I have a pretty big problem with crowded buses. Mostly because humankind does not understand how to behave in a logical manner aboard these vessels and instead adheres to some bizarre personal code of bus ethics that does nothing to facilitate the journey but makes me want to pull their hair.
When I'm stuck standing; I'm most likely flailing about as the driver engages in a passionate love triangle between foot, gas pedal and break. I remember fondly when I flew into the laps of four unsuspecting passengers, having failed to correctly calculate the complicated physics equation necessary to accurately grip the handrail looming inches outside of my normal range of grasp. But I don't really mind the gymnastics compared to the other bozos on board. Even my fellow standees won't unite in stand-dom and REFUSE to move to the back of the bus. People do this thing where they shift in place, look at the ground and wear a hapless, confused expression, like, "oh...well... I..uh....no where for me to..huh...pphhh." There is huffing and eye rolling when the they are ordered to the back by the driver or another brave standee that understands my plight. I make it a point to catch this persons eye and send him a knowing look and waves of gratitude, "I know! These people! The back! It's so simple! We could all fit!" We are one, me and this guy. It helps of course that my breasts are occasionally thrust into his shoulder but this is not awkward, this is the price of battle.
The other people to hate when you're standing are of course, those who are sitting down. Very few have the decency to stare out the window and allow you your visually unappealing struggle in private. No, most enjoy watching your misery. "Look at you, you minion. You wretched, seatless creature. My fortune so far exceeds yours. It is delightful!" Little do they know that as soon as one of their compatriots disembarks, we of the seatless masses will join their ranks post haste.
Unless of course you belong to the infuriating few who will continue to stand after a seat is vacated. There is not an elderly person or pregnant woman in sight, yet these people stand stoically beside this seat, waving away those who bring it to their attention. They fancy themselves martyrs. "Observe me, you others of lesser stock. Watch as I so bravely buffet about and refuse the comfort of a seat! You are so weak! You are so attached to your luxuries! I will suffer, I will triumph!" Yeah. Sit the Ffffffffff down. Seriously. There are no medals here; no one is handing out certificates for bus bravery. See how it works is, if you sit down, you free up some space, thereby allowing others to shift and even out the entire standing to sitting ratio on the bus. Displacement, maybe it's called? Distribution of volume? I don't know but sit your smug ass in that seat and wipe that holier than thou look off of your face. You will not make me feel guilty for sitting. Instead I will burn you with my fiery stares and hope that a violent stop sends you hurtling to the floor. 'Kay?
The real crux of crowded bus riding comes when your only choice for a seat are the few in the front that must be relinquished to the elderly and disabled. Whenever such an individual boards the bus you can see your fellow front seat holders nervously glancing at each other, wondering who will get up first. If I don't, will I look insensitive? Evil? Will I earn the hateful glances and exaggerated sighs of other passengers who think this is what's wrong with America everyone is so lazy they cannot get up for an old person on the bus? It's quite apparent that the elderly are not often accommodated by fellow seated passengers, and I'm sure that as a pregnant lady if you're not in labor then you're out of luck. If I am in the first seat and I stand immediately upon seeing Nana, she's inviting me over for tea and gingersnaps out of gratitude. And then there is the situation where I find myself at the back end of the front section, sitting down but behind a fortress of people. Then the stress heightens--if I get up then this elderly woman will have to elbow her way through this crowd, with her grocery cart, past the guy with the huge gut, under the teen with the ipod and over the hipster with a shoulder bag, in order to take over my seat. And then, why do I have to be responsible? What about that a-hole sitting in the first seat? YOU GET UP and that way I don't need to have palpitations over my civic responsibilities.
So what's clear here is that my bus riding skills are much more highly evolved than the majority of other Washingtonians. And until we are jetpacking to work or beaming our molecules from spot to spot, I'm going to sit when I can, stand when I have to and if you see me reaching to grab a fistful of hair from some one's ignorant bus riding head, talk me down, please?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
A Scent of Summer
Yesterday, I smelled the summer. Not in an overarching kind of way-- this scent was specific and could bare no other label. In the split second of an afternoon inhale I pinpointed it instantly: wet grass beneath the sprinkler's arch.
Remember that delicious smell? Before the era of the town pool when refreshment was a simple yard tool and a hose away? The water's scent becomes richer, prickles with the very minerals afloat within, and mingles with the sweetness of the grass. It's the cleanest, freshest scent that springs into your lungs and catches right in the middle of your chest, radiating a coolness and an earthy abundance.
Remember the feeling? Of that first run through the spray, your toes tickled by the newly damp blades of grass? You'd feel your hair getting soaked, clump by clump and constantly need to peel it off your cheeks as you tumbled over and over through the mist. Remember putting your mouth over one of the tiny holes in the sprinkler to take a drink and how the power of the stream would surprise you, leaving a little pinprick feeling in the back of your throat? Or how you'd put your fingers over several of the holes and pretend to play the piano, the concentrated stream so close to your fingertips making them feel pleasantly numb. There were some icky feelings too--the squelching of the ground as it turned to mud beneath your feet and the blades of grass that would stick to your legs and between your toes. Remember how during the height of day the water made the once fierce sun feel satisfyingly warm against your skin? But then as the day waned, you'd stand back from the water and goose bumps would graze your arms, which soon gave way to the shivers. These meant it was time to seek the warmth of your towel and the tiny terrycloth loops that nestled themselves on your skin and enveloped you in the perfect kind of summer warmth.
If you could hear the sounds again, wouldn't you? The little girl and little boy giggles, the click of the sprinkler as it continued its back and forth path, suggestions squealed to each other, "do a cartwheel through it!", "twist in the air!". There's a lightness in that summer afternoon soundtrack--somewhere in the background are your parents voices, cars passing lazily on the street, a grill top squeaking open.
