doesn't give a good goddamn how i feel.
well, life, fuck you too.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
reckless.
very very reckless.
I'm a jerk
you ain't neva lied,
but ay - do me a favor,
call me jerk one more time.
I'm a jerk
you ain't neva lied,
but ay - do me a favor,
call me jerk one more time.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
In consideration of the epilogue...
At this point, it should be clear that there is not going to be a part 2 to my entry about The Academic. At first, I planned to wait until I was at a point where I felt like I could write about it effectively (even if not rationally). I'm definitely not where I was in February, so the topic isn't difficult to discuss and I'm definitely able to identify things that I sh/could have done differently, and things I needed him to do differently. But now, I just don't feel like it. It's not because I don't feel like writing (my last several entries demonstrate that isn't the case). I really just don't feel like writing about that. Here.
A handful of friends know the sad details, and an even smaller amount know the follow-up (which is still in progress, I suppose). Beyond that, it's something I want to keep relatively close to the chest.
The most I will say is this: it was an epic situation of bad timing. And what I thought I knew or had come to understand ended up mostly being wrong.
All of that said, he and I are fine. And we will be fine. Understanding that something that feels right simply isn't going to work out is a blisteringly surreal experience. I knew I wouldn't get over him easily, and that it would take awhile. There's no surefire way to move on. Do you give in to your feelings and ride the wave until you wash ashore? What if you can't see the shore for miles? Do you consider rekindling something that YOU ended with someone else just to have a distraction? Maybe he has changed. Maybe there will be less bullshit. What about dating others? Maybe you're ready to jump back in, but do you even feel like it? Do you try to avoid feeling and thinking about this person altogether? Can going cold turkey be effective?
I tried all of those things. They didn't quite work because I was looking for a timeline. I wanted to know when I would stop caring. But the fact of my life is that I won't stop caring. And it's not that I'll care any less about him. I just can't do so actively while also hoping to move on. I have to tuck away those feelings somewhere.
And that's that.
"There's always one that gets away. The one that sneaks up on you that slips away. In a closed-off corner of my heart, I'll always see your face. The one that got away."
A handful of friends know the sad details, and an even smaller amount know the follow-up (which is still in progress, I suppose). Beyond that, it's something I want to keep relatively close to the chest.
The most I will say is this: it was an epic situation of bad timing. And what I thought I knew or had come to understand ended up mostly being wrong.
All of that said, he and I are fine. And we will be fine. Understanding that something that feels right simply isn't going to work out is a blisteringly surreal experience. I knew I wouldn't get over him easily, and that it would take awhile. There's no surefire way to move on. Do you give in to your feelings and ride the wave until you wash ashore? What if you can't see the shore for miles? Do you consider rekindling something that YOU ended with someone else just to have a distraction? Maybe he has changed. Maybe there will be less bullshit. What about dating others? Maybe you're ready to jump back in, but do you even feel like it? Do you try to avoid feeling and thinking about this person altogether? Can going cold turkey be effective?
I tried all of those things. They didn't quite work because I was looking for a timeline. I wanted to know when I would stop caring. But the fact of my life is that I won't stop caring. And it's not that I'll care any less about him. I just can't do so actively while also hoping to move on. I have to tuck away those feelings somewhere.
And that's that.
"There's always one that gets away. The one that sneaks up on you that slips away. In a closed-off corner of my heart, I'll always see your face. The one that got away."
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Bad Feminist?
Sometimes I feel like a bad feminist. The kind of feminist that feminists hate because of my desire for marriage and motherhood. Lately, I feel as if I've become more familiar with uterine pangs than professional ones. And I wonder what the hell that's all about.
After all, I am dropping $70k per year to become another lawyer potentially making an obscene amount of money. (In the interest of full disclosure).
I am ambitious, but I recognize that my ambition is not limitless. I want other things for myself. Traditional things. Things that would make my late grandmother proud. I've always defended feminism as an opportunity to make certain choices for oneself, and I stand by that. But what of the choice not to want to conquer the world single-handed?
I know the contours of singlehood very well now. At times sharp edged, other times curvaceous and round. Sometimes I collapse into her arms for refuge from the frustration of dating. Other times I lash out at her for keeping the right side of my bed cold at night. It's a comfortable relationship. But I'm a fickle person, and I need change.
I've been told that I should be grateful for my life. There are many others who would give anything to be in my position. While on an abstract level I do not doubt that, such reasoning does nothing to assuage a nagging dissatisfaction with everything.
So few people do what they love. And I wonder whether I will fall into the majority that simply works to pay the bills and take care of family. There are expectations that need to be met (including my own). There are people who are relying on me. There are big dreams to be fulfilled, even if those dreams aren't my own.
My dreams exist in fashion magazines and art galleries. My dreams are expansive and creative.
Oftentimes I see children on the street and wonder what their dreams are. Who they wish to be when they are my age or older. I also look at adults and wonder who they were as children; what they yearned for themselves. Whether there is any congruence between their past and present selves. Whether, at some point, they had to tell themselves that such ambitions were silly and unrealistic. That it was time to put away the sugar-coated fantasies and squeeze themselves into that new pair of Dockers. I wonder whether that is me. I'm still in school, so it's hard to say, but I feel myself moving towards that disconnect. And you can only do so much do stop yourself when you have over $200k waiting for you at the end of your educational career.
It is hard. It is all very hard. So, to what extent should anyone be surprised that many female law students will joke (but not really) about finding sugar daddies to take care of them. That they would be happy taking care of their babies in an Upper East Side penthouse, while hubby brings home the money (and the new Hermes tote because he loves you). I wonder whether this difficulty is what is making me look at stay-at-home moms with a kind of sick longing. Plausible, yes, but I think this is too facile an explanation. At least for myself. I can handle three years of crap.
As a very brief aside (because this topic deserves a separate entry), I do not think it is mere coincidence that so many black women at my school voice a desire to find a sugar daddy while the media and Tyler Perry movies lampoon the professional black woman, and drive a stake into the possibility of her maintaining a stable, nuclear family unit. While definitions of family expand in this country, I still think many of us feel like it's an elusive reality. It's certainly there waiting for us, but we can never quite reach it.
How much do any of us want what we've been taught to want? I can't say I was taught to want motherhood or marriage. I was taught to get good grades. I was taught how to succeed. I was taught to go to college, and then to grad school. I was taught to want more than my mother was able to do for herself. And it's not that I don't still want those things (at least those that are now relevant), but what if I want a family more?
I don't necessarily think it's because of a maternal instinct or a putative desire to be a Stepford wife. For me, it is uncharted territory. Exciting and terrifying in so many different ways. Beyond the obvious benefits of companionship, part of me wants the challenge after so many years of either casting relationships aside or running away like a madwoman.
I know how to be driven. Now I want to be vulnerable.
After all, I am dropping $70k per year to become another lawyer potentially making an obscene amount of money. (In the interest of full disclosure).
I am ambitious, but I recognize that my ambition is not limitless. I want other things for myself. Traditional things. Things that would make my late grandmother proud. I've always defended feminism as an opportunity to make certain choices for oneself, and I stand by that. But what of the choice not to want to conquer the world single-handed?
I know the contours of singlehood very well now. At times sharp edged, other times curvaceous and round. Sometimes I collapse into her arms for refuge from the frustration of dating. Other times I lash out at her for keeping the right side of my bed cold at night. It's a comfortable relationship. But I'm a fickle person, and I need change.
I've been told that I should be grateful for my life. There are many others who would give anything to be in my position. While on an abstract level I do not doubt that, such reasoning does nothing to assuage a nagging dissatisfaction with everything.
