Trust is a funny thing. It can be blind, based on faith and hope and optimism, or it can be based on some actual facts. Like a relationship, a contract, or what economists like to call repeated iterations.
But let's be honest, shall we? It's always about hope. Because in life there are no guarantees. ( I am noticing a trend in the last few posts...but I'll leave that for someone else to discern.)
So just because someone promises or hasn't betrayed you before, there is still an element of hope and faith in any trust. Trust definitionally defies an absolute guarantee.
I started a career in academia years ago specifically because I sought a certain type of lifestyle I'd seen modeled. I saw my step dad, a English professor then approaching retirement, living a fairly luxurious lifestyle. He went to the movies and out to dinner several times a week, spent time reading for pleasure and bought a nice car every few years. Bills were paid on time and college was assumed. That was the life I wanted to have for myself and my family.
Fast forward almost ten years from when I first started studying for the GRE and prepping for grad school applications, and the academic job market is tight, competitive, and a little wasteful. Many great teachers hobble along on adjunct pay for years, bobbing around the poverty line. Grad school faculty are self interested brats, fattened on the teat of the previously luxe system and drive by narcissism to abuse student collaborators at the drop of a poorly funded hat. Increased specialization and increased competition, and there is less money out there in terms of loans, grants, fellowships, etc. My perception of a supportive yet challenging system of education that would push me to my limits and then reward my hard work has been tainted by the reality that connections still, even at this level, matter more than talent, intelligence, or effort.
And in the event that you do gain the opportunity to be on a project you care about with some funding, I've found things can easily degrade to middle school lunchroom tactics, and my trusted professor/mentor can steal my work without giving me any credit, pay, or recognition.
I type these words with fire in my blood; there is nothing more enraging than seeing the words you wrote on a paper submitted by your 'trusted' professor with four other peoples' names on it.
Pit of god damn snakes.
Trust, even within the confines of the so-called ivory tower of academia, with people who have sympathetically told you they want to help you, is really just ill-informed hope.
And, my sweet darlings, hope does not pay the bills.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Saturday, March 07, 2015
...And Taxes
Nothing in life is certain. Nothing but death, and death is the thing we expend so many of our precious resources trying to tame. With little to no result. We put the collective and several resources of all of our greatest sciences to the task of cheating death, staying it's hand, understanding it's motivations and lessening the unfathomable maw that is its inevitability.
We wear seat belts and take multivitamins and go to church and pay our mortgages and get annual physicals and eat blueberries to keep our fragile fleshy physicalities healthy, striving to keep death at bay.
Because we know it can be around any corner. You can slip and fall in the bathroom and be dead tomorrow, or live to be 100, cursing all those weekends at the gym for ruining your precious joints.
Which is to say that even the only sure thing in life is still infinitely unknowable.
And yet. We bash our thick skulls against the wall that is uncertainty, begging it to be other than what it is. Uncertainty is uncomplicated, plain and undeniable, and yet we beg it to alter itself, to give us a hint, to show us its hand before we have to play the game. We human beings, with all of our biology and chemistry and philosophy and sociology are always trying to bend uncertainty to our will, to make it its opposite, to make it certain.
It will not be certain, nothing will. Not even in death will the certainty we strive for wash over us like a cooling balm.
There is a Talking Heads song in this vein:
We wear seat belts and take multivitamins and go to church and pay our mortgages and get annual physicals and eat blueberries to keep our fragile fleshy physicalities healthy, striving to keep death at bay.
Because we know it can be around any corner. You can slip and fall in the bathroom and be dead tomorrow, or live to be 100, cursing all those weekends at the gym for ruining your precious joints.
Which is to say that even the only sure thing in life is still infinitely unknowable.
And yet. We bash our thick skulls against the wall that is uncertainty, begging it to be other than what it is. Uncertainty is uncomplicated, plain and undeniable, and yet we beg it to alter itself, to give us a hint, to show us its hand before we have to play the game. We human beings, with all of our biology and chemistry and philosophy and sociology are always trying to bend uncertainty to our will, to make it its opposite, to make it certain.
It will not be certain, nothing will. Not even in death will the certainty we strive for wash over us like a cooling balm.
There is a Talking Heads song in this vein:
Heaven, Heaven is a place; A place where nothing, Nothing ever happensThe song goes on to describe common situations repeating themselves endlessly for all eternity in heaven. This song generally makes me cry, because I can understand the appeal of imagining a heaven where nothing ever changes, where nothing happens. The sweet embrace of absolute certainty.
Thursday, March 05, 2015
What do you want to do?
I keep thinking about what someone recently said, about the biological
motivations of creatures in comfort and creatures in discomfort: creatures in
discomfort seek infamy and I immortality, creatures in comfort reproduce. I no longer seek immortality or infamy; it is
time for me to find a comfortable spot to settle in. It is time for me to finally answer the
question of what it is I want to do with my one wild and precious life.
Who do I want to be?
Pressing up against that question is uncomfortable. It makes me want to run and fill my mind with
nothings. I don’t want to work very
hard…I want to live simply and happily.
That has always been my answer, and I thought I was moving towards it,
but now I am not so sure.
If I have to chose, career or family, which
do I want? All of this must be decided,
of course, within the new context that nothing in sure, nothing is secure. There are no guarantees in life, and I have
seen that every step. Marriages end,
loved ones die, friends fade away or stop speaking. Nothing in life is certain but it’s own
ending, and even that is bathed in rich uncertainty.
I used to say I wanted to be the chair of the Federal
Reserve, but now I know that was never true.
I never really truly wanted infamy, I don’t think. I just saw it as a short cut to love I didn’t
trust myself to find on my own, be worthy of on my own. So I sought stages, platforms, used my mouth
as a bullhorn. All in the pursuit of the
love I didn’t feel worthy of.
But that’s changing, and I do believe I am capable and
worthy of a great, safe love. I dearly,
truly, whole-heartedly hope it is right in front of me, and that all I have to
do is move forward into it. And so again
I dive in head first, head finally cleared of the concussion I earned from my
last dive. Fingers crossed, I make the
next series of life-changing, future altering choices that push and pull and
tear at the fragile fabric of normalcy, reminding me that it is only a thin
veneer covering the chaos and turbulence of real life, of living actively and with
awareness.
What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
I want to live it with only a little fear, I want to push at
the seams and the boundaries and find territories others were not willing to
visit. But I want to find them within
myself. There is no great exploration to
be had outside of me. The world is replete
with the footprints of the explorers who’ve already come through. What wilderness is left exists within my own
mind, within whatever makes up a soul.
That is where my infamy can live.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Don't Worry, There's Wine
It is one of the most human things we do, one of the most common things.
