking? Who's the dummy now, huh? WHO'S THE DUMMY. I'm watching you try to get to the answer as fast as possible without letting me see how you got there. This way, you can make sure to make me feel dumb in the future as well. I'm onto you.
His response: "No, this has nothing to do with Apache."
[10 minutes later]
Me: "What file are we looking at now?"
Him:: "The Apache file."
Me:: "..."

M. tried to make me feel better via AIM. I've never received this sort of treatment at the hands of anyone else before. See, proof that the problem is him, not me. And she's right. I've never had a manager who hasn't loved me, all my teachers have always thought I was smart. It's sickening. I had one of those give-you-a-cavity sort of lives. If you ignore the "I was a social outcast" part of high school. Any feedback I've received always ran along the lines of "You could improve in this or that", not the current lines of "You suck." If anything, I feel that growing up the way I did only gave me that much further to fall. My upbringing has done little to prepare me for the real world. I'm thin-skinned. And somewhere underneath it all, I'm rebellious about losing it. This is not the way things should be. I shouldn't have to become thicker skinned to survive. You shouldn't have to trod on the underlings beneath you to make you feel big. Or to compensate for "small pee pee" problem. I was raised to believe the world was fair. That ideal was dashed as soon as I hit high school and realized the dumb blondes were the ones who got the boys. But, I maintained my belief that the world was at least reasonable. Sometimes you got the short end of the stick. But other times you got the long end. You just happen to remember the short end more often. This experience has cast doubts on even that idea. After my stint on this project, God owes me, BIG TIME.

It boggles my mind that there are human beings like this that exist out there. It boggles my mind that these sorts of people not only exist, but exist in abundance, or so I hear. What is going on? Since when did reason and fairness become traits of the minority? Is this trend only existent within the business population? If I head out to other industries, will it still be like this? It makes the world a bigger and scarier place. Psychos and serial killers always exist, as do muggers. But you always imagine them to be 10 out of 100 at most. Little did I realize that the real sharks don't live in the ghetto or lurk in alleys. They wear suits everyday and carry briefcases to work.

To top it all off. I missed my train. But, as soon as I stepped foot outside of the office, things started to look good. The guy at the Hertz counter decided to not charge me for returning my car with some gas missing. Then lady at the Amtrak counter willingly exchanged my cheaper commuter train ticket for a Metroliner Business Class ticket, at no additional charge. And the woman at the diner car on the train gave me a free drink. Plus, I was only charged 7 cents for Skittles, instead of 70 cents. I told the lady, but she waved me away.

It doesn't end there. I had the most fascinating taxi driver from Penn station to my apartment. He's from Haiti, and he used to play in a band there. Electric guitar. Rock music. I got a rundown of politics in Haiti and how it's such a terrible country, but he misses it. I got a good dose of his anti-gay rhetoric as well. And, he gave me a crash course on what cabbing in New York City is like.

Little Known Facts (to me) About Cabbies In New York.
Most cabbies own their cabs.
It costs approximately 27K for the standard cab. This includes the yellow paint, the little light on top, the pleather seats, the little plastic divider, and the meter - which is New York City property. No cabbie sets his own rates, he's bound to use the New York City rates. However, he gets to keep 100% of the earnings. For those cabbies who drive for a company, they must pay 800 dollars to get their cabbie license. Then, they lease a car from the cab company. They pay for the lease, but they keep all the money they make. If you lease however, you don't have to pay for upkeep of the car.

Most cabbies use their cabs as their full-time cars.
My Haiti cabbie said that he used his cab to help his friend move, and to visit his mother in Queens. He proudly told me that he just bought it. His very own cab. It's only 3 months old. Makes you think twice about puking in one next time you're out late at a bar, doesn't it?

New York is easily the best place to be a cabbie.
The city never sleeps. He says he can make 300 dollars easy in one night. 300 bucks!!!

The strangest thing he's ever seen is a pair of clowns getting hot and heavy in his backseat.
I told him about the clown convention at my hotel. Apparently, clowns really go at it.