So few people do what they love. And I wonder whether I will fall into the majority that simply works to pay the bills and take care of family. There are expectations that need to be met (including my own). There are people who are relying on me. There are big dreams to be fulfilled, even if those dreams aren't my own.
My dreams exist in fashion magazines and art galleries. My dreams are expansive and creative.
Oftentimes I see children on the street and wonder what their dreams are. Who they wish to be when they are my age or older. I also look at adults and wonder who they were as children; what they yearned for themselves. Whether there is any congruence between their past and present selves. Whether, at some point, they had to tell themselves that such ambitions were silly and unrealistic. That it was time to put away the sugar-coated fantasies and squeeze themselves into that new pair of Dockers. I wonder whether that is me. I'm still in school, so it's hard to say, but I feel myself moving towards that disconnect. And you can only do so much do stop yourself when you have over $200k waiting for you at the end of your educational career.
It is hard. It is all very hard. So, to what extent should anyone be surprised that many female law students will joke (but not really) about finding sugar daddies to take care of them. That they would be happy taking care of their babies in an Upper East Side penthouse, while hubby brings home the money (and the new Hermes tote because he loves you). I wonder whether this difficulty is what is making me look at stay-at-home moms with a kind of sick longing. Plausible, yes, but I think this is too facile an explanation. At least for myself. I can handle three years of crap.
As a very brief aside (because this topic deserves a separate entry), I do not think it is mere coincidence that so many black women at my school voice a desire to find a sugar daddy while the media and Tyler Perry movies lampoon the professional black woman, and drive a stake into the possibility of her maintaining a stable, nuclear family unit. While definitions of family expand in this country, I still think many of us feel like it's an elusive reality. It's certainly there waiting for us, but we can never quite reach it.
How much do any of us want what we've been taught to want? I can't say I was taught to want motherhood or marriage. I was taught to get good grades. I was taught how to succeed. I was taught to go to college, and then to grad school. I was taught to want more than my mother was able to do for herself. And it's not that I don't still want those things (at least those that are now relevant), but what if I want a family more?
I don't necessarily think it's because of a maternal instinct or a putative desire to be a Stepford wife. For me, it is uncharted territory. Exciting and terrifying in so many different ways. Beyond the obvious benefits of companionship, part of me wants the challenge after so many years of either casting relationships aside or running away like a madwoman.
I know how to be driven. Now I want to be vulnerable.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
On Being Irrational.
I freak out quite easily when it comes to guys. I think I'm great at calming down friends when they have irrational moments, but I'm like an inconsolable hurricane when I am freaking out about a particular situation concerning a particular guy.
It can be the most minor incident, but I will overanalyze and jump to conclusions; message or call a flurry of friends (though I'm getting better at this); and be adamant about my crazy steps forward.
Sometimes crazy is just crazy, and irrational is just irrational. I think, as friends, we want to be there for our girls. Support them during times of need, with the understanding that not everything is black and white, and sometimes we need to have our moment in order to feel better. The problem is when those moments spill over into our relationships, and affect the ones we claim to love/like/whatever. When we pull them into our vortex and try to rattle them as much as we have been rattled. I fortunately have not done this very often (rarely, in fact), but I have come close. Sometimes it's not enough to just let my wild emotions out into the open. Sometimes I need to sleep on them. Sometimes I need to be slapped and told that I'm out of line or taking a situation way too far. Sometimes black and white is right, and grey is bullshit.
I've spent a good deal of my life pent up. I was also a late bloomer, and considering my daddy issues, I think a lot of my pent up emotions had to do with him. When it comes to men, I have a very sensitive trigger. I'm very hard on them. Too hard on them. I expect failure. I expect them to hurt me, and with those expectations my reactions to various behaviors or events tend to be very disproportionate to the perceived wrong. Sometimes I need to be told I'm wrong.
I always come around, but somehow I don't really think that's good enough. I need a way to manage my expectations - both positive and negative - so that I do not ultimately sabotage my relationships.
After being impenetrable for so long with my steely armor, I seem to have gone on an emotional binge, and while I think it's good in one respect (it acts as a much needed release), it is absolutely bad in another.
I'll spend the rest of the year (and onward) finding my middle ground.
It can be the most minor incident, but I will overanalyze and jump to conclusions; message or call a flurry of friends (though I'm getting better at this); and be adamant about my crazy steps forward.
Sometimes crazy is just crazy, and irrational is just irrational. I think, as friends, we want to be there for our girls. Support them during times of need, with the understanding that not everything is black and white, and sometimes we need to have our moment in order to feel better. The problem is when those moments spill over into our relationships, and affect the ones we claim to love/like/whatever. When we pull them into our vortex and try to rattle them as much as we have been rattled. I fortunately have not done this very often (rarely, in fact), but I have come close. Sometimes it's not enough to just let my wild emotions out into the open. Sometimes I need to sleep on them. Sometimes I need to be slapped and told that I'm out of line or taking a situation way too far. Sometimes black and white is right, and grey is bullshit.
I've spent a good deal of my life pent up. I was also a late bloomer, and considering my daddy issues, I think a lot of my pent up emotions had to do with him. When it comes to men, I have a very sensitive trigger. I'm very hard on them. Too hard on them. I expect failure. I expect them to hurt me, and with those expectations my reactions to various behaviors or events tend to be very disproportionate to the perceived wrong. Sometimes I need to be told I'm wrong.
I always come around, but somehow I don't really think that's good enough. I need a way to manage my expectations - both positive and negative - so that I do not ultimately sabotage my relationships.
After being impenetrable for so long with my steely armor, I seem to have gone on an emotional binge, and while I think it's good in one respect (it acts as a much needed release), it is absolutely bad in another.
I'll spend the rest of the year (and onward) finding my middle ground.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Tongue Tied
When I have a crush on someone - weak or strong - I lose my ability to speak properly. Sometimes I stutter from nervousness. Sometimes I speak too quickly, with thoughts racing between my lips at the speed of my erratic heart palpitations. Sometimes I don't know what to say when I actually have everything to say.
Sometimes I say absolutely nothing at all.
I've had a few epic crushes. Charles L. Michael R. Bernie (his name is Bernie... he doesn't need an initial for his last name). And of course, The Academic. I consider myself a fairly confident and charming person, but I lost any sense of that person around these individuals. They made me nervous. They made me sweat. They gave me butterflies.
Charles L. was in elementary school. I didn't know how to talk to him, so I slapped him upside the head instead. I also slapped him in the face (please do not ask me why... I guess it was my own way of pulling his pigtails). I nearly died when we held hands at my birthday party at the rollerskating rink. We circled the rink together during a slow song and I totally thought it was meant to be. I didn't say anything to him the entire time (but he gave me the cutest patent leather backpack as a present).
Michael R. Ohhh, Michael R. Wow. Now this was the middle school crush to end all crushes. And it lasted until my sophomore year of high school, even though we were both at different schools. We talked a lot online (back during the days of AOL instant messaging). That's actually how we began talking. I knew he liked the James Bond movies, so I made up some bogus crap about how I was a fan, as well; this would later come to bite me in the ass when I couldn't answer any questions about the movies. We became fast internet friends, but this never transferred to real life. (This is one reason why I absolutely do not like texting, IMing, or BBMing when you're getting to know someone romantically. They have no place in dating.) I didn't know what to say to him. Or how to say it. One day, for example, we were both walking down the hallway from opposite ends. We were the ONLY two people in that hallway. We made eye contact, but said NOTHING to each other. Knowing myself, I probably choked on my butterflies and looked away. At the end of 8th grade, we hosted a symposium. Couldn't talk to him then, either. Even though we were face to face at one point. I think he realized the absurdity of the situation because he made an effort to say hi to me twice. I eked out a "hey," but nothing more.
