Las Vegas. City of Extravagance.

My brother and I landed in Las Vegas yesterday morning. Although we arrived at different gates originating from different cities, both of us had the same reaction when we stepped out into the airport. "What the hell?!" Slot machines greeted us. Money truly runs this city. As I watched the Bellagio water show though, I realized that Las Vegas, although a city of modern decadence, reminded me more of the olden times. Older civilizations. Perhaps a la Romeo and Juliet times. When they had the House of Capuleti. I could see Las Vegas being a city of a fantasy novel. Run by clans of thieves that warred against each other. People would align themselves with one House or the other and learn their skills. And they'd put on fantastical water shows as an exhibition of their wealth and power.

Walking through the casinos, I decided that I liked Las Vegas. This was a place of dreams. There was no bitterness in this city. As bitterness is defined as a lack of hope. A despair. Every old lady pulling the slots, every baseball-capped young man at the tables was there because they had hope that they would win it big. Fantastical dreams of making it. These were people who dreamed big and did something about it. With every roll of the dice. Everyone here has a story to tell. Everyone who works in Las Vegas has a story to tell. After all, very few parents would "approve" of their child working in Las Vegas as a dealer or dancer. I walked around and wondered what the story behind each person was. And thought about how these people lived in the city of fantasy and dreams and wondered what that fact said about each person there.

And. I thought that perhaps my life wasn't so bad after all. Being a Vegas dealer is always played up in the movies. But quite frankly, I noticed that a lot of the dealers had the same expression on their face that I have when I'm checking my 604 rows of Excel. I didn't really gamble, but I played the investor in my brother. Told him I thought he had a lot of potential and said that I would subsidize his gambling. I'd cover half his debts if I also got half his winnings. And I'd back him up with his fake ID. Pretend to be his girlfriend. He wasn't too thrilled about that last part. I wasn't too thrilled either at the end of the day. I'm down 25 bucks. Small peas when you're talking Vegas, but that's a lot of losing when you're playing the 25 cent Video Poker. He played a couple of the tables as well. Mainly blackjack.

I found the whole thing rather amusing. The non-expression on the player's faces. The tap on the table if you want more. This is serious business. What I did realize though, after an extensive talk with my brother about the probabilities being slightly skewed for the house, was that the success of Vegas really had nothing to do with probabilities and the dealer always winning. The success of Vegas had more to do with human psychology. The wild hope that next time, next time you'll win. Because statistically speaking, if you play for long enough, you're bound to win. In my brother's case, the success of Vegas had more to do with the male ego. He lost about 30 bucks right off the bat at the 10 dollar table and won it back just as immediately. But he felt like he had to keep playing so he wouldn't look like a wimp, leaving the table as soon as he broke even again. We'd been there for about... 2 minutes at that point. Money changes hands fast around here. He could never play just one hand and walk away.

Vegas deals in dreams and hopes, and is the one place where such intangible things can be assigned a value. How long do you play before you give it up? How much money is your pride worth? Today, we head to the Grand Canyon, where my own bitter dreams have gone to die even before I've gotten there. No mule ride down the canyon, no whitewater rafting. After all, I didn't think to make reservations 2 years in advance. Silly me. My last bastion of hope, the Havasu Falls, died yesterday when I called to see if they had any vacancy in their lodge mid-week, and found out they were booked through June. That was the most crushing of all. I was looking forward to that.

On a brighter note, my brother grudgingly admitted yesterday that maybe... I'm not as busted as he usually tells me I am. But then he added quickly that I need to work on my thighs as I've obviously gained weight since he last saw me. Aw, thanks. Such love. Let's see if I buy you that digicam you wanted.

Rain.

It's funny. I was driving in to work this morning through NC's fourth straight day of rain and thinking about how what is an inconvenience now was a blessing a millenia ago. Rain meant growth, and growth meant food and life. Now, rain more likely means death as it makes the roads hazardous and the office floors slippery. It's made a 180 from being loved and revered to becoming detested.

I rather like the rain. I like how it makes the world grey and misty. I like how nothing has hard edges and instead is blurry and muted. Everything has a halo around it. I like how the rain drips down my face. I don't like carrying umbrellas. I like how the trees look wet and happy.

