I haven't written much about dating on this blog out of respect for the people that I am dating and because I didn't want any future dates to read this and either be worried that I would write about them, or be worried about something I had written about a past datee. But, the truth is, only my close friends read this blog, and since you are my close friend, I'd like to tell you my news: I'm in love. It's true. It happened.
I am in love with the second of my on-line datees. We met in August, when I was already infatuated with someone else. He told me he'd be happy to hang out as friends anyway, so we went out for coffee. I brought another single friend along, hoping that perhaps the sparks between them would fly. No luck. But we did eat chocolate cake, laugh, and compare divorce stories between the three of us. It was a good start to a friendship that continued until Vince helped me decorate the Diva tree. We went out to lunch beforehand and I realized that all along I have been more comfortable talking to him about anything than any other man I had met. It was also great to have someone be happy just to see me happy. He sat on the floor and put hangers on the ornaments. "Don't you want to help decorate?" I asked, my hands covered in glitter. "Um, I think you probably know just where you want those ornaments," he said. Which translates into, "Of course I have no desire to stick sparkly pink, green, and blue things on a tree, but I am very happy to watch you enjoy doing it."
A few days later, we watched the Joy-Luck Club together. And the next morning I woke up to the startling realization that 1) Vince was the first thing I thought about and 2) I had what could only be termed a crush. The next day, we stopped "hanging out" and started "dating". I added him to my roster, and he added me to his. Over the course of the next month, our lists both got shorter, and pretty soon, it was just us.
Vince has been divorced as well. For him too, this is the first time he has felt something like this since the divorce. It's a little scary for me. I am trading in the whole set of dating-multiple-people dilemmas for the dating-one-person-seriously dilemmas. It's also thrilling. I feel happier than I have in years. I feel safe and secure with where I am. I am trying to stop myself from overthinking this and just let things develop. That's the news from Utah, where the women are strong, the men are good-looking, and the snow is above average.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Sex and the City
Lesha and Abbie tell me that I am like Carrie from Sex and the City, only I have a blog instead of a newspaper column. Or they did, until they realized that it's probably better if I don't end up with the Mr. Big in my life. Who ends up with their Mr. Big in real life anyway?
It's been a crazy few months. I don't have much to say about it, other than that if you are wondering why I have been out of touch, it's because dating pretty much was my second full time job from June to December. I was amazed to find that dating was not the scary, terrible disaster I had envisioned. In fact, it was much more like what Abbie had told me it would be. It was fun and I got to be as picky as I wanted. At one point, I had nine different men ask me out the same week. Obviously, this is probably a little bit ridiculous, but for someone who truly thought she would never date well, would never be able to connect with another man, it was thrilling.
I have realized this last year that my perception of men was more than a little tainted by all the stereotypes in the world. I realized the extent to which my upbringing made me afraid of men. Some part of me believed that men were these out of control beings who would endanger me and my modesty and were deathly afraid of commitment. That's what I was taught in church. Some part of me also believed that men didn't really have emotions, and if they did actually experience an emotion, they couldn't express themselves very well. Perhaps there is some truth in all the stereotypes, but I found the men I dated to be loving, compassionate, considerate, and kind people- for the most part. And even those who were a little more selfish, were still full of emotion and expressed themselves eloquently. Some were afraid of commitment, while others were running towards it head first. And only a few were crazy. Given that I wholeheartedly embraced online dating, that's saying something. What a better place the world seems with this new perspective.
It's been a crazy few months. I don't have much to say about it, other than that if you are wondering why I have been out of touch, it's because dating pretty much was my second full time job from June to December. I was amazed to find that dating was not the scary, terrible disaster I had envisioned. In fact, it was much more like what Abbie had told me it would be. It was fun and I got to be as picky as I wanted. At one point, I had nine different men ask me out the same week. Obviously, this is probably a little bit ridiculous, but for someone who truly thought she would never date well, would never be able to connect with another man, it was thrilling.
I have realized this last year that my perception of men was more than a little tainted by all the stereotypes in the world. I realized the extent to which my upbringing made me afraid of men. Some part of me believed that men were these out of control beings who would endanger me and my modesty and were deathly afraid of commitment. That's what I was taught in church. Some part of me also believed that men didn't really have emotions, and if they did actually experience an emotion, they couldn't express themselves very well. Perhaps there is some truth in all the stereotypes, but I found the men I dated to be loving, compassionate, considerate, and kind people- for the most part. And even those who were a little more selfish, were still full of emotion and expressed themselves eloquently. Some were afraid of commitment, while others were running towards it head first. And only a few were crazy. Given that I wholeheartedly embraced online dating, that's saying something. What a better place the world seems with this new perspective.
Snowboarding
When I was a kid, my dad used to make us go skiing and I hated it! I hated everything about it from the hand-me-down winter clothes that were never warm enough and never fit quite right to the extra long skis, which seemed to trip me up no matter which way I moved. I hated the cold, my aching feet, the sense of inadequacy that I felt at 8, since all my friends had a 4 year jump start on learning to ski. I was scared of the speed and scared of getting hurt. After one year of classed
Now I am back in Utah, surrounded by avid skiers and snowboarders who have all told me that the only way to make it through this winter weather is to take up one of these sports so that all this snow will just be cause for excitement. This last Saturday, I finally swallowed my new fear of the $60 lift ticket and took a snowboarding class. Lesha and Ty helped me get prepared. They loaned me warm clothes and instructed me on how to layer them. Other friends reminded me that I needed wrist guards and a helmet. Others warned me that I would be aching for days.
I headed up the mountain, credit card at the ready, wrapped in a pile of clothes. The woman at the lift ticket was Czech. The woman manning the desk where I signed up for classes was Australian, the man behind the rental counter who measured me for a snowboard was British, and my snowboarding teacher was Scottish. I was stunned. I had no idea that just a few miles from my house was a completely different community composed of people of all ages from all around the world, willing to do any job, as long as they could ski or snowboard in their time off.
I headed away from the rental place, snowboard in hand. "I don't even know how to strap this on," I confessed. "Don't worry," said my friend Heidi, a pro with one day's more experience than me on the slopes, "they'll teach you that as part of the class." And they did teach me how. We walked over to a practically level surface, surrounded by screaming three and four year olds. We strapped the board on one foot and pushed ourselves around as though it were a skateboard for about 10 minutes. After that, came a brief description of how to get on and off the lift and then, we had to do just that- get on the lift and head up to the top of the run. I was scared to death. I still had no more idea how to snowboard than when I started. I had yet to even put the second foot in. "They stuck me with a crazy Scottish man! He only cares about snowboarding! He doesn't care at all about me! I am doomed!" I made mean faces at my teacher's helmet, plastered with stickers about snowboarding that made no sense to me.
I did such a bad job getting on the lift, they actually had to stop it for me. The ride up to the top was lovely and serene. I stood up on my board when it was time to get off and promptly fell down and then had to crawl out of the way before being hit by a dismounting skier. Doomed.
Then, we strapped our other foot into the board and started learning how to snowboard. It quickly became apparent that our teacher was not crazy. He was excellent. In order to snowboard, apparently it helps to have a downhill slope. Otherwise we would have just stood in one place for an hour. He encouraged us, prodded us, and critiqued us with endless patience. The wind blew, the snow dumped down, but with the warm clothes given to me by my sister, I never got the slightest cold. It seemed like the weather was an irrelevant force, except when the wind blew hard enough that I actually stopped heading downhill and was held in place by the conflict between the elements.