You can see it too; I know you can. Maybe it's your front yard or your backyard, your neighbor's house or your grandmother's, but there is in some sprays of the sprinkler a rainbow set among the drops, brightly dusting you with its color. There is your little girl head, leaning over the streams and watching as your hair dances its own water ballet. You are in a tableau of summer--scampering about in a season whose very nature makes us freer.
It is a state of watery, warm, exuberant, and exhilarating perfection.
Remember that delicious smell? Before the era of the town pool when refreshment was a simple yard tool and a hose away? The water's scent becomes richer, prickles with the very minerals afloat within, and mingles with the sweetness of the grass. It's the cleanest, freshest scent that springs into your lungs and catches right in the middle of your chest, radiating a coolness and an earthy abundance.
Remember the feeling? Of that first run through the spray, your toes tickled by the newly damp blades of grass? You'd feel your hair getting soaked, clump by clump and constantly need to peel it off your cheeks as you tumbled over and over through the mist. Remember putting your mouth over one of the tiny holes in the sprinkler to take a drink and how the power of the stream would surprise you, leaving a little pinprick feeling in the back of your throat? Or how you'd put your fingers over several of the holes and pretend to play the piano, the concentrated stream so close to your fingertips making them feel pleasantly numb. There were some icky feelings too--the squelching of the ground as it turned to mud beneath your feet and the blades of grass that would stick to your legs and between your toes. Remember how during the height of day the water made the once fierce sun feel satisfyingly warm against your skin? But then as the day waned, you'd stand back from the water and goose bumps would graze your arms, which soon gave way to the shivers. These meant it was time to seek the warmth of your towel and the tiny terrycloth loops that nestled themselves on your skin and enveloped you in the perfect kind of summer warmth.
If you could hear the sounds again, wouldn't you? The little girl and little boy giggles, the click of the sprinkler as it continued its back and forth path, suggestions squealed to each other, "do a cartwheel through it!", "twist in the air!". There's a lightness in that summer afternoon soundtrack--somewhere in the background are your parents voices, cars passing lazily on the street, a grill top squeaking open.
You can see it too; I know you can. Maybe it's your front yard or your backyard, your neighbor's house or your grandmother's, but there is in some sprays of the sprinkler a rainbow set among the drops, brightly dusting you with its color. There is your little girl head, leaning over the streams and watching as your hair dances its own water ballet. You are in a tableau of summer--scampering about in a season whose very nature makes us freer.
It is a state of watery, warm, exuberant, and exhilarating perfection.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
We want a single, just a little single...
Last Friday evening I found myself with twenty minutes to spare before I had to report backstage for my performance. It was a perfect spring night--warmth still emitting from the setting sun and that sweet, lazy smell of the air ripe with growth and the onset of summer. This outdoor ambiance is probably what drew me to the softball fields behind the community center, where I happily took a seat on the stands to watch a few innings of the local girls softball game.
I would guess that the girls were around eight or nine years old, judging from their stature and the typical fielding errors that plagued the defense. A throw from the shortstop gets by the first basemen, an easy out at third goes unmade as the base is left uncovered, a soft fly ball taps a glove but ends with that disappointing plop into the sand. I felt the infield's pain as the base runners crept steadily by, but knew that once that third out was achieved, their errors would be mirrored by the opposing side and they would have their turn to trot the diamond. I had, after all, been there when I was their age and discovering my love for this sport. Watching them brought me swiftly back to my days on the field--the triumphs, the frustrations, the camaraderie, and the intangible contentment achieved from the most spectacular to the simplest moments during those nine innings.
If I try to pinpoint my earliest interaction with any softball paraphernalia, it would be watching my dad oil his mitt, place a ball inside, secure it with a rubber band, and store it in the dark recesses of our closet in order to successfully achieve the perfect "pocket." I loved the smell of the oil and the idea that in a few months the glove would emerge as an ideal specimen, ready for duty. I suppose I began actively playing the sport in our backyard, perched over our designated home plate armed with the big red wiffle bat. From there I graduated to t-ball and then around first or second grade to the "big leagues" when all the crutches were removed and we were on our own. But, I always had my dad by my side. From the first organized team I joined, he was my coach, faithfully heading up the team of girls and leading them as they found their way around the skills required of the game. I loved looking over to the sidelines from my perch at second base or shortstop and seeing my dad with the "Coach" t-shirt on. He made us laugh, made funny nicknames for my teammates, taught us how to take the game seriously but not take ourselves too seriously while playing it. His crowning achievement was my seventh grade year, when we steadily worked our way to the championship game, against our town's other team, our sworn rivals. It all came down to that final game, and when the final out was made, putting us on top 13-12, I felt like I had won the world. I was proud of myself and my team, but I think I was the most proud of my dad. He was able to take a team of girls with varying skill levels and find the right formula to send them to a victory. The indelible mark that my years as a softball player left on my heart owes its origin and endurance to my father--he is completely intertwined in my sweet memories of the sport.
When I reached high school, my involvement with softball intensified. I played on travelling summer and fall leagues, attended camps and of course, played for my high school. I loved donning that uniform, even if those synthetic knickers were ghastly hot. I loved crouching in the field with my Wootton Patriot Game hat on, (Game being the popular brand name for hats at the time), my last name embroidered on the back. Those years of softball competition are a swirl of senses and emotions for me. There's the firm, unyielding feel of a new pair of cleats; the satisfying cloud of infield dirt as it coats your skin, dusts your eyelids and sends little grits into your teeth as you safely slide into third. There's the smell of freshly cut grass and a cooler of Gatorade on ice; that settling aroma of a spring or summer's evening coming to a close as you work your way through the game, pitch by pitch. There's the clanking of bats and balls in the always heavy equipment bag, the murmur of family and friends on the bleachers, and the boisterous cheers of your teammates as you face the pitcher, or as you huddle at the pitcher's mound before an inning, shouting, "Three up, three down, don't let 'em get around." There's that burst of satisfaction as your bat connects squarely with the ball and line drives for a base hit, or the flutter of your stomach as that last pitch on a 3-2 count whizzes by and you finally hear "Ball 4!" There's the thrill when you feel the swift mechanics of your body as it springs into action towards a grounder, scoops it up and throws to first for an out; the fantastic joy of watching the game winning run streak across home plate at the bottom of the ninth, and the ensuing celebration.