We assign meaning to the mundane and arbitrary minutia of our daily lives. It's how we balance our sense of self importance with the reality that we are tiny specks of cosmic dust with no real role to play in the scope of history. Every day the universe reminds us of this in small, crushing ways. When we just barely miss our train or spill coffee on our shirt before a meeting, the universe tells us that our needs and wants are insignificant in the face of cosmic forces like gravity.
So we talk about luck or astrology or jinxing things, to try to assign meaning to the frustrations of life, so that we don't have to face the real reason why these things happen. We are not important, we are not special, we are not the center of the universe and these things are happening to one thousand other people around the world all the time, and that our day is ruined is of absolutely no consequence to the cosmos. Black holes and red-shifting light waves do not care about my missed train, your coffee stain, your brother's surgery, you aunt's 401k, hunger, political unrest, war. None of it maters enough for the even the universe to shift its mighty gaze.
We are important only to ourselves, and the tiny circle of other carbon-based creatures we pull into a tight circle around us so that we don't notice how cold and unfeeling the cosmos is. Space is a cold, dark place.
But, to paint a silver lining over the whole thing, this world has wine.
We assign meaning to the mundane and arbitrary minutia of our daily lives. It's how we balance our sense of self importance with the reality that we are tiny specks of cosmic dust with no real role to play in the scope of history. Every day the universe reminds us of this in small, crushing ways. When we just barely miss our train or spill coffee on our shirt before a meeting, the universe tells us that our needs and wants are insignificant in the face of cosmic forces like gravity.
So we talk about luck or astrology or jinxing things, to try to assign meaning to the frustrations of life, so that we don't have to face the real reason why these things happen. We are not important, we are not special, we are not the center of the universe and these things are happening to one thousand other people around the world all the time, and that our day is ruined is of absolutely no consequence to the cosmos. Black holes and red-shifting light waves do not care about my missed train, your coffee stain, your brother's surgery, you aunt's 401k, hunger, political unrest, war. None of it maters enough for the even the universe to shift its mighty gaze.
We are important only to ourselves, and the tiny circle of other carbon-based creatures we pull into a tight circle around us so that we don't notice how cold and unfeeling the cosmos is. Space is a cold, dark place.
But, to paint a silver lining over the whole thing, this world has wine.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Philosophizingasdfjkl;
Sometimes, in life, it takes another person's perspective to get clarification.
Which is of course a very broad and obtuse way of saying that today I got a fantastic, cut you to the bone, touch your heart and heat your blood compliment from a friend I'd lost touch with. And it gave me a sense of rightness with the world.
Not because I have a giant ego and need that kind of vaildation regularly. I hope...
No, because it speaks to the thinks that I hold on to personally in times of strife, conflict, and uncertainty. Not being particularly religious or full of faith, I tend to hang my hat on the fairly flimsy hook of the nature of the universe in dark day. Somewhat less comforting that some great omniscient paternal figure promising me goodies for following the rules, my ideas about the nature of the universe are ill formed and personally conceived. So they are much easier to dismantle in times of stress.
I mean, if I mentally constructed a fragile world view using scraps from physics, statistics, and a smattering of other religious and spiritual ideologies, how reliable can it actually be? Especially when I'm the joker that got me into whatever mess I happen to be in this minute.
So when a close friend I'd lost contact with for the last few years tells me that watching me love people helped her find the love in her heart that she wanted to give and receive, and how has with her significant other...well, shit. No amount of iced coffee is going to keep this bitch from crying.
Fragile world view? Validated.
Which just serves as a reminder of the absolute necessity of perspective. You cannot see everything when you're right on top of it. Whether you're talking about personal life, work problems, or paintings by Seurat, you occasionally need to back away, take another perspective, perceive things differently to truly see and solve them.
In my humble opinion. But I rarely hear of epiphanies derived from endless hours of obsession. And it is so dark up close. Step away, get some light, some space, some laughter. Take the opinion of someone farther than you can go, consider it in the sunlight, and decide how it suits you. That's my personal advice, derived, like most of my philosophies, from smatterings of science, art, philosophy and old fashioned life experience. I truly try not to wax philosophical in public, where people who have no interest in it can be unnecessarily exposed to my mental wanderings, but it was a really good compliment. And she was a really good friend. And, truth be told, it's been a pretty hard year.
Which is of course a very broad and obtuse way of saying that today I got a fantastic, cut you to the bone, touch your heart and heat your blood compliment from a friend I'd lost touch with. And it gave me a sense of rightness with the world.
Not because I have a giant ego and need that kind of vaildation regularly. I hope...
No, because it speaks to the thinks that I hold on to personally in times of strife, conflict, and uncertainty. Not being particularly religious or full of faith, I tend to hang my hat on the fairly flimsy hook of the nature of the universe in dark day. Somewhat less comforting that some great omniscient paternal figure promising me goodies for following the rules, my ideas about the nature of the universe are ill formed and personally conceived. So they are much easier to dismantle in times of stress.
I mean, if I mentally constructed a fragile world view using scraps from physics, statistics, and a smattering of other religious and spiritual ideologies, how reliable can it actually be? Especially when I'm the joker that got me into whatever mess I happen to be in this minute.
So when a close friend I'd lost contact with for the last few years tells me that watching me love people helped her find the love in her heart that she wanted to give and receive, and how has with her significant other...well, shit. No amount of iced coffee is going to keep this bitch from crying.
Fragile world view? Validated.
Which just serves as a reminder of the absolute necessity of perspective. You cannot see everything when you're right on top of it. Whether you're talking about personal life, work problems, or paintings by Seurat, you occasionally need to back away, take another perspective, perceive things differently to truly see and solve them.
In my humble opinion. But I rarely hear of epiphanies derived from endless hours of obsession. And it is so dark up close. Step away, get some light, some space, some laughter. Take the opinion of someone farther than you can go, consider it in the sunlight, and decide how it suits you. That's my personal advice, derived, like most of my philosophies, from smatterings of science, art, philosophy and old fashioned life experience. I truly try not to wax philosophical in public, where people who have no interest in it can be unnecessarily exposed to my mental wanderings, but it was a really good compliment. And she was a really good friend. And, truth be told, it's been a pretty hard year.
open letter to my co-commuters
Dear People of the Metrolink train,
The following is generally considered unacceptable behavior on public transportation:
-clipping your finger nails
-putting your feet up in the seat so you can recline fully
-removing your shoes and putting your get up on the seat so you can recline fully
-arguing loudly about how you don't need a woman who won't pay your rent
Woman weeping and negotiating on the phone, I'm going to give you a pass on the off chance you're going though some real shit. But if I find out you did something basic or dumb you're going on my list, too.