I actually saw Mike in 2008 at a middle school reunion (magnet program. bear with us.), and decided I had really great taste in middle school. He turned out to be a wonderful human being, and a great catch (yes, he's taken.).
Bernie was the summer before 11th grade. Bernie was super cute. Bernie was tall and surfer chill with baby blue eyes. Bernie was great with kids. He was funny. He was compassionate. I really liked Bernie. I didn't have a problem talking to him until my fellow camp counselor let it slip that I had a crush on him. Hello, awkward - he and I were co-counselors for the same age group. After that, I couldn't overcome what I felt to be humiliation, and so silence ensued.
The Academic. Slightly different situation. And perhaps it isn't fair to lump him with these crushes since much more than a mere crush developed between us, but oh well.. For a period of time, I could get it out. And it was easy. No effort at all. When I began sensing that something wasn't right, however, I began to clam up. When he began hesitating, I began hesitating, which probably made him hesitate even more, which in turn made me hesitate even more. I relied on old conversation topics as if I had nothing to say. On some level, I think I thought these topics would be easy to navigate, which would enable me to read his (weird) behavior. I also think I thought I'd have more control over the situation and my level of emotional investment. Relying on stock topics kept my heart and vulnerability at bay. I had everything to say to him, and I still have everything to say to him.
I just can't.
Sometimes I say absolutely nothing at all.
I've had a few epic crushes. Charles L. Michael R. Bernie (his name is Bernie... he doesn't need an initial for his last name). And of course, The Academic. I consider myself a fairly confident and charming person, but I lost any sense of that person around these individuals. They made me nervous. They made me sweat. They gave me butterflies.
Charles L. was in elementary school. I didn't know how to talk to him, so I slapped him upside the head instead. I also slapped him in the face (please do not ask me why... I guess it was my own way of pulling his pigtails). I nearly died when we held hands at my birthday party at the rollerskating rink. We circled the rink together during a slow song and I totally thought it was meant to be. I didn't say anything to him the entire time (but he gave me the cutest patent leather backpack as a present).
Michael R. Ohhh, Michael R. Wow. Now this was the middle school crush to end all crushes. And it lasted until my sophomore year of high school, even though we were both at different schools. We talked a lot online (back during the days of AOL instant messaging). That's actually how we began talking. I knew he liked the James Bond movies, so I made up some bogus crap about how I was a fan, as well; this would later come to bite me in the ass when I couldn't answer any questions about the movies. We became fast internet friends, but this never transferred to real life. (This is one reason why I absolutely do not like texting, IMing, or BBMing when you're getting to know someone romantically. They have no place in dating.) I didn't know what to say to him. Or how to say it. One day, for example, we were both walking down the hallway from opposite ends. We were the ONLY two people in that hallway. We made eye contact, but said NOTHING to each other. Knowing myself, I probably choked on my butterflies and looked away. At the end of 8th grade, we hosted a symposium. Couldn't talk to him then, either. Even though we were face to face at one point. I think he realized the absurdity of the situation because he made an effort to say hi to me twice. I eked out a "hey," but nothing more.
I actually saw Mike in 2008 at a middle school reunion (magnet program. bear with us.), and decided I had really great taste in middle school. He turned out to be a wonderful human being, and a great catch (yes, he's taken.).
Bernie was the summer before 11th grade. Bernie was super cute. Bernie was tall and surfer chill with baby blue eyes. Bernie was great with kids. He was funny. He was compassionate. I really liked Bernie. I didn't have a problem talking to him until my fellow camp counselor let it slip that I had a crush on him. Hello, awkward - he and I were co-counselors for the same age group. After that, I couldn't overcome what I felt to be humiliation, and so silence ensued.
The Academic. Slightly different situation. And perhaps it isn't fair to lump him with these crushes since much more than a mere crush developed between us, but oh well.. For a period of time, I could get it out. And it was easy. No effort at all. When I began sensing that something wasn't right, however, I began to clam up. When he began hesitating, I began hesitating, which probably made him hesitate even more, which in turn made me hesitate even more. I relied on old conversation topics as if I had nothing to say. On some level, I think I thought these topics would be easy to navigate, which would enable me to read his (weird) behavior. I also think I thought I'd have more control over the situation and my level of emotional investment. Relying on stock topics kept my heart and vulnerability at bay. I had everything to say to him, and I still have everything to say to him.
I just can't.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Open Letter
I don't know what to do with the fact that I just miss you.
So I'll continue doing nothing.
love,
me.
So I'll continue doing nothing.
love,
me.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
31 things that could have spared me a lot of trouble
I don't normally listen to advice from my mother about dating because she tends to have a very traditional approach that is difficult to translate into modern dating scenarios. She recently sent me a link to a MSN article, "31 things I wish I'd known about dating when I was 21." I initially ignored it, expecting to find corny tropes about dating that would only take away from my precious tv watching time (post-finals, I've been indulging in all kinds of trashy television. amaaaazing!!!). About a week ago, I decided to check it out, and was pleasantly surprised. Good job, mommy.
A few favorites...
4. Don't help him ask you out by texting him something nice or polite. I'm glad you're more outgoing and thoughtful than he is, but he doesn't want the help.
6. It's shocking how much guys will talk about marriage. Until there's a ring on your finger, it will be better for you if you pretend you're deaf. (it really is shocking...)
14. Guys get resentful, too.
19.
26. My mom always said, "Men don't think." I thought she meant, "They are mistaken in their thoughts." But they're just not thinking anything at all. About you. They're watching the game. That's why they haven't called.
31 things.
A few favorites...
4. Don't help him ask you out by texting him something nice or polite. I'm glad you're more outgoing and thoughtful than he is, but he doesn't want the help.
6. It's shocking how much guys will talk about marriage. Until there's a ring on your finger, it will be better for you if you pretend you're deaf. (it really is shocking...)
14. Guys get resentful, too.
19.
26. My mom always said, "Men don't think." I thought she meant, "They are mistaken in their thoughts." But they're just not thinking anything at all. About you. They're watching the game. That's why they haven't called.
31 things.
Best Laid Plans
I used to plan. I used to be a planner. There was always a Plan A, and when Plan A didn't work out, I brushed my shoulders off and moved on to Plan B. Then Plan C, D or E, if necessary. I suppose what that should have told me was that there was really no point to planning, as I had control over nothing. But the semblance of control was enough. The wheels never stopped turning, my mind never stopped imagining possibilities.
Professionally, this mostly remains true. Because I'm in law school during an economic downturn, it's absolutely necessary that I have a contingency plan. It would be foolish not to have one. Even though I can predict nothing about my professional life, if you were to ask me where I see myself in five or ten years, I would have an answer for you. And it wouldn't be a bullshit response because I believe in my five- and ten-year plans.
Personally, I can't see beyond my own nose. I used to plan. In high school, I knew that I wanted to be married by 26. I turn 26 in July. I gave up on that plan when I turned 22 and realized 26 was four years down the road. In high school, I also knew I wanted to have kids by 28-30. I suppose that's still mostly true. By the time I graduated from college, the plan was to be married by 28, with kids by 30-31. I actually think that's quite reasonable; just pointless. And it's not that planning isn't pointless - it is and it isn't. It isn't because planning takes you from Point A to B. It pushes you forward, and compels you to reassess the present on a variety of levels. It is because just about everything is out of your hands.
A professional plan works because I have control over the courses I take; the networks I create; the jobs I seek and choose, etc.. I have no control over those who wake up one day and tell me they're no longer interested; or they're interested, and have been for awhile, but cannot do long distance. I have no control over the course of my own emotions. Maybe one day I will again tell someone that I used to love that I no longer love him. Maybe I will do so callously, and without emotion, because I simply do not care. Or maybe, next time, I will be just as stunned as he at my change of heart. There are simply too many variables - accounted and unaccounted - that make planning seem absolutely absurd. So, maybe this isn't a bad thing?
