Archive for the 'Whoa feelings' Category

One day in November

November 5, 2008 | Filed under: NaBloPoMo, Whoa feelings, Whoopdie Doo

“Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.”  ~Anne Lamott

Once someone told me that “you can’t spin hope”. And I quoted it for months with a snicker. ‘Hope’ isn’t part of the party platform. I’ve read the party platform and next to ‘improving public education’ it doesn’t say ‘dream big’ with little unicorns and a heart instead of a dot above the lowercase i. I find myself to be a generally cynical person and pragmatic. The glass is never half full or half empty it’s just a glass with water for me to quench my thirst. Which is why when ‘hope’ was used as a catalyst for people to throw their cautions to the wind and vote for ‘change’, I scoffed and guffawed and remained a non-believer. 

There was no push or drive during the last two years, I was just going through the motions of electing a President whose platform most aligned with my ideals. That is until last night when my coworker, Ben, a man old enough to think that he would never see the Berlin Wall come down, started to tell me a story that I had been dying to hear. I was already for the The Drama when out of the corner of my eye I saw something that made me stop everything. It’s rare that I’m at a loss for words or that when something exciting or monumental happens that I’m not shouting from the rooftops. I turned to Ben and politely said to him, “Barack Obama is the President”. He just stared back at me and said “Wait. What?” 

“I think that Barack Obama is the President”. 

He stopped the story that I was so dying to hear to turn around and look at the television screen with me. You know those moments that are forever etched in your mind? Those moments when you remember exactly how you were standing, which way the moon was facing and the color of the chipped nail polish on your fingers? Those moments? It’s just that…it isn’t everyday that I stand in a room full of people, put my head down and my hands on my knees and feel everything inside of me collapse and then cry. Two minutes later Ben went back to telling me the story and I stopped him to say, “Yeah, whatever you’re going to say is going to be boring as shit compared to this”. But he told me anyway. 

I called my father later and he was far too quiet than usual. Not the normal banter and telling me that I’m adopted but he was quiet and thoughtful. If you grow up in segregated Birmingham, Alabama, you can never really prepare yourself for raising children in the suburbs of Upstate NY. You probably don’t envision your black son and daughter discussing political science and supply side economics and the LSATS and their white peers as if they were common place. And you sure as shit don’t ever bring yourself to really push your mind to pursue the possibility of a black man living in the White House. 

But you hope. I hope for a lot of things. That my check clears or that a pair of perfect shoes are available in my size or that one day I’ll be able to fit into my favorite dress again. I hope that the Giants win this weekend and I hope there’s more wine. I’m neither sentimental nor idealistic, but yeah, sometimes I hope. We all hope every single day because it’s what gets us up in the morning: That hope that things will be better or just as good as the day before. That hope that whatever we are working towards - either alone or as a people - will go well and get better. It’s just that on any given day we don’t realize how much we hope because we never outwardly say it because it’s just a little too trite and rainbows and kittens to say that you spend your days hoping. Though I think it’s human nature and catching to see one person be optimistic and so it’s hard to avoid that drug of good feeling. 

So would you like to know what my first thoughts were last night? After the tears and my father. It was of my friends, Leah and Simon, and then of every other  parent I know that has young children. But Leah and Simon especially because they’re having a baby in six weeks and their baby will never know of anything different than having a black president it will be natural to him and forever be a grip on my heart and something that I remember vaguely thinking about. Just as it will always be baffling to my father that Garrett and I have always experienced integration (its ups and its harsh, harsh downs) as it’s always been natural to us but a grip on his heart. 

There are these little tiny babies who will always think of this - what just happened - as ordinary. And they will have that luxury and life because one day in November several million of us chose to lean on the idea of hope a little more than we had in days, weeks and months prior. It was one day in November when we said we could and so we did. We hoped and then we changed. 

Lofty

September 24, 2008 | Filed under: Growing up is optional, Once Upon A Time.., Whoa feelings

“Establishing goals is all right if you don’t let them deprive you of interesting detours.”  ~Doug Larson

Once upon a time I had exactly two long-term goals. Remember that when you’re 21 going on 22 ‘long term’ is fairly relative and 35 is like practically dead. The two goals were: 1) Make an appearance in the Washington Post Express 2) Make at least $35,000 a year. It took me roughly six months to achieve both of those goals because I like to really reach for the stars when making plans for my life.

