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Pucker up, you saucy bottle you. It’s my first single new year’s eve since … yikes … 2005? And I’ve chosen you.
The year’s been a very good one in many, many ways. I feel I’ve gained a lot of clarity. In my life, in where I’m going; in where I belong and how it all fits together. Not dating J: good step! Making new friends: two thumbs up! Finding a new church, and really getting involved: brilliant!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a wanderer in this life as much as the next girl. But I think I’ve made some good decisions—hard decisions, but good ones—that have better carved my path.
Happy or not, however, there’s still something rather sickening about being the only single person in a family full of apparent lovebirds.
The party ringing in the new year around our (not entirely legal) bonfire will consist of the following: my parents, affectionate as always; the biochemist and her PDA’s-for-every-day husband; my little sister and her since-we-were-16, practically family boyfriend. And me, shivering on my own, with no one to rub my shoulders or kiss my neck or tell me he loves me.
I am stranded in the mountains. No cell service, and shaky internet. Send wine.
I hesitate to say that I’m afraid of being single, but in a lot of ways I am. It’s easy for me to cover this up back in my routine; I’ll busy myself with other things, other interests; I engage myself in friendships and other relationships to fill that void. Those things are good on their own, certainly. But they let me skim over the things I don’t want to see.
Sometimes you really have to face your fears to be able to conquer them, or control them, or tame them into something manageable. In that respect, I think it’s fortunate that we’re all up here at the mountain retreat, lest I’d be tempted to ring in the great 09 with school friends downtown: another toast to good things and good luck; to finding Mr. Right without the attendant pain of really missing him. Five hours and a lot of difficult snow driving separates me from that alternative; plus, operating the 4-wheel drive beasts that delivered us here freaks me out entirely. Alas.
A few things I’ve learned so far on this trek through the wilderness of the be-coupled: I’m a wicked-fast skate skier when not burdened with a slower partner. When I opt to just watch the world from behind a good novel, no one seems to think I’m sad or otherwise pitiable. I can outlast everyone in the hot tub. I swear I could grow fins and live happily in that 103’ world forever more.
And so I find myself here, in the lingering days of what was a very long year; watching the snow fall and listening to the fire crackle. Staring down those singledom demons head-on, and finding contentment from the bottom of that barrel.
That’s how it works, right, things get easier from here?
I resolve to believe so. I mostly thing resolutions are overrated (code: I rarely accomplish them, and hate having written proof of the same). But since it’s new year’s and all and I’m feeling rather in the spirit, here are a couple. To be happy with the state of me as me, not as someone’s “other.” To keep writing, here and elsewhere. To buck up and find a GP and go in for a physical, since my insurance will pay for one annually and although it’s been two years I STILL HAVEN’T GONE. To cook less from the helpful freezers at trader joe’s, and more from the impressive range of cookbooks gathering dust in my kitchen. To be good to my heart: with relationships, with exercise, and of course with the regular glass of red wine.
Cheers cheers, 2009! Those unfolding calendar pages are blank, yes, but they hold so much promise. Bring it.
Sometimes I think I have a really uncanny knack for luck and good grace. Really bad things happen to really good people all the time, but somehow, I scrape by. I’m like a professional bullet-dodger. Sure, sometimes I end up nicked, but never really shot. One of these days my number will be up. I thought fate had finally come knocking yesterday, that it was, at long last, time to stare destiny down. Punch ‘em up, knock ‘em down, throw-down style. But alas. Not yet.
There were two pictures of SeaTac airport in the Post yesterday, both offered as examples of the penultimate holiday travel chaos. “Travelers in trouble,” the captions read; “for the love of all things good and holy, please say you aren’t headed here,” their underlying theme. The amount of snow and its continuing persistence in this city is completely unprecedented. Flights have been cancelled all week as planes have frozen over and the de-icing people can’t get their goods across the pass; runways have closed; flight crews have been stranded.
But then, a window of calm. Temperatures warmed up. The mailman and the UPS man resumed their schedules (meaning: my boots came! Yaaaaay!) and my parents made it to Costco. My flight came in, only abut a half hour late; me in a row of two disgruntled Seattlites who had been trying to leave DC since the 21st. At SeaTac, the line for customer service snaked around past the Starbucks. At first I thought it was the line for the Starbucks, but even in Seattle, that would have been insane. Lucked out again, I did: there was my bag, right on schedule. We got in, up the hill, and safely home.
And then sometime around midnight, another bout.
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
All of you Northeasteners and Midwesterners are probably all bah, that’s nothing. But it is out here! It is!
I spent the afternoon shoveling the driveway with dad, and my shoulders will tell you that this is without a doubt not an exercise they’re used to. (Incidentally, as it is an exercise that entirely pre-paid for the calories in this glass of wine here, I’m inclined to say I’d do it again).
