Adverse Working Conditions.

My favorite part of the day is answering the phone. The phone that sits on my desk is old-school. And I mean OLD-school. It has a cradle for the receiver, only has 12 buttons on it, has no redial option, and is the color of flesh. Yes, my phone is color-coordinated to my nude pantyhose. I'm trapped in a 50's style nightmare version of Office Space. Complete with sarcastic embittered South Asian-American co-worker who sports a goatee. My cubicle walls are the color of old puke, and best of all, I get to practice crawling under my desk with grace every morning, just to plug in my laptop. When I plug into the client's ethernet, I can access the printers, but cannot access my email. This means that in order to check my work-email and thus, do my work - I have to unplug my phone and plug it into my laptop to dial-up. Then, if I want to print a document or use my phone, I get to unplug my laptop, replug my phone, and replug my laptop back into the intranet. Such technological savvy. Mental note: do not work at an insurance company if I ever leave consulting. At lunch in the cafeteria, I spent forever trying to decide what to eat. Not because I'm amazed at the glorious selection, but because I'm trying to decide which items I'd dislike the least.

Across the street, the food court tempts me with various delights. But the harsh Connecticut winters, with a wind chill of 15 degrees below zero and where half an hour of being outside with any patch of skin exposed will give you frostbite, deters me. After 6 pm, the food variety decreases even more. I'm reduced to waiting in line with the homeless people at fast food joints just for dinner. My selection includes: Mcdonald's. Burger King. Wendy's. All within the same 4 block radius. What convenience!

This weekend, I go snowboarding in Vermont with my start-group. We're leaving straight from Connecticut tomorrow night and returning to Connecticut on Sunday night so we can start a new work-week afresh on Monday! Two weeks worth of business casual plus a weekend of ski-gear equals a water buffalo of a suitcase. And not quite enough pairs of underwear. At about Tuesday or Wednesday of next week, I should be facing a serious panty-shortage crisis. I need to buy more underwear. But in Connecticut, where even the food shuts down at 6 pm, underwear is in short supply. In a desperate attempt to find something, anything, I went to CVS during my lunch break to see if they sold underwear. I should've known better. It's a drugstore. Not Victoria's Secret. I thought about washing my underwear in the shower, but the thought of hanging them out to dry on the towel rack for all the hotel cleaning ladies to see is rather daunting. And so I do nothing. I hold blind faith that somehow, my underwear will breed and multiply in my suitcase.

I look in the mirror and realize I've stopped hating myself. What do I see? A girl. With about half an inch worth's of dark roots above her highlights. A girl. Who no longer worries as much about who she's becoming. A girl. Who wonders if her sudden comfort with herself is because she's finally fallen off the fence. Which side did I land on? Am I now a corporate stiff who can't even see her own corporateness anymore? Or have I comfortably landed on the side of "normal". A girl. Whose best friend consistently tells her "Give it up. You went to an Ivy and now work in consulting. You were bred from the beginning to be corporate". Whose best friend tells her regularly "Admit it, you love the corporate life." Whose best friend is also, himself, heading into corporate culture by going into investment banking. K. is into music. He gave me a Weezer t-shirt for my birthday. He's the business manager at a rock station at his college. He's not your typical corporate hack. I can't help but wonder if he knows something about me that I don't. After all, it's hardest to see oneself in unbiased light. You see what you want to see about yourself. I can't help but wonder if maybe he sees some truth in me that I refuse to see. Kinda like how all your friends are always right about that guy you're dating. And you don't realize it until after it's all over. I can't help but wonder if either he's right about me and everything I've struggled against is nothing but some blindfold I've placed over my own eyes because I don't want to see the ugly in me, or if maybe my best friend just doesn't know me as well as he used to anymore. We have drifted after all. I don't like either option. I don't want either option to really be true.

I wonder if I've stopped struggling because I've finally become comfortable with myself, or because I've become complacent with my situation. I wonder if I've finally become okay. W. always said that I never seem comfortable in my own skin. Have I finally reached that point? Have I finally become comfortable at work because I've ceased to care about whether I have a future there? Sometimes I catch myself doing compromising things. Like sitting on my supervisor's desk as he talks to me. Things that skirt the border between professional and not. Sometimes I catch myself not caring, like when I call grad schools to check on the status of my application, and don't even try to speak softly at the office.

But sometimes, I still wonder, can I leave it all behind? The paycheck. The ability to buy things that I've always wanted. The financial means to do things like go snowboarding this weekend. The security of knowing that my parents won't have to sacrifice their retirement fund to support me.

Lost again!!

Lux and I went inadvertently shopping on Sunday. Both of us had sworn to not shop until March. Largely because of our ski trip to Killington this weekend with friends from work. Somehow, we managed to do it the most expensive way possible. We headed out on Sunday to Blades, for some snowboarding gear. I ended up buying ski goggles, and she bought snow pants. On our way home, we stopped by the Speedo store and somehow acquired bathing suits and goggles as well. We tried everything on as soon as we got home. We love our bathing suits. And I mean -love- them. I haven't worn a Speedo since my swim team days back in high school and I had forgotten how great they feel. I feel completely un-self-conscious in a Speedo, and I feel... just good. They're comfortable, and so sleek it makes you feel like a dolphin, even when you're just standing in your bedroom. Speedos are pricey, but I justified it to myself by thinking - hey, I don't have a gym membership. I'm actually -saving- money this way.

We watched the Super Bowl that day in my living room, with bags of chips and salsa in front of us, wearing our bathing suits and goggles. We decided to start a tradition that day. Every Super Bowl, we'd have a bathing suit party. As a reminder that we should start getting ourselves bikini-ready for the summer. Super Bowl will mark the beginning of new work-out routines to make up for the winter slacking. There's nothing more grounding than pulling on a bathing suit in mid-January. Like a bachelor party, the Super Bowl party is a last-effort bash. We gorged ourselves on all our favorite foods and rubbed our bellies. It marked the beginning of our "sleek and suave" mission. I swam laps yesterday at the hotel pool in my new bathing suit and goggles. Having a new bathing suit is great incentive, just because you want to wear it all the time. Then, I promptly lost my goggles. I left them in the locker room last night. I couldn't believe it. The goggles had barely been 24 hours old, and I'd already lost them. But, on the bright side, my gloves were found at an EMS in New Hampshire!! I'll have my gloves again next week.

I avoided watching Bush's State of the Union address tonight. I knew it would only make me mad and ruin my night. I'm sure I'll read about it in the paper tomorrow. Boo Bush...... Boooo.... Hissssssss.....

Earthly Material Things.

I get altogether too attached to objects. I attach unnatural amounts of sentimental value to things that definitely do not deserve it. Like my gloves. I love my gloves. I will always love gloves more than I will love scarves, although I love scarves a good amount too. But, hats still rank above scarves. Losing a scarf, like losing any item, is an inconvenience. But those things that you genuinely care for, it is those items that you miss every day for a little while until you get used to their absence. It's rare for me though, to find a pair of gloves or hat that I really like. My brother gave me a wool hat from Structure 3 years ago, during my junior year of college. I still wear that damn thing, even though moths ate a hole in it. I just make sure to wear the hole in the back. It goes with practically everything I have, and it has fleece bordering the inside edge to keep my ears comfortably warm and non-itchy. It's about time for a new hat and I know it. But I haven't found any that are worthy of replacing this one quite yet.

The last gloves I had were from H&M. I loved those things. I wore them for three long years even though they were the knit kind that show their age by the amount of fuzz balls that accumulate on them. They were perfect. They had a slightly longer cuff so it would overlap with the cuff of my jacket, keeping my wrists warm. I hate those stretchy gloves that have short little wrists, like mickey mouse gloves. I lost one on Amtrak during my Delaware days. I was crushed. I kept the remaining glove in my bag, as if I would ever find its mate again someday. I couldn't find new gloves for months. I spent all of November and December glove-less. Until my friend bought me black gloves from GAP for Christmas. I wore them. They served their purpose. But I can't say they gave me the same sort of happiness that my old pair did. That is, until I was in EMS two weeks ago, shopping for snowboarding gear. I found a nice pair of knit gloves that had fleece lining inside, but somehow managed to make your hands look not-bulky. They weren't quite what I wanted, but I decided that I was too fixated on finding another pair that's -exactly- like the pair I lost. And that was unrealistic. So, on a whim, I coughed up 15 bucks for them. And, as the two weeks went on, the more and more I grew to love them. Just pulling them on made me happy.