Perhaps it reflects a growing awareness about myself or life, in general. Perhaps it's me growing wiser, even if only marginally. Whatever the case may be, I also see it as a sort of loss. I used to plan because I used to be hopeful and optimistic about love. It's possible that what I am feeling now is the middle ground, but the change has a bitter flavor, and is laced with terror. I suppose you could now classify me as the non-believing romantic because I know that shit exists, but I don't believe it exists for me. And I can't tell you why. I know what my daddy issues are. I know what (some of) my man issues are. And I do not think they fully explain this. I do not believe in my own happy ending.
I think it's telling that I've always seen myself as a mother before seeing myself as a wife. I've always chalked this up to my mother being a single parent - she was my example. I'm certainly not discrediting that theory, and I think a strong case can be made for it, but I also think it has something to do with a general uncertainty I have about men. I do not trust them (Cue daddy issues). I do not believe in their ability to protect me anymore than I am able to protect myself (and honestly, why should I?). But growing up, I drank the kool-aid about love, life, marriage, and picket fences. I'm from a very lovely suburban town in Maryland, where white picket fences, yorkie terriers, and disturbingly friendly people exist - of course I drank the kool-aid. I swam in it.
Mother before wife. Never wife before mother. Or mother and wife. Just mother. Because I've believed in the certainty of a child's love for her mother. I've believed in the fierceness with which a mother loves and cares for her child. This love is real to me. This love isn't remote or imagined. This love transcends the happy ending. But at the same time, I have to question my desire to have children. It's a selfish desire; one that stems from a need to be loved and love in return. Wholly. Fully. Selflessly. I've always wanted children. I've had brief moments of complete disdain, where I've found them to be bratty little monsters, but these moments were fleeting. I've even settled into a feeling of actually being ready to have children, even though I'm not at a place in my life where I think it would be appropriate for me (that place = law school).
But now, during these late night ramblings, I think I have reached the conclusion that I'm nowhere near "ready." I don't want the reasons I stated above to be the reasons. A good reason cannot be wanting children because I can't envision any other happy ending for myself. That is a very very bad reason. This obviously doesn't mean that thinking I won't find love or get married necessarily precludes the possibility that I'll have children. The two really have nothing do to with each other, but I won't consider myself ready until I can divorce the two in my mind and fully articulate my reasons for wanting children.
So, where does this leave me? Cynical. Yes, definitely. Jaded. Yes, definitely. Without any sort of plan for my personal life. Yep, pretty much. And I think this is where I need to be right now in my life. I don't know why, and I don't need to know why. My only takeaway is that I can't plan anymore.
Planning seems to have been unsafe. Planning seems to have been the modus operandi of the more confident, optimistic me.
Professionally, this mostly remains true. Because I'm in law school during an economic downturn, it's absolutely necessary that I have a contingency plan. It would be foolish not to have one. Even though I can predict nothing about my professional life, if you were to ask me where I see myself in five or ten years, I would have an answer for you. And it wouldn't be a bullshit response because I believe in my five- and ten-year plans.
Personally, I can't see beyond my own nose. I used to plan. In high school, I knew that I wanted to be married by 26. I turn 26 in July. I gave up on that plan when I turned 22 and realized 26 was four years down the road. In high school, I also knew I wanted to have kids by 28-30. I suppose that's still mostly true. By the time I graduated from college, the plan was to be married by 28, with kids by 30-31. I actually think that's quite reasonable; just pointless. And it's not that planning isn't pointless - it is and it isn't. It isn't because planning takes you from Point A to B. It pushes you forward, and compels you to reassess the present on a variety of levels. It is because just about everything is out of your hands.
A professional plan works because I have control over the courses I take; the networks I create; the jobs I seek and choose, etc.. I have no control over those who wake up one day and tell me they're no longer interested; or they're interested, and have been for awhile, but cannot do long distance. I have no control over the course of my own emotions. Maybe one day I will again tell someone that I used to love that I no longer love him. Maybe I will do so callously, and without emotion, because I simply do not care. Or maybe, next time, I will be just as stunned as he at my change of heart. There are simply too many variables - accounted and unaccounted - that make planning seem absolutely absurd. So, maybe this isn't a bad thing?
Perhaps it reflects a growing awareness about myself or life, in general. Perhaps it's me growing wiser, even if only marginally. Whatever the case may be, I also see it as a sort of loss. I used to plan because I used to be hopeful and optimistic about love. It's possible that what I am feeling now is the middle ground, but the change has a bitter flavor, and is laced with terror. I suppose you could now classify me as the non-believing romantic because I know that shit exists, but I don't believe it exists for me. And I can't tell you why. I know what my daddy issues are. I know what (some of) my man issues are. And I do not think they fully explain this. I do not believe in my own happy ending.
I think it's telling that I've always seen myself as a mother before seeing myself as a wife. I've always chalked this up to my mother being a single parent - she was my example. I'm certainly not discrediting that theory, and I think a strong case can be made for it, but I also think it has something to do with a general uncertainty I have about men. I do not trust them (Cue daddy issues). I do not believe in their ability to protect me anymore than I am able to protect myself (and honestly, why should I?). But growing up, I drank the kool-aid about love, life, marriage, and picket fences. I'm from a very lovely suburban town in Maryland, where white picket fences, yorkie terriers, and disturbingly friendly people exist - of course I drank the kool-aid. I swam in it.
Mother before wife. Never wife before mother. Or mother and wife. Just mother. Because I've believed in the certainty of a child's love for her mother. I've believed in the fierceness with which a mother loves and cares for her child. This love is real to me. This love isn't remote or imagined. This love transcends the happy ending. But at the same time, I have to question my desire to have children. It's a selfish desire; one that stems from a need to be loved and love in return. Wholly. Fully. Selflessly. I've always wanted children. I've had brief moments of complete disdain, where I've found them to be bratty little monsters, but these moments were fleeting. I've even settled into a feeling of actually being ready to have children, even though I'm not at a place in my life where I think it would be appropriate for me (that place = law school).
But now, during these late night ramblings, I think I have reached the conclusion that I'm nowhere near "ready." I don't want the reasons I stated above to be the reasons. A good reason cannot be wanting children because I can't envision any other happy ending for myself. That is a very very bad reason. This obviously doesn't mean that thinking I won't find love or get married necessarily precludes the possibility that I'll have children. The two really have nothing do to with each other, but I won't consider myself ready until I can divorce the two in my mind and fully articulate my reasons for wanting children.
So, where does this leave me? Cynical. Yes, definitely. Jaded. Yes, definitely. Without any sort of plan for my personal life. Yep, pretty much. And I think this is where I need to be right now in my life. I don't know why, and I don't need to know why. My only takeaway is that I can't plan anymore.
Planning seems to have been unsafe. Planning seems to have been the modus operandi of the more confident, optimistic me.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
About 1shot2many...
She's off romping with turtles in the Seychelles. She will be back this summer.
Yes. Hate her. Be jealous. I'm with you.
Paradise >>>>>>>>>> Law School Finals. Just saying.
Yes. Hate her. Be jealous. I'm with you.
Paradise >>>>>>>>>> Law School Finals. Just saying.
Good Luck Chuck?