Cheers,
Andrea
P.s. yes, dear reader, this was all on the same ride, just today in the last 15 minutes.
P.p.s. Woman on the phone, the fact that you've stopped crying and are now demanding your phone friend tell you when and where makes me think this is some basic bullshit. You're officially on notice.
The following is generally considered unacceptable behavior on public transportation:
-clipping your finger nails
-putting your feet up in the seat so you can recline fully
-removing your shoes and putting your get up on the seat so you can recline fully
-arguing loudly about how you don't need a woman who won't pay your rent
Woman weeping and negotiating on the phone, I'm going to give you a pass on the off chance you're going though some real shit. But if I find out you did something basic or dumb you're going on my list, too.
Cheers,
Andrea
P.s. yes, dear reader, this was all on the same ride, just today in the last 15 minutes.
P.p.s. Woman on the phone, the fact that you've stopped crying and are now demanding your phone friend tell you when and where makes me think this is some basic bullshit. You're officially on notice.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Sex, Love, and Romance in my Thirties
Is it wrong to want to break up with someone because you want more sex? And also, who exactly am I supposed to talk to about this. All of my fabulous, hilarious, insightful girlfriends are in other time zones. So I rely on you, the interwebs, to answer my burning and deeply personal questions.
I thought it was silly to worry about sex. Of course, in my last relationship it was never an issue. Sex was something that could happen up to three times a day if I was game, and I ended up bored, tired, and frankly spoiled. Now I'm lucky to get laid three times in a week. And I thought it wouldn't be that big of a deal, but my libido seems to be building up a resentful store of excess sexual energy. I feel like a teenager, eager to rub up against the next hot piece that walks by. Which is really not me.
Of course, I had my twenties, during which time I pulled down more ass than...something that pulls down a lot of ass. 2002 to 2006 was my golden age of hooking up and getting laid. But then I settled down, got my heart broken a couple of times, and got married. Monogamy suited me, and I rarely found other men and women attractive.
Newly single for the first time in 6 years, this summer was full of tentative flirting and my first hook up in *years*. Which turned into a relationship when I wasn't looking. I realize now that I kind of resent that; I missed out on a short period of wildness and experimentation by settling down with the first dude I hooked up with.
So what's a gal to do? First thing, as an adult, is to bring the subject up. Awkward though it is, as grown ass adults who engage in adult behavior, we owe it to our partners to be honest and open with them about our needs, wants, and desires. It's called a conversation, have it.
Then....we play the weighing game. Weighing the pros and cons, doing the relationship calculus to figure out how much these things matter, when compared to the positives.
It is a strange thing to feel uncompromising in one's thirties. I continually expect to feel like I am out of time, and should be grateful for what I can get. And sometimes I do, but more often than not I find myself basking in a confidence that was unknown to me in my twenties. I know that I am rare and odd and wonderful and pleasing in many ways. I am a catch, crazy and all, and so the idea of compromising seems defeatist, weak, and small minded. I actually find myself believing that there is such a thing as the perfect guy, and that I can find him, deserve to find him.
Crazy.
All of this makes me feel a bit like a whirling dervish of affections, seeking, sex, and romance. Doors fling themselves open to me, and I open and close them, rechecking the contents contained within against those behind the next door. Obviously it's unsustainable, but it's fun right now. Crazy, confusing fun.
I thought it was silly to worry about sex. Of course, in my last relationship it was never an issue. Sex was something that could happen up to three times a day if I was game, and I ended up bored, tired, and frankly spoiled. Now I'm lucky to get laid three times in a week. And I thought it wouldn't be that big of a deal, but my libido seems to be building up a resentful store of excess sexual energy. I feel like a teenager, eager to rub up against the next hot piece that walks by. Which is really not me.
Of course, I had my twenties, during which time I pulled down more ass than...something that pulls down a lot of ass. 2002 to 2006 was my golden age of hooking up and getting laid. But then I settled down, got my heart broken a couple of times, and got married. Monogamy suited me, and I rarely found other men and women attractive.
Newly single for the first time in 6 years, this summer was full of tentative flirting and my first hook up in *years*. Which turned into a relationship when I wasn't looking. I realize now that I kind of resent that; I missed out on a short period of wildness and experimentation by settling down with the first dude I hooked up with.
So what's a gal to do? First thing, as an adult, is to bring the subject up. Awkward though it is, as grown ass adults who engage in adult behavior, we owe it to our partners to be honest and open with them about our needs, wants, and desires. It's called a conversation, have it.
Then....we play the weighing game. Weighing the pros and cons, doing the relationship calculus to figure out how much these things matter, when compared to the positives.
It is a strange thing to feel uncompromising in one's thirties. I continually expect to feel like I am out of time, and should be grateful for what I can get. And sometimes I do, but more often than not I find myself basking in a confidence that was unknown to me in my twenties. I know that I am rare and odd and wonderful and pleasing in many ways. I am a catch, crazy and all, and so the idea of compromising seems defeatist, weak, and small minded. I actually find myself believing that there is such a thing as the perfect guy, and that I can find him, deserve to find him.
Crazy.
All of this makes me feel a bit like a whirling dervish of affections, seeking, sex, and romance. Doors fling themselves open to me, and I open and close them, rechecking the contents contained within against those behind the next door. Obviously it's unsustainable, but it's fun right now. Crazy, confusing fun.
Wednesday, December 03, 2014
Or just bring a flashlight...
I finally figured out what I want, at least writ small...
I want to write in large letters;
"Look! Look how much people love me! I'm worth loving! I promise, I'm loyal and dedicated, Love me back! Promise to try to love me for years and years! Please! Others have done it, why won't you?!"
And as I shout these words into the empty spaces of my mind, the darkness whispers back,
"maybe you're wrong, maybe he was the only one...maybe there's no one. Why do you break everything you touch? What if it's always been you? Maybe you are the problem. You are unlovable, unloved."
This, I think, is one of the central challenges of life, to silence the dark whispers, to fill one's own head with light and shrink the shadowy corners down.
To live in the light of one's own self love.
That's security.
I want to write in large letters;
"Look! Look how much people love me! I'm worth loving! I promise, I'm loyal and dedicated, Love me back! Promise to try to love me for years and years! Please! Others have done it, why won't you?!"
And as I shout these words into the empty spaces of my mind, the darkness whispers back,
"maybe you're wrong, maybe he was the only one...maybe there's no one. Why do you break everything you touch? What if it's always been you? Maybe you are the problem. You are unlovable, unloved."