Last night though, was a night of lost tokens of sentimental value. Prior to the Leopard Lounge, J., H., and I met up at Frank, a small restaurant across the street for dinner. It was a college roommate get-together. We all live in the city, but our lives have gotten so hectic and divergent that it's hard to find time to catch up with each other these days. I got out of the cab on 2nd Ave, between 5th and 6th street, and started to look for the restaurant. I'd been on the sidewalk for about 15 seconds when I realized I lost my gloves. I patted my coat pockets frantically. No reassuring lumps were there. I ran down the block to knock urgently on the window of the cab who had just dropped me off. I pulled open the back door, startling the couple that was sitting inside. "I think I left my gloves in here. Can you look for them?" The guy was very obliging. He felt around on the seat and on the floor and found one glove. He even got out of the car. The traffic light turned green. The cars behind started to honk. I said "Um. Never mind. Thanks anyways." But the guy gave me a stern look. "Ignore them. Let them honk. Let's find your gloves." I was startled by his ferocity. He made the girl get out of the car too so he could feel around the back seat for my gloves. She did not look happy. At all. She didn't look like his girlfriend, but the dirty look she gave me hinted that they were at least on a date or something similar. After a few more minutes (and a lot more honking), I assured him that really, it was okay. Thank you very much anyways though. He pulled out his cell phone and started to say "Well, if we find your glove..." But I was already running across the street and calling out "It's okay, thanks!!" But really, it wasn't okay. I was so sad I couldn't believe it. I found the restaurant a few minutes later and met up with J. and H., but all I could think about was my missing glove and it's now lonely mate. I'd just gotten them two weeks ago. I even made J. try on the solitary glove I had remaining so she could see how cool and warm and fuzzy they were. I don't think they really understood. But they were impressed by the guy's determination to find my glove in the face of hostilely honking New York drivers. He looked a bit like Aiden from Sex and the City. Except with long hair. The way he looked when he played the girl's boyfriend in Serendipity.

This morning I woke up with one thought. Have to get another pair. I brought the remaining glove to EMS to see if they had any left. He said they sold the last pair to some girl two weeks ago. That was me. I made him call the Soho store also. They had sold out of them after Christmas. I looked online at www.ems.com, to no avail. Finally, I called their customer service line and described the glove to them because I didn't have a style name. They shook their heads at me. No go. No more in stock. And they weren't getting any more in. They were already putting out their spring line. I found it hard to believe that there wasn't ONE PAIR REMAINING at ANY of the ems stores in the entire country. I was incredulous. I thought I was getting the runaround.

I couldn't believe it. I even asked them who their manufacturer was. Maybe I could order them directly from the manufacturer instead. They wouldn't give me that information. I called J. and almost cried. Most people would've laughed at me. But I've known her for 6 years, and she's lived with me for 4. Besides, she had her own sob story to tell me. She lost her hat at the Leopard Lounge last night. The hat that her ex-boyfriend gave her when we were freshmen at college. I remember that hat. I was there sitting on her bed in her dorm room when she opened the unexpected present. She tried it on, we giggled as she modeled it in front of the mirror. I was sitting on her bed in her dorm room 6 months later when she broke up with him over the phone. But I remembered that hat. She wore it through all her years of college. I could spot her from a block away in that hat. It was classic J. She was just as upset about her hat as I was about my gloves. Except she had reason to be upset. I felt a little silly about being upset over gloves that I'd only had for two weeks. But that's characteristic of me. I'm not a very attach-able person. It comes from my childhood of moving around so much. Regular things that people love will have no sentimental value for me. Like the Rockefeller tree. Or Christmas. But certain small things endear themselves to me for no good reason within a very short period of time and I can say I genuinely love them in a way that makes my heart warm up and my mood lift when I see them. Like Central Park. Breadsoul Cafe. Lincoln Plaza Cinemas. The Used Book Cafe. The subway map. Gloves. Or my first boyfriend when I first met him. Boy, I fell for him like a tree trunk hitting the forest floor. I never showed it, but as soon as I was introduced to him in the NYPL, and he looked up at me and smiled with those dimples, I was floored. I knew at that moment that I liked him so badly that nothing I could tell myself would save me. Not even the library cart I tripped over on my way across the room to give him my number with my ears burning in shame. But even now, just as I look at my solitary glove and realize its a lost cause, when I run into him and he smiles, I feel that little tugging in my heart even as I realize that we could never do it again.

I offered to call Leopard Lounge for J. But she shook her head. She has a feeling she had it in her lap when she was in the cab on the way to the PATH. And it probably fell onto the street as she got out of the car. She talked about how that hat was so perfect. It was fleece, but looked like wool, so it went with all her wool coats while keeping her ears warm with fleece. She'd worn it every winter for years. I was sad hearing her talk about it. I was sad to think that I'd never see her with that hat again. I have a zillion pictures of her in that hat. I could almost hear the melodramatic music playing as I went through my mental snapshot album of J. laughing with the hat on, J. walking down campus bent over in the cold with that hat on, J. coming into class with that hat on looking grumpy. And in each mental snapshot, she got older, from freshman to senior year.

I looked at my glove. For a second, I suddenly had a wild idea. I went digging into my bag and found the original glove, whose mate I had lost on the Amtrak train. Then I pulled out the remaining glove whose mate I lost last night. They were both left hand gloves. Strange. I suppose that makes sense since I'm right handed, so I'm more likely to pull my right hand out of my coat pocket first than my left hand. And everyone knows that that's how gloves fall out of people's coats. When you're pulling something else out. I wondered if the streets were littered with right-hand gloves that had been lost. I wondered if that cab was now riding around with my glove. I wondered if that guy ever found my glove. I wondered whether I got him in trouble with that girl. I wondered what people do with their remaining glove when they lose its mate.

Save them in their purses in case they ever find the mate someday like I do?

Evolution.

Friday is my friend J's birthday. I planned a small party for her at Sin Sin and the Leopard Lounge. The deal was, I'd pick the nighttime activity, and our other friend H. would choose the dinner arena. At 8 pm tonight, on daytime minutes, I get a phone call. With dinner options. So I pick one for her because she can't decide. Then she objects to my choice. Then she asks what time to make reservations for. I choose 8. But then she objects. I could feel myself getting irritated. And all I could think was "I had a hard day at work. I'm tired. I don't want to deal with this. And I'm on daytime minutes." I could tell I was getting snappy. I could tell she was getting defensive. And when I hung up, I felt like crud, and I had a lot of thinking to do. I've become my parents. I come home feeling resentful and tired and all I want to do is be left alone. My thoughts echo what I used to hear from my parents. That was what my mom was like when she got home. Both of us kids knew better than to bother her. I used to think it was awfully unfair of her to take it out on us. But here I was, doing the same thing. I had a talk about it with W. He's going through much of the same thing. Both of us landed in jobs that we thought we wanted. And both of us are feeling resentful of it and disliking ourselves. And that's what it boils down to. I don't like me. I don't like who I'm becoming. But I'm not sure how to stop the devolvement into the horrible corporate creature. I've come to resent everything that represents corporate culture. I hate the sight of pumps. I hate business casual. I hate myself and how I react to things now. But I feel like I'm on that teetering edge right now, where I haven't quite resigned myself to it yet. I haven't become so much of a corporate creature that I can't see my own actions and feel weird. But I'm far enough along that I don't quite feel comfortable on the other end of the spectrum anymore either, where I used to so comfortably reside. I look at Urban Outfitters with different eyes now. I look at the Village differently. It used to be my playground. Now it's just shopping. I feel grumpy all the time. I have a "I deserve it" attitude. I have a sense of righteousness. I can see it when I'm denied a service I think I should be getting. I can tell by the attitude in my voice when I question why I'm not getting fresh towels in my hotel room. I can feel it in the way I raise an eyebrow. And everytime it happens, I don't see it coming, I don't notice it until it's already happening. And then I hear myself, and I can see myself, and I can feel myself flinch inside at this other person on the outside who looks just like me but at the same time is frighteningly unrecognizable. Meanwhile, all I can think of is... I've got to get out. Before this becomes permanent.

I stayed up till 2 am last night watching XFiles. I couldn't fall asleep. I watched XFiles on TNT, the Experiment Island on TLC, and Junkyard wars. I love that stuff. I'm not going to law school anymore. I'm going to grad school for science. I've decided.

The Culture of the Gym.

I just had Burger King for dinner. Mostly because everything in Connecticut closes at 6 pm. This means that if I get out after 6, I practically have to forage in the bushes for food like a wildman. Or get Burger King. So I had my whopper and fries on my hotel bed while reading USA Today. I'm always more up on the news when I'm staffed out of town because of the free newspapers I get at my door every morning. Otherwise I'd never know what was going on. I'm not inclined to buy newspapers on my own.

I've been putting on weight lately. I keep telling myself that this is not healthy. I'm eating all the time. Not because I'm hungry, but because I want to be munching on something at my desk at work. I told myself to just eat until I'm satisfied. No need to keep eating until I'm stuffed. I'm a bigger fan of decreasing the quantity of food than I am about eating healthier. Mostly because I'm realistic. I know I couldn't ever give up potato chips and candy. I'll just eat smaller portions of everything I love. But here I am, at 10 pm, thinking about ordering room service even though I already had dinner. I told myself, I'll just order a salad or fruit. It's not like I'm really hungry anyways. I just feel like eating. Besides, at this rate, I'm going to have to start buying larger work pants again. And I can't afford that. Luckily, I pack weight pretty well. It's usually unnoticed by all. I don't even really notice it, except for the uncomfortably tight waistband digging into my stomach when I sit down. I opened the room service menu. I looked at the salads. I looked at the fruit bowl. I thought about how uncomfortable work my pants are getting. But that seemed so far away when I was lounging in my big roomy pajama pants. I ordered the buffalo wings.