So, this guy I had a very minor thing with/for is now in a relationship. Let's call him The Passive One (for future reference). And I'm happy for him. I am. I consider him a friend, and think he'd be a good boyfriend (but definitely not for me). But now I'm seriously wondering whether I have the Good Luck Chuck curse... whether every man I'm involved with or semi-involved with will find a relationship immediately after whatever we had. And as a corollary, I'm wondering where I can find a Good Luck Chuck, so I can reap some of the benefits of this crap instead of bestowing it on others.
It's not that I want to be with these people, but I can't help but notice a trend. A slightly disturbing one. I suppose I don't really care (but maybe I do?)... at this point, I'd probably only care if The Academic landed himself in a relationship relatively soon. Not sure how exactly I'd feel about that, but it would probably suck. A lot.
As a disclaimer, I'm well aware that these relationships are not about me. It's just an interesting trend. Wondering when the streak will end.
It's not that I want to be with these people, but I can't help but notice a trend. A slightly disturbing one. I suppose I don't really care (but maybe I do?)... at this point, I'd probably only care if The Academic landed himself in a relationship relatively soon. Not sure how exactly I'd feel about that, but it would probably suck. A lot.
As a disclaimer, I'm well aware that these relationships are not about me. It's just an interesting trend. Wondering when the streak will end.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Distractions
Law school is a necessary distraction, but sometimes there are moments that make it clear that I'm doing too good a job of suppressing everything.
The pain has mostly faded, but the self-doubt is chronic.
(this random update brought to you by Spring 2010 Finals! study breaks are lovely, no?)
The pain has mostly faded, but the self-doubt is chronic.
(this random update brought to you by Spring 2010 Finals! study breaks are lovely, no?)
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Another Valentine's Day...
I am an unabashed romantic. I love love. Wholeheartedly. I accept it in its many forms, and believe in its power to heal and save. And so, I've always loved Valentine's Day. Even while single. Even while dating someone who completely failed to acknowledge it when we were together. Heavy, over-bloated commercialism aside, I support any opportunity to tell someone you love them; that he (or she) matters more than he will ever know. I love Valentine's Day because I believe in butterflies. I don't believe any of us should settle for anything less than butterflies (h/t to Carrie from SATC).
That said, this year's Valentine's Day is particularly difficult in light of the last few weeks, the details of which I'm not ready to share or discuss in such a public forum. While it can occasionally be fun to commiserate with other single friends, I also think such commiseration reeks of lameness. Because I don't hate love. And I don't think anyone should have to hide their love to appease the bitter hearts of single folks around the country. So, today, on Valentine's Day, if you don't think you have someone to love, you're wrong.
You have yourself.
That said, this year's Valentine's Day is particularly difficult in light of the last few weeks, the details of which I'm not ready to share or discuss in such a public forum. While it can occasionally be fun to commiserate with other single friends, I also think such commiseration reeks of lameness. Because I don't hate love. And I don't think anyone should have to hide their love to appease the bitter hearts of single folks around the country. So, today, on Valentine's Day, if you don't think you have someone to love, you're wrong.
You have yourself.
Monday, February 1, 2010
808s & Heartbreak
It's feeling like you've been punched in your chest. It's the memory of your face against his, of his hands around your waist, and dissolving into tears because it hurts to remember. Memory as pain. It's more than desiring comfort food... it's the loss of appetite. And it's constantly reminding yourself that there will be rainbows in your life again. Rainbows. Soon.
***
i spent so much energy
building a fortress around your name
that i forgot to protect my own.
raw skin exposed,
weathered and taut.
my heart, this organ,
is left collapsing under the weight
of my disappointment
in you.
***
little black book.
all of these names,
and inexplicably,
the only one that has mattered
is yours.
***
i spent so much energy
building a fortress around your name
that i forgot to protect my own.
raw skin exposed,
weathered and taut.
my heart, this organ,
is left collapsing under the weight
of my disappointment
in you.
***
little black book.
all of these names,
and inexplicably,
the only one that has mattered
is yours.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Reflections of a born-again optimist
"I have a history of making decisions very quickly about men. I have always fallen in love fast and without measuring risks. I have a tendency to not only see the best in everyone, but to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential. I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential man, rather than with the man himself, and then I have hung on to the relationship for a long time (sometimes far too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance, I have been a victim of my own optimism."
- Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat Pray Love
I have been a life-long optimist and damn proud. Not just in matters of the heart but life in general- though this positive outlook hasn’t always brought fireworks to my life, especially my romantic life. I have a tendency to fall hard and fast. And that is precisely what happened with Riley. It was like one day this boy was my fun drunken hookup and the next day, he had become someone I could see myself in a relationship with. There was no gradual transition period over which this transformation occurred. I think the combination of my optimism and my deep inherent inclination to trust people sparked my abrupt change of heart over Riley and his role in my life.
So it all started during winter break 2008. There was beer, there was wine, there was vodka, rum, and gin. And I’m pretty sure I did it all. Needless to say, I was drunk. Too drunk for my own good. My attempt to elaborate on this night that really defined my transition into officially morally sketchy grounds with Riley is going to be a failure as I have critical chunks of my memory from that night missing. Suffice it to say, we ended up back at my apartment and in bed. According to reports from my trusted friends like Bitesized, there was a lot of making out on the dance floor despite several attempts at intervention. Apparently, I am quite a strong-willed drunk.
Over the next year, the hooking up continued most instances when Riley was home from his law school endeavors. While I still believe that casual hooking up doesn’t operate the same way for girls and boys, there were additional forces at play here in my situation with Riley. It wasn’t just hooking up and the subsequent oxytocin that fucked with me. For your information, oxytocin is known as a love hormone because while it evolved to enhance the mother-child connection, it goes beyond it to intensify bonding in intimate relationships. Oxytocin is released to a greater extent in the female brain during physical intimacy that creates a desire for the woman to bond with whomever she is having an intimate relationship with. Basically, this translates into: if you are a chick and you hook up with even the biggest loser in the bar enough times, you’ll form an attachment and it all goes downhill from there. But don’t get me wrong- I am certainly not classifying Riley as “the biggest loser in the bar” ha. My point here is that generally speaking, casual hook-ups do not work out well for us girls and it’s all thanks to the evolutionary forces that made oxytocin such a fucking powerful hormone. Anyway, like I said earlier, I don’t actually think it was just the oxytocin that was responsible for my predicament with Riley. It was part of it for sure but the other part was his incredibly astute ability to say all the right things at all the right times. Riley is of the category of guys I would classify as “charmers”- he’s a talker. He’s the guy who can talk and charm his way into anything and out of any situation. Your grandmother will love him and your friends will be jealous. While I certainly cannot recall all our drunken conversations, I do remember that they were essentially what my friends and I term a two-way “drunken emotional faucet.” It boiled down to him and I expressing our mutual attraction for and liking of each other and the prospects of a real relationship between us. In hindsight, I realize that he was not completely full of shit but mostly. I don’t think he meant to lie to my face. Maybe in the moment, he thought he actually felt those things. Maybe not. I’ll never know. But you know what? I don’t think I fully meant half the things I said to him either. Moral of the story? Alcohol will do wonders! Haha, just kidding. Real moral of the story? Judge guys based on their actions and not their words. Talk is cheap. However, in my naïve optimistic and trusting mind, I believed and ate up everything Riley said to me. I actually believed that he and I could have a real relationship with trust and honesty and without vodka and pinot noir.
The funny thing about reexamining the past is that you always learn something new. I’m finally able to write this last entry about Riley because after my last escapade with him on NYE 2010, I certainly do not find myself in a better place with respect to my mentality on boys and relationships, but I do believe I see things clearer with regards to Riley.