This, I think, is one of the central challenges of life, to silence the dark whispers, to fill one's own head with light and shrink the shadowy corners down.
To live in the light of one's own self love.
That's security.
Tuesday, December 02, 2014
My Boyfriends
Someone once asked me if I was a monogamist. Having never given it much though, I immediately responded in the affirmative. As life has gotten progressively more complex, I have been asked the same questions more time, in different contexts, and I tend to believe that, yes, I do refer the concept of two individuals committing to a romantic/familial relationship with each other, even though I no longer expect it of others.
That being said, I do have multiple boyfriends. I mean, there's only one guy I sleep with, but there are other guys I go to for other needs to be met.
B is my guy, smart, funny, and above all else interesting. We talk about literature, science, theology, music, culture, and food. We listen to music, watch movies, then we eat drink, and...be merry. But he's not around that often.
So I have J. Smart, funny, and willing to criticize my terrible outfits, we talk about relationships and work together. He turns me on to new music and we debate ideologies and talk about how much we hate people. But he is often busy with his own fulfilling life and cute young girls.
D is my gay boyfriend, cooler than I'll ever manage to be, a blast to drink with and a fantastic artist. I go hang out with him in the city and feel like I'm living a slightly more rad version of my life. Or we just have boozey google hang-outs where he gives me new nicknames.
G is older, and needs my help with things. He makes me feel smart, young, and pretty, and buys me sandwiches. He drives me places sometimes and tells me about his problems, and when I tell him about mine he puts them in perspective.
S has known me forever, and we hate and love all the same things, so there's never a debate about what we're going to do when we're together. Because she's successful and smart I get advice on financial planning, organization, and mental health in between nuggets of pop culture gold, and S is almost always awake and down to talk for an hour or two.
C has been around for a while, and is demanding but supportive. He knows all my secrets, but still thinks I'm perfect. While he might be a train wreck, he always manages to make me feel important, even if it's for the wrong reasons.
M is my back up date for movies, weddings, and dinner parties. She promises to marry me if we're ever single together for too long, nurses me back to health when life gets me down, and always hates who ever has wronged me blindly. Plus, she has kids, which are great for playing pretend family, and birth control.
There's also K, who I don't see very often, but can be counted on to share in good-natured arguments and philosophical debates, and shares comic books with me. And R who is easy on the eyes and makes small talk seem like an art form. Running into him fulfills me need for chitchat for at least a few hours, and never fails to put me in a good mood.
And when all else fails I can rely on the coven of beautiful women I call my roommates, all of whom have other relationships but can be counted on to hear me complain about my day over a meal or a drink.
That being said, I do have multiple boyfriends. I mean, there's only one guy I sleep with, but there are other guys I go to for other needs to be met.
B is my guy, smart, funny, and above all else interesting. We talk about literature, science, theology, music, culture, and food. We listen to music, watch movies, then we eat drink, and...be merry. But he's not around that often.
So I have J. Smart, funny, and willing to criticize my terrible outfits, we talk about relationships and work together. He turns me on to new music and we debate ideologies and talk about how much we hate people. But he is often busy with his own fulfilling life and cute young girls.
D is my gay boyfriend, cooler than I'll ever manage to be, a blast to drink with and a fantastic artist. I go hang out with him in the city and feel like I'm living a slightly more rad version of my life. Or we just have boozey google hang-outs where he gives me new nicknames.
G is older, and needs my help with things. He makes me feel smart, young, and pretty, and buys me sandwiches. He drives me places sometimes and tells me about his problems, and when I tell him about mine he puts them in perspective.
S has known me forever, and we hate and love all the same things, so there's never a debate about what we're going to do when we're together. Because she's successful and smart I get advice on financial planning, organization, and mental health in between nuggets of pop culture gold, and S is almost always awake and down to talk for an hour or two.
C has been around for a while, and is demanding but supportive. He knows all my secrets, but still thinks I'm perfect. While he might be a train wreck, he always manages to make me feel important, even if it's for the wrong reasons.
M is my back up date for movies, weddings, and dinner parties. She promises to marry me if we're ever single together for too long, nurses me back to health when life gets me down, and always hates who ever has wronged me blindly. Plus, she has kids, which are great for playing pretend family, and birth control.
There's also K, who I don't see very often, but can be counted on to share in good-natured arguments and philosophical debates, and shares comic books with me. And R who is easy on the eyes and makes small talk seem like an art form. Running into him fulfills me need for chitchat for at least a few hours, and never fails to put me in a good mood.
And when all else fails I can rely on the coven of beautiful women I call my roommates, all of whom have other relationships but can be counted on to hear me complain about my day over a meal or a drink.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Sneaky Internet
Ladies, gentlemen, and individuals who choose no gender normative title, I have an announcement to make; I broke up with my boyfriend.
Like, six months ago.
I know, I know. I am a terrible person. How could I not tell my best friend, the inescapable insatiable maw of the internet the very second it happened?
But I didn't. I decided that ending the longest and most meaningful romantic relationship of my life garnered a certain amount of delicacy, and deserved a degree of privacy. So I told people slowly, and in person, and even then mentioned it infrequently. I skirted indirect questions and said nice things about my ex because he's a nice person, and just because I don't want to spend the rest of my life with him doesn't make him Hitler. Or Moussolini. Or Stalin. It turns out there are literally millions of people in the world that I don't want to spend the rest of my life in an intimate relationship with, who are also not terrible people. Apparently there is some middle ground between committed loving affection and bitter abject hatred.
But I digress.
Lately people have been bugging me. And by people, I mean those many charming casual acquaintances I would have forgotten the names of by now if it weren't for facebook, linkedin, twitter, etc, reminding me periodically of their existence. And by bugging, I mean they want to know what's going on with me. Like something's wrong. As though, after 6 months of saying nothing, carefully maintaining my privacy and conveying no explicit details about my personal life, they can all sense something is wrong.
It took me the better half of an unproductive work day to figure it out, but I have a solid theory. I look super happy. In my pictures, in my comments, in my interactions with new and old friends, everything in going really well in my life. All the evidence shows me as a woman who is winning at life; my career is on track, I have strong relationships with old friends and new ones, and I am going out into the world regularly to have fun and enjoy the simple things in life. I am actually happy. And I didn't conceal that.
Which was my fatal error.
All the pictures and new job postings and exchanges with loved ones paints the picture of someone who is happy, unburdened, and somehow wrong. Because how could I possibly be okay?
So I get the occasional message, "Hey, sweetie, it's been a while....how r u?" "Just checking in, how are you and whatshisname?" Sometimes I get a couple a week, like this week, and I run back to check that I've maintained my privacy. No chinks in the armor, but the internet has ways of knowing...and apparently my happiness and success is disquieting, and they want to know what's up.