The maitre'd knocks on my door, and I scramble to answer it. Instead of handing me the tray, he steps in and asks me where I'd like to have it set down. I'm completely caught off guard. I tend to eat on the bed when I'm in hotel rooms, but will he think I'm low class if I say "Right on the bed please"? If I'd known he was going to come INTO my room, I would've made an effort to at least put my bras back into the drawers. I always stick them back into the drawers in the morning because I know the cleaning ladies are coming through. But when I get back from work at night, I'm too tired to care. I just want to unwind. My wool pants and button down shirt are normally tossed over the back of the desk chair getting wrinkled, the bra is tossed on top of that. I'm in my Weezer tshirt and psycho-snowmen pajama pants, scrounged down on my laptop with my hair tied back into a ponytail. It's my usual post-work-hours uniform. I bring those pajamas specifically because it helps to make me feel less corporate. But I was suddenly wishing that I had kept my business casual on, at least for the maitre'd.

A friend said that I should exercise. If I exercise, then my pants will always be comfortable and I can eat however much I want. Therein lies the issue. I hate to exercise. Exercise should be a side dish as far as I'm concerned. If I'm rollerblading and having fun, then exercise is okay. If I'm skiing or dancing, then that's okay. But I can't think of anything worse than running on a treadmill or jogging. Exercising for the sake of exercising. Yuck. Besides, I can't think of anything worse than paying the premium for joining a gym when I'm out of town 5 days a week. Gyms terrify me anyways. I feel like all the women are staring at me when I come in and thinking "What's that skinny bitch doing in here. Is she here to make us all feel bad?" Also, I don't make it a hobby to sweat and run among a row of other women, who are also sweating and running in place, on a machine that has been run on and sweated on by people before me. The only justification for a gym are the classes. Those don't seem too bad. But the glass enclosure that goes around means you're pretty much on display for public viewing... It's like you're an exhibit at a museum. I almost expect an elderly tour guide to come through with a group of Boy Scouts, "And here to your right through the glass display you see what the average 21st century human being did for exercise. See how the woman is running like she's sprinting but yet stays in one place?" It makes me want to raise an eyebrow and just avoid the whole thing. Besides, gyms smack of concern for image. Not of health. Health is going outside and playing soccer. Health is working in the yard. Health is having fun while exercising. Bally's has that new ad campaign about loving the "burn". Give me a break. What kind of masochist truly loves the burn? What they love is the psychological -feeling- that they're becoming svelte. Image. It's all in their heads.

I plan to get svelte when I go snowboarding next weekend. I'm super excited. I've only been snowboarding once and it was a disaster. Hoping I'll get better though.

And the specials for today are...

I've managed to survive the entire weekend (fri, sat, sun) on a diet of:
a) kraft macaroni and cheese (1 meal)
b) airheads
c) Rold Gold Honey Mustard Tiny Twists (I don't even like pretzels)
d) a salad from Hadleigh's (1 meal)
e) Pirate's Booty (yum!)
f) baby back ribs with Lux at Dallas BBQ (1 meal)
g) soup

AND, the greatest feat of all, I've managed to make it through a New York weekend on less than 60 bucks.

I've been gaining weight. I can tell because my "comfortable" jeans are now skin tight. And the worst indication... my granny panties that used to be saggy on me no longer are. I pulled them on today, turned around to look at myself in the mirror. Hrm. Nice fit.

If you strain too hard, it gives you a hernia.

I have to write two essays for the PhD program I'm applying to.

a) How would your presence increase campus or departmental diversity in ways that go beyond your gender, ethnicity, race, or national origin?

Well, that just about eliminates anything that I could have possibly talked about. What's left? What can I talk about that would increase diversity? I suppose I could talk about my passion for fantasy and science fiction books. Although I have a feeling that as an applicant to a science program, they already have their share of geeks.

b) What significiant and unusual educational, social, economic, or other barriers have you over come in your pursuit of education?

What do you do if you've grown up in a well-to-do family who paid for your college education? What if you've always done well in school and went to a good college and now have a good job? Does this disqualify you as a candidate for a PhD? Because I haven't had to work my way out of the slums of Harlem?

I hate writing essays. I've decided not to go to law school anymore because I heard that you have to write a lot of papers. I've already paid for my nonrefundable LSAT registration fee though, so I guess I'll just take the test in a few weeks. I hate being forced to write papers. It's painful. And always comes out terribly. The worst part is, with normal writing, if it sucks, you can chuck it and start over. Or let it stew for a week. With papers, there are deadlines, and chosen topics. If it sucks, you're forced to turn it in anyways. And nothing makes you feel more horrible than turning in a piece of writing that you know isn't worth wiping your butt on. And nothing makes you feel more crappy than turning in what you know is a good piece of writing, and getting it back with a lot of corrections and B on it, because the TA in question didn't like your writing style and didn't bother to consider the content of what you wrote. You can tell when they grade you because of style conflicts when there's a zillion words crossed out and replaced with what THEY think is better word choice. Or when they reorganize the whole thing for you, and you had specifically organized it in a certain manner for a very specific reason - to make your point, which they obviously didn't get.

Writing is a lot like pooping. You write when you feel like you have to. You go when you get "the feeling". It's hard to poop on demand. You can't sit on the toilet and try to poop by a deadline, Monday at 6 pm, if you don't have to go. But you have to produce. So you try. You get on the toilet and wait. Nothing. The deadline's coming up, so you end up straining and straining, and feeling resentful the whole time, but yet panicked. Finally, the most you can manage to squeeze out are a few pitiful poopies. So you pull your pants up and get off the toilet. There. You've done it. Pooped by the deadline. But then you peer in the toilet and feel like shit. What a pathetic attempt. You're almost ashamed to show anyone else the little plop plops. No glorious poopies here. You're tempted to just flush it and get rid of it. But you know you have to have -something- to show. The deadline, remember? So you submit it. Because you've got nothing else. And you live with the fact that it will be judged and that your abilities will be assessed by it. That's me right now. Sitting at the computer with these essays to write. That were due last Wednesday. And I'm put on the spot. I can't perform under pressure. I freeze. Verbal constipation. I can't do it. Every word I squeeze out onto the computer monitor seems trite and cheesy. I hate this.

Identity, what is it?

I've decided that I'm nothing but a big chicken. For all my grandiose words of courage and bravery, and all my rhetoric about keeping it real, I'm really nothing more than a big hypocrite. The fact is, I shy away from anything that is unpleasant. Instead of staring ugliness in the face and accepting it as something that is a part of life just as beauty is, I try to ignore it and pretend it's not there. As if not seeing it could somehow make it go away. Like how little kids believe that if they cover their eyes, the monster will no longer exist. I obviously haven't grown up.

I'm a big basketball fan. I follow the Sixers. Being from South Jersey, half an hour outside of Philadelphia, it was easier to be a Sixers fan than it was to be a Nets fan, which were an hour and a half away. I love each and every one of them, with the exception of Speedy Claxton (thank God he got traded). I hated the Lakers with a passion. Because I felt like they ruined the game. They have no sportsmanship. Shit talking is a general thing on any basketball court, but taunting however, crosses the line. It's a cheap shot. Kobe and Shaq are notorious for such. You can tell by the way Iverson gets riled up. Iverson grew up in the ghetto. He's not likely to be some sensitive skinned ninny about trash-talking. Just play the game, okay? I hated Tyrone Lue for the same reasons. Him and his cornrows. Damn Iverson-wannabe. I was thrilled when he got traded to the Wizards. Iverson himself is no angel. Who the hell throws his wife out of the house naked? What kind of ball player sneaks out during practice to eat tacos? But overall, he plays the game well. And he's sportsman-like. And that's what I respect.

Unluckily, I haven't been able to watch as many games as I normally would, because I never make it back from work in time. Also unfortunately, I haven't had the chance to see the new famous rookie, Yao Ming, in action. Well, today's my big chance. The Lakers-Rockets game is on right about... now. And I'm home to see it. It's the infamous Shaq/Yao Ming matchup. But yet I find myself reluctant to flip the tv on. I'm thinking that maybe I just want to write in my journal and go to bed instead. I decide to read Jon's blog since I've got a good amount of blog-catching up to do. And there is it. Staring me in the face. Posted January 14, 2003. The issue I'd been trying to avoid. Shaq's comments towards Yao Ming. I read the blog with the same sort of dread and horror that I would if I saw a gruesome piece of roadkill. You don't want to look, your mind is gibbering "DON'T DO IT" and yet you can't look away. The same sort of horrific fascination and pseudo-hypnotic reactions led me to click on each blog link to articles written about it. Articles that were published in little-known newspapers, out in Canada, or in an Asian American newsletter. Angry reactions that never reached the American public, but stayed confined and jailed to the people who already know what it's like. Ironic, isn't it, since the purpose of media is supposedly to spread news and educate the public of things they may not be aware it.