Cabbies are really entrepreneurs. Just like what all the business kids want to be, but never have the courage to actually do.
He used to work for Home Depot. Got 12 bucks an hour, stock options and everything. He talked about the cutthroat culture among the people in orange aprons, the politics, all the backtalk that happened so that someone else could get promoted to manager before you. I related completely. He said that he got tired of all the bullshit, and that "he don't play like that, you kno'?" So he quit. Decided he wanted to be his own boss. And became a cabbie. I shook my head. Not at him, but at myself. If this man, who has so much less than me, can pull up, take a risk, and be his own man, why is it so hard for me? Why do I vacillate the way I do? Continue to remain when the power is in my own hands to end it all, right now? Because I'm soft. Because I was raised to expect more.

Because I'm thin skinned.

yay!!! YAAAAAY!!!!!!!

I am awesome. I AM THE BOMB.

I just debugged a piece of code that's been bothering me for DAYS. I kept working on it off and on, inbetween other things so that I could keep looking at it from a fresh perspective. Like most bugs, it was a silly error that was easy to fix, but hard to see. But damn I feel good. I want to do the Dance of Joy in my cubicle, but I contented myself with getting my swerve on.

Yes, the office-chair-swerve. From the waist up, it looks like just another day in the cubicle, typing on a laptop. But from the waist down, the chair is swiiiinnnging back and forth. That's the closest to a butt wiggle I can get. Think slow-mo butt wiggle. If my friend P. was here, she'd tell me to high-five myself. But I draw the line for cubicle shenanigans at that. No need to look -completely- ridiculous.

Am I going to tell Jekyll-and-Hyde about my new accomplishment? No. He'll just yell at me for taking so long to find such a simple error. I'll just bask in my own little glow. I'm a rock star. I rock baby!

A lump on a log.

That's what I feel like. And that's what I'm sure my manager thinks I am also.

I've realized that there's a certain subset of people that I cannot be comfortable around. I decided that I can chart most people on "Nine's Bell Curve of Compatibility", with an X axis of "Social compatibility" and a Y axis of "Number of People". Project Manager ranks all the way on the left side, near the origin. Yup, low social compatibility. Only a small number of people fall into this group. I can probably also graph "Opinion of me" on the same graph, on a Y=X line. People on the left side of the bell curve also generally have low opinions of me. Usually because I can't do anything right around them anyways. We had dinner today, me, my manager, and the other analyst. They chattered away and I had a silent conversation with my mushroom ravioli. He actually seems like a cool guy when he's not yelling at me. I just had nothing to say. When I did think of something, it comes out sounding stilted and forced. I'm sure he's wondering how the hell I got hired, being the obvious social misfit that I am.

I had the same sort of socially awkward feeling this past weekend at dinner. My friend's cousin was about 2 feet shorter than me, but I was charmed by his dimples. It's pathetic what a sucker I am for things like that. I couldn't think of anything witty to say. Or anything at all. Besides an "I know." when he commented "Wow, you're tall." That can go in my "Top Smartest Things You've Said to Boys" List. Right along side of:

cute friend-of-friend: "Wow, my stomach hurts."
me: "Maybe you should go to the bathroom. Could be diarrhea."
my brain: "I can't believe you said that. Shut up while you're ahead."
me: "My dad always said that all the problems of the world could be solved if you sat on the toilet for long enough."
my brain: "doh."

3-year-long-college-crush: [outside the house party on the steps. together. alone.] "What are you doing out here by yourself?"
my brain: "Quick, think of something witty and flirty to say."
me: "You have a hole in your shoe."
my brain: "Good one."

But, my blind date a few weeks ago takes the cake for lack of social grace.

[At lunch]
him: "So, what do you do outside of work?"
me: "Well, I dance sometimes at the dance studio."
him: "You dance? That's so weird. I always imagined you as someone with two left feet."
my brain: "Why do I feel like I'm on the show, Blind Date?"
him: "Do you know the robot?"
me:" ...no."
him: "Because I can imagine you doing the robot on the dance floor while everyone else is hiphop cool."
my brain: "I can't believe he's demonstrating the robot at the table."
my ears: "We're burning in humiliation... buuurrrrning!!"

The Practical Guide to being a Working Traveling Woman.

About Finances:
1. Don't worry if it seems like you're spending mucho moolah. You haven't spontaneously become irresponsible. In fact, your shopping habits probably haven't changed much, but your needs have. You can't get away with a 3 dollar shirt from Gap anymore.

2. It's best to take out money on a weekly basis. To control your spending, I recommend taking out money on Monday for the workweek, and then again on Friday night for the weekend. This way, you can keep better track of your money.