I felt like a champion. I did it! I wasn't afraid. I conquered the bunny hill! On the second to last run, the one where I finally was trying to actually turn, rather than just move from side to side across the mountain, I fell hard. Really hard, right on my tail bone, my head facing down the hill. I laid there, icing my tail bone while my teacher filled me in on what had gone wrong. "That wasn't so bad," I thought. "I can take falls like that." The problem with the fall was that the tailbone is essential to snowboarding. When you move to stand up, all your pressure goes right there, while you push yourself to your feet. I pushed myself up, my eyes tearing from the pain, telling myself, "I'm tough. I can do this." 10 seconds later, I was back down on my tailbone. This time, I couldn't put enough pressure on my tail bone to stand up without crying, which I refused to do. I unstrapped and walked the last 20 feet to the chairlift line.
I made a little chair of snow and iced my butt for 15 minutes, until I couldn't take it anymore. By that time, my class was back down again. The other woman was too exhausted to move, the other guy on the verge of collapse after a few hard falls. I think I was the freshest one of all of us. I was certainly the happiest. I found I could snowboard. I found I loved it. I found that, as Lesha says, the gear is dramatically different than what I grew up with. Most importantly, it reinforced one of the biggest lessons I have learned this year: I can trust my body. I know it better now and am learning my strengths, as well as my limitations. I can't wait to head back up the mountain again.
Now I am back in Utah, surrounded by avid skiers and snowboarders who have all told me that the only way to make it through this winter weather is to take up one of these sports so that all this snow will just be cause for excitement. This last Saturday, I finally swallowed my new fear of the $60 lift ticket and took a snowboarding class. Lesha and Ty helped me get prepared. They loaned me warm clothes and instructed me on how to layer them. Other friends reminded me that I needed wrist guards and a helmet. Others warned me that I would be aching for days.
I headed up the mountain, credit card at the ready, wrapped in a pile of clothes. The woman at the lift ticket was Czech. The woman manning the desk where I signed up for classes was Australian, the man behind the rental counter who measured me for a snowboard was British, and my snowboarding teacher was Scottish. I was stunned. I had no idea that just a few miles from my house was a completely different community composed of people of all ages from all around the world, willing to do any job, as long as they could ski or snowboard in their time off.
I headed away from the rental place, snowboard in hand. "I don't even know how to strap this on," I confessed. "Don't worry," said my friend Heidi, a pro with one day's more experience than me on the slopes, "they'll teach you that as part of the class." And they did teach me how. We walked over to a practically level surface, surrounded by screaming three and four year olds. We strapped the board on one foot and pushed ourselves around as though it were a skateboard for about 10 minutes. After that, came a brief description of how to get on and off the lift and then, we had to do just that- get on the lift and head up to the top of the run. I was scared to death. I still had no more idea how to snowboard than when I started. I had yet to even put the second foot in. "They stuck me with a crazy Scottish man! He only cares about snowboarding! He doesn't care at all about me! I am doomed!" I made mean faces at my teacher's helmet, plastered with stickers about snowboarding that made no sense to me.
I did such a bad job getting on the lift, they actually had to stop it for me. The ride up to the top was lovely and serene. I stood up on my board when it was time to get off and promptly fell down and then had to crawl out of the way before being hit by a dismounting skier. Doomed.
Then, we strapped our other foot into the board and started learning how to snowboard. It quickly became apparent that our teacher was not crazy. He was excellent. In order to snowboard, apparently it helps to have a downhill slope. Otherwise we would have just stood in one place for an hour. He encouraged us, prodded us, and critiqued us with endless patience. The wind blew, the snow dumped down, but with the warm clothes given to me by my sister, I never got the slightest cold. It seemed like the weather was an irrelevant force, except when the wind blew hard enough that I actually stopped heading downhill and was held in place by the conflict between the elements.
I felt like a champion. I did it! I wasn't afraid. I conquered the bunny hill! On the second to last run, the one where I finally was trying to actually turn, rather than just move from side to side across the mountain, I fell hard. Really hard, right on my tail bone, my head facing down the hill. I laid there, icing my tail bone while my teacher filled me in on what had gone wrong. "That wasn't so bad," I thought. "I can take falls like that." The problem with the fall was that the tailbone is essential to snowboarding. When you move to stand up, all your pressure goes right there, while you push yourself to your feet. I pushed myself up, my eyes tearing from the pain, telling myself, "I'm tough. I can do this." 10 seconds later, I was back down on my tailbone. This time, I couldn't put enough pressure on my tail bone to stand up without crying, which I refused to do. I unstrapped and walked the last 20 feet to the chairlift line.
I made a little chair of snow and iced my butt for 15 minutes, until I couldn't take it anymore. By that time, my class was back down again. The other woman was too exhausted to move, the other guy on the verge of collapse after a few hard falls. I think I was the freshest one of all of us. I was certainly the happiest. I found I could snowboard. I found I loved it. I found that, as Lesha says, the gear is dramatically different than what I grew up with. Most importantly, it reinforced one of the biggest lessons I have learned this year: I can trust my body. I know it better now and am learning my strengths, as well as my limitations. I can't wait to head back up the mountain again.
Lost in Translation
I heard a version of this story as an Arab folktale. I tried to tell it to someone the other day and the story feel flat on it's face. So much so that I wasn't sure what I had meant when I started telling it. I googled today to find the original and found this version, attributed to Grimm.
Salem and the Nail
Once upon a time . . . the shop belonging to an astute merchant called
Salem, and all the carpets in it, were burnt in a fire. Salem was left with
nothing but his house, and since he was a trader he decided to sell it. With
the money he would be able to buy a new shop and more carpets. Salem did not
ask a high price for his house. However, he had a most unusual request to make
of would-be buyers: "I'll sell you the house, except for that nail in the
wall. That remains mine!" And as they all went off, shaking their heads, they
wondered what he meant by this strange
Abraham, however, more miserly than all the others, thought the price was
fair, and he even haggled it down further. A bargain was struck and the new
owner took over the whole house, except for the nail. A week later, Salem
knocked at the door.
"I've come to hang something on my nail," he said. Abraham let him in and
Salem hung up a large empty bag, said goodbye and left. A few days later, he
appeared again, and this time hung an old cloak on the nail. From then on,
Salem's visits became regular; he was forever coming and going, taking things
off the nail or hanging something else up.
One evening, in front of the stunned eyes of Abraham and his family, Salem
arrived dragging a dead donkey. With a struggle, he hoisted it up and roped it
to the nail. The occupants of the house complained about the smell and the
sight of the dead beast, but Salem calmly said: "It's my nail and I can hang
anything I like on it!"
Abraham, naturally, could no longer live in the house under such
conditions. But Salem refused to remove the donkey.
"If you don't like it," he said, "you can get out of my house, but I'll not
pay you back a penny!"
Abraham did his best to persuade Salem to take the donkey down, for it
smelt to high heaven. He even consulted a judge, but the terms of the bargain
were clear. The house belonged to Abraham, but Salem kept the nail.
In the end, Abraham was forced to leave, and Salem got his house back
without paying a penny for it!
Maybe it isn't such a good analogy, but I feel these days like I am spending quite a bit of time in a house where someone else owns a nail. I feel guilty for being upset about it. After all, it's just a nail.