I think what I loved most about softball was the slow, steady and concentrated pace at which the game was played; how you moved methodically through each inning, either chipping away at the other team's lead or building one of your own. I liked how precise each movement felt, how every girl on the team had her own distinct purpose. I loved having command of my own patch of the infield, and also looking back at my outfielders, trusting their skills in a different area of the field. I loved sharing the thrills and the disappointments with a group of girls that even if we weren't in the same group of friends, on the field we were each others support, a source of laughter, and providers of that buoyant spirit that comes from being part of a team. You always felt special, standing at bat as the girls chanted behind you, "Seven is her number, Carla is her name! And she is just one reason, we're gonna win this game."
So as I sat on the sidelines last week and listened to the girls tiny voices chant some of those same cheers, what I really heard was the sound of my childhood, and my adolescence, as experienced on the softball field. All the voices of those with whom I shared the field, singing, "We want a single, just a little single..."
I would guess that the girls were around eight or nine years old, judging from their stature and the typical fielding errors that plagued the defense. A throw from the shortstop gets by the first basemen, an easy out at third goes unmade as the base is left uncovered, a soft fly ball taps a glove but ends with that disappointing plop into the sand. I felt the infield's pain as the base runners crept steadily by, but knew that once that third out was achieved, their errors would be mirrored by the opposing side and they would have their turn to trot the diamond. I had, after all, been there when I was their age and discovering my love for this sport. Watching them brought me swiftly back to my days on the field--the triumphs, the frustrations, the camaraderie, and the intangible contentment achieved from the most spectacular to the simplest moments during those nine innings.
If I try to pinpoint my earliest interaction with any softball paraphernalia, it would be watching my dad oil his mitt, place a ball inside, secure it with a rubber band, and store it in the dark recesses of our closet in order to successfully achieve the perfect "pocket." I loved the smell of the oil and the idea that in a few months the glove would emerge as an ideal specimen, ready for duty. I suppose I began actively playing the sport in our backyard, perched over our designated home plate armed with the big red wiffle bat. From there I graduated to t-ball and then around first or second grade to the "big leagues" when all the crutches were removed and we were on our own. But, I always had my dad by my side. From the first organized team I joined, he was my coach, faithfully heading up the team of girls and leading them as they found their way around the skills required of the game. I loved looking over to the sidelines from my perch at second base or shortstop and seeing my dad with the "Coach" t-shirt on. He made us laugh, made funny nicknames for my teammates, taught us how to take the game seriously but not take ourselves too seriously while playing it. His crowning achievement was my seventh grade year, when we steadily worked our way to the championship game, against our town's other team, our sworn rivals. It all came down to that final game, and when the final out was made, putting us on top 13-12, I felt like I had won the world. I was proud of myself and my team, but I think I was the most proud of my dad. He was able to take a team of girls with varying skill levels and find the right formula to send them to a victory. The indelible mark that my years as a softball player left on my heart owes its origin and endurance to my father--he is completely intertwined in my sweet memories of the sport.
When I reached high school, my involvement with softball intensified. I played on travelling summer and fall leagues, attended camps and of course, played for my high school. I loved donning that uniform, even if those synthetic knickers were ghastly hot. I loved crouching in the field with my Wootton Patriot Game hat on, (Game being the popular brand name for hats at the time), my last name embroidered on the back. Those years of softball competition are a swirl of senses and emotions for me. There's the firm, unyielding feel of a new pair of cleats; the satisfying cloud of infield dirt as it coats your skin, dusts your eyelids and sends little grits into your teeth as you safely slide into third. There's the smell of freshly cut grass and a cooler of Gatorade on ice; that settling aroma of a spring or summer's evening coming to a close as you work your way through the game, pitch by pitch. There's the clanking of bats and balls in the always heavy equipment bag, the murmur of family and friends on the bleachers, and the boisterous cheers of your teammates as you face the pitcher, or as you huddle at the pitcher's mound before an inning, shouting, "Three up, three down, don't let 'em get around." There's that burst of satisfaction as your bat connects squarely with the ball and line drives for a base hit, or the flutter of your stomach as that last pitch on a 3-2 count whizzes by and you finally hear "Ball 4!" There's the thrill when you feel the swift mechanics of your body as it springs into action towards a grounder, scoops it up and throws to first for an out; the fantastic joy of watching the game winning run streak across home plate at the bottom of the ninth, and the ensuing celebration.
I think what I loved most about softball was the slow, steady and concentrated pace at which the game was played; how you moved methodically through each inning, either chipping away at the other team's lead or building one of your own. I liked how precise each movement felt, how every girl on the team had her own distinct purpose. I loved having command of my own patch of the infield, and also looking back at my outfielders, trusting their skills in a different area of the field. I loved sharing the thrills and the disappointments with a group of girls that even if we weren't in the same group of friends, on the field we were each others support, a source of laughter, and providers of that buoyant spirit that comes from being part of a team. You always felt special, standing at bat as the girls chanted behind you, "Seven is her number, Carla is her name! And she is just one reason, we're gonna win this game."
So as I sat on the sidelines last week and listened to the girls tiny voices chant some of those same cheers, what I really heard was the sound of my childhood, and my adolescence, as experienced on the softball field. All the voices of those with whom I shared the field, singing, "We want a single, just a little single..."