I identified with a lot of the articles linked to Jon's blog. I've been taunted with strings of Asian-sounding words when I was younger. Every Asian American has suffered at the hands of such things. And every writer was right. Despite American media's attempts to sweep it all under the carpet like it's one big joke, the fact of the matter is, it's not. It's not an issue of hypersensitivity either. Ironically enough, I was just thinking about an issue similar to this on the subway this evening. I was looking at the black man sitting across the train from me and marveling at how white his palms were. Unbidden, an old joke I'd heard in elementary school in Tennessee floated up into my brain. "Why are black people's palms so white?" "Why?" "Because God told them to put their hands against the wall when he painted them!" At the time, I didn't get it. I was too young to really understand the intricacies of America's racism. I was fresh from Europe. But I laughed because I knew I was supposed to. As I thought about it this evening on the train, I thought about how terrible it was. About how I would feel if I was a young black girl and I overheard that joke being said on the playground. The premise of the joke is that black people were made to be criminals, even in the eyes of God. The pain of the joke was that the perception had become so much a part of American mentality and culture that it was bantered around in the playground by its children like it was no big deal. Any negative reactions by the black children were swept under the carpet by the teachers. "It was just a joke. He didn't mean it." And just like that, it was supposed to be fixed. Just like that, the feelings of being marginalized were swept under the carpet by the Southern white teachers. The strange part is, it would almost be better if the children and teachers were blatant racists. The fact that they viewed themselves as educated politically correct open minded individuals was what made it frightening.

The fact is, hearing words like "ching chang chong" makes me wince. It carries with it memories of malice and ridicule and shame. Much like how "nigger" was used as a term to demoralize the recipient of that label. "Ching chang chong" was never followed by hugs and giggles. It was like the lightning warning before the thunder struck. I'd tense up and the adrenaline would start pumping as the fear gripped my heart when I heard those words. Sometimes it was nothing more than snickers. But the fear always stayed that it would become more than that someday. As I've gotten older, I've become almost immune to it. I found it ironically amusing that black children in the local inner city elementary school were the ones who were most often the culprits on my college campus. I could easily shrug it off and blame it on their lack of education and good upbringing. When New York City cops bowed down to my girl friend and I as we walked by in Manhattan and said a mocking "Ni hao", I coolly turned around and said "We're not Chinese you know." They got all flustered. I had just uttered a bald-faced lie, but somehow I got a good dose of pleasure from watching them turn red. My favorite is when guys at fast food restaurants try it out as a pick-up line. I usually use the same lie. "Ni hao." "We're not Chinese." "Erm. Sayonara." I'd calmly watch them go through all the Asian phrases they knew, rotating from Korean to Japanese to Chinese. Finally I said, "You know, you could try English. We do speak English." The worst is when people are fascinated by you like you're an exhibit at a zoo. "Say something in Chinese." That always puts you on the spot. And makes me want to clamp my mouth shut. What do I look like, a dog at a circus? I'm not going to perform and jump through hoops.

I thought about myself. I thought about my reluctance to watch the game. I thought about why I was reluctant to watch the game. I realized that it had a lot to do with my reluctance to watch Joe Millionaire. I know the ugly parts of reality exist. The knowledge that they're there is enough for me. Having to see reinforcement of such things is what does me in. It forces me to think about it. How superficial guys can be. How racist people can be. And I don't want to think about it. I want to pretend that I live in a bubble where none of that exists. As long as I don't see it, it's not there. I can make the world how I want it to be. And when I personally encounter racism, I brood about it for a day, and then wipe it from my memory. Pretend it never happened. Square my shoulders and march on. And of course, do nothing about it. Because doing something about it would be like admitting that it really -is- real, and not just a fluke. Because I want to believe that people like that don't exist. Because I want to believe that I won't be judged. I thought about how I'm so anal about privacy. How I've set things up here so I can be the girl with no identifying characteristics. Why did I do this? I didn't want to be categorized and labeled. I wanted to be read as merely words and judged on my words alone, not against a backdrop of anything. Just words on a blank canvas.

I thought about whether this meant I was ashamed of being Asian American. After all, is this why I'm hiding it? I don't want people to know? I thought about my extracurricular activities in college and how they centered around cultural issues. No shame there. I thought about how I shun the self-segregating minority groups and roll my eyes at them. The gangsta-wannabe asian boys. The tough asian girls who give you the once-over and the bitch look. Give me a break. Does that count as shame? Or is this merely classic suburban girl vs. urban girl? And thus completely not race-related? I thought about my adamance that my children have some sense of culture and speak Chinese. I thought about how much being Asian has influenced my upbringing and whoI am now. I thought about my reluctance to write about the Yao Ming/Shaq issue. I didn't want to be labeled as another Asian American writer. I know inherently that if I ever really write, it will be under a pseudonym, because I don't want to be judged under any stereotypes. But, I know that if an African American woman did the same thing, I'd raise an eyebrow and ask if she was ashamed of who she was. So I find myself asking the same question. And I find myself knowing what I should do. State my opinions. And stereotypes be damned. I can't account for how people will judge or view me. I can only account for how I view myself.

And my opinion is that Shaq was ultimately in the wrong, ignorant, and racist for making the comments he did. The fact that I felt uncomfortable with his comments, alone, is enough evidence of that. The media ignores it like it doesn't really count as racism. The common public blows it off like it's no big deal. What's the big fuss over? Everyone makes fun of everyone else. True. But not really. Taunting in sports is one thing. Taunting because of what race you are, is different. Taunting because of stereotypes, makes you racist. Stereotypes. Any Asian American male out there looks away and winces at kung-fu motions. Any Asian American hate crime is almost always preceded by people mocking the Chinese language. Is hate-language defined by the speakers? Or by the recipients of it? The dealers of the word "nigger" were always okay with the word. And yet it is racist because it made black people feel ashamed and worthless, because it was a taunt based on skin color. Shaq made an entire culture of people writhe and gnash their teeth with that one comment. No one's laughing. The black people didn't laugh at the jokes back in the segregation days either. Although the white people used to. And the rest of America continues to laugh and shrug it off. Yao Ming may not know any better because he's not accustomed to American ideas. But if you steal from someone who doesn't know that you're stealing from them does that make it any more right?

I found analogies between Yao Ming and Jackie Robinson interesting.

Ethnicity is a by-product of who I am. I don’t think about it too much or notice it. I accept it as a fact of life much like how someone would accept having a big nose. I operate in a world of personalities. I don't think in terms of labels. I assume everyone does the same, because I want to believe that. I operate obliviously in such a world. Obliviously and apparently, quite unrealistically. But I obviously can't be oblivious anymore. It's dangerous. I'm doing myself a disservice. The uglies of the world exist, and ignoring them is blind and silly. The kid standing in the path of impending danger who covers her eyes is just going to get run over by the car. That's me.

I'm taking my first step out of the path of the barrelling truck of a world that contains potentially hostile people. I'm going to watch the game. And deal with the sinking feeling if racial issues are brought up again. Because sometimes life hands you a bitter pill. And keeping it warm and sticky in your hand isn't going to make it any easier to swallow.

Joe Millionaire.

I got out at 5 pm for the first time. This means that for the first time in -months-, I got to watch the Simpsons. Yay! This also means that I saw an awful lot of other shows that I normally wouldn't bother watching. Like Joe Millionaire. I'm generally not too into reality shows. I've got my own problems to deal with. Why would I want to watch a tv show about other people's problems? I watched the re-run of episodes 1 and 2, back to back.

I'm inherently opposed to the entire idea of it. The show specializes in exploiting every girl's dream. The dream of being a princess. Every little girl grows up on fairy tales. Every woman dreams of finding Prince Charming. Some girls grow out of the fairy tale earlier than others, and are the better for it. The ones who don't are the dreamy idealists who will somehow always be disappointed with life. It's hard for any guy to realistically live up to Prince Charming ideals. That's something I personally am trying to work on (New Year's Resolution #4! Give guys more of a chance!). Being more realistic. Letting go of the fairy dream. Prince Charming isn't going to sweep me off my feet and rescue me from my self-imposed tower of feminism and independence. He's more likely to dawdle a bit at the base of the tower, look up, wait around a bit, poke around the bushes, then shrug and go for easier pickings. You know, the other girl in the tower 50 feet away who's waving her hanky at him instead of peeping over the window furtively. The question is, do I really want to be rescued? Do I really see clearly who I am and my own motives? Am I doing myself a disservice because I won't admit that maybe I really want to get married in the future? Because that'd be like admitting that I have the qualities that I used to scoff at in other women. Am I pulling the wool over my own eyes when in reality, I'm just like all the other girls? Am I really nothing but a silly girl with pretensions of being an independent woman? Or am I merely afraid of leaving the safe familiarity of the tower?