Like, six months ago.
I know, I know. I am a terrible person. How could I not tell my best friend, the inescapable insatiable maw of the internet the very second it happened?
But I didn't. I decided that ending the longest and most meaningful romantic relationship of my life garnered a certain amount of delicacy, and deserved a degree of privacy. So I told people slowly, and in person, and even then mentioned it infrequently. I skirted indirect questions and said nice things about my ex because he's a nice person, and just because I don't want to spend the rest of my life with him doesn't make him Hitler. Or Moussolini. Or Stalin. It turns out there are literally millions of people in the world that I don't want to spend the rest of my life in an intimate relationship with, who are also not terrible people. Apparently there is some middle ground between committed loving affection and bitter abject hatred.
But I digress.
Lately people have been bugging me. And by people, I mean those many charming casual acquaintances I would have forgotten the names of by now if it weren't for facebook, linkedin, twitter, etc, reminding me periodically of their existence. And by bugging, I mean they want to know what's going on with me. Like something's wrong. As though, after 6 months of saying nothing, carefully maintaining my privacy and conveying no explicit details about my personal life, they can all sense something is wrong.
It took me the better half of an unproductive work day to figure it out, but I have a solid theory. I look super happy. In my pictures, in my comments, in my interactions with new and old friends, everything in going really well in my life. All the evidence shows me as a woman who is winning at life; my career is on track, I have strong relationships with old friends and new ones, and I am going out into the world regularly to have fun and enjoy the simple things in life. I am actually happy. And I didn't conceal that.
Which was my fatal error.
All the pictures and new job postings and exchanges with loved ones paints the picture of someone who is happy, unburdened, and somehow wrong. Because how could I possibly be okay?
So I get the occasional message, "Hey, sweetie, it's been a while....how r u?" "Just checking in, how are you and whatshisname?" Sometimes I get a couple a week, like this week, and I run back to check that I've maintained my privacy. No chinks in the armor, but the internet has ways of knowing...and apparently my happiness and success is disquieting, and they want to know what's up.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
The Hotness Loop
I was recently talking to a friend, we'll call her Ol Dirty Sheez, about a dude who she found somewhat hot, but for no discernible reason. How, she asked, could a guy with obvious physical deficiencies have so much game?
I have an answer, and I call it the Hotness Loop. My theory is based on the assumption that hotness is a spectrum, with super hot people on one side, super ugly people on the other, and the majority of us charming normies somewhere in the middle. Most people can agree on this premise, so I take it one step further; the spectrum is actually a loop, and people on either end of the spectrum can take a few steps and hop the line separating super ugly from super hot. These are people who start out as ugly teenagers, then get an interesting hair cut in their twenties, or become a hipster and start wearing their coke-bottle glasses ironically.
Think about high-fashion or uber-famous people, with their hyper-angular faces and over-sized features. They are really just one bad day away from fugly, aren't they? And if you think about it, isn't a bear just a few sandwiches and a shave away from unpleasant at best?
I am sure there is an evolutionary/genetic component in there somewhere, something about how facial features are indicators of certain traits, and enhanced features can indicate enhanced traits that are both alluring, from a potential genetic growth standpoint, and frightening from a 'dangers of new things' stand point. But I am on my lunch break and have neither the time nor the caffeine to go into that level of detail. So instead, I will close with a prescription; find out which side you are on and dive towards the center! You never know...
I have an answer, and I call it the Hotness Loop. My theory is based on the assumption that hotness is a spectrum, with super hot people on one side, super ugly people on the other, and the majority of us charming normies somewhere in the middle. Most people can agree on this premise, so I take it one step further; the spectrum is actually a loop, and people on either end of the spectrum can take a few steps and hop the line separating super ugly from super hot. These are people who start out as ugly teenagers, then get an interesting hair cut in their twenties, or become a hipster and start wearing their coke-bottle glasses ironically.
Think about high-fashion or uber-famous people, with their hyper-angular faces and over-sized features. They are really just one bad day away from fugly, aren't they? And if you think about it, isn't a bear just a few sandwiches and a shave away from unpleasant at best?
I am sure there is an evolutionary/genetic component in there somewhere, something about how facial features are indicators of certain traits, and enhanced features can indicate enhanced traits that are both alluring, from a potential genetic growth standpoint, and frightening from a 'dangers of new things' stand point. But I am on my lunch break and have neither the time nor the caffeine to go into that level of detail. So instead, I will close with a prescription; find out which side you are on and dive towards the center! You never know...
Saturday, October 04, 2014
Betrayed by my Body...and Timing
Part of being a woman is living with the realization that your body will betray you. When you least expect it.
Walking down the street, feeling super hot and sexy in something light colored? Yeah, you have a blood stain on your ass and everyone sees it. No, they aren't going to tell you. You will find out when you get home tonight.
Feeling confident in the knowledge that you have chosen the right path, that you aren't that in to kids and even if you were now is not the time? Estrogen doesn't know that, and will flood your body with poisonous hormones that make you coo at hipster infant clothes in target.
Total proud of a successful weekend that sets you up for success personally and professionally? Here comes crippling loneliness and depression, because as a woman in your thirties your PMS now includes a drop in serotonin that induces clinical depression!
Or, in my personal case, I spent last night bragging about my ability to process wine due to a family history of alcoholism and a highly evolved liver, then wake up to find that not only did impending menstruation inhibit my body's ability to process toxins, but the flu-like symptoms of aches, fever, and nausea, combined with both diarrhea and a feeling of constipation are not sudden onset of Ebola as I first suspected, but just my period. Making me feel like shit. Again.
Rather than spend $10.19 +tax on airport advil, I opted to spend the same amount of money on an airport beer. Because that was the obvious adult decision, giving me both pain relief and an improved sense of self, necessary now that I realize that I might also be bloated and gassy. Sorry, fellow air travelers, but this is happening. Right now.
I neglected to realize that the betrayal wasn't over, because with beer came the inevitable questioning of all of my life choices, ever, and the deep desire to call my ex. Oh, silly estrogen, silly, seratonin. Silly uterine lining shedding that fucks up an entire day.
As much as I believe and know that woman can do anything, I often feel like werewolfing myself the day my period starts. It has become a day of physical and emotional pain that seems to beg for a break for society, rather than the powering through of my youth. I don't have as much to prove, maybe, or maybe I just think I am due a day off from life more often now. But, as much as it is possible for any and every woman to power through the worst day of the monthly torture that is part and parcel of being a biological woman for the sake of the perpetuation of the species, don't we deserve a few more days off?