Our hard work notwithstanding, it doesn’t look like we’ll be making it out of here to church tonight. It’s just as well, I think; as long as we’re here, and warm, and together … well, that’s what Christmas is all about, isn’t it?
We’ll just go ahead and ignore the fact that I CAN’T BELIEVE it’s already here, and that I feel like actors might in movies set at Christmas that surely can’t all be filmed at Christmas. So they’re just running around, saying “Merry Christmas,” wearing their sweaters and wrapping their presents, but then they go home at the end of the day and it’s still March or whatever.
Even still. It’s shaping up to be a very Merry White Christmas, I think. Very Merry indeed.
His name wasn’t George. My master plan was to wait for him to call at 2, answer all innocent-like, and wait for him to say “hi, it’s X.” Instead? “Hey, how are you?” FAIL. I hadn’t really thought it past that. Proceeding then on a smiles-and-pleasant-greetings basis, we were off.
It turned out he’d done his shopping, so we opted instead to walk down to the waterfront and cruise through the art galleries there. It’s a nice walk, and it was a perfect day for it; everything was all festive and decked out. We stopped in at Starbucks (him: so, you’re a Starbucks girl? Me: um, yeah; best to get at least that straight from the outset). He whipped that credit card in and out so fast that there was no room for prying eyes. Still we talked, and still we wandered.
On the way back up, good fortune brought one of the Theresas out running. She stopped us, said hi, and I played for a moment the role of Extremely Rude Friend Who Does Not Introduce Her Companion. A slight awkward silence, and she took the bait. “I’m Theresa,” she said to him, extending a hand. Bingo.
I hate to be that girl, and I don’t know this Theresa well enough to e-mail her later and explain (and by this I mean, simply, that I don’t have her e-mail).
His name actually is Yosh. But not Yosh as in Josh; Yosh as in … well, as in longer-o Yosh; like the beginning of “kosher” or “lotion.” His mother is Japanese, he said, and no, he doesn’t speak. (poof, goes the dream of bilingual babies).
He was a really nice guy, and we had some good conversations. The whole thing just lacked a little bit of magic, though; there wasn’t any sort of palpable attraction. I feel like I’d love to be his friend, to see more art galleries, and maybe grab dinner sometimes near home—but there was no pull. None of that hoping he’d put his arm around me; none of those flutters in my heart when his name (or, okay, George) popped up in my text-inbox telling me what a great afternoon he’d had.
Maybe it’ll grow? Maybe it just needs some time? We’ll see. He said he’d call in the new year, and given his recorded perfection re: timing and punctuality, I’ve no doubt he will. But I’m not wrought with anticipation, or really anything even close.
I was talking all of this over with one of my newly-single bestests back home later in the afternoon, conversations while sitting in the wall of traffic that was 495: how is it that I’ll so easily fall for guys who don’t call back; who aren’t really a good fit; or who are generally not interested, yet when a guy comes along who seems to check every box in smooth, confident strokes I can’t muster a real feeling?
She said it may just be a matter of perspective, a matter of timing. That maybe we can’t let our expectations govern everything; that when things are right, they’ll just fall into place, and we shouldn’t force it. Stop stressing; stop looking for the reasons it isn’t perfect right now and just let it play itself out, in other words.
Perspective and timing. These words came back to me, albeit in an oh-so-slightly different context, an unfortunate two hours later.
Perspective: Just because all of your friends have gone home does not mean that all the world has skipped town this weekend; this here capital is not a college town and there are loads of people who live here and make their homes here. Permanently. Forever and ever.
Timing: the Saturday before Christmas is a spectacularly bad time to just “run to the mall for some snowboots.”
Sometimes I really worry about myself, mentally.
Evidently Seattle is experiencing a massive, massive influx of snow (dear Alaska Airlines, please, please do not cancel my flight. Thanks). Mom to Magda Friday night: “be sure to wear your snowboots on the plane, or pack them on top, because if it’s still this bad, we won’t be able to get back up the hill, and we’ll have to hike it.”
My parents live at the top of a steep slope east of the city, sure, but to listen to mom you’d come away convinced it’s a Grinch-style treacherously curving clifftop. It isn’t. We’ve never, howsoever bad the snow has gotten, had to walk it, though I’ll give her that it’s been feared.
My first reaction was “snowboots? What snowboots?” I don’t own snowboots, and I’m certainly not storing them here in this little apartment in Virginia. Then I remembered a fantastically ugly pair of man-boots with my name on them, purchased by a frugal mother at Costco or similar, up at the mountain house. And I remembered my resolution on leaving there last winter that I needed to replace them with something cuter, stat. Right.