You don't truly appreciate rain when you live in the city. Because you're in a concrete jungle. You don't feel how parched the land is. You don't see, you don't smell the thirst that is quenched when it rains. You don't step into the wonderful squelchiness of saturated earth. All you see is the hissing steaming sidewalks, smell the wet homeless men, and step in dirty puddles. There are benefits to being in NC. It keeps me grounded in a way that Central Park and Prospect Park can't quite do. Kind of how there are city dogs and farm dogs, Central Park and Prospect Park lack the wildness, the soft boundaries, the untamed quality that non-urban parks have. If parks were people, Central Park would be the well-manicured, well-groomed, sophisticated beauty. NC would be the apple-cheeked farm girl.

Bullet points pre-Vacation: 10 days at the Grand Canyon with the parental units and brother.

1. My brother's flipping out over a few B's on his transcript. Freshman year for him is pass/fail. As if he hasn't already beaten me into the ground just by virtue of the fact that he's at MIT.
2. I forgot to pack pants. All I have are a bunch of little tank tops. How could I forget to pack any pairs of bottoms? What was I thinking? No tan lines?
3. I am awake at 3 am on a Wednesday night, and I've got a client training session tomorrow, 9 to 5. I'm going to fall asleep and get fired.
4. I can't find a copy of the severance package policy on our firm's online portal.
5. I figured out what bothers me about my firm. I'm used to being one of the most anal people. I work with people who are even more anal. I didn't think that was possible. There's something seriously wrong when I'm considered the "laid back" one.
6. I hear that girls in hiking boots are sexy. I hope that's true, because one thing's for sure, hiking boots themselves are not very sexy. The salesman at Paragon gave me a funny look when I made that comment. And he replied that any girl in hiking boots is sexy even if the boot itself isn't sexy. I bought a pair. I'm such a sucker. Tell me I'm pretty once a month and I'm yours. He's such a good salesman.
7. If you want to go rafting down the river in the Canyon, you have to make reservations a year in advance. What the hell?!
8. If you want to go hiking INTO the Canyon, you have to make reservations a year in advance. Again, what the hell?!
9. Hiking shoes are damn expensive. I got the cheaper kind. Sneakerish. Low top. Still over 100 bucks. Good Lord. I could hear the thoughts in the salesman head. "Stupid girl. Typical. Not a REAL outdoors person. Let me offer her the cheaper model with the pretty blue color that offers less ankle support. She'll be distracted by the pretty blue."

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell. I know right now you can't tell. -Matchbox20

So. It's finally happened. That thing that anyone who is corporate has been telling me will only be a matter of time. I cried at work.

I started out irate. Manager Big Dawg gave me the most biased, unfair, and irrelevant performance review ever. For someone who sees me once every 3-4 days MAYBE, he sure had an awful lot to say. I have never seen anyone so full of hot air. "Nine has trouble keeping commitments and promises." After intense questioning, he admitted that that statement stemmed from the time I was 5 minutes late to the first meeting. He refused to change it. More accurately, that -should- say, "Nine has trouble predicting traffic patterns in foreign cities when she first gets there."

I was helpless. And that was what drove me crazy. Not having any recourse. I called my old team lead, Supervisor Z, to see if he had any suggestions for what I could do. And that was when it happened. As soon as I heard his voice go "Hello?", I could feel myself start to crack. By the end of the conversation, I was trying hard to keep my voice from shaking and to sniffle quietly so he couldn't hear. As soon as we hung up, I cried my eyes out for a good 5 minutes inside the phone booth. The dam was broken. Anyone who walked by the booth at the time must've thought I was nuts. I tried to pull myself together. Good grief, get a grip on yourself. It's completely unprofessional. We're not 14 anymore where you cry in the bathroom because the teacher was mean to you. The irony of it all was that it wasn't cruelty that made me crack. It was kindness that revealed the chinks in the armor.