3. The worst feeling is opening your wallet and seeing only 2 dollars left, and having no idea where it went. It's almost better to go on a shopping spree and only have 2 dollars left in your wallet. That way, at least you have something to show for it. When the money seems to disappear into thin air, most likely, it's gone to one of the following things:

• Food. Eating out with friends often makes your money disappear faster than you think. A little 10 dollar entree plus tip and a drink adds up to 20 bucks awfully fast.


• Cab rides. Five dollars here, five dollars there.


• Drinks. Money flows like beer when you're drunk.

Soundbites.

I love fall. I love fall in New York. I love Central Park. I love fall in Central Park. I loved this weekend. It was wonderful. Great weather.

• Walked in the park with co-worker M. looked at couples, looked at the leaves, talked about how we don't want to turn into people who get really excited about a lead role in Testing.


• Went to Barney's, looked at clothes we loved but couldn't afford, talked about how it might not be -so- bad to have a sugar daddy, wondered what it was about rich kids that made them look rich - even when they're dressed in jeans and sneakers like regular people.


• Visited street fair, bought funky jewelry, ate street fair food in Central Park near the horse-and-carriages and smelled the aroma of horse dung. Decided that fall was the only time to take carriage rides through the park. Decided that we would never have chance to do such things due to a) lack of boyfriend in my case and b) boyfriend who's in Europe and allergic to horses in her case.


• Went out, met boy with big nose from McKinsey who looked down on me because I went to public high school. Idiot. I have to say though, he used the best pickup line I've heard yet. Came up to me randomly and said "Will you slap me?" Followed that up with, "My friend and I have a bet, and if you slap me, really hard, I get ten bucks." Made me laugh, and made me less intimidated than a regular pickup line would. Although after an extended conversation with him, I wished I had slapped him. Hard. Especially after we were left at the bar alone till 4 am, when I said I had to go home with co-worker M., and he didn't even ask for my number. Just looked disappointed. Hello, failed booty call.


• Impromptu slumber party with co-worker M., where we giggled in the dark and did imitations of said Mckinsey boy.


• Watched Pretty Woman Saturday night with M. Decided that romantic movie moments never happen in real life. And when they do, you merely feel awkward and self conscious, not romantic. Decided that belief in romantic boys only happens when you're young, before you've had a boyfriend. After boyfriends, you still watch the romantic movies with the same wistfulness, but you realize that it's completely unrealistic. And when boyfriends do movie-like romantic things in real life, you don't believe them. You're just suspicious. What did they do -this- time? Jaded. Decided we're jaded.


• Went rollerblading in the park with high school friend John, laid out blanket and read Blind Assassin when tired.


• Decided that maybe job with Project Manager may be worth it if I can have weekends like this every week.

"All that shimmers in this world is sure to fade away, again." -Fuel

I sat in Business Class on Amtrak on the way back to New York. Not much better than Coach besides some extra leg room and a free drink. Business Class is quieter, but terrible in a whole different way.

You're stuck in a sterile environment where everyone is a faceless person in a grey suit working on their grey laptops. Monochrome is the best way to describe it. Walking into business class is like walking into a world where all the color has been washed out. Like a silent black and white film. And you know each faceless person is checking you out when you enter the car. Because each person is a lonely corporate traveler like yourself, but pretending to be busy and officious looking. And you know each faceless person is judging you. By the way you're dressed, the way you conduct yourself, whether you can be dignified (which I never am) while hauling your suitcase into the upper compartment. And you know each faceless person sneers and sniffs when you do nothing but stare out the window and fall asleep with your mouth open (which I always do) because hey, you must not be important or successful if you have no work to do on the train.

Once in a while, I see someone who looks as tired as I feel. They're slouched down in the seat playing computer games. Usually solitaire or minesweeper. That's me. But we never exchange smiles or make eye contact, because we've been worn down to a point where the effort to meeting a kindred spirit isn't worth it, because the odds of being rebuffed, of meeting a cold stare are so high. We stare ahead at our laptop screens and don't look to either side, for fear of seeing our situation, for fear of facing what we've become, for fear of seeing our own cowardice in staying.

It's like we put on blinders along with our business casual every morning.

He's baaaaaaaaaaack.... Two stories to make you scream.

Quote of the day: "See, that worries me about you." Courtesy of my manager. If I hear those words one more time, I'm going to lose it.