Salem and the Nail
Once upon a time . . . the shop belonging to an astute merchant called
Salem, and all the carpets in it, were burnt in a fire. Salem was left with
nothing but his house, and since he was a trader he decided to sell it. With
the money he would be able to buy a new shop and more carpets. Salem did not
ask a high price for his house. However, he had a most unusual request to make
of would-be buyers: "I'll sell you the house, except for that nail in the
wall. That remains mine!" And as they all went off, shaking their heads, they
wondered what he meant by this strange
Abraham, however, more miserly than all the others, thought the price was
fair, and he even haggled it down further. A bargain was struck and the new
owner took over the whole house, except for the nail. A week later, Salem
knocked at the door.
"I've come to hang something on my nail," he said. Abraham let him in and
Salem hung up a large empty bag, said goodbye and left. A few days later, he
appeared again, and this time hung an old cloak on the nail. From then on,
Salem's visits became regular; he was forever coming and going, taking things
off the nail or hanging something else up.
One evening, in front of the stunned eyes of Abraham and his family, Salem
arrived dragging a dead donkey. With a struggle, he hoisted it up and roped it
to the nail. The occupants of the house complained about the smell and the
sight of the dead beast, but Salem calmly said: "It's my nail and I can hang
anything I like on it!"
Abraham, naturally, could no longer live in the house under such
conditions. But Salem refused to remove the donkey.
"If you don't like it," he said, "you can get out of my house, but I'll not
pay you back a penny!"
Abraham did his best to persuade Salem to take the donkey down, for it
smelt to high heaven. He even consulted a judge, but the terms of the bargain
were clear. The house belonged to Abraham, but Salem kept the nail.
In the end, Abraham was forced to leave, and Salem got his house back
without paying a penny for it!
Maybe it isn't such a good analogy, but I feel these days like I am spending quite a bit of time in a house where someone else owns a nail. I feel guilty for being upset about it. After all, it's just a nail.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Brainiacs
My sister took anatomy last semester for her OT degree. At the beginning of the semester she came home stunned one day and told me that her class had been divided up into groups, and each group would get a body, which they would dissect over the course of the semester. The OTs are required to take the same anatomy class as the med students. She said they prepared everyone very well for the class. The instructor spoke about how the body was their teacher, more than anyone else. That the person who donated their body most likely did so because somehow the medical field had been important to them. The students should show that same respect for the body in front of them.
My sister's boyfriend couldn't stand to listen to her stories but I was fascinated. I was fascinated by the breaking of so many taboos: touching dead people, nudity, and cutting someone open. Yuck! And yet, at the same time, how amazing. How amazing to learn about the human body, the details of it's function and dysfunction. There is amazing variation from person to person internally, just as there is externally. My sister learned a lot from her body. I've even considered donating my body to medicine for the first time in my life.
This semester my sister is in neuroanatomy. "Ooh, wow. Do you have to dissect for this too?" I asked.
"Nah," she said. "It's just a bunch of brains on the tables."
"What about the spinal cord," I asked.
"Oh, yeah. Some of 'em have the spinal cords attached too. Just depends on how they were cut up."
I laughed and she realized what she sounded like. "Guess you do get a little desensitized after all." Yikes!
My sister's boyfriend couldn't stand to listen to her stories but I was fascinated. I was fascinated by the breaking of so many taboos: touching dead people, nudity, and cutting someone open. Yuck! And yet, at the same time, how amazing. How amazing to learn about the human body, the details of it's function and dysfunction. There is amazing variation from person to person internally, just as there is externally. My sister learned a lot from her body. I've even considered donating my body to medicine for the first time in my life.
This semester my sister is in neuroanatomy. "Ooh, wow. Do you have to dissect for this too?" I asked.
"Nah," she said. "It's just a bunch of brains on the tables."
"What about the spinal cord," I asked.
"Oh, yeah. Some of 'em have the spinal cords attached too. Just depends on how they were cut up."
I laughed and she realized what she sounded like. "Guess you do get a little desensitized after all." Yikes!
Another One!
I deleted my internet search history the other day and had to retype the address for this blog. I made the same mistake I have made more than once, and perhaps you have done the same. I typed www.farfromzion.com. Now, in the past when I made this mistake, I simply received a notice that the website could not be found. Now, and apparently since December 2007, www.farfromzion.com is COPYRIGHTED. I should have thought of it first! Apparently this site belongs to someone trying to figure out the complex identity issues of being a leftist American Jewish man. There are times for him when he could actually be in Zion, but I will always be far from Zion. I was born in the city that Mormons refer to as Zion. It's where I live now. It freaks out Arabs and Jews alike to be in the American West and stop at the Zion's Bank ATM or Zion's park. So, even in Israel, on the days when I was visiting Mount Zion in the old city of Jerusalem, I was still far from Zion.
Here in my current Zion, the New Jerusalem of the Mormons, I suddenly miss odd things about my old Zion. It makes me think of the lines of poetry, "My heart is in the east, but I am in the furthest west." Like yesterday, when I reached for a packet of bath salts and found myself hoping it would smell of frankincense and myrrh, purchased in the old city. I knew there was no way this could be, but the longing was powerful all the same. Sometimes I miss walking down the dirty streets of Tel Aviv. Or I close my eyes and pretend that I am on the floor of my pilates teacher's studio. In just a minute I will get up and join the other girls around the table for tea and cookies and hear their weekly updates.
Here in my current Zion, the New Jerusalem of the Mormons, I suddenly miss odd things about my old Zion. It makes me think of the lines of poetry, "My heart is in the east, but I am in the furthest west." Like yesterday, when I reached for a packet of bath salts and found myself hoping it would smell of frankincense and myrrh, purchased in the old city. I knew there was no way this could be, but the longing was powerful all the same. Sometimes I miss walking down the dirty streets of Tel Aviv. Or I close my eyes and pretend that I am on the floor of my pilates teacher's studio. In just a minute I will get up and join the other girls around the table for tea and cookies and hear their weekly updates.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The Ugly Duckling
While I think most personal growth and change takes places slowly, like the accumulation and ablation of sand on a beach, there are moments in life that are pivotal, formative. These moments become the legends we tell ourselves, the main story points along the time line of our personal histories. One of those points for me was when I perhaps ten or so. Young enough that I hadn't even considered the thought of dating, or even dreamed of college. I was crying one day in my room. I don't remember the circumstances, or what I was crying about. Perhaps I was crying out of jealousy for my little sister, who has always been beautiful. When she was a child, strangers would stop and call her a little angel. They couldn't resist her white blond hair or incredibly long eyelashes.
Whatever it was that upset me, my dad came to comfort me. My dad is a loving man, who always has the best of intentions, but in this case, those attentions went awry. He started telling me the story of the Ugly Duckling. He reassured me, that it didn't matter that I wasn't attractive now. He was sure that I would grow up into a beautiful woman. He said most people only had the chance to be really attractive during one stage in their life, and I was lucky that I would be older when I entered that stage. Perhaps it would happen when I was in college. That's when it really mattered after all, because that is when people date and then get married.
I was stunned. I had never known that I wasn't pretty. I knew my sister was prettIER, but I thought I was pretty too. I certainly didn't think that I was anything like the ugly duckling. At least, I hadn't until then. I felt a sense of epiphany on that day, like turning on the light in a room. People weren't noticing my sister because she was so exceptionally pretty, but because I was ugly. Someday I'd be pretty, but in a future so distant I had never even imagined it before. It's interesting to me that I don't remember thinking: whatever, I know I am not ugly. I do remember thinking, "Wow. I never knew before. It's good someone told me. How embarrassing I didn't know until now."