Joe Millionaire smacks too much of torment. It's like toying with the girls. Dangling a dream that they had written off a long time ago. I feel bad for both the girls and for Evan. Evan, becuase he's ultimately being taken advantage of by the network. Exactly what is he gaining from this whole thing? He's the "ah HA!" part of it, and he's going to have to deal with the consequences. He's been set up. Willingly so, but still, set up like a turkey for the shooting. The girls I feel even more sorry for. Way to deal a final death blow to the fairy tale dream, as if modern 21st century men didn't already do enough of that. See, he doesn't -really- exist. It's all a trick. Gotcha!

Part of me was afraid to watch episode 2. I wasn't sure if I wanted to deal with the personal consequences of watching it. Somehow, I was convinced that he was going to pick the wrong girls. And him picking the wrong girls would've just solidified my suspicions about men. It would've embittered me. I would've flipped off the tv halfway through and spent the rest of the night in a foul mood. It would just be one more shred of evidence that good girls never win. So, I was surprised by the second round picks. I was even more surprised by his lack of explanation for his choices. He limited his words to "Yeah. I don't think she's into me. But she's hot." I have my suspicions that the choices weren't made based on hotness, especially since the girls chosen were not the hottest ones. At least, not by men's usual standards of "hot". I think it boiled down to gut feelings. Especially as the women chosen were not the ones who grabbed the most of his time or yapped his ear off the most.

Melissa Jo's tactics threw me off a bit. Whereas she seemed like a nice enough girl, her guerilla warfare completely turned me off. I did not like how she dominated the conversation on her group date with Evan. Interestingly enough, she was the only one who was chosen out of that group. None of the other girls made it. I felt like it was unfair because the other girls didn't really get a chance. How's he supposed to make a well-informed, qualified decision? I felt like she cheated. But maybe that's my problem. I've got too much of a sense of fair play, which could ultimately be my downfall. After all, the world does not operate like that. Mojo did the smart thing, she boxed the other girls out. When the fruit is dangling in fruit of you. Pluck it. Or, as J's dad once told her, strike while the iron is hot.

I'm rooting for Alison, the graphic design specialist, and Zora, the substitute teacher. They have a wholesome look to them that I like. But at the same time, I hope they don't get picked. So they don't have to experience the deflation. No matter how you spin it, when the secret is revealed, the girl is going to be disappointed. You think you have this great guy who has it all. You start dreaming about your future living in France and having 50 million dollars... Only to discover it's all been one cheap trick. But hey, the guy still really likes you!! Is any girl really supposed to jump for joy with that? What girl wouldn't feel cheated or swindled? What girl wouldn't feel slightly disappointed that her Prince Charming isn't really Prince Charming. Merely Charming. Every girl wants a guy who has it all. Ideally. But we all know what happens to idealists. The show is cruel. Show me a perfect apple and make me want it. And then show me the bruise on the side later. I would've taken the apple with the bruise to begin with. But when you show me that after telling me that it's the perfect apple for 3 weeks straight, I'm obviously going to be disappointed. Besides, what girl would still want to date a guy that started out under false pretenses? Is he really who you think he is anymore? You build your perception of someone with the facts that you have. You draw your conclusions about them with the facts that you have. When the facts are wrong, you start to question everything you thought about them. It's like you're dating an entire person that you never really knew. After all, your profession says a lot about you, just as your choice to lie about it on TV could say a lot about you.

I'll probably watch the entire run. Not because I like reality shows, but because now I've become a victim as much as the girls are. I -want- to believe that it's true. That the guy will make the right choice and not go for boobs or cute-ness. And every week when the show comes up, I'm going to be potentially setting myself up for disappointment. This is why I try not to watch these shows. They just end up making me angry. Besides, to be honest, even as a viewer who knows what the catch is, I like to believe that men like that do exist. Tall, dark, handsome. And who own gorgeous chateaus in France.

I loved the chateau. Loved it. It's like the house in my ideal life entry. Castle-like, but not too much rock so it's not too cold. Small and cozy, but nice. It's not in-your-face the way American glamour tends to be. It's not too big. Houses that are too big lack soul in my opinion. And I'm not a huge fan of the minimalist modern sleek furnishings that are oh-so-U.S. Forget the streamlined couches, white walls, hardwood floors, and modern art. It's pleasant because it's clean and has a feeling of space. But it never feels lived-in. It's sterile and cold. Those sorts of places are always immacutely neat as well. And I'm not an immaculately neat person. I prefer wallpaper, or painted walls. And squashy couches. And I'm likely to have books lying all over the place. Open and face-down to whatever page I happened to be at when I got up to get food and got distracted. I tend to fill spaces. Spaces don't give you comfort. Things do. Small spaces are comforting though. I used to love alcoves when I was little. You could squash right in there with a good novel and be private. Most likely though, half of my dreams will never be realized. Like owning a chateau with a castle in it. Like having my own island. If I owned my own island, I could pretty much have my own country. People would get to live on it for free if they followed my rules. We'd operate on a barter system. And all disputes would be brought to me, where they'd be resolved fairly. And anyone who's nasty will just be kicked off. It'll be like one big happy family. And having to follow a few silly rules isn't too big of a price to pay in exchange for living on a tropical island for free. It will be an eco-friendly island. We will not pollute anything, and all the wilderness in it will be preserved.

Sadly enough, all the jobs I could have that would allow me to do things like... own a chateau or an island require me to spend at least 40 hours a day doing something I don't like. I could stay in consulting and haul myself onto the partner track and just tolerate the corporate world. That would do it. Maybe I'll sacrifice one dream so that I can have other ones. After all, you can't have it all in life. No need to be greedy.

The Year, in a nutshell. My Life, in a nutshell.

2001. The Lost Year.
Deferred job offers. Lost future. Lost "next step". Lost in general. No direction, drifting without oars. Not even a current to push me along.

2002. The year of great change. The year of transition.
Living at home with parents, to financial independence. Unemployed, to temp work, to hourly wage, to salary. I re-discovered consulting. And hated it. I re-discovered New York. And loved it. I had a summer made of dreams. Lived in a dirty frat house. On the top floor. Without air conditioning. Took photography lessons. Danced. Now I work. And shop. I went from shopping Urban Outfitters to shopping Club Monaco. From wearing sneakers to work, to wearing pumps. From living at home, to living in Manhattan. All within a year. I went from single, to this strange difficult creature called Dating in New York. Long straight hair, to curly hair, to short curly, to short. It was a year of dreams realized and crushed, unexpected dreams floating up, multiple jobs, change.

2003. The Big Question.
Will there be a big Answer? Goals for life: Learn to play the guitar. Learn to play the cello. Sky dive. Work in London.

I was talking to my friend H. the other day, and we were discussing - if money was not an issue in our lives, what would we do? I decided that I would be a freelance writer on the side. And a scientist mostly. A scientist that would go to conferences all over the world and be a famous visiting professor at a lot of foreign schools. I would travel. I would live for a little bit in every country. Ireland. Scotland. Wales. England. Australia. South America. India. Nepal. China. Africa. I would climb mountains. I would scale Mt. McKinley. I would eco-travel. To Costa Rica. The Galapagos Islands. Antarctica. I would discover the cure to many diseases. And then settle down to have children. Then I would play the guitar for my kids and sing to them. And I'd play the cello for myself. I'd make a little on the side by doing pottery in my free time. I'd wander the woods that will border the edge of our property, and cross the creek that will be in the woods by walking over a log that has fallen over it. My kids would play in the woods somewhere too, and I wouldn't have to worry about them being snatched away by men hiding in the trees. And I wouldn't have to worry about stumbling across a body hidden in the bushes. I'd have a hobby of collecting books. First editions. Color illustrated. We'd have a library, small and cozy, with a fireplace. And bookshelves that will line the walls, floor to ceiling. I'd read to the kids out by the fire. And I'd read for myself in the hammock out back, with one leg dangling out. There'd be a rose garden, wild and beautiful. Nothing too neat or manicured. We'd have horses. And fields. And a barn. This way, you can always ride away from your worries to a far away corner of the pastures where you can be alone with your thoughts. We'd live close enough to the mountains that you can see them in the distance. And this is just our summer house. Or winter house, since it'd be nice to retreat there for Christmases as well. Our regular residence would be near a city. We'd have a dog. This is my ideal life.

The Conversation.