On the eve of 2010, I hadn’t seen Riley since the summer and I thought I had rid my system of him. My life felt under control. My apartment was clean, my mom and I were at peace with each other, I finally managed to schedule this conference call for work that had been the bane of my existence for the past 2 weeks and I had even managed to fit in a 5 mile run that morning. I changed into a cute outfit to ring in the new year and was pysched to booze and schmooze with some of my favorites. Life, around 7 pm on NYE, was pretty damn fabulous. Now, flash forward several hours to New Years morning. I woke up next to him hungover, topless, and missing a few crucial memories from the previous night — namely, how the EFF I managed to break the one and only goddamn resolution I forced myself to make. Despite not remembering how I ended up with only one of my own shoes and one large male white sneaker and one large male loafer (a whole other story), I do remember that Riley and I again had one of those emotional faucets. However, this time the central message revolved around me declaring (perhaps somewhat misleadingly) that I was very clear that he and I would only ever be hook-up buddies and nothing more. That I didn’t even want anything more than that from him. This declaration was triggered by his attempts at proclaiming to me that I hadn’t just been some sexual object he used. In any case, here I am finally having freed myself from that delusional oxytocin-induced romantic attachment I had developed for Riley. Or maybe not? I would like to think that our relationship has returned to phase 1 where he is just a fun drunken hook-up for me.
But I know this is not entirely true. Probably not even mostly true. I think what’s really going on is that for the past few months, I’ve been convincing myself that relationships are the precise opposite of great. Instead, they are emotionally precarious, troublesome and unnecessary. Perhaps I am just clinging onto my independence for fear that I will lose some part of myself in the process of falling for someone else. Maybe I simply don’t know how to respond to someone who might actually exceed the expectations I’ve habitually lowered in light of my failed romantic endeavors. Maybe I’m not willing to run the risk of abandonment. But though I’ve been afraid for weeks to make this concession, I must say: by and large, love is worth it. Love didn’t use to terrify me. In fact, I was (and to some extent, still am) optimistic that love is just around the corner for me. Because unlike learning to swim in the kiddie pool, love is like learning to swim in the ocean. Once you’re far out, there are no lifeguards or railings, and more often than not, your final destination is not forward but back from where you came. For the girl who used to throw herself headfirst into the water without hesitation, it seems like I’ve taken one too many steps away from the sand to remember that the view is worth it, that drowning is more fear than real possibility, that even those who never properly learned how to swim — or who have long forgotten — are capable of staying afloat.
So while I almost drown out there, I believe that my experiences with Riley have made me wiser. While, I am not at all optimistic about him and I developing anything resembling a functional relationship and I’m not sure I would even want to, I am optimistic that he and I will remain friends through the storm and that I will come out of it with my optimism intact.
- Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat Pray Love
I have been a life-long optimist and damn proud. Not just in matters of the heart but life in general- though this positive outlook hasn’t always brought fireworks to my life, especially my romantic life. I have a tendency to fall hard and fast. And that is precisely what happened with Riley. It was like one day this boy was my fun drunken hookup and the next day, he had become someone I could see myself in a relationship with. There was no gradual transition period over which this transformation occurred. I think the combination of my optimism and my deep inherent inclination to trust people sparked my abrupt change of heart over Riley and his role in my life.
So it all started during winter break 2008. There was beer, there was wine, there was vodka, rum, and gin. And I’m pretty sure I did it all. Needless to say, I was drunk. Too drunk for my own good. My attempt to elaborate on this night that really defined my transition into officially morally sketchy grounds with Riley is going to be a failure as I have critical chunks of my memory from that night missing. Suffice it to say, we ended up back at my apartment and in bed. According to reports from my trusted friends like Bitesized, there was a lot of making out on the dance floor despite several attempts at intervention. Apparently, I am quite a strong-willed drunk.
Over the next year, the hooking up continued most instances when Riley was home from his law school endeavors. While I still believe that casual hooking up doesn’t operate the same way for girls and boys, there were additional forces at play here in my situation with Riley. It wasn’t just hooking up and the subsequent oxytocin that fucked with me. For your information, oxytocin is known as a love hormone because while it evolved to enhance the mother-child connection, it goes beyond it to intensify bonding in intimate relationships. Oxytocin is released to a greater extent in the female brain during physical intimacy that creates a desire for the woman to bond with whomever she is having an intimate relationship with. Basically, this translates into: if you are a chick and you hook up with even the biggest loser in the bar enough times, you’ll form an attachment and it all goes downhill from there. But don’t get me wrong- I am certainly not classifying Riley as “the biggest loser in the bar” ha. My point here is that generally speaking, casual hook-ups do not work out well for us girls and it’s all thanks to the evolutionary forces that made oxytocin such a fucking powerful hormone. Anyway, like I said earlier, I don’t actually think it was just the oxytocin that was responsible for my predicament with Riley. It was part of it for sure but the other part was his incredibly astute ability to say all the right things at all the right times. Riley is of the category of guys I would classify as “charmers”- he’s a talker. He’s the guy who can talk and charm his way into anything and out of any situation. Your grandmother will love him and your friends will be jealous. While I certainly cannot recall all our drunken conversations, I do remember that they were essentially what my friends and I term a two-way “drunken emotional faucet.” It boiled down to him and I expressing our mutual attraction for and liking of each other and the prospects of a real relationship between us. In hindsight, I realize that he was not completely full of shit but mostly. I don’t think he meant to lie to my face. Maybe in the moment, he thought he actually felt those things. Maybe not. I’ll never know. But you know what? I don’t think I fully meant half the things I said to him either. Moral of the story? Alcohol will do wonders! Haha, just kidding. Real moral of the story? Judge guys based on their actions and not their words. Talk is cheap. However, in my naïve optimistic and trusting mind, I believed and ate up everything Riley said to me. I actually believed that he and I could have a real relationship with trust and honesty and without vodka and pinot noir.
The funny thing about reexamining the past is that you always learn something new. I’m finally able to write this last entry about Riley because after my last escapade with him on NYE 2010, I certainly do not find myself in a better place with respect to my mentality on boys and relationships, but I do believe I see things clearer with regards to Riley.
On the eve of 2010, I hadn’t seen Riley since the summer and I thought I had rid my system of him. My life felt under control. My apartment was clean, my mom and I were at peace with each other, I finally managed to schedule this conference call for work that had been the bane of my existence for the past 2 weeks and I had even managed to fit in a 5 mile run that morning. I changed into a cute outfit to ring in the new year and was pysched to booze and schmooze with some of my favorites. Life, around 7 pm on NYE, was pretty damn fabulous. Now, flash forward several hours to New Years morning. I woke up next to him hungover, topless, and missing a few crucial memories from the previous night — namely, how the EFF I managed to break the one and only goddamn resolution I forced myself to make. Despite not remembering how I ended up with only one of my own shoes and one large male white sneaker and one large male loafer (a whole other story), I do remember that Riley and I again had one of those emotional faucets. However, this time the central message revolved around me declaring (perhaps somewhat misleadingly) that I was very clear that he and I would only ever be hook-up buddies and nothing more. That I didn’t even want anything more than that from him. This declaration was triggered by his attempts at proclaiming to me that I hadn’t just been some sexual object he used. In any case, here I am finally having freed myself from that delusional oxytocin-induced romantic attachment I had developed for Riley. Or maybe not? I would like to think that our relationship has returned to phase 1 where he is just a fun drunken hook-up for me.