I continued to think that I was ugly. Then, I decided it was probably better to be ugly. It meant I got less attention. And attention was frightening to me at that time. I was sure I had a "special" beauty that someone would see after they fell in love with my personality. At about 21, I began to suspect I wasn't ugly. Then, at 27, I began to think I had finally reached the age my dad had prophesied. I was finally pretty.
I went to a wedding and friends of my Israeli parents reported that I looked more beautiful every time they saw me. I felt more beautiful too. At the same time, my smile was already fake most the time, I was losing weight rapidly, and my hair had started falling out. I felt like I looked better than I ever had, but wasn't sure how that was possible when the amount of stress I was experiencing was shutting down both my mind and body.
Now, I have gained weight and my hair stays firmly attached to my head. I look forward to going to the gym and playing tennis and racquetball. I feel beautiful almost daily. And even more, I feel taken care of, safe, and loved. I am proud that it is me doing the care taking and loving. I have fun choosing outfits that make me feel beautiful. I no longer wear only plain colored shirts and solid colored pants to work. I have fallen in love with heels. I feel frivolous, girlie, silly, and I love it. I accessorize- with jewelry. It sparkles. I sometimes sparkle too.
Whatever it was that upset me, my dad came to comfort me. My dad is a loving man, who always has the best of intentions, but in this case, those attentions went awry. He started telling me the story of the Ugly Duckling. He reassured me, that it didn't matter that I wasn't attractive now. He was sure that I would grow up into a beautiful woman. He said most people only had the chance to be really attractive during one stage in their life, and I was lucky that I would be older when I entered that stage. Perhaps it would happen when I was in college. That's when it really mattered after all, because that is when people date and then get married.
I was stunned. I had never known that I wasn't pretty. I knew my sister was prettIER, but I thought I was pretty too. I certainly didn't think that I was anything like the ugly duckling. At least, I hadn't until then. I felt a sense of epiphany on that day, like turning on the light in a room. People weren't noticing my sister because she was so exceptionally pretty, but because I was ugly. Someday I'd be pretty, but in a future so distant I had never even imagined it before. It's interesting to me that I don't remember thinking: whatever, I know I am not ugly. I do remember thinking, "Wow. I never knew before. It's good someone told me. How embarrassing I didn't know until now."
I continued to think that I was ugly. Then, I decided it was probably better to be ugly. It meant I got less attention. And attention was frightening to me at that time. I was sure I had a "special" beauty that someone would see after they fell in love with my personality. At about 21, I began to suspect I wasn't ugly. Then, at 27, I began to think I had finally reached the age my dad had prophesied. I was finally pretty.
I went to a wedding and friends of my Israeli parents reported that I looked more beautiful every time they saw me. I felt more beautiful too. At the same time, my smile was already fake most the time, I was losing weight rapidly, and my hair had started falling out. I felt like I looked better than I ever had, but wasn't sure how that was possible when the amount of stress I was experiencing was shutting down both my mind and body.
Now, I have gained weight and my hair stays firmly attached to my head. I look forward to going to the gym and playing tennis and racquetball. I feel beautiful almost daily. And even more, I feel taken care of, safe, and loved. I am proud that it is me doing the care taking and loving. I have fun choosing outfits that make me feel beautiful. I no longer wear only plain colored shirts and solid colored pants to work. I have fallen in love with heels. I feel frivolous, girlie, silly, and I love it. I accessorize- with jewelry. It sparkles. I sometimes sparkle too.
Movies
I have a movie theater at my gym. I get to work out on the elliptical while watching movies. I have never been able to sit still during movies, so this is the best way for me to see movies. I get to feel productive while watching Hollywood fluff that would normally make me pull my hair out. Since I feel productive, and I end up able to exercise longer, I get a kick out of watching these movies. It's a delicious guilty pleasure to watch Dodge ball and Legally Blond 2. I watched Dream Girls twice, with a huge smile on my face the entire time. I grew up listening to Motown and jazz and it rarely fails to make me smile. And it's easy to push myself another 15 minutes or so when Beyonce is on the screen. Who wouldn't want to work out and at least try to look like that?
I actually cried while running and watching "Something's Gotta Give". I related so well to the divorced, post-menopausal Diane Keaton character that I actually scared myself. When it became obvious that she was going to end up with the jackass Jack Nicholson character, I walked out in disgust. When in real life would I want the talented, professional, beautiful, composed woman to end up with the womanizing loser? The answer? When I am that woman and when the loser is intelligent, handsome, and charming. Having realized this, I am practicing walking out, before we end up together. Abbie calls me "The Girl Who Cried Break-up". Not a title I am honored to hold. But at least in this case, I didn't go back.
I actually cried while running and watching "Something's Gotta Give". I related so well to the divorced, post-menopausal Diane Keaton character that I actually scared myself. When it became obvious that she was going to end up with the jackass Jack Nicholson character, I walked out in disgust. When in real life would I want the talented, professional, beautiful, composed woman to end up with the womanizing loser? The answer? When I am that woman and when the loser is intelligent, handsome, and charming. Having realized this, I am practicing walking out, before we end up together. Abbie calls me "The Girl Who Cried Break-up". Not a title I am honored to hold. But at least in this case, I didn't go back.
I love you
The Accounts Manager at my work called and left me a message. It was something about the phone company. Then she mentioned that she was going to be late to work, she was stopping to get coffee, and then she said, "OK. That's all. Love you. Oh, um, oops. I don't mean that. Although, I guess I do love you...in a way." She was still laughing when she came in to the office. I understood though. I have that kind of family too. We say "Love you" almost every time we hang up the phone. So much so, that I've made the same mistake before with a friend. "Ok, love you, bye."
I've never been in the camp of people who think that frequent use of "I love you" diminishes it's value. On the contrary, I like the constant reminder. I like the way that even an argument on the phone with my mother about something insignificant is concluded with an, "OK, love you." It puts things into perspective. "I may disagree with you. I may even think you are nuts, but you know, that doesn't mean I don't love you."
I am a people person. It's fair to say, I love people. A good chunk of them anyway. And since we always said I love you in my family, I tell my friends I love them. And telling them I love them means, "I think you are amazing. I love being around you. I always I mean to always treat you well." These past few months I have been dating a number of amazing people who I enjoy being around. In response, I find I love yous bubbling up and feel myself choking back these three little words.
I don't know what "I love you" means to people dating at my age. I am afraid that it doesn't mean "I love you. I think you are amazing. I enjoy spending time with you." I am afraid it means, "I choose you. I want to be only with you. I want to move this relationship ahead." So, I choke it back. It would be nice to have a relationship dictionary that could tell me what those words mean to other people.
I feel behind in some ways. I didn't date much before I married and I married young. In some ways, while I am 28 years old, I feel like I am 21. But I am dating people in their thirties, who feel like they are in their thirties. They aren't dating to have fun; they are dating to find a partner. Many of them are ready to settle down, and I worry about those who aren't. While part of me feels like I am flying through stages in my exploration of romantic love and relationships, another part of me feels hung up and held in. I would feel relaxed and more natural pouring out affection and liberally sprinkling I-love-yous, but I am afraid if I did that then someone would hear the "I love you" of a 28 year old, and not the "I love you" of a 21 year old. I want to hold my I love yous in, until they will be those of someone my age and they will be not only, "I love you. I love being around you. I think you are amazing." I want to wait until they also mean, "I choose you. I choose to open myself up to you. I want to build upon what we have started together."