Friday, November 14, 2008
Great Scott
Mr. Scott, even at 71 years old, is always bustling. He's either bounding off the elevator or towards it, coming from or going to the next adventure in his day. And when he passes the reception desk, a tidal wave of his energy flows forth, leaving me in its wake with a smile and a good, old fashioned, warm fuzzy feeling.
While I'm an actor by trade, to help pay the bills I work as a receptionist at the law firm of Kelley, Drye & Warren. Several years ago, Kelley Drye acquired another DC firm, Collier, Shannon & Scott--as in the aforementioned Mr. Scott. So while I never had the pleasure of knowing Mr. Scott in his heyday as an attorney, (he is retired, but still keeps his office at the firm) tracings of his success are evident. There's his status as a named partner in the former firm, the distinguished portrait of him hanging in our Founder's Boardroom, and the universal recognition of his name. A name whose mention is largely met with the same reaction-- a smile and and a teasing sort of eye roll whose combination indicate affection and respect for the character of Mr. Scott.
My first encounters with Mr. Scott began when he would scoot past the front desk on his way to teach The History of War at Landon High School. He would toss a trivia question my way, usually historical in nature, and look at me expectantly, waiting for me to supply the answer before his elevator arrived. While the subject matters were not always foreign, the answers eluded me. I will admit that I found myself frustrated, feeling the need to prove my intelligence and capacity for knowledge to him. Here was a seasoned professional with years of experience and a brain full of facts, and I feared that I was appearing quite daft in front of him. I had an urge to blurt out my scholastic accomplishments, but dropping Phi Beta Kappa into a conversation seemed a bit gauche and clumsy on my part. So I waited and hoped for the question of the day to be one whose answer I knew readily, which would be my opportunity to prove my intellectual worth to a man whose own was clearly so high.
In the meantime, Mr. Scott began allowing me the duration of his class to come up with the answers to his quizzes. Although he's not a proponent of Google, I would happily research the topic and report my findings to him. My efforts would elicit a kind of joy in Mr. Scott--a delight that someone had taken his query seriously and embarked on a pursuit to learn more about it--an effort which he finds lacking in a lot of his teen aged students. After classes he is often grumbling about their lack of participation, their absences, and general ennui.
On a particularly frustrating day, he told me that he quoted this to his students, "Half of life is just showing up." "Do you know who said that?," he asked me. I smiled and shook my head. "Woody Allen," he said with a sigh. "These kids, they just don't get it."
As my rapport with Mr. Scott grew, I looked forward to whatever he had to share with me that day. Some days it was the normal trivia, others a tidbit about his family, snapshots from Nantucket, a magazine article about his son. I listen with amusement at his gripes--chief among them people on cell phones and drivers who switch lanes with no regard to other cars. I chuckle when I have to raise my voice the further he gets from the desk--he got a hearing aid but after expressing his initial disgust with it I'm not so sure he wears it much. When he walks by and asks, "Where am I going?", if I detect a little extra peach fuzz on his head then I know right away: Quantico, for a haircut. Once a proud Marine, always a proud Marine. I've even had the pleasure of meeting two of his granddaughters when they spent a few days with him at the office helping him file and organize. I caught them for a chat and told them that while they've got the biological grounds, I sort of think of Mr. Scott as my office grandfather. I knew in their young perspective they couldn't understand how such a presence could be so comforting to me--an individual whose psyche was just not built to be embroiled in an office environment.
A few days before Mr. Scott was to administer the first test of the semester to his students, he dropped the exam on my desk and asked me to proofread it, and then take it myself. The proofreading part I could handle, but having not had a history class since 1998, the content was far beyond my memory's reach. That old feeling began to creep up again and I feared the humiliation of certain failure. As he scooted into the elevator I protested--how could I take this exam if I haven't sat through his classes, taken diligent notes, and studied them endlessly, as I would have if I were a student? But he was gone and I was left to search for spelling errors and try my hand at his exam.
At first, I tried the Google route, using the only semi-reliable wikipedia to try and sort through yards of information on topics like Alexander the Great. But the answers to Mr. Scott's test questions were not so plainly found, and this track proved fruitless and inefficient. As the multiple choice options swam in front of my eyes and those without any options rendered me clueless, Mr. Scott's words echoed in my head. "Half of life is just showing up." I smiled to myself, embarrassed at my own pride. There was no way I was going to answer even a third of these correctly but I was just going to show up anyway. So I made my way through the test, blindly guessing on some, reaching far back into the recesses of my mind to make a fairly sound stab at others, and logically reasoning the rest. This is how I continue to take the exams that Mr. Scott sends my way, and I've come to look forward to test days.
My blind stumbling on his tests pay off when Mr. Scott and I review my results. I'm tickled when he congratulates me on any correct answer, and similarly amused when he scolds me for a wrong one. I can tell that Mr. Scott appreciates my attempts, no matter how poor their results. And in turn he rewards me with something I am always thirsty for: knowledge. The thrill of gaining new facts, especially historical ones, has always delighted me, and if my fare for these is to display how little I currently know, then so be it. There are no more grades, no more teachers to impress, no more GPAs to monitor. There is only my mind to feed and I accept the fodder eagerly.
The comings and goings of Mr. Scott are the little bright spots in my day. Whether he's complaining about his personal trainer or making sure I know that November 10th is the birthday of his beloved Marines, his spirit is buoyant and infectious. I am no longer eager to impress him or embarrassed to err in front of him. I know that as long as I "show up", and do so with abandon, it's okay by him. And quite honestly, it's an honor to be given the chance from a man with a lifetime of "showing up" behind him--for our country, for his law firm, for his family, and for the many others that know just what I mean when I smile and say, "Oh, Mr. Scott."