I updated my resume tonight. Prepared it for deployment. The question is no longer "Where to?" but more of "Anywhere that's not here." I'm so desperate for escape that I'm likely to take whatever offer comes by first. Not the most prudent or careful of paths to take, but I trust that God will set the right things before me. I am closing my eyes for this one and taking the plunge headfirst. Deal with me as you will, Fate.

Reality Bites.

Sometimes I wonder if its all a conspiracy, this whole fiasco we call work. Almost every one of my friends has had their ambition squashed by the realities of the real world as we sit in our respective cubicles, miles from each other but all sharing the same experience. The "collective consciousness", as opposed to Carl Jung's "collective unconsciousness", connects us to every other 20-something similarly despairing over the fading of exciting dreams of really making a difference somewhere and still living a good lifestyle as we stagnate in a pool of Excel sheets and Power Point presentations.

Why is it that the people who truly do good in this world are the ones least compensated? Why is it that the ones who are rewarded the most by society are usually also the most unscrupulous? What kind of incentive system is this? What kind of mentally challenged sadistic God set -this- up? If the world itself is not a merit-based system, then why did we expect anything else to be? Why are we brought up to believe in it only to be rudely dumped into reality? It's like allowing you to use a calculator all through high school and then taking them away for the SAT's.

The largest disappointment of all is the disillusionment itself, not necessarily the source of the disillusionment. You can't blame the world for being itself, just as you can't blame the SAT's for not allowing calculators. I never thought, as I burst out of the gates of college that all that would be waiting for me was a 50 foot drop off a cliff. And as I lay crumpled on the sharp rocks below, I start to realize that no one is going to pick me up, dust me off, wipe away my tears, pat me on the butt and send me on my way. In fact, there is no movement around me, except the slight stirring of the broken bodies around me, my other fallen comrades.

And the vultures gather. The vultures, who are the builders of this cliff. They gather and watch us struggle. That's the conspiracy. Sometimes I wonder if they're all out to purposely squash our youthful zeal and cotton candy dreams. I wonder because I don't understand it. They too were young once and laid at the bottom of the cliff, shedding their tears. They know what it's like. Lux cut through an empty conference room once and saw the bullet point on the agenda - "How to make your analyst feel like he/she is worth something." Why do they participate in the squashing of analysts? Knowingly so?

The only answer I can think of is the "Do unto others as was done unto you" motto that seems to exist in the corporate world. And so continues the vicious cycle of spirit breaking, soul crushing, dreams fading as we're pushed into choosing between material rewards/recognition vs. doing good but living in abject poverty. Is it really so surprising that so many young 'uns opt for the lifestyle? Especially when the hard-learned lesson is that the world is not merit-based after all and does not reward the meek. Do we work towards the amorphous promises of a better afterlife if we do good or work on improving what we know?

And the people wonder why becoming an adult seems to mandate becoming a shadow of your former self, seems to dictate a struggle just to maintain your sense of self-worth. We are but a generation of Icarus's, armed with wax wings flying towards the sun, only to melt.

"Icarus ignored his father's warnings and thrilled with the power of flight, flew too close to the sun and perished. Daedalus flew to safety and later erected a monument to his son, who has remained a cautionary symbol warning of the incautious exuberance of youth."

Sharing is good.

I'm a squatter!!!!! We're wireless down in our NC apartment, so I lugged my laptop and its corresponding wireless card back to New York this weekend to see if I could find anything useful up here. I flipped my laptop on and lo and behold - there was a signal!!!!! I'm sitting on someone else's network right now. I can kiss DSL goodbye.

It's so sad. Winona Ryder gets a thrill out of stealing expensive clothing. I get my thrills out of stealing internet access.

Prom: The Grown-Up Version.

We've got a firm formal this Saturday. Part of me doesn't want to go. It sounds like quite the snobby affair. All the men are wearing tuxes. Originally, I had rejected the idea. The last thing I want to do when I get home is hang out with work people all trussed up. But then I thought, wait a second, I take so much crap from this firm, there is no way in hell I'm missing this event. If I don't load up on the perks, there'll truly be no redeeming qualities. So I called up Lux and asked her to come with me as my date. I can't imagine any of the analysts will bring real dates since all of us travel so much and have schedules that preclude us from having any sort of interpersonal relationships besides the ones that exist within the office. Yes, the firm motto should be "You won't need another life, because we -will- be your life." People might think we're a lesbian couple. But who cares? The guys will love us!