25 isn’t the be all, end all of a person’s life for clearly much more will occur but it holds some significance - arbitrary by society’s standards and self imposed by my own - regardless I want it to be a good year. I’m not requesting perfection in the slightest. I’m far too cynical, pragmatic and neurotic (and being a lush kind of hinders too much progress on any given day) to proudly declare that 25 will be The Best Year Ever. I’m just hoping for something a little better than the one before. I think that’s what we hope for in the long run; not for the ultimate to happen but for a little bit more each year. A little bit more happiness, laughter, fun and writing. It’s trite and cliche but we’re all trite and cliche and hoping for the best. We smile and pump our fists when we hit our respective goals even if to the outside world they seem to be nothing. The lowest of the low maybe. But on the inside we’re smiling and high-fiving with our personal cheering sections; because, yeah, I did it and I’m totally fucking proud.

I have goals for 25 and (for once) I’m not afraid to meet them.

Like you mean it

September 22, 2008 | Filed under: Whoa feelings

“Millions and millions of years would still not give me half enough time to describe that tiny instant of all eternity when you put your arms around me and I put my arms around you.”  ~Jacques Prévert

It might surprise you to learn that I am a hugger. When Kristin met me at my hotel in Chicago, I embraced her as if I’d known her forever - though it does feel that way - she pulled back relieved and said “oh good! You’re a hugger”.

With my nearest and dearest it’s full on with two arms. Kind as if we’re gripping each other for dear life just to be sure that the other is really there after so many months or weeks of being so close yet so far away. I judge those who give week one armed hugs or as if their hearts aren’t in. If I’m happy to see you, you’ll know that I’m happy to see you. It will be the hug and the pat on the arm and a head on the shoulder. How others react to human touch is part of the criteria for many of my relationships. Of course it’s not the only thing for not everyone is at ease with a random stroke to the shoulder just to say ‘I’m here’. But I like it; for me it screams, I’m here and you’re loved and I’m just as thrilled to see you. I love to hug like I mean it.

I leave for DC in a few days. My first trip in what has amounted to months. I didn’t start missing it until this particular trip got closer. That’s what made me think of hugging. Knowing that when I see my bestest, LB, she’ll hug me hard and smile and put her face in my hair because she likes the way it smells and then she’ll say in my ear “I just really miss you”. And I’ll give her a peck on the cheek and say, “My god, I’ve missed you, too”.

Oh baby, baby

September 19, 2008 | Filed under: Blogology, Whoa feelings, Whoopdie Doo

“Every baby needs a lap. ” ~Henry Robin

So, I didn’t like babies. And I sure as hell didn’t want children. I’m sorry, I was unequivocally against having oft thankless, little people stuck to me and sucking every bit of energy and money from me thus leaving me little time to enjoy the finer things in life like Anthropologie and wine flights. One of my parents, the one with the xx chromosomes once upon a time felt the same way about children. She once told me that she used to see parents in the park with their children and think it was the most god awful thing. Then she had a child (moi) and realized that hey! These children? With their snotty noses and wet kisses and need to shove their half eaten bits of food into your mouth? They’re not so bad. So she went on and had another (Garrett) and lo has now made it through two and half decades without either of us going to prison or losing a limb. She deserves a medal or some flowers or something.

It always seemed that babies were so very needy. And their neediness would have to trump my neediness and when you’re in high school and college your needs come before everyone elses needs. It wasn’t like I had some plans to get pregnant right then and there at the age of 19 it’s just that I’m a planner and my plans did not include getting up at 3 AM to feed someone else because really? What kind of human being decides that eating at 3 AM would be a fantastic idea? You know what’s a good idea at 3 AM? SLEEPING. Try it. It will do wonders for your complexion and overall health and maturity. It will also prevent your parents from putting you up for adoption.

Noah Storch was four weeks old when I met him. His mother had deemed me acceptable to watch her precious newborn as determined by my love of Coach bags and a good petite syrah of which we had a mutual love. People who like expensive bags and wine are so totally not crazy. I swear. He was all bundled up in his stroller and I didn’t touch him that first day. I just peeked periodically at his tiny fists and face and then had a flashback to the first time I met one of my cousins. He was the exact age that Noah was, I was 10 and I didn’t understand that babies didn’t come equipped with strong neck muscles. I removed my hand from the back of his head and he went flying the hell back. And well, that ended my association with those under the age of eight months. And even then it was touch and go.

Newborns are kind of…how do I put this gently?…Boring. They’re boring. They sleep like 90% of the time and when they are awake they’re only interest is screaming in protest for having being born or because they are hungry. Then again, I’m a bitch when I’m starving and have spent the last four days complaining about my oh so difficult life so I can almost understand their angry. Newborns are also so tiny. It’s impossible for my mind to move past their relative size and generally gentle demeanor for they haven’t yet become cynical or suspicious. They like to be held and well, I was good at the holding. So on that first night with Noah we sat together and I held him. All evening I held him and rocked him and sniffed the top of his head. I held him in the bathroom while the faucet ran because he liked the sound of running water and fuck environmental conservation when there is squwaking involved.