While I'm an actor by trade, to help pay the bills I work as a receptionist at the law firm of Kelley, Drye & Warren. Several years ago, Kelley Drye acquired another DC firm, Collier, Shannon & Scott--as in the aforementioned Mr. Scott. So while I never had the pleasure of knowing Mr. Scott in his heyday as an attorney, (he is retired, but still keeps his office at the firm) tracings of his success are evident. There's his status as a named partner in the former firm, the distinguished portrait of him hanging in our Founder's Boardroom, and the universal recognition of his name. A name whose mention is largely met with the same reaction-- a smile and and a teasing sort of eye roll whose combination indicate affection and respect for the character of Mr. Scott.
My first encounters with Mr. Scott began when he would scoot past the front desk on his way to teach The History of War at Landon High School. He would toss a trivia question my way, usually historical in nature, and look at me expectantly, waiting for me to supply the answer before his elevator arrived. While the subject matters were not always foreign, the answers eluded me. I will admit that I found myself frustrated, feeling the need to prove my intelligence and capacity for knowledge to him. Here was a seasoned professional with years of experience and a brain full of facts, and I feared that I was appearing quite daft in front of him. I had an urge to blurt out my scholastic accomplishments, but dropping Phi Beta Kappa into a conversation seemed a bit gauche and clumsy on my part. So I waited and hoped for the question of the day to be one whose answer I knew readily, which would be my opportunity to prove my intellectual worth to a man whose own was clearly so high.
In the meantime, Mr. Scott began allowing me the duration of his class to come up with the answers to his quizzes. Although he's not a proponent of Google, I would happily research the topic and report my findings to him. My efforts would elicit a kind of joy in Mr. Scott--a delight that someone had taken his query seriously and embarked on a pursuit to learn more about it--an effort which he finds lacking in a lot of his teen aged students. After classes he is often grumbling about their lack of participation, their absences, and general ennui.
On a particularly frustrating day, he told me that he quoted this to his students, "Half of life is just showing up." "Do you know who said that?," he asked me. I smiled and shook my head. "Woody Allen," he said with a sigh. "These kids, they just don't get it."
As my rapport with Mr. Scott grew, I looked forward to whatever he had to share with me that day. Some days it was the normal trivia, others a tidbit about his family, snapshots from Nantucket, a magazine article about his son. I listen with amusement at his gripes--chief among them people on cell phones and drivers who switch lanes with no regard to other cars. I chuckle when I have to raise my voice the further he gets from the desk--he got a hearing aid but after expressing his initial disgust with it I'm not so sure he wears it much. When he walks by and asks, "Where am I going?", if I detect a little extra peach fuzz on his head then I know right away: Quantico, for a haircut. Once a proud Marine, always a proud Marine. I've even had the pleasure of meeting two of his granddaughters when they spent a few days with him at the office helping him file and organize. I caught them for a chat and told them that while they've got the biological grounds, I sort of think of Mr. Scott as my office grandfather. I knew in their young perspective they couldn't understand how such a presence could be so comforting to me--an individual whose psyche was just not built to be embroiled in an office environment.
A few days before Mr. Scott was to administer the first test of the semester to his students, he dropped the exam on my desk and asked me to proofread it, and then take it myself. The proofreading part I could handle, but having not had a history class since 1998, the content was far beyond my memory's reach. That old feeling began to creep up again and I feared the humiliation of certain failure. As he scooted into the elevator I protested--how could I take this exam if I haven't sat through his classes, taken diligent notes, and studied them endlessly, as I would have if I were a student? But he was gone and I was left to search for spelling errors and try my hand at his exam.
At first, I tried the Google route, using the only semi-reliable wikipedia to try and sort through yards of information on topics like Alexander the Great. But the answers to Mr. Scott's test questions were not so plainly found, and this track proved fruitless and inefficient. As the multiple choice options swam in front of my eyes and those without any options rendered me clueless, Mr. Scott's words echoed in my head. "Half of life is just showing up." I smiled to myself, embarrassed at my own pride. There was no way I was going to answer even a third of these correctly but I was just going to show up anyway. So I made my way through the test, blindly guessing on some, reaching far back into the recesses of my mind to make a fairly sound stab at others, and logically reasoning the rest. This is how I continue to take the exams that Mr. Scott sends my way, and I've come to look forward to test days.
My blind stumbling on his tests pay off when Mr. Scott and I review my results. I'm tickled when he congratulates me on any correct answer, and similarly amused when he scolds me for a wrong one. I can tell that Mr. Scott appreciates my attempts, no matter how poor their results. And in turn he rewards me with something I am always thirsty for: knowledge. The thrill of gaining new facts, especially historical ones, has always delighted me, and if my fare for these is to display how little I currently know, then so be it. There are no more grades, no more teachers to impress, no more GPAs to monitor. There is only my mind to feed and I accept the fodder eagerly.
The comings and goings of Mr. Scott are the little bright spots in my day. Whether he's complaining about his personal trainer or making sure I know that November 10th is the birthday of his beloved Marines, his spirit is buoyant and infectious. I am no longer eager to impress him or embarrassed to err in front of him. I know that as long as I "show up", and do so with abandon, it's okay by him. And quite honestly, it's an honor to be given the chance from a man with a lifetime of "showing up" behind him--for our country, for his law firm, for his family, and for the many others that know just what I mean when I smile and say, "Oh, Mr. Scott."
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
John Mayer was Right
Since I returned from my honeymoon, I have experienced an internal calming in an area that has long been a private and turbulent obsession of mine. That is my body--its weight, its proportions, the clothing size it requires. I admit this inner demon of mine with some embarrassment, but as its sharpness and all consuming nature begins slowly to soften and ebb, I almost feel a need to express it, in order to more aptly celebrate the potential of its passing.
I can hardly remember a time when I was not acutely aware of my body and how it related to the world around me. I would always notice and pinpoint distinctions--as a child it was whose legs were skinnier than mine, and as I got older the areas of comparison grew until eventually, in my mind, my body was not really my own but rather an entity that existed only as a better or worse reflection of those around me. My freshman year in college was when this notion of an ideal body and its untenability became paramount in my mind, and has stayed since. Much like an alcoholic must constantly fight thoughts of drink, I continually wrestled with my mind's eye and the way I felt inside my own skin.