So I dug up one of my old college formal dresses and found one of my old college strappy sandals. As is evident, I haven't moved on much since college despite my shiny new job and my glamorous consultant lifestyle. Perhaps we'll run into some single, good-looking, and equally bitter and disillusioned smart male analysts. Because there's no way I could ever date someone who thinks all this rocks and is gung-ho about it all. I'd be forced to kill them.

Conversations with Brin.

B: Where were you? I stopped by your cube. I saw a man there instead.
N: Yeah, I have to share a cube. Sorry, I was in the bathroom.
B: I stopped by twice. You were gone for a long time. Bad lunch huh?
N: .....I was napping.
B: In the bathroom?
N: I like the handicapped stall. It's got this great handrail that you can put your arm on and then rest your head against your arm.
B: Oh my God.
N: Don't tell anyone!
B: Oh my God. You fool. You should use the phone booths instead. They've got padded seats in there.

Brin is one of my favorite analysts in NC. He's got this great jug of animal crackers by his cubicle that I eat from daily. He squeals, "MURDERER!!" whenever I come by. "When the jug is gone, I will no longer have anything to lure you to my side of the building anymore!" Hearing that is -such- a pick-me-up during the middle of a terrible workday. Plus, anyone who's got "Bake cookies for Nine" on his wipeboard "To Do" list is a winner in my book.

I've got this theory that you can pick out who's going to make it in this firm and who isn't based on personality types. I've met a whole lot of super cool analysts. A couple of cool consultants. A few cool managers. It's a y=1/x graph, and it's not coincidence. It takes a certain personality type to really make it at this firm. Brin doesn't take himself seriously enough to make it. I'm predicting that he quits within the next two years. I'm not going to make it. I can tell by the games that are going on around me that I don't have the right drive to play them. I trust too much. Let my guard down too soon. Laugh too easily. Wear my thoughts on my face. I'd be terrible at poker. I don't think I have the smarts to play the political game well. I was thinking about all this as I was running today. The team lead, Consultant "Big Dawg" recently wrote my performance review. The other consultant, Not-Team-Lead had lunch with me in pretense of being friendly. I saw right through it. I could see the power play she was planning, and I knew she was going to use me as a pawn. I may not know how to play the game, but I'm not completely stupid. I can see the strategies, spot the maneuvers in a heartbeat. See her grab for power, her attempt to upset Big Dawg. I was an unwilling participant, but I had little choice.

I ran for 45 minutes after work today, running out all the excess energy pent up from the day, the anger at being part of Not-Team-Lead's powerplay, the resentment at having no control over my life, the frustration at my own inability to just suck it up and play the game. Linkin Park pounded in my headphones and strengthened my resolve. I may not play the game well, but I refuse to lose at it. I'm not going to play. From now on, everything is strictly work. I go in, do my job, and leave. Superficial chitchat at best. I will not be anyone's pawn, I will not be manipulated, I will not be used. I will not trust anyone.

When Men Have Sex On The Mind.

You can tell a guy wants to sleep with you when he keeps turning the conversation to sex. It started off with "I have the solution to all your problems." I fell for it. I thought maybe he'd found the perfect career for me or won the lottery and was willing to split it.

"What? What is it?"
"You need to get laid. When's the last time you got laid?"
"When's the last time -you- got laid."
"Been too long. Too long."
"I don't think getting laid is the issue. Any girl who really wants to get some can get it whenever she wants. There's always some guy out there willing to help her out."
"You're missing my point. You can't just get laid. You need to get laid RIGHT."
"Are you offering?"
"I'm pretty good in bed you know. When a girl asks you to do her because her friend slept with you and said it was the best thing ever, you know you're good."
"..."
"Why are you laughing?"
"....no reason."
"Man, you think I'm an egotistical whore now don't you."
"You said it, not me."