You know. The conversation you have with your ex-boyfriend after the dust has settled. The conversation about your relationship and why it ended. I just had mine this past weekend. Almost 4 years after the fact. We hung out yesterday, had lunch, and bought a minidisc player for my younger brother. Then, as we were lying on my bed in my room, it started. It's amazing how nothing has changed even in 4 years. We still talked in circles, neither one really understanding the other, and he still clenched his fists when explaining things, and I still teared up in frustration because he wasn't hearing what I was trying to say. Four years after the fact. It was long. And painful. Overall, it seemed like a good idea in theory. But honestly, I'm not sure what we really accomplished. Besides establish that he still feels guilty everytime he sees me. Four years after the fact. It's amazing how much pent up frustration can still hang around, four years after the fact. It's amazing how much we can still influence each other's emotional state, four years after the fact. It's amazing how much we've changed, and still remained the same, four years after the fact. It's crazy how he still thinks about it, despite the fact that I was the one who was dumped. It's crazy how I've managed to put it all behind me, after an F in a college course and months of crying. And yet somehow he hasn't, after having subsequent girlfriends after me.

Guilt. I had to deal with a lot of it last night. Not my own guilt, but his. I don't try to kid myself. He's over me. Just like how I'm over him. But what he hasn't gotten over though, is how we ended. And how I was so angry and so bitter and so sad. I thought I had gotten over how it ended. But as we started to talk about it, I could feel the anger, stirring like an old wound that never quite healed over. I thought I was over it. But as he tried to explain how he was young and naive and clueless, I found myself getting angry. As if youth and naivete were a valid excuse for everything that happened. Perhaps it explains why things happened the way they did. It explained the new girlfriend, so soon after we broke up. It explained the Valentine's Day I had to spend watching him sleep off his hangover. It explained the nothing-but-a-phone-call birthdays. But it doesn't make it better. What it did do though, was take away a lot of the bitterness. It cobbled back together a broken first-boyfriend experience. I thought I had put it all behind me, and I had. But I hadn't put it behind me properly. I had stored away the memories like I had stored away the relationship paraphernalia into a little box in my closet. But last night, he gave me something crucial that was missing from those memories, making it sweeter somehow than before. And that was his regret. His regret, and his steadfast grip on the fact that he was young.

I was his first real girlfriend. And he was my first real boyfriend. We were a disaster. A disaster that liked each other so damn much that we somehow made it through the landmine of our relationship for 8 months on paper, plus another 6 months off-the-record. We were completely unsuited for each other. As different as they could possibly come. With absolutely nothing in common. He wasn't the type of guy my parents would approve of. He wasn't the type of guy I would've picked as a "smart choice" for myself. And I wasn't his type of girl. He was too lackadaisical for me. Too unfocused. Too irresponsible. Too urban. I was too anal-retentive for him. Too uptight. Too demanding. Too middle-class-suburbia. And I was all of those things. But he made me laugh. And his dimples charmed me. And I had a strange stranglehold on him as well. We had a strange stranglehold on each other. A stranglehold that wouldn't allow us to let go of everything, even despite all the warning signs that it would blow up in our faces. It was a dangerous mix of intoxication and TNT.

Four years after the fact, not much has changed. I'm a little less suburbia, but I'm still middle class. Living in New York City right near Central Park, going to my hateful corporate job every day. He's still urban, still unfocused, and still laid-back. And we were still attracted to each other. Whiffs of the old intoxication lingered, but not in the same overpowering sort of way. We circled each other last night warily. Like two dogs in a dog-fighting ring. We each knew the other one was bad news. We'd been through it before and neither was willing to go back. But it laid unspoken between us.

What was spoken between us though, laid to rest many things. For both of us. I never thought he was a jerk. He just did jerk-like things. I had put it behind me a long time ago and was at ease enough to call him up for lunch occasionally. And though I'd put it behind me, I hadn't ever quite forgiven him. Because it's hard to forgive someone who you believe never really understood the impact of their actions. I believed that he was genuinely sorry everytime, but I believed that he was genuinely sorry because I was upset. Not because he understood the gravity of what he had done or the depth of his ability to make me hurt. Not because he understood the direct consequences of his actions. I accepted this as part of who he was, and put it behind me. Rather unfairly. Because I had misjudged his character. Last night's conversation gave me a clear view of who I was dating 4 years ago. A 17 year old boy, who just wanted to be himself. A 17 year old boy, who didn't understand why having a girlfriend meant that he suddenly had to do things he never did before. A 17 year old boy, who now at the age of 21, still feels 17 around me. Because of the guilt. The guilt and a clinging sense of innocence despite it all, because he was so young back then, how was he supposed to know? A 21 year old boy who, four years later, dug up the past and risked having another disaster with me, because he needed to hear me say that it's okay. Who believed that I only called him out of some sense of duty because he was my first boyfriend. Who was 17 all over again, last night.

The funny thing is, it really was okay. It had been okay for him for a long time. I knew that a lot of what happened was because he didn't know any better. I knew it because I told myself that. Because it made sense that way. And I left it at that and tried not to think about it. Now I feel like I can truly lay it to rest. Having that conversation last night made it suddenly okay for me too. Now, when I look back on my relationship with him, it doesn't rankle as much anymore. When it came up, I used to talked about it like a bad memory that was over, rationalize it. Like how Vietnam veterans might speak amicably about the war now. I had swallowed a bitter pill and taken it down like a trooper, put it behind me and let it go, chalked it up as a "learning experience". I didn't expect it to suddenly turn smooth in my stomach. I didn't expect the bitter pill to taste its own bitterness. Last night, it suddenly turned sweet. We were both young and stupid back then. He did care. More than I had thought. And he does understand.

And that somehow, makes everything better. Even 4 years later.

Wants and Desires.

1. I want to date someone in a rock band. ...Right. And how will I manage that while I'm corporate?
2. I want to regain my 16 year old figure. But, I can't give up potato chips and candy.
3. I want to play the guitar. And I'll find time to do this... when? You mean while I'm commuting to Connecticut Monday through Friday?
4. I want to play the cello. And I'll pay for music lessons, how? See #3.

I want to make music. I want to -be- music.

1. I want to go back-country camping. Strangely, the thought of pooping in the bushes doesn't deter me. And having no showers for days at a time doesn't seem to bother me either. Anyone want to drag a beginner with them?
2. I want to skydive. Facing all my fears and feeling -so- alive at that moment makes me feel like I'll see the answers to all my questions that much more clearly when it's over.
3. I want to go trekking in Peru. Maybe I will find the meaning of life up there in the mountains.
4. I want to take a bicycle tour through the UK. And sleep outdoors under the stars at night. And in Bed and Breakfasts when it's raining.
5. I want to go scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef. Get away from people and their suits and ties. I want to swim with the fishes and be alone in the ocean.
6. I want to see the desert. Africa, where life began. India. Nepal.
7. I want to climb Mt. Everest.

I want to get as far away from my life and everything corporate.
I want to be real. I want to live.

"You use Trillian? You know who Trillian is, right? She's the girlfriend of Zaphod Beeblebrox, the president of the Universe, from Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide."

That was me today. While Supervisor Z. was showing me something on his laptop, it burst out of me, and once more, my inner geek was revealed. He gave me this blank look. I tried again, "You know, Douglas Adams. Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy?" Nothing. "Er. It's a science fiction book." "Ah." I was vaguely embarassed. The first week of Project 2 is ending and besides small speedbumps like the former, I'd have to give it a thumbs up so far. Supervisor Z. is still supernice, and still semi-cute. And.... he sings.

I heard an mp3 of him in his acapella days at his college. Another consultant sent it to me for kicks since I'm Supervisor Z's first analyst. It raised his attractivness factor by about 10. There's a few things that can raise a guy's attractiveness factor. 1) Nobility. A desire to be a teacher, or to do something good in the world. Aka Aragorn trait. 2) Singing. Doesn't necessarily have to do it well. But a guy who will sing for you is super attractive. And guys who can do it well are even more yum. 3) Dimples. Dimples are an instant charmer. 4) Gentlemanly behavior. Any girl can tell you that there's nothing more sexy than a guy putting his hand on the small of your back to guide you through the door. It's guaranteed to make you blush and make him look that much manlier in your eyes.

But, Supervisor Z. is only cute sometimes. Like in profile. Or like today, when he came into my cubicle from a meeting in the other building, and a part of his hair was sticking up from being blown in the wind. I thought about telling him about it, but then decided that he looked too cute for me to ruin it. So I let him walk around with his hair sticking up for the rest of the day. However, more days than not, I see him from an up-the-nose angle, when he stands in my cubicle and talks to me, and I'm sitting in my chair looking up at him. Not so attractive. And he looks terrible in fluorescent lighting. More so than most people do.

I have the good sense to recognize that I don't truly like Supervisor Z. If I did, I'd be in a lot of trouble. It's just a crush. But crushes are fun. Especially when you're the only two people on the team. Our little team is part of a project that has 100+ people, so we get to be social when we want to. But most of the time, the two of us work on our portion of it.