In context, Excerpt 1:
me: "This wasn't in the documentation."
him: "It was mentioned in the meetings we had."
"You mean the three days of meetings we had last month?"
"Yes."
"Oh. I don't remember it being mentioned."
"See, that worries me about you."

Is it really realistic to expect me to have 100% retention of the entire 3 days worth of meetings, a month after the fact? I I can't believe he argued with me still after I said that. Implied laziness and incompetence. I copped attitude while defending myself. I knew it too. And according to my mom, I'm maddeningly good at being maddening when I'm peeved. I knew it was bad news, even as it was happening. It's always bad news for an underling to cop attitude to the boss. Even when you're right and he's only two age-years older than you. We were like two rams butting heads. He kept being stubbornly unreasonable and I was digging my heels in, being obstinately obnoxious and refusing to give in. I'm NOT incompetent.

Excerpt 2:
him: "Fine. You tell me how it works."
me: "Um... This wasn't part of the reading you gave me to do."
"Oh come on. Let's be logical now. You can be logical right?"
"[silence]... (asshole) ... Well I think it works like [blah blah blah]."
"No. You're wrong."
"Oh. But, my solution makes sense though, it might not be the right answer you had in mind, but I think it's an option that maybe we should consider."
"Well, either you don't know PERL like your resume says, or you're wrong."
"I KNOW PERL. Can we at least talk about why my answer isn't a possible solution?"
"You're wrong. I'd bet my -paycheck- on it."
"That's not really necessary."
"I'd bet my PAYCHECK."

Alright jackass, you could simply explain to me why I'm wrong. Betting your paycheck on it, however, is going into my list of quotables. I'm going to publish a book - "How to Smack Down your New Analyst." It'll be a Barnes and Nobles bestseller. I was completely set up for failure and I hated it. I had to practically run to the bathroom to prevent myself from losing it, grabbing him by the shirt collar, and confronting him.

"What is it, HUH? Is it me? Do you not like me? Do you think I'm dumb? Is that it? I don't have two college degrees for nothing. You obviously think you have to check up on me all the time. Ask me constantly why I did it that way, what did I do, when did I do it. IT'S GLORIFIED WORD PROCESSING. You have a problem with the way I get my work done? DO IT YOURSELF."

In my fantasy, he's my size and I can take him on. In real life, he weighs at least 80 pounds more than I do. I had to take 10 deep breaths in the bathroom and remind myself that I am not unique. This is why people end up bringing guns to work. I am not unique.

Even then, on my way back to my desk, when I saw his back hunched over his laptop, the incredulous thought crept into my brain, "He just got back from his honeymoon. Somebody LOVES him." Will wonders never cease. I definitely have nothing to worry about with marriage. I seriously thought about quitting though. But that's nothing new, I think about quitting every day.

To be fair, he was super nice to me when I got back. I think he thought I went to the bathroom to cry. As if.

I waited till I got back to the hotel before doing that.

On a side note, there's a clown conference at my hotel. I saw a male clown follow a female clown into a room. Clown booty.

Game Over. KO!

It's over. BABAE (The Bold And Babelicious Agenda for Excellence) is dead.

My old college roommate J. and I implemented BABAE in an effort to spur ourselves to be more social, less shy and awkward, and more assertive about meeting men. We even had a friendly competition, to see who could get the most business cards (without having to explicitly ask for one), and who could get the most dates by January 2, 2003 (with extra bonus points if you have someone to kiss on New Year's Eve). It was implemented to break my "single" streak, and to help J. get over her recent breakup with her long term boyfriend.

But the competition is over. J. met a wonderful boy from California, managed to date him cross-country, and gain a new boyfriend. They're not serious, yet. But he is undoubtedly a keeper. Within the same period of time, I've gotten one "real" business car, a CD from a DJ on the subway, an invitation from a gas attendant ("Just fill up my tank, okay?"), and a phone number scrawled on the back of my receipt from a cabbie. So I win the business card contest. I'm not sure that's something to brag about considering the "business cards" I got. But she wins the game hands-down. She's become bold and babelicious, and she's attained excellence in her man. He likes her (absolutely key), and is responsible and employed. Those are three things I have yet to attain in men. The best I've managed so far is two out of three. Moreover, he's willing and ready to date, he's clean, and he's sincere. Another three things I have yet to attain.