I feel like I do. Damn his for happening 5 hours before i am scheduled to eat and do laundry, when I could ease into a hot shower, elastic waist-band pants, and some raw cookie dough and cheap white wine with frozen fruit in it.
Walking down the street, feeling super hot and sexy in something light colored? Yeah, you have a blood stain on your ass and everyone sees it. No, they aren't going to tell you. You will find out when you get home tonight.
Feeling confident in the knowledge that you have chosen the right path, that you aren't that in to kids and even if you were now is not the time? Estrogen doesn't know that, and will flood your body with poisonous hormones that make you coo at hipster infant clothes in target.
Total proud of a successful weekend that sets you up for success personally and professionally? Here comes crippling loneliness and depression, because as a woman in your thirties your PMS now includes a drop in serotonin that induces clinical depression!
Or, in my personal case, I spent last night bragging about my ability to process wine due to a family history of alcoholism and a highly evolved liver, then wake up to find that not only did impending menstruation inhibit my body's ability to process toxins, but the flu-like symptoms of aches, fever, and nausea, combined with both diarrhea and a feeling of constipation are not sudden onset of Ebola as I first suspected, but just my period. Making me feel like shit. Again.
Rather than spend $10.19 +tax on airport advil, I opted to spend the same amount of money on an airport beer. Because that was the obvious adult decision, giving me both pain relief and an improved sense of self, necessary now that I realize that I might also be bloated and gassy. Sorry, fellow air travelers, but this is happening. Right now.
I neglected to realize that the betrayal wasn't over, because with beer came the inevitable questioning of all of my life choices, ever, and the deep desire to call my ex. Oh, silly estrogen, silly, seratonin. Silly uterine lining shedding that fucks up an entire day.
As much as I believe and know that woman can do anything, I often feel like werewolfing myself the day my period starts. It has become a day of physical and emotional pain that seems to beg for a break for society, rather than the powering through of my youth. I don't have as much to prove, maybe, or maybe I just think I am due a day off from life more often now. But, as much as it is possible for any and every woman to power through the worst day of the monthly torture that is part and parcel of being a biological woman for the sake of the perpetuation of the species, don't we deserve a few more days off?
I feel like I do. Damn his for happening 5 hours before i am scheduled to eat and do laundry, when I could ease into a hot shower, elastic waist-band pants, and some raw cookie dough and cheap white wine with frozen fruit in it.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Here and there
Lately I find myself on the prowl...
all the time.
Like I'm somehow twenty two and insatiable again.
At first I figured it was a normal reaction to ending the longest, deepest, and most serious relationship I've ever had.
But something new struck me this morning as I hesitated to leave the soft, cool comfort of my bed. It's all strategy.
If I spread myself nice and thin, and give pieces of myself away to several people,
I'm safe,
in a sense
from the trauma I'm still recovering from.
Because no one will have my whole heart,
and no one will be able to break it.
Which is sad.
Because how can I ever be whole again
with pieces scattered hither and thither?
How can I make myself whole again?
all the time.
Like I'm somehow twenty two and insatiable again.
At first I figured it was a normal reaction to ending the longest, deepest, and most serious relationship I've ever had.
But something new struck me this morning as I hesitated to leave the soft, cool comfort of my bed. It's all strategy.
If I spread myself nice and thin, and give pieces of myself away to several people,
I'm safe,
in a sense
from the trauma I'm still recovering from.
Because no one will have my whole heart,
and no one will be able to break it.
Which is sad.
Because how can I ever be whole again
with pieces scattered hither and thither?
How can I make myself whole again?
Friday, August 08, 2014
Overheard at the San Bernardino Greyhound Station
Charming guy across from me
You going to vegas? Let me give you my friend's number; he can get you in at Wet Republic...
Guy who's stuff I am now watching
Did I bang her? well...I mean, I hooked up with her there was a situation...she was throwing up so yeah...it was a stinky situation.
Yeah, I think he's going to get a house and I can get a room in it. Better than getting an apartment...a bunch of places around here just don't rent to felons...they all say they do a background check and all...like, if you have even one violent felony against anyone they will not rent to you...yeah. it's messed up man.
Yeah, he got picked up this week. You remember that girl I was seeing? the one with the face tattoos...the leopard....she told me. he got picked up on something...i guess he kidnapped a girl and raped her with a gun....yeah...well, if he's not PCP'd yet, he'd better get there...yeah...well, you know these young guys, they got issues with women.
Girl I've never met, to me
Oh wow, your hair looks so good, I didn't recognize you....
in reference to getting water out of the drinking fountain
...sounds like sleeping with an old man
Guy shorter than me, right in front of me
I'm not doin no faggot ass ass kissing shit. I paid for my ticket, I'm gettin on the bus!
he did not get on the bus...
Guy carrying walking stick with a wooden pigeon sticking out of his backpack
I see you noticed my lizard, and I saw he noticed you... Not many people like reptiles, but I do, so I put them on my walking sticks...Sometimes I do it just to freak people out...can I borrow your phone charger?
You going to vegas? Let me give you my friend's number; he can get you in at Wet Republic...
Guy who's stuff I am now watching
Did I bang her? well...I mean, I hooked up with her there was a situation...she was throwing up so yeah...it was a stinky situation.
Yeah, I think he's going to get a house and I can get a room in it. Better than getting an apartment...a bunch of places around here just don't rent to felons...they all say they do a background check and all...like, if you have even one violent felony against anyone they will not rent to you...yeah. it's messed up man.
Yeah, he got picked up this week. You remember that girl I was seeing? the one with the face tattoos...the leopard....she told me. he got picked up on something...i guess he kidnapped a girl and raped her with a gun....yeah...well, if he's not PCP'd yet, he'd better get there...yeah...well, you know these young guys, they got issues with women.
Girl I've never met, to me
Oh wow, your hair looks so good, I didn't recognize you....
in reference to getting water out of the drinking fountain
...sounds like sleeping with an old man
Guy shorter than me, right in front of me
I'm not doin no faggot ass ass kissing shit. I paid for my ticket, I'm gettin on the bus!
he did not get on the bus...
Guy carrying walking stick with a wooden pigeon sticking out of his backpack
I see you noticed my lizard, and I saw he noticed you... Not many people like reptiles, but I do, so I put them on my walking sticks...Sometimes I do it just to freak people out...can I borrow your phone charger?
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Yes...