Working in Connecticut so far has been great in the work-sense, but an utter disaster in every other sense. Within the first 4 days here, I've managed to spill cranberry juice all over myself, take cold showers in the morning twice (no hot water in the hotel those mornings, can you believe that?), and get a rash from my pantyhose. That last one is from this morning. I gave myself a run when I was pulling on my stockings in a hurry. I didn't notice it until I'd gotten onto the shuttle to go to work. I ran into the CVS next to the office to buy a new pair and changed in the bathroom. Half an hour later, I was itching like mad. I had a rash on my bum and all over my legs. I tried to discreetly scratch in my cubicle. What an inconvenient day to wear a skirt. I had to go back to CVS, buy a different brand of pantyhose, as well as Cortisone cream and oral anti-histamines. Stay away from No Nonsense Sheer Endurance pantyhose in jet black. It's trouble.

Overall though, the work here is okay. I'm wondering if I'm happier here because my expectations have been lowered. I no longer expect to be challenged, and thus when I'm assigned menial tasks, I'm not as disappointed, nor do I chafe as much under authority. I also have found myself observing my supervisors a lot. I learned a lot about how -not- to be a leader from Project Manager. And I'm learning more of how to be a leader from Supervisor Z. I realized that I do the menial tasks much more willingly and much more happily under Supervisor Z because I actually like him as a person. It doesn't feel demeaning when he asks me to cut and paste into Excel sheets. I've learned that being a leader is about knowing how to make your analysts perform at their best. It's about keeping them happy so they'll do their work for you. I realize this because I'm sitting in the hotel room working on a Microsoft Access database after hours (why the hell can't Access use the standard SQL that everyone else uses? Why are the helpfiles so unhelpful?). Would I have done this for Project Manager? Sure. But only because I was terrified.

Life is picking up. In all sectors. 2003 is off to a great start.

Men. Boys. And Nines.

For girls our age, there are men. And then there are boys.

What makes a man a man isn't his age, how many distinguished grey hairs he has, or how rich he is. It isn't his muscles, or his height, or the size of. It's about the motivations, the mentality, the handling of situations, the courage. In fact, maturity itself can be defined as courage. Not foolish courage, but just, courage. Courage to face down impending disaster and handle it. Courage to grit your teeth and weather the storms. Courage to stand your ground when turning tail and fleeing is desirable. I need to work on that. I crumble pathetically easily.

Males at this age are usually on the cusp between boy and man. Like those awkward years when puberty hit and everything started growing at different rates, these are the awkward years when behavior is likely to be erratic as we figure out which side of the line we want to be on. After all, puberty hits whether you like it or not, and you become physically mature. But becoming an adult is not something that happens to everyone, as is evident by the numbers of delinquent fathers out there.

The crowd at this stage is a mixture of men and boys. Some men are wonderful. Some are not-so-great. Some boys show the makings of wonderful men. Some boys are a lost cause. Girls always try to date wonderful men, or at the very least - boys with the makings of them. The danger of dating the latter though, is that there is no guarantee that they will ever make it. One can only hope. Boys with makings of wonderful men have expiration dates. Limited shelf life. After a certain time, they turn into boys who are lost causes. An empty urn of unfulfilled potential.

But who am I to complain. After all, I've made a lifetime career of being an empty urn of unfulfilled potential. A Nine, never quite the perfect Ten. If you want to be brutal, you could say that it's nothing but a euphemism for "quitter". I've disappointed countless numbers of school teachers, music teachers, tennis teachers, mentors, and parents. I raise hopes and then dash them. I show a lot of promise, only to break them all under my heel. I'm the one who never quite made it. The one that teachers shake their heads at and say "She could've been so much more." Past tense. My parents look at each other, say "Well, she did alright I suppose", and shrug. I do things halfway
and then become frightened as the finish line approaches. I'm the place where dreams of excellence go to die.

Perhaps it's because I'm afraid. I don't have courage. What's the purpose of scaling littler mountains just so that you can point to it and say "hey, i did that"? People shake their heads at you. After all, if you have the equipment to scale great heights, why not do it?

Because.

Everytime I start to scale the great heights, I think about how much further I'll have to fall. I cling on to the side of the mountain and look down. And when I think of the looks of disappointment in the face of everyone peering up at me, I become afraid. Not of the heights, but of the disappointment. And of my own disappointment. After all, that's the worst of all to face. If I believe in myself and disappoint myself, then who is left to believe in me? I don't want to try, I don't want to burn with desire to accomplish, because the consequences of failing at my task are that much greater on a personal level.

I get about 3/4 of the way up the great heights, peer down, and decide that I've come quite far enough. No need to risk my neck just for the apex. It's like "Who wants to Be a Millionaire." Except it's the game-show of Life, with much greater consequences than merely looking silly on television. Do I go for the million and risk losing it all? No. I'm not a big gambler. I'm petrified of regret. And hey, if I leave with -something-, I'm less likely to have great regret than losing -everything-. I'm not noble, I'm a coward. For this reason, I will never make it anywhere. If you don't gamble big, you'll never win big. I will never be a millionaire. After all, how can you score if you never shoot at the goal? My fear of failing and becoming mediocre has doomed me to a life of mediocrity.

The irony of me biting myself on the butt is sick.

I square my shoulders and tell myself I must be brave. But I've made more progress being brave in my personal life than I have in my professional one. I am, after all, a pre-med dropout. A wishy-washy grad school applicant. And yet still remain a dissatisfied-with-current-situation-er. Do I really think that things will get better if I ignore it, sit on my hands, and do nothing? That things will improve on their own while I throw year after year of precious life down the drain, sitting at a desk? Inaction is equivalent to promising myself unhappiness as I continue to postpone decisions until it's too late. Until the decisions are made for me by the passage of time.

I'd rather make my choices than have them taken away from me. But I have to overcome the fear first and take charge of my little boat instead of drifting along. And I'm scared to touch the oars. But I'm scared to continue drifting. It's like when you're sitting in a bathroom peeing, and you suddenly see a roach scuttle into your stall. You freeze. On one hand, you know how have to take action and squash it, lest it crawl onto your foot and up your leg. On the other hand, you're scared to squash it because you're afraid of it. And meanwhile, it's not like you can just stop peeing mid-stream. So all you can do is sit there, petrified and frozen. Hoping it won't scuttle onto your foot. You take your chances and try to force the pee out faster so that you can bolt out of there before the roach moves again.

I don't want to take chances with my life. But yet, that's me. Petrified and frozen. Hoping life won't screw me over. You can keep waiting, or do something about it. I'm afraid I'm a waiter. But I'm working on working the courage up to squash the roach. I must conquer a lesser fear in order to prevent a greater fear from coming true.

New Mantra: Life will not be something that happens to me. I will make my life.

Project. Take two.

What a relief. Day 1 goes by with no major incidents. Except for me spilling cranberry juice all over my white pants at lunch. I'm obviously great with first impressions.

Supervisor Z. is supernice. And he's terribly cute when he's explaining things to me. Could this be a turnaround? Too soon to tell. I'm still wary. But I'm feeling hopeful. I actually don't dread work tomorrow. Yay me!

Gut feelings and God.

Bought myself a new outfit yesterday as a picker-upper. I can wear it on the first day of work on Tuesday. Like girding my loins for battle. My mom always said that if you feel like you look like success, you -will- be success. I got home, tried it on, looked great, but somehow couldn't discount the vague uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. I've been scarred by Project Manager. I tried to pep talk myself again, with the usual mantra. "You're fabulous. They're going to love you. You're fabulous. They're going to love you." It didn't work, I need a new mantra. So I decided that I needed a pep talk from God. I tramped out in the snow for the 8 pm Mass, only to find that it was cancelled. I never go to church, and figures, the one time I decide to go, everything gets in my way. I couldn't help the niggling thoughts... God cancelled on me. Can he really do that? God can do anything he wants, stupid. I went home with all my worries swirling in my head. They then turned into nightmares when I went to sleep. And my nightmares are the stuff of terrors. Unearthly creatures stalk me. My brother is possessed by a demon and tries to kill me. Having an overfertile imagination is a blessing and a curse. I dragged myself out of bed this morning feeling like utter crap.

Today, for an unknown reason, I was suddenly convinced that I wanted to go into science. In the middle of walking from the bathroom back to my reserved office space, I had a sudden feeling of wrongness. This, all this, was wrong. I can't even blame it on peon mentality. I've already accepted the fact that my job satisfaction is bound to be low considering that as an analyst, I end up doing all the stuff that no one else wants to do. I can't even say that I've been ill-treated. Because on the day in question, today, I got assigned to a partner office. If anything, sitting and working in that nice office should have motivated me to stay in business. Given me a taste of what's ahead. Inspired me to go on. Instead, it's only made me more sure that this is not what I want. All of it felt wrong. The desk. The laptop. The little couch in the office. The business casual I was wearing. The heels. I felt like I was part of a different puzzle that had somehow been mistakenly placed here. I felt like I was pretending to be someone I wasn't. Like I was playing dress-up.