But I know this is not entirely true. Probably not even mostly true. I think what’s really going on is that for the past few months, I’ve been convincing myself that relationships are the precise opposite of great. Instead, they are emotionally precarious, troublesome and unnecessary. Perhaps I am just clinging onto my independence for fear that I will lose some part of myself in the process of falling for someone else. Maybe I simply don’t know how to respond to someone who might actually exceed the expectations I’ve habitually lowered in light of my failed romantic endeavors. Maybe I’m not willing to run the risk of abandonment. But though I’ve been afraid for weeks to make this concession, I must say: by and large, love is worth it. Love didn’t use to terrify me. In fact, I was (and to some extent, still am) optimistic that love is just around the corner for me. Because unlike learning to swim in the kiddie pool, love is like learning to swim in the ocean. Once you’re far out, there are no lifeguards or railings, and more often than not, your final destination is not forward but back from where you came. For the girl who used to throw herself headfirst into the water without hesitation, it seems like I’ve taken one too many steps away from the sand to remember that the view is worth it, that drowning is more fear than real possibility, that even those who never properly learned how to swim — or who have long forgotten — are capable of staying afloat.
So while I almost drown out there, I believe that my experiences with Riley have made me wiser. While, I am not at all optimistic about him and I developing anything resembling a functional relationship and I’m not sure I would even want to, I am optimistic that he and I will remain friends through the storm and that I will come out of it with my optimism intact.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Dating Masochism, Part I
The first time I ever met Riley was at BEACHWEEK 2008- possibly one of my most fun and definitely one of my most drunken vacation experiences EVER. He and friends of mine are homeboys from way back when and when I first met him, it took me all of three nanoseconds to reduce him to a cultural cliché- I immediately stereotyped him as your typical frat boy who you’d find doing keg stands every Saturday night. But don’t get me wrong, he was fun and charming and wildly inappropriate from the get-go and we loved him for it. And he was probably the only other individual who stood a chance at beating me for Richardface Award ™ (aka- drunk idiot of the night award). While much of beachweek was a blur to me in my drunken intoxicated stupor, nothing happened between us there (at least not that I am currently aware of…right?). I left beachweek with memories of scantily clad dance parties and hungover boating with pictures to prove that have preemptively ruined any political aspirations any of us may have harbored. Although Riley and I parted ways after beachweek as friends who vied to out-do each other in craziness, the next time we encountered each other was somewhat different.
And that next time was just one of those typical Saturday nights for my friends and I. The music was blasting and the rhythm of your heartbeat feels as if the last song played is still running through your veins. I had no clue Riley was even going to be around this night. But when I found him and our other friend loitering aimlessly across the street of my apartment building, a string of excitement tugged at my heart simply because I knew Riley to be someone I could count on to take that 5th lemondrop with me. No questions asked. I knew I was in for a fun night…... I can’t honestly tell you what happened after that last shot that put me over the edge (bitesized…this is where you come in). I do remember in one of my rare moments of clarity after I had un-blacked out for a few seconds, I found myself engaged in a makeout session with this boy at LUCKY BAR (aka- designated bar where all self-respect goes to die). Let me make quick a sidenote here and say that in writing this, I am well aware of the flood of comments this entry will be receiving with a common message along the lines of: “GIRL, you need to put down that shot glass and get yourself into AA ASAP.” In any case, for honesty’s sake, I am going full disclosure and even willing to sacrifice ounces of my dignity. The next thing I know, I open my eyes and everything around me is a little gray and fuzzy. My contacts are suctioned to my eyeballs and my tongue is so dry it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth. And there he is…lying next to me. He wakes up and while I’m sure he was beyond intoxicated last night, I get the impression that he actually remembers most everything unlike yours truly. I make a sad attempt to play off exactly HOW drunk I was last night. It’s not your typical morning after ritual. We hang out and chat and laugh and enjoy each other’s company. He helps me re-construct my apartment after the tornado that are my friends have swept through via pregame. It’s actually fun and most importantly, not awkward in the least bit.
I had a great time with Riley but the possibility of it evolving into anything more never crosses my mind. Soon he takes off for law school and I don’t see much of him. Once again, Riley and I part ways as a pair of crazies who not un-characteristically hooked up with each other one drunk night. The next time I am to see Riley again, he will have entered a relationship that I learn of via the magic of facebook with his college sweetheart. Obviously, I knew that that would mean that him and I would revert back to a platonic pair of crazies vying to out-do each other in craziness. Or so I thought…
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Academic, Part 1
Before I get started: HAPPY NEW YEAR! I hope the New Year was welcomed with great friends, and maybe a fantastically satisfying kiss.
Where to begin with this particular individual... it's a story now six to seven years in the making (at least on my end), but only recently came to a head. This entry will describe the hopefully not-too-boring history of my crush and relationship with The Academic. There is obviously more to the story, but in order to understand where we are now, you have to understand where we were then... then being 2003-2008. The Academic was my teaching assistant for a political science course I took during my second semester of freshman year. He was a third year law student at the time. I didn't like him. Initially. He was intimidating. He liked to use the socratic method when engaging students (a device I hate to this day, especially as a law student). He seemed slightly cold and aloof. Oh, and there was that one paper of mine that he ripped to shreds. No, I didn't like him at all.
But he was beautiful. Very penetrating eyes. The best damn pair of lips I've ever come across (I have a thing for lips, sorry). Tall with a muscular build. He was hard not to stare at, and after some time, I looked forward to my Friday morning section with him. Eventually, I started to warm up to him. I'm not sure why. Sometime after he tore my paper a part, I felt compelled to do better. I disliked him, but he challenged me - that is something I could only respect. A crush soon followed - one based on admiration, and the fact that dude was just hot. I soon started referring to him as "The Hot T.A.," a moniker I still use when trying to refresh the memory of friends who were around during that time. I never actually thought I'd be with him, but a girl can wish, right? He somehow morphed into that guy - the one I'd be with if I had my pick. The prototype. And that remained true for several years - in spite of my not knowing him.
The semester ended. He graduated. And I was left with this lingering crush well into my junior and senior years. In a very calculated move, I emailed him my junior or senior year (probably senior) seeking help with the job search. "Hi The Academic, I don't know if you remember me..."
We've been in touch since. Not consistently, though. Much of our relationship has been predicated on a teacher/student dynamic, wherein he acted as a mentor of sorts, and I with this lingering crush placed him on a pedestal. With his degrees and accomplishments, I imagined him as this impossibly perfect and unattainable thing (yes, thing). And yes, even with this persona I had imagined for him, my feelings were no less strong (of a different quality than they are today, for sure, but their strength was real). So, when he informed me that he would be leaving for Oxford for a year, and then would head to Harvard the following year, I felt my heart implode and a sting of tears slice my cheeks. Oxford was certainly (too) far, and Cambridge no better, really, given my life in Washington D.C., so why was I crying? Why was I upset? There was nothing in the cards for us. Nothing that even hinted that he was or could ever be more than my former T.A. So, why the fuss? I'm still not quite sure that I know, but thinking I had absolutely nothing to lose, I sent him an overly congratulatory email. One that - if he weren't completely oblivious - would make clear my feelings for him. I let him know how deserving he was. How wonderful he was. How proud of him I was. I even went as far as asking for his address so that I could send him a gift.
If the 25 year old me had any control over that me, I would have slapped the shit out of that girl.
To this day, the thought of that email makes me cringe. The email and his subsequent response, which came a few weeks later (the night before his departure) and didn't address anything I said. It was polite and distant. Enough to make me wish I had never sent the email at all, and enough for me to retreat entirely. That chapter was necessarily closed. I still have the email in my gmail archives, and I can't bring myself to read it. It represents an overly eager child - not someone who was brave enough to lay bare her feelings. It represents an overly admiring child who had placed someone so high on a pedestal that she could no longer see him. Beyond that, it's not something I would do without some suggestion of the other person's feelings. And even if I were to do it without any hints on his part, I would have finessed it. Don't come on too strong. Don't be awkward. Don't be Gigi (from He's Just Not That Into You).