Luckily, I never physically manifested this mental anguish. Perhaps because of a gentler gene somewhere in my DNA it really never occurred to me to starve myself or purge--I was brought up with a healthy attitude towards food and there was no urge to tamper with that--at least to an extreme. There were many weeks when I vowed not to eat dessert, to cut my portions--all types of diet roller coaster type schemes that did nothing but affect the up and down view I had of myself. The real problem always existed in my mind--a completely morphed view of my physical self and a complete inability to accept myself as I was.
Perhaps it sounds like my constantly negative view was an attempt to elicit compliments, but it truly wasn't. Rather it was a heart wrenching, confusing and deep handicap that preyed on me and ruined my ability to be carefree and enjoy so many moments. When I was in college if a particular pair of jeans was too tight, I would opt to stay in. At a bar in New York my spirits would sink lower as I would see girl after girl that was skinnier than me, whose arms were smaller, whose athletic body I thought made mine look mushy and unappealing. Even when out to dinner with my wonderful, supportive husband, there are times when I would fight back tears because I had gotten on the scale that morning and been mortified by what I saw.
Of course, there were times when I would be blessed with a streak of confidence. Mostly they would come after several weeks of diligent working out, strict eating and a precise concentration on my body. So while I would enjoy these periods, they never felt as freeing because they were not my normal state--they were come by artificially, it seemed. I wanted to feel like that all the time, without having altered my life drastically to get there. I desperately wanted to exist freely--to workout and enjoy it instead of being fascinated by an ideal physique it might create; to enjoy a healthy meal because of the nutrients, the taste and its benefit to my health and not because I'm proud for depriving myself of a more decadent option. I wanted to just be.
Now, finally, I am beginning to feel this state. And it is clean, fresh, and exhilarating. Sure, it is happening after I am married, but it has nothing to do with any silly thoughts of being able to let myself go since I have "hooked" the man. Instead, I think its a glorious side effect of learning exactly who I am on the inside. As I began to understand and full appreciate my internal self, there was quietly growing a steady appreciation for my outside self. And now, it has effervesced into a lovely calm and quieted my savage thoughts with regard to my physical appearance. So what if my legs are not skinny--they have carried me through my life. So my stomach is not flat and my abs not washboard--someday, somewhere behind them I will, God willing, shelter life. So what if my arms are not as thin and toned as I'd like--they have held so many babies, been locked in so many embraces, and been thrown around so many loved ones. A wonderland, indeed.
I can hardly remember a time when I was not acutely aware of my body and how it related to the world around me. I would always notice and pinpoint distinctions--as a child it was whose legs were skinnier than mine, and as I got older the areas of comparison grew until eventually, in my mind, my body was not really my own but rather an entity that existed only as a better or worse reflection of those around me. My freshman year in college was when this notion of an ideal body and its untenability became paramount in my mind, and has stayed since. Much like an alcoholic must constantly fight thoughts of drink, I continually wrestled with my mind's eye and the way I felt inside my own skin.
Luckily, I never physically manifested this mental anguish. Perhaps because of a gentler gene somewhere in my DNA it really never occurred to me to starve myself or purge--I was brought up with a healthy attitude towards food and there was no urge to tamper with that--at least to an extreme. There were many weeks when I vowed not to eat dessert, to cut my portions--all types of diet roller coaster type schemes that did nothing but affect the up and down view I had of myself. The real problem always existed in my mind--a completely morphed view of my physical self and a complete inability to accept myself as I was.
Perhaps it sounds like my constantly negative view was an attempt to elicit compliments, but it truly wasn't. Rather it was a heart wrenching, confusing and deep handicap that preyed on me and ruined my ability to be carefree and enjoy so many moments. When I was in college if a particular pair of jeans was too tight, I would opt to stay in. At a bar in New York my spirits would sink lower as I would see girl after girl that was skinnier than me, whose arms were smaller, whose athletic body I thought made mine look mushy and unappealing. Even when out to dinner with my wonderful, supportive husband, there are times when I would fight back tears because I had gotten on the scale that morning and been mortified by what I saw.
Of course, there were times when I would be blessed with a streak of confidence. Mostly they would come after several weeks of diligent working out, strict eating and a precise concentration on my body. So while I would enjoy these periods, they never felt as freeing because they were not my normal state--they were come by artificially, it seemed. I wanted to feel like that all the time, without having altered my life drastically to get there. I desperately wanted to exist freely--to workout and enjoy it instead of being fascinated by an ideal physique it might create; to enjoy a healthy meal because of the nutrients, the taste and its benefit to my health and not because I'm proud for depriving myself of a more decadent option. I wanted to just be.
Now, finally, I am beginning to feel this state. And it is clean, fresh, and exhilarating. Sure, it is happening after I am married, but it has nothing to do with any silly thoughts of being able to let myself go since I have "hooked" the man. Instead, I think its a glorious side effect of learning exactly who I am on the inside. As I began to understand and full appreciate my internal self, there was quietly growing a steady appreciation for my outside self. And now, it has effervesced into a lovely calm and quieted my savage thoughts with regard to my physical appearance. So what if my legs are not skinny--they have carried me through my life. So my stomach is not flat and my abs not washboard--someday, somewhere behind them I will, God willing, shelter life. So what if my arms are not as thin and toned as I'd like--they have held so many babies, been locked in so many embraces, and been thrown around so many loved ones. A wonderland, indeed.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Blueflying f*!@
I have unconditional love for Tim Gunn, and thus am enthralled by all he trills in that low decibel voice, originating somewhere around the back of all of his neatly pressed collars. But now, thanks to Bluefly, I can no longer enjoy it when Tim says, "Please use the accessory wall from Bluefly.com wisely." I have HAD it with them. It was coming for a while now, a latent nagging as I looked at their billboards and print ads...something was bothering me... and then, last Wednesday, BAM, right in the middle of my Project Runway bliss, Bluefly hits me with a commercial that just sends me over the edge.