What does this mean? Does this mean that plan ETC (Expand The Circle) is over? I can hardly ETC on my own. What about plan MTB (Meet The Boys)? J. and I gave birth to all these together, and now I feel like a single parent. She's run off with another man. I can't do this alone!

I've decided that being single is like streaking naked in winter. At first, it's crazy and fun and you feel wonderful and free and great and invigorated. Released from the binding chains of clothing, or relationships. You're out of the kitchen, away from the stifling heat. You could run forever, flapping in the wind. So you're a staunch nudist for a little bit. Or an extended period if you're particularly stubborn like me. But after a half mile or so of sprinting naked, your friends have re-clothed themselves, and you start to realize "Wow, I'm naked. And the wind is cold." J. had named it my "single streak". I'm not sure if it qualifies as a streak anymore. I think by now it can be considered a chronic affliction.

Do I suffer from Guy's Syndrome, otherwise known as FOC (yes-pronounced "fock" like that thing that guys like to do, but said with a British accent)? Fear Of Commitment?

Driving is.

Liberating. There's nothing that makes a girl feel more independent than being in the car on her own on the highway, driving with the windows down and good music coming out of the speakers. You feel in charge, on top of the world, and like you could do anything and go anywhere.

Therapeutic. Music speaks to me. It's like the soundtrack for my life. I can relate to every song in some way. Every tune sparks some train of thought. I get the "I feel like I'm in a movie scene" feeling often when I'm in the car.

Inspiring. Silence is a stage for my thoughts. It's rare that you get 3 hours all to yourself these days. I do a lot of thinking in the car. Reflecting on my life in all its aspects, professional, personal, familial. I take inventory of the years. I mull over situations, imaginary and real. I indulge in an orgy of fantasizing, about being an astronaut (which I could never be because I don't have 20/20 vision), of suddenly driving to Colorado instead of Delaware, of what the future may or may not hold. I wonder what my future husband will be like. Whether we'll get divorced or not. If I'll have any children. Whether they'll turn out okay. Or whether we'll all end up on the Jenny Jones show. I philosophize on whether there is life after death. I wonder who would come to my funeral if I died. How would my friends know I passed away? How would my parents know who to tell? I hope my brother has the presence of mind to call everyone in my cell phone and email everyone in my Outlook address book. I'm terribly morbid when I'm in the car. I suppose it's from the constant possibility that I could die in the next second. Or at least be seriously maimed.

But all this is to end. I started taking the train this week. Now I can sleep on the way to work, or cram whatever work I didn't finish over the weekend. Despite all its romantic overtures, driving was difficult. Waking up at 6 on Monday, driving 3 hours, and then working a 10 hour work day drained me. And I had to do it all over again on Thursday. The romance of driving happens about 80% of the time. The other 20% is spent trying to prop my eyelids open, depending on how much sleep I got the night before, which is always "never enough". But taking the train is 0% romance. Staring out the window is not conducive to daydreaming when you're making a stop every 5 minutes and you're stuck beside a fat man in a suit who smells.

And let's face it, you're almost always stuck beside a fat man, a crying baby, or someone who insists on making small talk the entire way down.

I watched the New York City marathon today. I watched from Columbus Circle, the 25.5 mile mark. Words cannot describe the admiration I felt for these people. The admiration and depth of emotion the sporting event evoked in an othewise-sport-oblivious girl.

I saw a man run by with Apollo wings taped to his hat.
I wanted to laugh.
I saw a woman stumble and fall, wrapped in tinfoil to keep her body warmth in, but still get up and keep going.
I wanted to cry.
I saw someone running in a snail costume.
I saw an elderly man plodding by, obviously suffering, his feet dragging, his breath wheezing, and pasted on his shirt was a photo of his daughter and the dates: 1978-2002.
I saw an amazing display of the fortitude of human spirit, en masse.

Through it all, I wondered, why? Why would these people do this to their bodies? I decided that they're proving something, to themselves or to the world. They had a statement to make, to themselves, and to the world. I wondered, could I ever run this marathon? The answer is a definitive no. The source is lack of motivation and self-discipline. The reason is lack of meaning. It takes something really compelling and meaningful to push you to train that hard, to perform at that level. I'm not sure if I have that sort of meaning and passion in my life. I have no statement to make to the world. I have nothing to prove. Nothing to make me shake my fist at the sky and say "Damn you, I'll show you what I'm made of!" Watching the marathon made me see the complete shallowness of my existence.