I've never been in the camp of people who think that frequent use of "I love you" diminishes it's value. On the contrary, I like the constant reminder. I like the way that even an argument on the phone with my mother about something insignificant is concluded with an, "OK, love you." It puts things into perspective. "I may disagree with you. I may even think you are nuts, but you know, that doesn't mean I don't love you."
I am a people person. It's fair to say, I love people. A good chunk of them anyway. And since we always said I love you in my family, I tell my friends I love them. And telling them I love them means, "I think you are amazing. I love being around you. I always I mean to always treat you well." These past few months I have been dating a number of amazing people who I enjoy being around. In response, I find I love yous bubbling up and feel myself choking back these three little words.
I don't know what "I love you" means to people dating at my age. I am afraid that it doesn't mean "I love you. I think you are amazing. I enjoy spending time with you." I am afraid it means, "I choose you. I want to be only with you. I want to move this relationship ahead." So, I choke it back. It would be nice to have a relationship dictionary that could tell me what those words mean to other people.
I feel behind in some ways. I didn't date much before I married and I married young. In some ways, while I am 28 years old, I feel like I am 21. But I am dating people in their thirties, who feel like they are in their thirties. They aren't dating to have fun; they are dating to find a partner. Many of them are ready to settle down, and I worry about those who aren't. While part of me feels like I am flying through stages in my exploration of romantic love and relationships, another part of me feels hung up and held in. I would feel relaxed and more natural pouring out affection and liberally sprinkling I-love-yous, but I am afraid if I did that then someone would hear the "I love you" of a 28 year old, and not the "I love you" of a 21 year old. I want to hold my I love yous in, until they will be those of someone my age and they will be not only, "I love you. I love being around you. I think you are amazing." I want to wait until they also mean, "I choose you. I choose to open myself up to you. I want to build upon what we have started together."
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
This American Life
I have two slightly odd dreams and those of you who know me well, know them both. My dream job is being food developer for Trader Joe's. I want to travel all over the world, find incredible, slightly odd food, and help make it accessible to the Americans lucky enough to have Trader Joe's in their cities. Of which I am not one, sadly. The second dream: to write, narrate, or pitch a story that ends up on the radio show, This American Life. The rules of the game: like any good story, it should have an element of surprise and stir some emotion, it should keep you interested, the characters should go through some personal change or another, it should have a strong narrative. If you have suggestions on how I can make the following story fit those criteria, I'd appreciate it.
I spent my sophomore year of college studying abroad in Sweden. I was a religious Mormon girl from Utah, and because of that, I became involved in the Mormon church in my town of Vaxjo. Most college students never got off the campus unless it was to go to a local bar or to the train station that connected our small town to the rest of Europe. My involvement in the Mormon church connected me with a young girl, Miriam. Miriam's parents were worried about her. They were worried about her multiple piercings, her black clothes, her dyed black hair, her friends, who were also dressed in black. They hoped that if Miriam spent some time around me, the righteous girl from the heart of the Mormon church, she might choose another life style. I talked to her about the Book of Mormon, about being happy, and I gave her a gratitude journal. It was something Oprah swore could help make people happier.
I also promised to take her to Stockholm for a weekend trip. It was her first time to the big city without her parents. I booked us a room in a hostel on a boat in the center of the city. It was supposed to be a treat, but when we arrived to check in at the hostel, Miriam took one look at the boat, vetoed it, and insisted we sleep in the building that was planted firmly on the ground. The only beds left were in the co-ed room containing 20 beds. We spent the day sightseeing together and then on the busiest shopping street, she ran into friends of hers and begged to be able to spend a few hours with them (and without her chaperon). So, I headed back to the hostel, feeling lonely and a little homesick. Finding myself alone in the room, I lay down on my bed and began writing in my journal. Suddenly I heard a noise behind me. I whipped my head around to see a young man laying on his bed and waving at me. Angry at being disturbed, I gave a disgusted sniff and went back to writing. He got up from his bed and left the room.
Miriam came back to the hostel and we started preparing dinner in the hostel kitchen. The Spying Guy was also making dinner. He saw Miriam and said to her, "You know, your necklace has the symbol of my country on it," he said, pointing to the Star of David that lay among the hexagon, the amulet, and the skull, all of which were hung on chains around her neck. "What is your name?" he asked.
"Miriam," she answered softly as she inched closer to me, her face frightened.
"Ah," he said, "You must be Jewish."
"No," she said, and turned her back on him, pretending to be engrossed in boiling spaghetti.
I felt bad for my earlier disgusted sniff. "Are you from Israel?" I asked. "What is your name?"
"I am Yuval," he answered.
"I'm Linsey. And you can eat dinner with us if you want."
Dinner stretched out over an hour as Yuval filled us in on the previous three years he had spent in Europe as a traveling street musician. He was the first street musician I had ever met. Not only had I never met a street musician, I was one of the people who tended to rush past street musicians, eyes adverted, as if they were doing something slightly profane, right there in public. I saw that Yuval was proud of his profession. He felt he was contributing beauty and art to the already breathtakingly gorgeous towns and cities of Europe. After dinner, he offered us the chance to accompany him out to the streets for his evening shift. Miriam and I agreed to go and for the first time in my life, I not only made eye contact, I sat and listened to a street musician play and I loved it. He played the folk ballads of Scotland and Ireland and the folk music that I missed from America. Hearing those familiar songs made me feel at home. We stayed and listened until Yuval was forced to move on by the residents of the street.
We walked around the city as the sky grew dark. Miriam was still with us, but she's practically erased from my memory. I found myself utterly captivated with this tall, handsome, well-traveled musician. Late at night we made our way back to the hostel and went to get ready for bed. "Hey," I said. "You'll probably never make it to our town in Sweden, but if you do, you are welcome to come and stay with me. Or if you ever make it to Salt Lake City." My offer was sincere, but I also knew it was very unlikely to ever be taken. After all, our town was buried in the Swedish forest, and not even on the road from one place to another.
The next day, Miriam and I headed back to Stockholm. It was Sunday and we both had to get back to school. For the next three days, my thoughts were full of Yuval. I knew he wouldn't visit, but I thought just perhaps, he would call. On Wednesday, the phone rang and one of my dorm mates answered. "Linsey, some guy is on the phone for you."
"It's not Yuval. It's not Yuval. It's not Yuval. It's probably Dad," I whispered to myself as I walked down the hall. I was trying to crush my hopes before the voice at the other end of the line did it for me. "Hello?"
"Hi. It's Yuval. From the hostel. In stockholm. We met a while ago."
A while? it was only three days ago. "Yeah, of course. How are you?"
"Oh, I am good. I am actually here."
"What do you mean, here?"
"I mean here, in your lovely little town. I am calling from the train station."
"What? But no one comes here. How did you get here?"
"Oh, I hitched and I'd love to take you up on that offer if it still stands."
"Um, sure. Yeah. OK."
The next thing I knew, I was flying over to my friend Anne's dorm. "Anne, you gotta come! That guy I told you about from Stockholm. He's here. Now. At the train station. Who does that? You gotta come with me to meet him. I think he might be crazy. I mean, who just shows up like that?"
Together Anne and I biked to get Yuval and bring him back to the dorms. He swore he'd stay one night and then be back on the road. That night, we did his laundry, I made him dinner, and we hung his sleeping bag out to air. I found a spare mattress and made him a bed on the floor with my sleeping bag. At night, we got ready for bed. He came to bed wearing a button down collared shirt. "You're going to sleep in that?" I asked. "Do you want to borrow a t-shirt? No? Are you sure?"