I am happily licking my Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich and waiting to watch Nina scowl at Kenley, when I am assaulted with the image of some chick strolling the airport. Naked. Nothin' on but her Louboutins. And I hate her. She is sauntering, she is swishing her hair, she is coyly placing her shoes in a security bin, she is winking as she glides through the security gates. NO. No, no, no, no, no. Listen, I am perfectly willing to suspend disbelief. But in this case, I cannot. SHE IS WALKING THROUGH AN AIPORT, NEKKERS.
This is not sexy; this is not witty; this is dumb. Why are the commercial airport people not reacting to this!? I want to smack the TSA people, kick the guy with the luggage cart who is ogling her, and summon the airport police to take this naked woman to airport jail. Ugh, she and her, "yeah, I'm naked, so what?" attitude disgust me. Not to mention the thought of all that airport like, stuff, just floating all over her, like, stuff. Ew.
OHH but, hahahahaha, NOW we're supposed to titter and laugh and sympathize with Nudie because, see, she HAS nothing to wear! To the airport! THAT is why she Blueflies! Oh my god, how simply genius! So I get it, because all of the other still outrageously priced designer duds she has previously bought on Bluefly simply won't do for a transcontinental flight she must leave all clothing aside and get herself to the nearest internet connection for some Dolce and Gabbana, STAT.
Listen, I have Bluefly-ed. I'll admit I do have a weakness for designer clothes and have given in on some I- fell into -some -cash occasions. But THAT is not why I Bluefly. Not because when I look at my moderately priced closet and am uninspired I choose to go in the buff. My nakedness is basically confined to the cooling tiles of my bathroom floor since it's pretty much shower to lotion to bathrobe for me, so the clothes-less thing is not a fashion statement option for. Or anyone else outside a nudist colony. GEEZ. I Bluefly because when I obtain a particularly smashing item of clothing, it just makes me feel good when I wear it. And it is fun to look at your wardrobe, find those particular sparkling pieces, and hit the town feeling fabulous...but somedays you just gotta go with what ya got.
So, shove it, Nudie, and throw on your oldest pair of jeans, long sleeve t-shirt that might smell, running shoes and go to the god damn airport, like the rest of us do.
I am happily licking my Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich and waiting to watch Nina scowl at Kenley, when I am assaulted with the image of some chick strolling the airport. Naked. Nothin' on but her Louboutins. And I hate her. She is sauntering, she is swishing her hair, she is coyly placing her shoes in a security bin, she is winking as she glides through the security gates. NO. No, no, no, no, no. Listen, I am perfectly willing to suspend disbelief. But in this case, I cannot. SHE IS WALKING THROUGH AN AIPORT, NEKKERS.
This is not sexy; this is not witty; this is dumb. Why are the commercial airport people not reacting to this!? I want to smack the TSA people, kick the guy with the luggage cart who is ogling her, and summon the airport police to take this naked woman to airport jail. Ugh, she and her, "yeah, I'm naked, so what?" attitude disgust me. Not to mention the thought of all that airport like, stuff, just floating all over her, like, stuff. Ew.
OHH but, hahahahaha, NOW we're supposed to titter and laugh and sympathize with Nudie because, see, she HAS nothing to wear! To the airport! THAT is why she Blueflies! Oh my god, how simply genius! So I get it, because all of the other still outrageously priced designer duds she has previously bought on Bluefly simply won't do for a transcontinental flight she must leave all clothing aside and get herself to the nearest internet connection for some Dolce and Gabbana, STAT.
Listen, I have Bluefly-ed. I'll admit I do have a weakness for designer clothes and have given in on some I- fell into -some -cash occasions. But THAT is not why I Bluefly. Not because when I look at my moderately priced closet and am uninspired I choose to go in the buff. My nakedness is basically confined to the cooling tiles of my bathroom floor since it's pretty much shower to lotion to bathrobe for me, so the clothes-less thing is not a fashion statement option for. Or anyone else outside a nudist colony. GEEZ. I Bluefly because when I obtain a particularly smashing item of clothing, it just makes me feel good when I wear it. And it is fun to look at your wardrobe, find those particular sparkling pieces, and hit the town feeling fabulous...but somedays you just gotta go with what ya got.
So, shove it, Nudie, and throw on your oldest pair of jeans, long sleeve t-shirt that might smell, running shoes and go to the god damn airport, like the rest of us do.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Autumn Passages
For me, the advent of Fall carries on its wings a healthy dose of nostalgia. The ever so increasing chill in the air, the waning daylight hours, the dwindling power of the sun's rays seem to have my senses on high alert, and the slightest thing will send my mind directly to the past. The sensation is so powerful it creates a physical reaction--a mixture of yearning with an almost out of body sense that I am actually reliving these moments. I can see them, hear them, feel the happiness, the sadness, or whatever emotion went along with them. I am temporarily taken out of the present moment and sent backward on the paths of my life.
The tickets to these time travels vary--one such passport comes in the form of any song from The Last Kiss soundtrack. I listened to the CD over and over again during the Fall of 2006 when I was rehearsing for the show See Rock City. I have mentioned this before--the show that rekindled my passion for the stage and started me on my current path. As I walk along the streets of Georgetown listening to my ipod, should any song from The Last Kiss fill my ears I see and feel nothing but scenes from the lovely, challenging, and beautiful few months during which I rehearsed and performed this play. I am wearing my comfy pants, Ugg boots and a cozy scarf, entering into the sweetly lit rehearsal space, surrounded by the cozy set and the warm faces of my fellow cast and director. My character shoes are on my feet, my hair is done in the beloved forties style curls, my costar Matt and I wait breathlessly backstage for our entrance. The spotlight is on me as I am lost in a monologue that touched me every time I performed it. I am slightly shivering as I get into my car and drive over to the Cranford Inn to celebrate another show with my cast mates and audience members. And filling the car are the sweet, flowing sounds of Rufus Wainright, Schulyer Fisk, Josh Radin, Imogen Heap. This was a time when sadness still threatened to take over my life, but with the help of See Rock City and these songs I kept afloat in a softly somber state, punctuated with brightness. This was my time of healing.