He said he'd call me later on this week to try and redeem himself. He's bordering slimey based on conversation topic, but strangely, I'm attracted to his confidence. The go-getter attitude that seems still aloof. He says dangerous things while not coming off as disgustingly stalkerish. It's an attitude. See, this is what gets me into trouble. He's got "playa" written all over him. And here I am, half-falling for it. I like to think it's due to the rampant drought I've been experiencing lately. Tack the travel onto it, and you've got a girl with rapidly dropping standards. You'd think I'd learn by now. I need to start dating some nice boys.

Traveling.

Pet Peeves.
1. Girls who are purposely loud in order to attract attention to themselves.
2. Guys who sit at airport gates and call every person in their cell phone books, leaving messages.

The latter was sitting two seats away from me today at the gate. I felt bad for him. He had a special U.S. Airways luggage tag on his carry-on, a sure sign of a frequent traveler. I felt bad for him precisely because I knew how it felt to a lesser degree, and the lesser degree to which I felt it was pretty damn bad. He was calling all his friends in the few free minutes he had before boarding his plane. No one picked up. I shamelessly eavesdropped on him leaving one voicemail after another. "Just calling to see how you're doing. Sorry I haven't really been around lately." Even if one of them had picked up, I knew how the conversation would go. "So... what have you been up to? How've you been? I haven't seen you in so long. We should have brunch sometime." Except "sometime" never happens. Because when he gets home, all he'll think about is crawling into bed and being alone. Recharging. Like the cell phones and digital cameras and laptops that we buy with the paychecks that we've paid for with our souls. Because what else are we but little machines to our respective firms? I watched him leave voicemail after voicemail and was thankful that I was sitting at the gate with my roommate. He wasn't very attractive. But I sat near him anyways, because I was attracted to his humanness.

The life of a traveler is a lonely one. The only constants in our lives are the airports, our laptops, and the occasional book that accompanies us. Everything else slides by us like oil on water, spinning around faster and faster until everything - the endless string of managers, the endless drone of clients, the millions of aiport gates, become a blur. A dizzying blur of movement - constant movement and change, until your eyes can't follow anymore or pick out anything, nor do you care. The only things standing still in the midst of all this chaos is your luggage, and your laptop. And these stand out in stark relief against the backdrop of swirl and noise.

My luggage. I've had it since college. As it came out of baggage claim after my flight from hell last week, I noticed that it had a small but noticeable tear in it. I stuck my finger in there to confirm it. Yup. Undoubtedly a hole. I looked at my battered companion and suddenly felt sad affection for it. It sat there on the airport floor and looked back at me, a reflection of my life after college thus far. Bruised and battered by the winds of chaos and change. Or, in my case, by the ludicrous performance reviews and uptight managers. We were both travel weary, my luggage and I. I wondered whether it was a sign. After all, I do feel like the very fabric of me is wearing thin and transparent. And unlike my luggage, I won't be duct tape-able.

When I got on the plane, I saw him again - the boy. He was sitting in first class. Another sign of his frequent travel. He looked miserable. I wondered how long it would be until I became as miserable as him.

I didn't know that it would only be a matter of an hour. As soon as I found my seat, I settled down and promptly fell asleep. My body woke itself up an hour and a half later, at 6 pm, which is my usual landing time at La Guardia. I looked out the window and marveled at how nice of a day it was in New York City. I turned and asked the lady beside me why people weren't getting off. She turned sourly at me and said, "Honey, we're still in North Carolina." That was only the beginning. We sat on the runway until 7:45 pm. I listened to the lady behind me talk on her cell phone loudly the entire time, "I'm in hell Steven. When we hang up, just you remember, I'm in hell!" I wanted to grab the seat cushion that can be used as a flotation device and club her over the head with it. SHUT UP LADY!!! YOU'RE MAKING MY PERSONAL HELL THAT MUCH WORSE. She was coming back from the Bahamas. I got up to use the bathroom, and as I was standing in line, I heard myself speaking as if in a dream. I couldn't believe it, I was saying it, the thing I imagined saying to the airline stewardess during last week's flight from hell. "Excuse me. Can I just get off this plane?" She looked at me. Shrugged and motioned for me to follow. I couldn't believe it. Was I getting off? I was. I got off and bought pizza from California Pizza Kitchen. More of the plane's passengers were leaving and wandering the terminal. You know it's a bad sign when the pilot steps off the plane as well. The control tower eventually unmixed itself, but then they couldn't get all the people back on the plane. By the time I got home to New York, it was 10 pm. And I was surprisingly resigned about the whole thing. After all, it's not like I had plans for a Friday night anyways.