"No, no. I always sleep in this." I found out later that he slept in the button down shirt out of consideration to me. He knew I was religious, but he didn't know much about Mormons. He thought perhaps the sight of his forearms might be just too immodest for my standards. I thought he was nuts.
The next day it snowed, which made it bad for traveling. There was more snow the day after and we slipped into a routine. I studied during the day, he spent his time playing his guitar and then exploring the area. At night he returned in time for us to cook dinner and exchange stories of the day. We lay on our separate mattresses in the dark and talked until four in the morning every night. He told me he had a girlfriend. A bit like with the shirt, he thought I would be more comfortable with him that way.
On the fifth day, he left. I hugged him goodbye. That goodbye was the beginning of a year long internet correspondence. At the end of the year, I flew to Israel. I stepped off the plane, and into his hug and I never wanted to leave his side again. We spent five weeks traveling Israel together, planning our future. There was a problem though. Mormons are supposed to marry other Mormons, just like Jews are supposed to marry other Jews. I had given up on the idea of him converting, and I knew I never would either. The idea that God had placed this man in my life was ever present for me. I mean, after all, I met him while trying to convert a young Mormon girl back to righteous ways. This conflict sent me into a bit of an existential tailspin. This combined with seeing the holy places of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, all side by side, all with righteous people equally convinced that they were living according to God's word, shook my faith.
Yuval came back to Utah with me. He studied Mormonism. I learned Hebrew. He managed to impress my family enough that they didn't panic when I told them I was in love with a former street musician. I went back to Israel. This time I studied Mormonism. My faith continued to weaken and eventually, what was left of it shattered. I returned to Utah when my visa expired. Three weeks later, Yuval joined me. We announced we would marry in the spring. That winter, I received an email from Miriam's mother. Miriam had become an upstanding Mormon young woman. She was coming to Salt Lake to visit the heart of the Mormon church, and to do what people sometimes do when the Mormon population around them is so small- she came to date. I was tormented by the thought Miriam was coming, and now, our roles had switched. She was the righteous and I was the fallen. I felt compelled to tell her mother that I was an apostate, since apostates are considered negative influences by some Mormons.
Her mother wrote back a lovely letter, but Miriam planned to stay with other friends of the family. She would be staying in a house with framed cross stitches on the wall, and pictures of Jesus and the Salt Lake temple on the fireplace mantel. Still, she would be happy to see me for lunch or dinner if I had the time. A lunch date was arranged and Yuval and I went to pick her up. I was nervous. It had been almost two years since we had last seen each other. Her hair was no longer black, she was wearing only one necklace and one set of earrings. She had on an ankle length denim skirt. I felt nauseated. I had lost weight, cut off my hair, gotten rid of my glasses. "You look, you look great," Miriam said. She was stunned. Mormons tell stories about how righteous Mormons have a "glow about them" and fallen Mormons are not supposed to glow. But I was in love. I was marrying the man of my dreams. I had blossomed. I glowed, there was no denying it.
Miriam wanted to go to Sizzler. To enjoy the All-American All You Can Eat Buffet. I hate Sizzler, but she was my guest. I drove. I paid. We filled up our plates and sat down and started talking. I started telling her about the upcoming wedding. My eyes were pleading with her, "Understand me. Understand that I am happy. That this is better for me."
Her eyes flickered back and forth from Yuval to me and finally, she couldn't hold it in anymore. "I feel so GUILTY," she wailed. Nearby diners turned to look at us.
"What?" we asked. Stunned.
"You only know each other because of me. Because Linsey took me to Stockholm."
"Yes. That's true. And we are thrilled we know each other. Thank you. We are grateful to you."
"But you left the Church. You can't be happy now. And it's my fault!" With those words, she started to cry. I gave her a second. I was sure she would pull herself together. I mean, we were in a restaurant. And Swedes aren't usually much for drama. Her cries became sobs and I realized she was heading towards hysteria. Now even the hardest of hearing of the elderly diners tuned to look. It was clear this was escalating. All my promises of happiness and assurances that this was right for me only brought louder sobs. I pulled her from the plastic booth and out to the car. She couldn't direct me back to the house where I was staying. She couldn't speak clearly. I took her back to my house. Yuval was silent, stunned, and slowly becoming angry. She hadn't stopped sobbing by the time we reached the house. I picked up the phone. I called her mother at 10:00 at night in Sweden, explained the situation, and handed over the phone. Then I shut the door and walked out of the room. Thirty minutes later, a tear-stained 18-year old emerged from the room and handed me back the cordless phone.
"Do you want to go back to where you are staying?" I asked. She nodded. She looked even younger than the 16-year old girl I had met. My family has always been good at pretending emotional storms never happened. I tried to get her to talk about boys, clothes, sightseeing, anything during the 30 minute drive back. She was exhausted from her tears and overwhelmed. She was silent, unwilling to pretend everything was fine. I dropped her off. I don't remember if I hugged her or if she let me even touch her again before she left.
I kept in touch a bit with her mom through the years. I married under a traditional Jewish wedding cloth, outside of the Stockholm city hall. It turned out Sweden was the easiest place for a Jewish Israeli and a non-Jewish American to get married. A few years later, Miriam's mother sent me pictures of Miriam as a bride with her new husband standing outside the Stockholm Mormon temple. Cameras aren't allowed in the ceremony.
I spent my sophomore year of college studying abroad in Sweden. I was a religious Mormon girl from Utah, and because of that, I became involved in the Mormon church in my town of Vaxjo. Most college students never got off the campus unless it was to go to a local bar or to the train station that connected our small town to the rest of Europe. My involvement in the Mormon church connected me with a young girl, Miriam. Miriam's parents were worried about her. They were worried about her multiple piercings, her black clothes, her dyed black hair, her friends, who were also dressed in black. They hoped that if Miriam spent some time around me, the righteous girl from the heart of the Mormon church, she might choose another life style. I talked to her about the Book of Mormon, about being happy, and I gave her a gratitude journal. It was something Oprah swore could help make people happier.
I also promised to take her to Stockholm for a weekend trip. It was her first time to the big city without her parents. I booked us a room in a hostel on a boat in the center of the city. It was supposed to be a treat, but when we arrived to check in at the hostel, Miriam took one look at the boat, vetoed it, and insisted we sleep in the building that was planted firmly on the ground. The only beds left were in the co-ed room containing 20 beds. We spent the day sightseeing together and then on the busiest shopping street, she ran into friends of hers and begged to be able to spend a few hours with them (and without her chaperon). So, I headed back to the hostel, feeling lonely and a little homesick. Finding myself alone in the room, I lay down on my bed and began writing in my journal. Suddenly I heard a noise behind me. I whipped my head around to see a young man laying on his bed and waving at me. Angry at being disturbed, I gave a disgusted sniff and went back to writing. He got up from his bed and left the room.
Miriam came back to the hostel and we started preparing dinner in the hostel kitchen. The Spying Guy was also making dinner. He saw Miriam and said to her, "You know, your necklace has the symbol of my country on it," he said, pointing to the Star of David that lay among the hexagon, the amulet, and the skull, all of which were hung on chains around her neck. "What is your name?" he asked.
"Miriam," she answered softly as she inched closer to me, her face frightened.
"Ah," he said, "You must be Jewish."
"No," she said, and turned her back on him, pretending to be engrossed in boiling spaghetti.