The #YesAllWomen hashtag got me thinking. Which obviously, besides opening dialogue, is
the point of ‘social media movements’, if you believe in that sort of
thing. I have always felt a little bit
special, and in a way left out from some feminist discussions because I have
been rarely victimized. But then I
remembered, I had an incident or two I could parse down to 140 characters
Yup, that shit happened to me. A friend of mine, in the midst of a debate
about women’s rights, reached out with both heads and tried to shut me up by
choking me. At my best friend’s birthday
party. And no one did anything. Or at least, I did something first. You see, I don’t remember it through the lens
of being victimized because my hands were free, and so I reached out and
punched at his face with both hands as hard as I could until he stopped, and
then told him he was fucked up and got another drink. Because I was raised in a home where my
father told me the only reason I couldn’t be a professional football player was
because I ran with my tongue out, and because I grew up with a mother who never
stood up for herself, so she never tolerated me not standing up for myself, and
I was raised with boys who taught me how to use my body sometimes, instead of
my words, because sometimes that just works better. So, even though this incredibly fucked up
thing happened, it never stuck in my head as a time of fear and
helplessness. But only because I was
fine, I was able to handle it, and I had been taught to do so repeatedly in
life.
When I look back over the record of my life, there are
thousands of moments like this. Moments
walking down a dark street alone at night, where I have to remind myself to
throw my shoulders back confidently, and shift my keys in my hand just in case
I need a weapon, and the color is as an example of my strength. Moments when I decided it was easier to just
give in to a guy’s advances and chalk it up to the story or the experience,
because fighting it could have ended badly.
Moments where something happens that I shake off, and tell myself I how
strong I am rather than ask why I have to wear armor in social situations. These choices have been mine, and would not
work for everyone. Which means that I am
not immune to the prevalent, violent misogyny, I have just developed coping
mechanisms for the hundreds of small and large ways that my gender and sex can
make me a target. I’m like the person in
a stock photo of China, wearing my air mask as I bike through the city. I’m not breathing different air, the fact
that my lungs are cleaner doesn’t mean there is not pollution. I have just found a way to mitigate the
unpleasant reality to the point where it doesn’t affect me as much. Except that is does. I am wearing a mask. I have to take measures. I know how to hold keys as a weapon, that’s
called Being a Woman 101. I have worked
my whole life to feel strong, confident, and independent, and that I am and can
sit here and write relatively unscathed is not an example of how fair and just
the world is. It is simply evidence of
my luck and my work to not let the harsh environment I exist in control me.
Tuesday, April 08, 2014
Motivation, please?
A very talented friend of mine recently completed a side project. Not for a deadline or a paycheck, but just for personal improvement, shits and giggles, and because she wanted to. I beam with pride. That shit is hard to do.
For some reason, the vast majority of us humans are hard-wired to need to be forced to do anything not strictly meeting the definition of leisure. Which is pretty dumb, when we all admit we would be happier/healthier/more productive if we just did the things on our To-Do list in a timely fashion. And yet, our personal projects sit un-completed, while our netflix que swiftly empties.
Philosophers, and more specifically economists try to describe and predict human behavior with a few simplifying premises in place. One of these premises is that we are rational, which is clearly flawed. There are new theories being tossed around, trying to explain why a rational person would do irrational things, concepts like "bounded rationality" and "time inconsistency" get tossed around to explain why we basically act like teenagers when it comes time sit down and work one something without an external force pressing us. The basic idea is that we think differently about the present than we do about the future, in terms of wants, desires, money, and expectations. Which makes sense to anyone who ever spoiled their dinner with a sugary sweet treat because someone brought doughnuts to work.
Another theory is that of supernormal stimuli, which basically says that our recently evolved brains haven't caught up with all of the amazing, yummy, shiny things in the world, and so rather than consume them in any reasonable fashion approaching moderation, we go for it with the all-you-can-eat buffet of sugar, fat, fun, and leisure. Think eating State Fair food while sitting in a hot-tub recliner watching every season of your favorite show in a row. With beer. Who wouldn't want to do that?!
I suppose the boring answer is, an evolved adult human being with shit to do, like, walk the dog, read that book I bought 2 years ago and/or wash myself. Booooring.
This is of particular concern to me because I have a pretty large project staring me in the face, and after a short burst of enthusiasm, have completely halted production. I have, however, used up all my lives on whatever online video game was handy so, there's that. But actual work on a project that I care about and will contribute to my future in a real way? Nah, I'm going to need a deadline or, better yet, a troll with a giant mace standing behind me to get that done. And maybe take away my internet connection.
Luckily, human beings are highly adaptable creatures, meaning we can always change. Seek out new civilizations and boldly go back to what we started, and finish it. Good habits, though much less fun, are just as plausible as bad habits.
For some reason, the vast majority of us humans are hard-wired to need to be forced to do anything not strictly meeting the definition of leisure. Which is pretty dumb, when we all admit we would be happier/healthier/more productive if we just did the things on our To-Do list in a timely fashion. And yet, our personal projects sit un-completed, while our netflix que swiftly empties.
Philosophers, and more specifically economists try to describe and predict human behavior with a few simplifying premises in place. One of these premises is that we are rational, which is clearly flawed. There are new theories being tossed around, trying to explain why a rational person would do irrational things, concepts like "bounded rationality" and "time inconsistency" get tossed around to explain why we basically act like teenagers when it comes time sit down and work one something without an external force pressing us. The basic idea is that we think differently about the present than we do about the future, in terms of wants, desires, money, and expectations. Which makes sense to anyone who ever spoiled their dinner with a sugary sweet treat because someone brought doughnuts to work.
Another theory is that of supernormal stimuli, which basically says that our recently evolved brains haven't caught up with all of the amazing, yummy, shiny things in the world, and so rather than consume them in any reasonable fashion approaching moderation, we go for it with the all-you-can-eat buffet of sugar, fat, fun, and leisure. Think eating State Fair food while sitting in a hot-tub recliner watching every season of your favorite show in a row. With beer. Who wouldn't want to do that?!
I suppose the boring answer is, an evolved adult human being with shit to do, like, walk the dog, read that book I bought 2 years ago and/or wash myself. Booooring.
This is of particular concern to me because I have a pretty large project staring me in the face, and after a short burst of enthusiasm, have completely halted production. I have, however, used up all my lives on whatever online video game was handy so, there's that. But actual work on a project that I care about and will contribute to my future in a real way? Nah, I'm going to need a deadline or, better yet, a troll with a giant mace standing behind me to get that done. And maybe take away my internet connection.
Luckily, human beings are highly adaptable creatures, meaning we can always change. Seek out new civilizations and boldly go back to what we started, and finish it. Good habits, though much less fun, are just as plausible as bad habits.
Wednesday, April 02, 2014
On Life and Getting Older...