In the cab on the way home, I looked out the window and felt this strange sense of calm and assurance. Why do I worry so much about everything. It's really not that big of a deal. When I'm feeing lonely, I have this tendency to propagate the loneliness, isolate myself, as if I could push it to a point where I feel it so sharply and so intensely that I get used to it and turn numb. Why do I do that? It seems awfully self-defeating. You know what, there are people out there who -really- care about me. There's no reason to feel alone. My parents obviously love me a lot since they call me every week, worried, and then I yell at them. BABAE J. loves me to bits, how can she not after living with me for 3 years of college, partying with me through 2 subsequent years post-college, and surviving together through both of our ex-boyfriends and subsequent pseudo's. And Lux, who hauls her ass to New York City when I don't feel like spending the weekend by myself. My brother, who called me last weekend, worried and asking me if something was wrong because I left him an instant message saying "I love you." Ha. Brothers. Kenmore, who I haven't spoken to in months since he got a girlfriend, but who I know would be completely devastated if something happened to me. There are people who love me and think I'm pretty damn cool. And if people who I think are cool love me this much... This has to mean that I'm at least as cool as they are. I thought about it. Dammit, I -am- pretty damn cool, once you ignore the uptight business-casual crap, disregard the permanent bitch look I have on my face at times, and have the patience to wait around until my "I'm too tired to be anything but boring" phase passes.

I felt... good. Even despite my crappy job. Because what really matters in the world, I have. What is truly important in a life, what defines it, isn't the job you work. It's the people who love you. What really matters in the world are the people who know you inside and out, the people you've allowed into your heart and who've let you into theirs. And I've been very lucky in that sense. There've been people who I've let into my heart who haven't let me into theirs, and those used to cause me a good deal of grief. But there's so many other people who -have- let me in, and who love me despite all my tragic flaws. What more could you ask for than that?

I thought about my future. And it no longer seemed like such a scary decision. I'm still scared, but now it's more of a challenge. Instead of being afraid of myself and of making mistakes, I'm only afraid of my own cowardice and its potential to cut me off at the knees and stunt me. Life dictates that you should rise to the occasion. And if you don't, then you'll really only have yourself to blame.

I wish everyone had jobs as fascinating as ours. -Lux

I am currently checking 604 rows of someone else's Excel sheet. Whee!!

Cooks in the Oven.

We tried to bake cookies. It was a mess. Patty (my assigned roommate in NC) and I decided that we should make efforts to be more domestic. She's from New York also, where we have tiny kitchens. We wanted to take advantage of our nice one down here. After all, we're smart high powered career women, it shouldn't be that far of a leap to make it to "good cooks" as well. So instead of studying for our standardized tests coming up, we baked. The actual cookie-batter part wasn't that hard. Instant-mix, it's a beautiful thing. Trouble started to brew when we baked them. We thought we were home-free, this is supposed to be the easy part. That is, until smoke started pouring out of the top of the stove. Is that gas? I don't know, does it smell like gas? Are ovens supposed to work like this? I've never baked before. Well, the cookies will be done in 7 minutes. 7 minutes of gas inhalation can't be that bad right? Just don't light a cigarette, let me go open a window or something. Okay, this definitely smells like gas. Will it set the smoke alarm off? If it does, we can blame it on the faulty stove. Do you think we'd make headlines if we died? "Corporate analysts at major consulting firm die due to cost cutting on corporate housing."