I felt bad for my earlier disgusted sniff. "Are you from Israel?" I asked. "What is your name?"
"I am Yuval," he answered.
"I'm Linsey. And you can eat dinner with us if you want."
Dinner stretched out over an hour as Yuval filled us in on the previous three years he had spent in Europe as a traveling street musician. He was the first street musician I had ever met. Not only had I never met a street musician, I was one of the people who tended to rush past street musicians, eyes adverted, as if they were doing something slightly profane, right there in public. I saw that Yuval was proud of his profession. He felt he was contributing beauty and art to the already breathtakingly gorgeous towns and cities of Europe. After dinner, he offered us the chance to accompany him out to the streets for his evening shift. Miriam and I agreed to go and for the first time in my life, I not only made eye contact, I sat and listened to a street musician play and I loved it. He played the folk ballads of Scotland and Ireland and the folk music that I missed from America. Hearing those familiar songs made me feel at home. We stayed and listened until Yuval was forced to move on by the residents of the street.
We walked around the city as the sky grew dark. Miriam was still with us, but she's practically erased from my memory. I found myself utterly captivated with this tall, handsome, well-traveled musician. Late at night we made our way back to the hostel and went to get ready for bed. "Hey," I said. "You'll probably never make it to our town in Sweden, but if you do, you are welcome to come and stay with me. Or if you ever make it to Salt Lake City." My offer was sincere, but I also knew it was very unlikely to ever be taken. After all, our town was buried in the Swedish forest, and not even on the road from one place to another.
The next day, Miriam and I headed back to Stockholm. It was Sunday and we both had to get back to school. For the next three days, my thoughts were full of Yuval. I knew he wouldn't visit, but I thought just perhaps, he would call. On Wednesday, the phone rang and one of my dorm mates answered. "Linsey, some guy is on the phone for you."
"It's not Yuval. It's not Yuval. It's not Yuval. It's probably Dad," I whispered to myself as I walked down the hall. I was trying to crush my hopes before the voice at the other end of the line did it for me. "Hello?"
"Hi. It's Yuval. From the hostel. In stockholm. We met a while ago."
A while? it was only three days ago. "Yeah, of course. How are you?"
"Oh, I am good. I am actually here."
"What do you mean, here?"
"I mean here, in your lovely little town. I am calling from the train station."
"What? But no one comes here. How did you get here?"
"Oh, I hitched and I'd love to take you up on that offer if it still stands."
"Um, sure. Yeah. OK."
The next thing I knew, I was flying over to my friend Anne's dorm. "Anne, you gotta come! That guy I told you about from Stockholm. He's here. Now. At the train station. Who does that? You gotta come with me to meet him. I think he might be crazy. I mean, who just shows up like that?"
Together Anne and I biked to get Yuval and bring him back to the dorms. He swore he'd stay one night and then be back on the road. That night, we did his laundry, I made him dinner, and we hung his sleeping bag out to air. I found a spare mattress and made him a bed on the floor with my sleeping bag. At night, we got ready for bed. He came to bed wearing a button down collared shirt. "You're going to sleep in that?" I asked. "Do you want to borrow a t-shirt? No? Are you sure?"
"No, no. I always sleep in this." I found out later that he slept in the button down shirt out of consideration to me. He knew I was religious, but he didn't know much about Mormons. He thought perhaps the sight of his forearms might be just too immodest for my standards. I thought he was nuts.
The next day it snowed, which made it bad for traveling. There was more snow the day after and we slipped into a routine. I studied during the day, he spent his time playing his guitar and then exploring the area. At night he returned in time for us to cook dinner and exchange stories of the day. We lay on our separate mattresses in the dark and talked until four in the morning every night. He told me he had a girlfriend. A bit like with the shirt, he thought I would be more comfortable with him that way.
On the fifth day, he left. I hugged him goodbye. That goodbye was the beginning of a year long internet correspondence. At the end of the year, I flew to Israel. I stepped off the plane, and into his hug and I never wanted to leave his side again. We spent five weeks traveling Israel together, planning our future. There was a problem though. Mormons are supposed to marry other Mormons, just like Jews are supposed to marry other Jews. I had given up on the idea of him converting, and I knew I never would either. The idea that God had placed this man in my life was ever present for me. I mean, after all, I met him while trying to convert a young Mormon girl back to righteous ways. This conflict sent me into a bit of an existential tailspin. This combined with seeing the holy places of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, all side by side, all with righteous people equally convinced that they were living according to God's word, shook my faith.
Yuval came back to Utah with me. He studied Mormonism. I learned Hebrew. He managed to impress my family enough that they didn't panic when I told them I was in love with a former street musician. I went back to Israel. This time I studied Mormonism. My faith continued to weaken and eventually, what was left of it shattered. I returned to Utah when my visa expired. Three weeks later, Yuval joined me. We announced we would marry in the spring. That winter, I received an email from Miriam's mother. Miriam had become an upstanding Mormon young woman. She was coming to Salt Lake to visit the heart of the Mormon church, and to do what people sometimes do when the Mormon population around them is so small- she came to date. I was tormented by the thought Miriam was coming, and now, our roles had switched. She was the righteous and I was the fallen. I felt compelled to tell her mother that I was an apostate, since apostates are considered negative influences by some Mormons.
Her mother wrote back a lovely letter, but Miriam planned to stay with other friends of the family. She would be staying in a house with framed cross stitches on the wall, and pictures of Jesus and the Salt Lake temple on the fireplace mantel. Still, she would be happy to see me for lunch or dinner if I had the time. A lunch date was arranged and Yuval and I went to pick her up. I was nervous. It had been almost two years since we had last seen each other. Her hair was no longer black, she was wearing only one necklace and one set of earrings. She had on an ankle length denim skirt. I felt nauseated. I had lost weight, cut off my hair, gotten rid of my glasses. "You look, you look great," Miriam said. She was stunned. Mormons tell stories about how righteous Mormons have a "glow about them" and fallen Mormons are not supposed to glow. But I was in love. I was marrying the man of my dreams. I had blossomed. I glowed, there was no denying it.
Miriam wanted to go to Sizzler. To enjoy the All-American All You Can Eat Buffet. I hate Sizzler, but she was my guest. I drove. I paid. We filled up our plates and sat down and started talking. I started telling her about the upcoming wedding. My eyes were pleading with her, "Understand me. Understand that I am happy. That this is better for me."
Her eyes flickered back and forth from Yuval to me and finally, she couldn't hold it in anymore. "I feel so GUILTY," she wailed. Nearby diners turned to look at us.
"What?" we asked. Stunned.
"You only know each other because of me. Because Linsey took me to Stockholm."
"Yes. That's true. And we are thrilled we know each other. Thank you. We are grateful to you."
"But you left the Church. You can't be happy now. And it's my fault!" With those words, she started to cry. I gave her a second. I was sure she would pull herself together. I mean, we were in a restaurant. And Swedes aren't usually much for drama. Her cries became sobs and I realized she was heading towards hysteria. Now even the hardest of hearing of the elderly diners tuned to look. It was clear this was escalating. All my promises of happiness and assurances that this was right for me only brought louder sobs. I pulled her from the plastic booth and out to the car. She couldn't direct me back to the house where I was staying. She couldn't speak clearly. I took her back to my house. Yuval was silent, stunned, and slowly becoming angry. She hadn't stopped sobbing by the time we reached the house. I picked up the phone. I called her mother at 10:00 at night in Sweden, explained the situation, and handed over the phone. Then I shut the door and walked out of the room. Thirty minutes later, a tear-stained 18-year old emerged from the room and handed me back the cordless phone.