Sometimes, a simple fall breeze will gust its way toward me, and as I pull my "in between" jacket closer, I am brought back to the classic fall benchmark--returning to school. I can smell the bus, the sweet, plastic-y smell of new school supplies, the way your new classrooms were slightly foreign and how odd it seemed that in a few months they would be so familiar, that languid but expectant smell in the hallway...like they were tired from the summer's idleness but knew they would once again be occupied. The excitement of going to your classes and seeing what other students were there, and the subsequent dread when the reality of a semester's work sets in. Friday afternoons in the fall bring me to the Wootton football field, where my friends and I have gathered for no other reason then,well, it's just what everyone does. Our school had a brand of understated school spirit--it was not so overstated as to be labelled cheesy or corny, but rather we pulled it off with a charming sort of ennui that translated to just a pure and simple, "hey, we like it here." That feeling reverberated in the sounds of the marching band, the cold of the bleachers, the wave of the pom-poms. This was our high school experience--and although we were too naive or too cool to admit it, somewhere inside we knew we'd look back and appreciate the sort of all-American, small town feel it had.
A sunny Saturday afternoon in October will bring me to the many pumpkin patches that my family traversed over the years. There are babies in cozy onesies, toddlers in sweatshirts, Uncles chewing on hay and making us laugh. The sun is setting over the fields, pumpkin seeds litter the ground. Aunts are holding babies, picking out small pumpkins to match them. We are smiling in front of the days bounty, awash in the freshness of the landscape and the crisp air. The light reflects in our hair as we head to the cars, awaiting the warmth and the aromas of the house that will receive us after our exursion, where we will retreat for the rest of the evening and enjoy the warmth of the fire laced with a cold filter of outside air from a screen window.
I have always found that as one season nears its end, I am happy to embrace the onset of the next. The aspects unique to each--the clothes, the events, the holidays--it all serves to define and color each season for me. Fall is for me a calming from the summer, a quieting of the world--but not a silence, more of a joyful hum--a freshness in the lungs. It blows open the windows of the past and highlights them, lacing them ever deeper in your heart.
The tickets to these time travels vary--one such passport comes in the form of any song from The Last Kiss soundtrack. I listened to the CD over and over again during the Fall of 2006 when I was rehearsing for the show See Rock City. I have mentioned this before--the show that rekindled my passion for the stage and started me on my current path. As I walk along the streets of Georgetown listening to my ipod, should any song from The Last Kiss fill my ears I see and feel nothing but scenes from the lovely, challenging, and beautiful few months during which I rehearsed and performed this play. I am wearing my comfy pants, Ugg boots and a cozy scarf, entering into the sweetly lit rehearsal space, surrounded by the cozy set and the warm faces of my fellow cast and director. My character shoes are on my feet, my hair is done in the beloved forties style curls, my costar Matt and I wait breathlessly backstage for our entrance. The spotlight is on me as I am lost in a monologue that touched me every time I performed it. I am slightly shivering as I get into my car and drive over to the Cranford Inn to celebrate another show with my cast mates and audience members. And filling the car are the sweet, flowing sounds of Rufus Wainright, Schulyer Fisk, Josh Radin, Imogen Heap. This was a time when sadness still threatened to take over my life, but with the help of See Rock City and these songs I kept afloat in a softly somber state, punctuated with brightness. This was my time of healing.
Sometimes, a simple fall breeze will gust its way toward me, and as I pull my "in between" jacket closer, I am brought back to the classic fall benchmark--returning to school. I can smell the bus, the sweet, plastic-y smell of new school supplies, the way your new classrooms were slightly foreign and how odd it seemed that in a few months they would be so familiar, that languid but expectant smell in the hallway...like they were tired from the summer's idleness but knew they would once again be occupied. The excitement of going to your classes and seeing what other students were there, and the subsequent dread when the reality of a semester's work sets in. Friday afternoons in the fall bring me to the Wootton football field, where my friends and I have gathered for no other reason then,well, it's just what everyone does. Our school had a brand of understated school spirit--it was not so overstated as to be labelled cheesy or corny, but rather we pulled it off with a charming sort of ennui that translated to just a pure and simple, "hey, we like it here." That feeling reverberated in the sounds of the marching band, the cold of the bleachers, the wave of the pom-poms. This was our high school experience--and although we were too naive or too cool to admit it, somewhere inside we knew we'd look back and appreciate the sort of all-American, small town feel it had.
A sunny Saturday afternoon in October will bring me to the many pumpkin patches that my family traversed over the years. There are babies in cozy onesies, toddlers in sweatshirts, Uncles chewing on hay and making us laugh. The sun is setting over the fields, pumpkin seeds litter the ground. Aunts are holding babies, picking out small pumpkins to match them. We are smiling in front of the days bounty, awash in the freshness of the landscape and the crisp air. The light reflects in our hair as we head to the cars, awaiting the warmth and the aromas of the house that will receive us after our exursion, where we will retreat for the rest of the evening and enjoy the warmth of the fire laced with a cold filter of outside air from a screen window.
I have always found that as one season nears its end, I am happy to embrace the onset of the next. The aspects unique to each--the clothes, the events, the holidays--it all serves to define and color each season for me. Fall is for me a calming from the summer, a quieting of the world--but not a silence, more of a joyful hum--a freshness in the lungs. It blows open the windows of the past and highlights them, lacing them ever deeper in your heart.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