Seven minutes later, we pulled the cookies out. Are they done? I don't know, how can you tell? Let's poke it. I think it's okay if they're soft. I heard they keep cooking while they're cooling. Are you sure? You said you never baked before. I read it somewhere. Stop it, you're making a hole in the cookie. No worries, I'll just offer this one to my consultant. I'll tell him I made it special, JUST for him. Do you think we'd get blamed if we gave everyone at the office salmonella poisoning? I think they need to go back into the oven. Can you rebake cookies? I don't know. I don't see why not, they're still batter, right? Just warmer and harder. Well, let's try it for a few more minutes.

Another 7 minutes later, we're standing there, watching the cookies cool for another 15 minutes. 15 minutes later, there's 2 cookies left. We somehow ate the rest while "testing" to see if they were cooked long enough. One of them is the one with the hole. I'm weighing eating it vs. offering it to my consultant tomorrow morning. I managed to get melted chocolate on my thigh. I didn't notice until I sat down at my laptop later and noticed the smears. I tried to eat it off my leg but couldn't contort myself enough. I had to wipe it off with a napkin sorrowfully. Wasted chocolate =(.

Holiday.

Let's go away, you and I, to a strange and distant land.
Where they speak no word of truth, and we don't understand their ways.
Holiday, far away, to stay, on a holiday, let's go today, in a heartbeat!!!

Don't bother to pack your bags, or your map, we won't need them where we're going.
We're going where the wind is blowing, not knowing where we're gonna stay.
Holiday, far away, to stay, on a holiday, let's go today, in a heartbeat!

HEART BEAT! HEART BEAT!

*sigh*. (*wistful*).

The Long Road.

I'm in a state of stasis right now I think. In a state where I've ceased to worry about things because quite frankly, I've ceased to care. I find comfort in routines, where I push everything away and think of nothing but the everyday things. What to eat for dinner. What to pack for lunch. Did I bring my gym clothes. Yes, I've joined the gym. Although I have to say that I'm a bit disappointed in it. All I do is run on their treadmill and take their disappointingly low key funk aerobics class. I can run on the road for free. The sole source of my enjoyment these days is lunch and running - an activity I used to heartily hate. But now, I relish the opportunity to disconnnect my brain. To just run and think of nothing but my heart pounding in my chest, feel nothing but my feet pounding on the road, hear nothing but my breathing - the whoosh of air in and out of my lungs, worry about nothing but a far off niggling doubt about the long term impact on my knees. In fact, the main thing going through my head when I run is how similar my body is to a machine. A car. Running is like driving a car on the highway. Warm it up. Start it off slow to break it in, and as my heartbeat starts to speed up and I breathe, I imagine the blood coursing through my veins. I think of the muscles in my legs pushing and pulling like the pistons in an engine. I feel the sweat coming out of my pores. And as I run, I feel clean, like I'm being purged of the day. I am not human when I run. I am not me. I have no thoughts, emotions, or feelings. I'm a machine.

weekend.

parlay. cafe mogador. street fairs. union square. more street fairs. nap. sugar. compusa. barnes and nobles. X2. quintessence.

From Hell.

I just got off the flight from hell. My flight time was increased one hour due to inclement weather. We circled around Manhattan twice, dropping a few feet in altitude every few minutes due to turbulence and then rising back up. My stomach was -not- dealing well. I felt thoroughly sick after about 5 minutes and wondered why airplanes don't have puke bags the way buses do. I turned my green face downwards and saw my own apartment building sliding by through the grey clouds. I briefly entertained the idea of making a break for it and throwing myself out the emergency exit. I could see myself floating downwards, my business skirt billowing in the wind and the stiletto pumps making a V formation, a la Mary Poppins, as I hurtled headfirst toward the roof of my building. To keep myself sane, I started to play a game with myself. What was I willing to do if I could get home -right- now. I decided I was willing to pay up to 1000 dollars. I was so nauseous and miserable I wanted to claw my throat out. I had that gross feeling in the back of it, bile rising - the ultimate indicator of severe nausea.