The next morning Amy told me that he slept through the night and demanded to know what I did to get her kid to sleep an entire night. Was it drugs? Crushed up Ambien in his Similac? WHAT? I just held him. And that’s what I did for the first two months and every time I saw Noah thereafter. I held him. I would get to his house stressed out after a day of dealing with adults who I wanted to face plant in a pile of dung. I would be tired and cranky and I’d see this tiny face, the face of a person who would cry in protest or would poop on my freshly dry cleaned pants or would spit up on me. But then night would come and we would sit in the dark listening to music and I would just hold him.

And that’s what I love about newborns. They’re actually my favorite. As my friend, Charlie says, they’re ‘teeny tiny’ and gorgeous. They’re needy and they doth protest way too fucking much. They’ll puke on you with aplomb. They’re mercurial. They don’t know the difference between night and day and they could give two shits if you’re tired. But they’re fairly easy to please. They just like to be held and snuggled and hugged. It’s like all of their problems can be solved with a new diaper and a gentle coo as you hold them as close to you as possible. It’s precious and endearing to feel them fall asleep with their heads resting on the side of your neck. You smile while holding them and wish that all of their problems for the rest of their lives could be solved just as easily. But for now you close your eyes and sit there with them knowing that this? This is the easy part.

*This post is for Kristen and Rebecca and Amy and the Mo’ Babies Shower Extravaganza in honor of the impending arrival of their teeny tiny babies. Congratulations, ladies.

What the good ones are made of

August 20, 2008 | Filed under: Humdrum, Whoa feelings

“If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.” ~Michel de Montaigne

I was curled up in the comfy chair. My feet underneath me and covered by my dress, with a cold beer in hand, I leaned over and asked a friend of mine to tell me how he met his wife. Being on the phone for these conversations leaves much to be desired. You cannot see that look - The Look - or the half smile when retelling how one met the presumed love of their life. It’s hard to hear over the din of cars speeding past on his end or the truck outside of my window; to hear the slight laughter when retelling the moments when it might not have worked out as planned. These conversations are much better in person and face to face. So that the reactions can be seen and heard and practically felt.

At the end of the story I kind of shrugged and expressed my disappointment. It wasn’t exciting or anything out of the ordinary. It wasn’t a ‘meet cute’. It was pedestrian. And I said “eh”.

My friend JB once told me completely out of the blue that I would know when I met The One. This was back when I didn’t believe in The One and I had already planned my life around my wants and needs and my future living in a gorgeous row house in Georgetown with four floors - since they are built to expand vertically - and a gym membership at the Four Seasons on M Street. She said that I wouldn’t hem and haw about it. I would just show up for drinks with the girls and say “This is Joe. I love him and he’s it” and my friends would clink glasses of red and white to my happiness because they know that it is something that I would be sure of. I laughed when she said this because we both knew that she was right. It would just happen.

I don’t know if I believe in soul mates. In fact, I know that I do not believe in them. But Lori and I once had a conversation when we relished in all of the things that made us similar and we both noted that as individuals, we are both pretty awesome. We both are the type of people who enjoy our alone time and are easily entertained and amused by our surroundings and who we are as people that we do not generally crave having someone else by our sides. While it might be nice, it doesn’t feel necessary. When Lori met her husband though, she realized that he was someone that she could and would want to hang out with forever and ever and so they married. I loved that story because it is so very me. She wasn’t looking for it, she never had, it just happened.

I hate not knowing the ending. To have to shrug my shoulders and say I do not know how it will turn out. I do not know if I will walk into a restaurant and see someone for the very first time and spend five solid hours talking to that person about nothing and everything while sipping mojitos. I don’t know if I’ll find someone whose mere presence or with the sound of their voice, will make everything better. Will force every bad thing into perspective and out the window. I don’t know if I’ll meet someone and actually enjoy speaking on the phone just to make the drive less boring even though I hate the phone. I don’t know if I can find someone with whom to wade through the sheer stupidity of everything and the sometimes harsh words that we throw at each other. I don’t know if I’ll ever meet someone who gets me and knows my quirks and just how crazy I am and that I start arguments just because and that I don’t fight fair and yet is able to deal with it either way. I just don’t know. And it leaves something for me to be excited for and yet terrified all the same. Even if I don’t want it that badly at times the thought is just a pleasant one. What I do know is that *if* it happens and I meet that person, I just want to be able to tell my children and friends and family the story of something wonderful. A story that can be told with a smile on my face and knowing that even though things weren’t perfect in the beginning and sure as hell aren’t perfect now, that there is no one else I would rather do it all with.