I think many of us have Gigi tendencies, and while I appreciate her openness, I think we should all work to tame the Gigi inside each of us.
The Academic left to do academic things, and I continued about my business as a 20something in Washington D.C. Much of this business will comprise the content of this blog, but that's for later. I hadn't forgotten him or gotten over him, per se, but my feelings for him became dormant. The times I thought of him were random and unpredictable. They occurred when I was both single and in a relationship. I just couldn't seem to shake him. Yes, I'm a romantic but I have some sense - this wasn't someone I expected to ever be with, so these thoughts became a nuisance. I didn't like feeling like I wasn't in control of my emotions. This would be my Type A personality shining through.
As maddening as my feelings were, something about him made sense. I had no basis for thinking or feeling this. I still can't explain it. It would just have to be something I'd have to accept as an off-shoot of my emotions. He and I resumed contact after a certain point. I had a lot of friends applying to graduate or professional schools, who sought assistance with their personal statements. He seemed like the perfect person to offer legitimately helpful feedback. All the while, we would exchange emails here and there. He always maintained a high level of interest in what I was doing and how I was getting along in DC, constantly asking questions, while also never seeming to answer mine - sufficiently, at least. His emails to me oscillated between maintaining the teacher/student dynamic with a (frustratingly) professorial tone, and adopting the informality of a friend. While I was confused about these inconsistencies, I tried to be as consistent as possible since I wished to escape the formality of the former. He didn't quite know how to treat me, and I wasn't sure how to help him figure it out beyond treating him as I would any other person in my life. Ultimately, it wasn't my issue, and I didn't know why he was having such trouble with it.
In the fall of 2008, I began applying to various law schools, and naturally, I enlisted his help. At this point, crush aside, I decided that this would be the last time we interacted. With his inconsistent attempts to maintain a more formal dynamic between us, I saw no reason why I should continue trying to engage him as a friend (or even a friendly acquaintance). I may be a romantic, but I was no fool - nothing was ever going to happen, and it was about time I let it go. On all fronts. My last meaningful contact with him was to inform him of my first acceptance. He responded in his typical professorial fashion, and with that, I let him go. Or so I thought.
Where to begin with this particular individual... it's a story now six to seven years in the making (at least on my end), but only recently came to a head. This entry will describe the hopefully not-too-boring history of my crush and relationship with The Academic. There is obviously more to the story, but in order to understand where we are now, you have to understand where we were then... then being 2003-2008. The Academic was my teaching assistant for a political science course I took during my second semester of freshman year. He was a third year law student at the time. I didn't like him. Initially. He was intimidating. He liked to use the socratic method when engaging students (a device I hate to this day, especially as a law student). He seemed slightly cold and aloof. Oh, and there was that one paper of mine that he ripped to shreds. No, I didn't like him at all.
But he was beautiful. Very penetrating eyes. The best damn pair of lips I've ever come across (I have a thing for lips, sorry). Tall with a muscular build. He was hard not to stare at, and after some time, I looked forward to my Friday morning section with him. Eventually, I started to warm up to him. I'm not sure why. Sometime after he tore my paper a part, I felt compelled to do better. I disliked him, but he challenged me - that is something I could only respect. A crush soon followed - one based on admiration, and the fact that dude was just hot. I soon started referring to him as "The Hot T.A.," a moniker I still use when trying to refresh the memory of friends who were around during that time. I never actually thought I'd be with him, but a girl can wish, right? He somehow morphed into that guy - the one I'd be with if I had my pick. The prototype. And that remained true for several years - in spite of my not knowing him.
The semester ended. He graduated. And I was left with this lingering crush well into my junior and senior years. In a very calculated move, I emailed him my junior or senior year (probably senior) seeking help with the job search. "Hi The Academic, I don't know if you remember me..."
We've been in touch since. Not consistently, though. Much of our relationship has been predicated on a teacher/student dynamic, wherein he acted as a mentor of sorts, and I with this lingering crush placed him on a pedestal. With his degrees and accomplishments, I imagined him as this impossibly perfect and unattainable thing (yes, thing). And yes, even with this persona I had imagined for him, my feelings were no less strong (of a different quality than they are today, for sure, but their strength was real). So, when he informed me that he would be leaving for Oxford for a year, and then would head to Harvard the following year, I felt my heart implode and a sting of tears slice my cheeks. Oxford was certainly (too) far, and Cambridge no better, really, given my life in Washington D.C., so why was I crying? Why was I upset? There was nothing in the cards for us. Nothing that even hinted that he was or could ever be more than my former T.A. So, why the fuss? I'm still not quite sure that I know, but thinking I had absolutely nothing to lose, I sent him an overly congratulatory email. One that - if he weren't completely oblivious - would make clear my feelings for him. I let him know how deserving he was. How wonderful he was. How proud of him I was. I even went as far as asking for his address so that I could send him a gift.
If the 25 year old me had any control over that me, I would have slapped the shit out of that girl.
To this day, the thought of that email makes me cringe. The email and his subsequent response, which came a few weeks later (the night before his departure) and didn't address anything I said. It was polite and distant. Enough to make me wish I had never sent the email at all, and enough for me to retreat entirely. That chapter was necessarily closed. I still have the email in my gmail archives, and I can't bring myself to read it. It represents an overly eager child - not someone who was brave enough to lay bare her feelings. It represents an overly admiring child who had placed someone so high on a pedestal that she could no longer see him. Beyond that, it's not something I would do without some suggestion of the other person's feelings. And even if I were to do it without any hints on his part, I would have finessed it. Don't come on too strong. Don't be awkward. Don't be Gigi (from He's Just Not That Into You).
I think many of us have Gigi tendencies, and while I appreciate her openness, I think we should all work to tame the Gigi inside each of us.
The Academic left to do academic things, and I continued about my business as a 20something in Washington D.C. Much of this business will comprise the content of this blog, but that's for later. I hadn't forgotten him or gotten over him, per se, but my feelings for him became dormant. The times I thought of him were random and unpredictable. They occurred when I was both single and in a relationship. I just couldn't seem to shake him. Yes, I'm a romantic but I have some sense - this wasn't someone I expected to ever be with, so these thoughts became a nuisance. I didn't like feeling like I wasn't in control of my emotions. This would be my Type A personality shining through.
As maddening as my feelings were, something about him made sense. I had no basis for thinking or feeling this. I still can't explain it. It would just have to be something I'd have to accept as an off-shoot of my emotions. He and I resumed contact after a certain point. I had a lot of friends applying to graduate or professional schools, who sought assistance with their personal statements. He seemed like the perfect person to offer legitimately helpful feedback. All the while, we would exchange emails here and there. He always maintained a high level of interest in what I was doing and how I was getting along in DC, constantly asking questions, while also never seeming to answer mine - sufficiently, at least. His emails to me oscillated between maintaining the teacher/student dynamic with a (frustratingly) professorial tone, and adopting the informality of a friend. While I was confused about these inconsistencies, I tried to be as consistent as possible since I wished to escape the formality of the former. He didn't quite know how to treat me, and I wasn't sure how to help him figure it out beyond treating him as I would any other person in my life. Ultimately, it wasn't my issue, and I didn't know why he was having such trouble with it.
In the fall of 2008, I began applying to various law schools, and naturally, I enlisted his help. At this point, crush aside, I decided that this would be the last time we interacted. With his inconsistent attempts to maintain a more formal dynamic between us, I saw no reason why I should continue trying to engage him as a friend (or even a friendly acquaintance). I may be a romantic, but I was no fool - nothing was ever going to happen, and it was about time I let it go. On all fronts. My last meaningful contact with him was to inform him of my first acceptance. He responded in his typical professorial fashion, and with that, I let him go. Or so I thought.
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