The plane banked and dipped a few times consecutively (not helping the situation) before coming in for a rough landing. Rough enough that I grabbed the back of the seat in front of me and my heart leaped into my throat. We sat on the runway for another 20 minutes. I started to quietly go crazy. I had to get off the plane. I had to. All I could think about was how badly I wanted to be home. I pressed my thumb against the window when in reality, I wanted to shatter it with my fist and climb out. I wondered whether my shoulders would fit through the porthole. Probably not with the extra weight I've gained. I was -this- close to being hysterical. I could feel it rising. I played with the edge of my skirt instead and studied it. I thought about getting up and asking the flight attendant if she'd let me out right here and I would just walk to the gate. As I thought about it, I could feel myself start to cling to the hope that maybe... just maybe she'd say yes. Another sign I was going nuts. Belief in the impossible. I squashed the thought. I knew that if I actually did ask, and she said no (as she inevitably would), I might tear up, discard the remains of my dignity, and beg her to please, please, please just let me off. I really need to get off right now. I wondered if I would get arrested as a terrorist if I held up the plane like that. I could see the headlines. "Pressure gets to corporate analyst. Goes crazy on plane." It'd be an addendum to the "White Collar Sweatshop" editorial that was published in U.S.A. Today last fall. Maybe they'd discuss this issue on 20/20. What would cause an otherwise seemingly sane and successful analyst to ruin her life in this manner? Maybe Oprah would talk about the psychological motivations and environment that would cause this to happen, like they did when the Columbine shootings occurred. Perhaps it would spur a revolution in corporate policy towards analysts and their quality of life. I continued on in this fantasy while I waited for the plane to pull up to the gate.

I waited at the baggage claim, I prayed that the next piece of luggage that came out would be mine. Fifteen minutes later, with still no luggage in hand, I proclaimed out loud that there is no God. The young Hassidic Jew beside me moved away. It took me 2 hours by cab to get from La Guardia airport to Manhattan due to traffic and weather. I turned on my cell phone to call Lux, only to realize that the battery was dead. I flipped on Jack Johnson instead on my MD player. There's something about Jack Johnson that goes very well with cabs and rain. I stared out, comatose, concentrating vaguely on hanging on to the last shreds of my sanity. The only thing that shook me out of my reverie was a firetruck full of firemen that passed by. Firemen are hot. I think the cabbie sympathized with me. He handed me a stick of gum.

I got back to my building, only to realize that I'd left my apartment keys in my jacket pocket, which I'd left down in North Carolina. I trekked back down to the lobby to get my spare keys, let myself in, dumped all my stuff, flipped my desktop on, to find that my DSL had died. No internet connection. I couldn't believe it. No connection. I spent an hour on the phone with Verizon. It's back. But the nausea from the flight hadn't gone away. I have a birthday party to go to tonight. One in which I was expected to drink a lot with the birthday girl.

I leaned over the toilet bowl hoping I would puke and the nausea would go away. No puke. I lingered there for 15 minutes.

I should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

Life imitates Art.

Sometimes I sit in the conference room during a meeting and stare out the window, basking in the one hour of natural light I get per day and enjoying the view of other buildings and smokestacks. The discussion becomes background hum as I'm too caught up between daydreaming and concentrating on not yawning. If you hold a yawn in for long enough, your eyes start to water. Then you can concentrate on not blinking to dry them out faster. Sometimes I look around at what the other women are wearing and note the unbuttoned blouses revealing cleavage, the transparent shirts, the sandals, and marvel that I have a "points for improvement" on dress code in my records for showing a bra strap by mistake on my boatneck sweater.

Today, I'm sitting idly, wondering what I'll be criticized for. I haven't seen my consultant yet today. I stared out the window and could see myself with my mind's eye, floating in front of the window in surreal Salvador Dali-esque fashion. A flesh colored form without really any substance. Just a collection of small flesh-colored flat squares floating and rotating in the general shape of the representation of me. Surprisingly small and compact for someone as tall and lanky. Like those magnetic little silver squares from the 90's that sit on black magnetic blocks. You could mold and shape the little squares for amusement with your fingers, creating larger structures. Little squares fly off of the form occasionally, until eventually so little is left that you can barely trace the outline of where I used to be. Then, what's left suddenly contracts and bursts outward, the little squares fly away from me, through the windows into the distant sky, and little squares fly towards me, landing on the conference table. I watched with interest as Dali-Nine was literally picked apart.

::email nine::