"Do you want to go back to where you are staying?" I asked. She nodded. She looked even younger than the 16-year old girl I had met. My family has always been good at pretending emotional storms never happened. I tried to get her to talk about boys, clothes, sightseeing, anything during the 30 minute drive back. She was exhausted from her tears and overwhelmed. She was silent, unwilling to pretend everything was fine. I dropped her off. I don't remember if I hugged her or if she let me even touch her again before she left.
I kept in touch a bit with her mom through the years. I married under a traditional Jewish wedding cloth, outside of the Stockholm city hall. It turned out Sweden was the easiest place for a Jewish Israeli and a non-Jewish American to get married. A few years later, Miriam's mother sent me pictures of Miriam as a bride with her new husband standing outside the Stockholm Mormon temple. Cameras aren't allowed in the ceremony.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
But my heart cried out for you, California
I spent New Year's in California. It was the first vacation I have had in a while, and the last one I expect to have until my work life settles down a little bit. Perhaps that is part of the reason it seemed like such an amazing trip. I also had an excellent tour guide, perhaps that was it.
The first day, I went to the Huntington Library. I had never heard of this place, but it was incredible! I saw a bible printed on the Guttenberg press, a hand written illuminated bible, an original first edition of Hamlet from the 1600s, and the various illegible letters of a smattering of famous writers. For a bibliophile like me, the experience was enchanting, but it didn't even compare to the gardens.
I love plants. Anyone who has been on more than a few walks with me knows that I tend to point out plants and trees to people, regardless of whether my walking companion or anyone else is interested. I love learning and repeating plant names. I strongly associate plants with places: the hydrangea and iris in Japan, the roses in my childhood garden, the bougainvillea and date trees in Tel Aviv, the banana trees near the Sea of Galilee, and the columbine, lupine, and Indian paintbrush of the Rocky Mountains.
For all these reasons, the Huntington Gardens botanical gardens was the ideal place for me. I wandered through a Japanese garden, crossing little bridges, and staring at the fish below. Next was a Japanese tea house, and a Zen rock garden. The rock garden was surrounded by a one foot fence to keep people from ruining the rock pattern. One little boy saw all those handfuls of rocks waiting to be grabbed and ran straight for them. His parents grasped and ran after him. His dad grabbed him around his knees, so he reached forward with all his might to grab with his free hands, his mother grabbed his hands back, so he tilted his head forward. At this point he was hovering about 5 feet over the rocks, but he was determined!
Next was a bonsai garden. I have never understood why bonsai is considered an art form until visiting that garden. The plants were gorgeous, peaceful, and evocative. One looked like a dragon, some like miniature trees or forests. Here are some bonsai examples:
There were other gardens, just as beautiful, representing all the regions of the earth. I saw my beloved hydrangea, date palms, and roses. Not to mention exotic jungle plants like nothing I ever imagined. But not everyone loves plants like I do, so I'll move on.
Other California delights included: a Thai Elvis impersonator at the most popular Thai restaurant in Hollywood, watching sea lions play and dolphins swim off the Balboa pier, watching the Christmas lights on the boats in the harbor come on while riding a ferris wheel, fantastic sea food, new friends, whale watching and seeing seven dolphins come up for air in unison, the 80 degree weather, and the stop at Trader Joe's (my old haunt). I don't know what I was expecting out of a trip to Southern California, but I know I wasn't expecting to fall in love the way I did.
The first day, I went to the Huntington Library. I had never heard of this place, but it was incredible! I saw a bible printed on the Guttenberg press, a hand written illuminated bible, an original first edition of Hamlet from the 1600s, and the various illegible letters of a smattering of famous writers. For a bibliophile like me, the experience was enchanting, but it didn't even compare to the gardens.
I love plants. Anyone who has been on more than a few walks with me knows that I tend to point out plants and trees to people, regardless of whether my walking companion or anyone else is interested. I love learning and repeating plant names. I strongly associate plants with places: the hydrangea and iris in Japan, the roses in my childhood garden, the bougainvillea and date trees in Tel Aviv, the banana trees near the Sea of Galilee, and the columbine, lupine, and Indian paintbrush of the Rocky Mountains.
For all these reasons, the Huntington Gardens botanical gardens was the ideal place for me. I wandered through a Japanese garden, crossing little bridges, and staring at the fish below. Next was a Japanese tea house, and a Zen rock garden. The rock garden was surrounded by a one foot fence to keep people from ruining the rock pattern. One little boy saw all those handfuls of rocks waiting to be grabbed and ran straight for them. His parents grasped and ran after him. His dad grabbed him around his knees, so he reached forward with all his might to grab with his free hands, his mother grabbed his hands back, so he tilted his head forward. At this point he was hovering about 5 feet over the rocks, but he was determined!
Next was a bonsai garden. I have never understood why bonsai is considered an art form until visiting that garden. The plants were gorgeous, peaceful, and evocative. One looked like a dragon, some like miniature trees or forests. Here are some bonsai examples:
There were other gardens, just as beautiful, representing all the regions of the earth. I saw my beloved hydrangea, date palms, and roses. Not to mention exotic jungle plants like nothing I ever imagined. But not everyone loves plants like I do, so I'll move on.
Other California delights included: a Thai Elvis impersonator at the most popular Thai restaurant in Hollywood, watching sea lions play and dolphins swim off the Balboa pier, watching the Christmas lights on the boats in the harbor come on while riding a ferris wheel, fantastic sea food, new friends, whale watching and seeing seven dolphins come up for air in unison, the 80 degree weather, and the stop at Trader Joe's (my old haunt). I don't know what I was expecting out of a trip to Southern California, but I know I wasn't expecting to fall in love the way I did.
Stand my Ground
I rang in the New Year relatively quietly, the way I most prefer to do and spent the first day of 2008 walking along a beach that is a national park. I peered into tide pools filled with sea anemones, hermit crabs, and a range of shellfish. I watched the sea birds run along the beach, into and out of the waves, and watched children run back and forth between their parents.
Later in the day I took a walk in a suburban neighborhood with a lovely yellow mutt, with more that a little German Shepherd in her. While we were walking along through a park, a tabby cat started eyeing us warily from the side of the path. I pulled the dog closer to me, hanging on tightly to the leash as we approached the cat. The cat did not back away. She hunched up her back and the hair along her spine stood up an extra half an inch. Not only did she not back away from her spot as the dog strained to get her, she followed after the dog, hair still on end. She followed us another 30 yards, which I assume was the extent of her territory and then sat down to watch us walk away. Her body language was clear: and stay out!
May 2008 be the year I learn to stand my ground in the face of any large challenge. May I have the strength to guard my territory and ask for the respect that I deserve.
Later in the day I took a walk in a suburban neighborhood with a lovely yellow mutt, with more that a little German Shepherd in her. While we were walking along through a park, a tabby cat started eyeing us warily from the side of the path. I pulled the dog closer to me, hanging on tightly to the leash as we approached the cat. The cat did not back away. She hunched up her back and the hair along her spine stood up an extra half an inch. Not only did she not back away from her spot as the dog strained to get her, she followed after the dog, hair still on end. She followed us another 30 yards, which I assume was the extent of her territory and then sat down to watch us walk away. Her body language was clear: and stay out!
May 2008 be the year I learn to stand my ground in the face of any large challenge. May I have the strength to guard my territory and ask for the respect that I deserve.
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