Not that I'd used this label before, but I had a fantastic mentor for a while. As is the trend for young people, I did not realize how good I had it until it was gone. When he died a few weeks ago, I was devastated. How strange it is, to be surprised by the effect a person has on your life. You would think I would have noticed something like that.
After the memorial, I went through the old emails he'd sent me over the years, searching for some of the humorous gems I remembered and hoping for some previously undiscovered words of wisdom. Even in death, he did not disappoint:
My point, to close, is that it really is not so much important where you start, and how long it takes, just so you get to your destination, and not when you are too old. You will have to work until 75, I am certain, so you have plenty of time to amortize your investment.
Keep going, he tells me. It is not too late, not by a long shot. It only feels like I am old because this is the oldest I’ve ever been. But don’t worry, life says with a chuckle, you are going to get older. Much, much older. You’re welcome! That is the funny dance of our modern lives, trying endlessly to hold death and old age at bay, as though they are twins rather than rivals, each stealing numbers from the other. How do we not see that old age is the prize we gain for surviving a raucous adolescence? Wrinkles are the door prize you get, in addition to the degrees, jobs, raises, pink slips, leases, relationships, and other life detritus we collect year after year.
Remember how old you felt five years ago? Or ten? Extrapolate that sensation for ten years from now, and listen to your older self when she tells you that you aren’t shit yet. You are still a baby, fumbling through life. We all are. For ever. Fumbling through life, making mistakes, feeling younger than our age and older at alternating intervals, and wondering what on earth happened the entire time.
Assume that this is just how life feels, marvel at it, and move on.
After the memorial, I went through the old emails he'd sent me over the years, searching for some of the humorous gems I remembered and hoping for some previously undiscovered words of wisdom. Even in death, he did not disappoint:
My point, to close, is that it really is not so much important where you start, and how long it takes, just so you get to your destination, and not when you are too old. You will have to work until 75, I am certain, so you have plenty of time to amortize your investment.
Keep going, he tells me. It is not too late, not by a long shot. It only feels like I am old because this is the oldest I’ve ever been. But don’t worry, life says with a chuckle, you are going to get older. Much, much older. You’re welcome! That is the funny dance of our modern lives, trying endlessly to hold death and old age at bay, as though they are twins rather than rivals, each stealing numbers from the other. How do we not see that old age is the prize we gain for surviving a raucous adolescence? Wrinkles are the door prize you get, in addition to the degrees, jobs, raises, pink slips, leases, relationships, and other life detritus we collect year after year.
Remember how old you felt five years ago? Or ten? Extrapolate that sensation for ten years from now, and listen to your older self when she tells you that you aren’t shit yet. You are still a baby, fumbling through life. We all are. For ever. Fumbling through life, making mistakes, feeling younger than our age and older at alternating intervals, and wondering what on earth happened the entire time.
Assume that this is just how life feels, marvel at it, and move on.
Sunday, May 05, 2013
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Sometimes...
Sometimes I feel so angry, I want to punch my fist through someone's face, like in those really cool, violent movies. Like today, when I thought I was going to meet with my department chair about a job offer, but instead was asked about sexual harassment in school. I don't mind the question, but I genuinely mind the loss of time spent wondering and hoping about the meaning of this meeting. It may seem trivial, but I got my damn hopes up, and instead of getting a nice job that would fund my occasional food-and-shelter-addiction, I got to confirm that no professor has ever pressured me for sex. Not an efficient use of my time.
Silver lining? At least I got to make an impression with the new dean. That's a pretty slim sliver lining, though. Compared to the possibility to almost-gainful employment. Or any of the other interesting things I had cooked up.
But, alas, disappointment is old friend who doesn't care what else you have going on, he's crashing on your mental couch all week.
That metaphor may not have worked.
I had hoped by this point in writing I would have stumbled across some sort of larger meaning, something about the nature of expectations or the troubling frequency of sexualization in what should be de-sexualized contexts. But instead I am wrapped up in my own frustration and self-centeredly fantasizing about a larger bank account. I may be becoming a less interesting person.
Only time will tell.
I had hoped by this point in writing I would have stumbled across some sort of larger meaning, something about the nature of expectations or the troubling frequency of sexualization in what should be de-sexualized contexts. But instead I am wrapped up in my own frustration and self-centeredly fantasizing about a larger bank account. I may be becoming a less interesting person.
Only time will tell.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Fight or...fight
Today I have been thinking a lot about frailty and dominance. For the purpose of literary organization and making me feel less like a mental patient, I’m going to say the two are interconnected. Just looking at your average human being, I can’t help but notice how inherently weak we are. No claws or scales or even protective fur. We are all soft fleshy underbelly and veins too close to the surface. Without our intellect and ability to make and use tools, we’d be long extinct. But if you believe that there is an inherent awareness of this reality, it starts to give reason to a lot of the stranger human behaviors. Looking down at my own pale, ineffectual hands laced with blue veins, I have a desire to prove that my weakness is a deception, a front for the really violent, malicious monster that lies within and is able to both defend and attack any threat. Don’t call me soft and fleshy. So maybe that’s why we have these strong fight or flight instincts; maybe that’s why we climb into our cars and get all road rage-y and yell at the guy who won’t wave our late fees or forgets to add fries to that. We know, deep down inside, we are just a few apocalyptic losses of technology away from being knocked down to the middle of the food chain by a big bear claw. And not the yummy sugar & fat bear claw. Today I had the pleasure of being yelled at in broken English by a guy who was, ironically enough, mad at me for firmly threatening him with consequences for breaking the rules. Repeatedly. Granted, he didn’t put anyone at risk, but he broke the rules, and as the person in charge of enforcing said rules, I came down on him with a very firm, “I almost had to…be more careful next time!” So I got yelled at, by the same guy, for not being nice enough, and because I am in a customer service position, part of my job is to apologize to the angry person in the wrong for hurting their feelings. Which got me asking that one big question, why? Why is it so common to shout and stomp and belittle the person who has no direct effect on anything when we feel threatened? Why is that the first place most of us go? And why does taking that abuse make me feel like I should go snap a pencil in half, or knock down someone’s Lego tower, or crack my knuckles and stomp around in a really serious, self-important way. For the aforementioned reasons, I’m going to say our inherent frailty makes us act out, as a display of false strength. And I’m not totally wrong. That’s why we associate larger tempers with smaller people, it’s not just over compensation, it’s also compensation. Nature knows that, which is why little guys pack a big punch (I’m thinking scorpions, spiders), while the big guys can usually get away with a show of force (I’m looking at you bears and sharks). Which makes me feel 0.1% validated after being yelled at, and before being yelled at again, because the day is young. But, ya know, science is cool.
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