As I was walking home, I saw one of the handicapped contenders wheeling himself home. I could pick him out by the bright orange foil he had wrapped around his shoulders to prevent hypothermia. I thought of the tremendous feat he had just accomplished. I thought of the fact that he was wheeling himself home alone. I imagined that maybe he's going to an empty apartment and will fix himself dinner. Content in the fact that he had proven to himself that he can still be a contender, an athlete. I thought of what a lonely city New York can be, and what fighters and harbors of fierce spirit live here. I thought of his handicap and wondered how it happened. I thought of his strength of spirit and will to have trained and "run" a marathon. I could never do what he did, and all my limbs are functional. I thought all this and wanted to stop him and express my admiration. I wanted to ask him how long he trained, what he was thinking as he crossed the finish line, shake his hand. As we passed each other, we made eye contact, but in an attack of sudden shyness, I couldn't do anything besides give him a small smile. The moment passed without a word.

Everything in my life is suddenly brought into perspective. To think, I thought that having a terrible manager was a tragedy.

How spoiled I am.

How lucky I am, to be spoiled in such a manner.

Hiking through Central Park with Ella Fitzgerald.

My goal today was to see the Guggenheim. A co-worker of mine extols the benefit of audio tours, and since most of my friends had left New York to go to Homecoming, I decided that this was the perfect opportunity to do it. I half-heartedly tried to contact a few extraneous friends to see if they were interested in going. I called enough people to satisfy my misgivings about my new anti-social tendencies. See, I'm no anti-social weirdo - I tried to call people and they didn't want to come. I set off with a warm scarf, a wool coat, sneakers, and Ella Fitzgerald in my discman. There is nothing more fitting for a stroll across Central Park in the fall than some good Ella. It took me about 2 hours to get across Central Park, mainly because I couldn't seem to find my way across. But in that 2 hours, I came to a few realizations.

I love winter. According to the Weather Channel, it was 41 degrees when I left, with a windchill factor of 36 degrees. I trekked around Central Park in the cold and loved every minute of it. I got lost, found my way again, detoured to see Belvedere Castle, and worked my own squiggly way across to the East side. There's something great about a cold nose. There's something wonderful about scarves and gloves and that nip in the air. There's something undeniably happy and warm about seeing others bundled up for the outdoors. And Ella is great company. The leaves were all different colors, and as I walked down the paths and trails in the chill, I knew that by the time I was back from Delaware next weekend, most of these leaves would be gone. I people watched. I looked at the runners and bikers and bladers. I watched the teenagers do tricks on their skateboards. I peeped in on a couple taking wedding photos in the park. I walked down the Mall. I looked at the couples rowing boats and thought of Bridget Jones. I sang along in my head to my CD. I saw a lot of little kids and parents. I began to have some serious doubts about my grad school ideas for the west coast. Could I really leave cold weather and the seasons behind?

By the time I got to the Guggenheim, there was only one hour left till closing. So I browsed the Guggenheim store and headed back across the park. I came out at 90th and Central Park West, walked down Columbus, shopped at Banana Republic to warm myself up, and picked up a salad at Hadleigh's. I'm beginning to think that maybe New York isn't so bad after all. Maybe, just maybe, I'm happy here and am too surly to admit it. I'm thankful for living close to the park. I told myself I should take walks in it more often. Alone. Walks alone have a different quality to them than walks with others.

But tonight, tonight is a night for a good book, laundry, and clean sheets. I can't end a great day like this with alcohol consumption at a bar. Besides, for the first time since I've moved here, I'm alone in the apartment. Both my roommates are gone. Alone. Gloriously alone. Hell, I could frolic naked if I wanted to. Lipsync to Madonna. Dance like mad around the living room. Why pass this sort of chance up?

Men in the Sky.

I'm working out of the New York office today. I'm sitting in a large conference room alone, with my back towards the window. At some point, I look up from my laptop, and in the reflection of the framed picture hanging on the opposite wall, I can see the shape of my head. In addition, I can see the shape of two people standing behind me. I froze for a second and I could feel my stomach drop as all the possibilities ran through my head. Psycho killers. Spirits from beyond. Dead CEO's who were murdered in this conference room. I turned around with my heart in my throat, to find young window washers, who winked and waved at me.

Window washers.

::email nine::