I felt the same way when I put on my first suit for interviews. My mom patted me on the shoulder and made some comment about her little girl growing up. I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. I didn't look like... me. I looked like I didn't fit. I looked at all the other girls trying on suits and wondered why I wasn't as excited as they were. If anything, I felt a little grumpy. I almost wanted to be like them. I almost wanted to fall for it all. The glamour. The self importance of walking down the streets of New York City wearing high powered clothing. Maybe I'd be happier if I was them.

I don't feel anymore grownup even though I wear "grownup" clothing now. I used to feel older than I looked. Mainly because I spent most of my life looking 5 years younger than I actually was. Now, I look in the mirror and I look older than I feel. Somewhere within the past few months, I aged at a rapid rate. It frightens me to see the image of a young professional gazing steadily back at me and feel like a freaked out little girl inside. I feel like I'm on auto-pilot, acting out a part, when in reality, I feel like I'm hurtling headlong down a tunnel in the dark. I feel like I'm losing track of myself. Who am I? Who is this girl I see in the mirror?

Part of me wonders if this isn't vintage me. I have a history of shying away and freaking out when the unknown looms. I tend to stay in comfort zones. Am I suddenly convinced that this feels wrong because there's now a possibility that I might actually like business with this new project coming up? Is that what truly scares me? Or is this feeling a sign that this truly isn't meant for me?

Now that I'm back to a semi-normal lifestyle, temporarily at least, I catch myself noticing the things I do and taking note of them. Everything has suddenly become a clue to my future, every habit, every gesture. It's almost as if I think the answer lies within, if it exists at all, and if I study myself closely enough, I'll be able to piece it together. I've become a paranoid freak around myself. Suddenly, everything means something. When I watch TV (if I watch TV at all), I watch Discovery Channel. And only flip to NBC when Disc. Channel is on commercial. Why did I think that Sig and I hit it off so well? Because we could talk about sci fi and fantasy authors together. Because he talked to me about material science and math. Maybe this is a sign that my natural leanings are towards science. Maybe instead of being a paralegal next fall to figure out if I want law school, I should work at Sloan Kettering and figure out if I want science. Maybe I'm completely heading in the wrong direction with the law thing. Maybe I only liked Sig because he talked to me about familiar things. The damn comfort zone again. Which is it? Can I trust my own gut feelings? Or will they merely steer me back towards comfort instead of towards new things to learn?

The bottom line is, I'm afraid. I feel like I'm standing at the starting line with all these pieces in my hand, waiting for the gun to go off. Then I have to build the house of my life. And I only get one chance to put it together. The right way. And there's no instruction manual. As I stand there, frozen, going through all the possible layouts in my head, which one do I want? Which one is feasible? Which one can I do well? No use in going with some great layout if I can't do it with the materials I have here. Which do I do? And meanwhile, the time is ticking. And I'm still standing here clutching the pieces, afraid to start.

To Live and Date in New York.

I watched this show for the first time today with my roommate. As I watched it, I realized a few things.

1) I could easily pick out everything that every girl was doing wrong on her date. Even more frightening, I could see myself easily making the same social faux pas.
2) Although I recognized a lot of the places on the show, I don't remember them being half as glamorous as they look on camera. New York is a city that looks much better on TV than it does in real life.
3) All of these girls seemed to have incredible apartments even though none of them seemed to have jobs with regular paychecks. One girl had her profession listed as "party girl". How do they pay for their rent? How can they afford to go out and party every night? Where are they getting their clothes from?
4) I criticized the show for making the girls seem single and desperately searching. But sadly enough, most single women in New York really are like that.

Although I considered it a terrible show, I found myself watching three episodes in a row. Why? Because on some level, I identified. On some level, every girl in New York identifies. It's hard to meet people in New York. I wanted the girls to find that perfect man. Because I felt like if they did, it would give hope to every New York girl out there. With such an ever shortening list of "required" traits, you'd think it'd be easier to find guys. But it really isn't. Regardless, I decided that despite its lack of good execution, at the least, the show gives some good potential bars and lounges to check out. Must find good bar with dance floor for college roommate's birthday party in 2 weeks...

I also watched Russian Ark with my friend C. this weekend. I fell asleep through the middle of it because my body is accustomed to going to sleep at 4 am, but being back from the holidays dictates that I wake up at 8 am for work. This means I'm tired all the time. I get the feeling that I didn't miss much of the movie though. I don't think I'm intellectual enough to really understand it.

To Do List
1. Must get circadian rhythm back in shape.
2. Shop for new outfit for new project as a warmer upper. Very nervous. Must pep talk self. "I am fabulous. They're going to love me. I am fabulous. They're going to love me"
3. Get snow gear. Going snowboarding at the end of the month for the second time. The first time last year was a disaster, but I decided that I should give it a second chance. If I'm still terrible, then I'll just accept that I suck. And stick to skiing. I've been making do by wearing windpants over sweatpants, but I think it's about time I got real snow gear. I'm a bit nervous about the whole thing. I think I might need a helmet.
4. Shop for an inexpensive place to buy a minidisc player for my brother's birthday. Specifically, the Sony MZN707.
5. Plan college roommate and fellow BABAE participant J's bday party on the weekend of the 24th.
6. Somehow save money while doing all of the above.

The Dangers of the Bookstore.

It's amazing how much money you can spend at a bookstore. It's more dangerous than clothes shopping. Mainly because it's easier to justify a book purchase to yourself, and a book purchase is less of a good deal than clothing is. After all, once you read a book once, what are the chances you're really going to read it again? Especially since I only put books that are worthy of it onto my bookshelf. All others get donated, thrown away, or tossed in the corner. Most books fall in this latter category. Clothes, on the other hand... I get my money's worth out of those. I spent 50 dollars at Barnes and Nobles today. This was after shopping only from the bargain bin and using my Barnes and Nobles Membership discount (courtesy of my brother for Xmas). I bought two paperbacks and three journals. I'm already finished one of the paperbacks. I'm starting to feel like my money is going down the drain awfully fast. I caught myself browsing through the shelves and wistfully wishing that I could win the lottery so I could buy all the books I wanted. Then I realized that whereas other people would head to Prada or to the BMW dealership first if they won the lottery, I'd head to Barnes and Nobles. Then to the Hermes store.

I start my new project next Tuesday. I'm nervous. I felt like I should go out tonight, if only as a last hurrah. But something keeps me inside instead. I'm not tired, but I have a sense of stillness. I don't want to go anywhere raucous tonight, or drink till I'm drunk. Sig called me today from Colorado where he's skiing. And last night. I'm not sure what to make of it all. I just don't feel like getting dressed in heels or going out in the cold right now. I'm quite content puttering around the house in my new Weezer tshirt (courtesy of my best friend K., aka Fridge), jeans, and too-big socks. The Weezer tshirt has a big 22 on the back of it. Twenty-two, for how old I am. I called Grace and told her I was staying in tonight. They're all headed for Divine Bar. I want to stay in, but yet I want to be social. What I want to do is stay in tonight with someone. I wish I had a hot guy to stay in with. We could lie on my bed and read books.

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.

It's a bad sign when you start off the New Year with a headache. I rolled over in bed and suddenly wished I hadn't. My head hurt to move. Always a sign of good times from the night before. I opened my eyes and assessed the situation. Am in own bed, alone. Check. Wearing own clothes. Check. Wearing last night clothes? Nope, in my proper pajamas. Blinked my eyes quickly - remembered to take my contacts out too before collapsing. All in all, I think I did pretty well for myself considering the state I was in when I got home.

We spent our New Year's at Flow. Paid a hefty amount for the ticket. I bet I didn't drink 100 bucks worth of alcohol, but you can bet that I got my 100 bucks worth of drunkenness. I'm surprised I made it up and down the stairs of the lounge as many times as I did last night. I remember talking to friends, who I'm sure will forgive my state of inebriation, if they remember the night at all that is. I remember talking to a guy from Columbia towards the end of the night, who I'm positive thought I was a complete idiot. I'm not sure what I said to him, but I'm sure it wasn't anything smart. I remember talking unnecessarily to the bathroom attendant. I remember babbling about science fiction authors to a friend on the subway platform. I'm surprisingly coherent when drunk. Odd. And vaguely embarassing. I remember another friend disappearing off the subway platform, and turning up at noon the next day. People were wasted, people got kicked out, people lost their purses, people vomited on their sleeves, the whole gamut of fun things that make a New Year's party so great. And you know everyone's going to talk about how much "fun" the party was the next day.

I looked in the mirror this morning. Partly to see if I looked like the walking dead. Partly to see what Nine of 2003 looks like. I inspected myself critically. I suppose this can be considered a fresh start. I have a semi-new job (4 months into it), have moved to a new city (New York), have a new short haircut (this one's not mullet-prone, it's fro-prone), and am starting a new project next week. Keeping all fingers crossed that this will be less of a disaster than the first one. All I really need is a new outlook on life. A fresh approach. And this is the beginning of it all. I can feel it, this is -the- year.

::email nine::