All it takes for some mistakes is one failing and you’re cured for life. This boot-hunt was one of them. I am NEVER, EVER going to the mall the weekend before Christmas, EVER AGAIN. In fact, I may not leave my house on that weekend, ever again.
Chaos. It was nothing less than total and complete chaos.
Angry policemen directing the five zillion slow-moving cars. Parking lines jammed for miles because one mini-van can’t load up fast enough, and one petulant beemer will sit there blocking everything with its blinker on for the 14 minutes it takes these people to Get The Hell Out.
The warzone in Bloomingdales, where the shoe section is complete anarchy; elbows and overturned displays and scattered shoes like the place was presently being looted.
Nothing cute in boots anywhere, because the winter season is in full swing and I wear the most popular size; but fighting haggard shoppers with be-tinsled bags and boxes, straining the resources of overworked and overlooked floor salesmen to come to this conclusion.
The battle to get back out, to find this maze of a mall’s exit, and the joy of the open freeway that seriously almost made me cry in thankfulness. That I got out with my life. And that my car didn’t get crunched.
At home, I opened a bottle of wine, and ordered boots online. Free shipping, and guaranteed Christmas delivery! Drumroll please … 
Love.
Life lessons: sit back, relax, and don’t try to force it. Sometimes it really is just that simple.
There’s really something to be said for good attention. The attentive kind of attention that doesn’t cross the line into being pushy, but doesn’t leave you insecure wondering what, if anything, is next.
I met a guy on Wednesday, somewhat unexpectedly; our apartment building was having a holiday party of sorts, and I really (really) only went for the food (but then again, don’t I always?) It had been a rough day at work, I fear I looked miserable, and I just wasn’t in the mood to do much of anything. Except, well, to eat. I could so seriously never be anorexic; where good food is, there too shall I be.
He met my eye over the turkey platter; I don’t think we’ve met; I live on the tenth floor, he said, and behold a conversation was born.
We chatted for all of about five minutes, really; he seemed genuine, and easy to talk to. We had some things in common: we’re both lawyers, it turns out, and both from the West Coast. I wasn’t really oh-my-god attracted to him, but honestly that just wasn’t where my mind was. He said he had to run, but would love to talk more soon; maybe coffee sometime?
Sure, I said, and pronto, my number slid right into his BlackBerry.
Honestly, I didn’t expect much.
Two hours later, a text. It was so nice meeting you, let’s try to get together before the holidays. I have something of an aversion to texting, as has been documented. But this was sort of endearing. It called for action. And he was making the move.
I leave for Seattle Tuesday, if you’ve time before then…
Thursday, mid-afternoon, a response. Do you have christmas shopping still to do? I have time tonight; let’s raid the pentagon city mall.
So let’s review the evidence thus far. We have here guy for whom I mayn’t have had initial “wooo, green light!” feelings, but I daresay he’s climbing the ranks. Why? Because he played it cool. Because he played it interested. Because he intentionally put himself in the running. Really, I’m fantastically tired of guys who say, hey, let’s go out! I’ll write! Soon! And I’m basically stalking my own voicemail for weeks thereafter, hesitating to plan In Case He Calls. He wrote right away; wasn’t too forward; made me feel important to him. I was on his mind. He prioritized me, and made an effort to squeeze me in to what is certainly a chaotic time of year. That, that is extremely attractive.
Alas, a late night in the office and plans already for the evening led to regrets. But I have Saturday afternoon free…
He said he’d clear his schedule. Does 2 o’clock work?
It did. But there’s just this slight kink, see.
I don’t know his name.
Yeeeeah. When he introduced himself, I could swear he said his name was George. I was eating, and kind of distracted; it wasn’t exactly quiet, so I guess I could be wrong?
The first text, which my cell of course recognized as “George,” was signed “–Yosh.” Yosh? Is that a typo for Josh? A clever way of signing off? A really unusual name?
Whatever the story, this George/Yosh character and I are on for 2pm Saturday. Points for persistence. Truth of it is, I’m really looking forward to it.
The altogether lovely Suz over at 30 before 30 list tagged me yesterday with the following assignment: list six things that make you happy. It really couldn’t have come at a better time; it’s been one of those “woe is me, work freaking sucks, WHY ME, life, WHY ME” sets of days around here.
Focusing on the happy is just the tonic, I think. Her post was artistic and charming with cute pictures; mine pales in comparison because (1) I’m just not that good a photographer; (2) while I’m totally not above borrowing photos from this wide Internet, and while I know many are public domain, I (cough) work tangentially with copyright infringement, so I’d best not be making those sorts of downloads from my work computer; and (3) since mr. manager/dictator here is rather breathing down my neck, I’ll try to keep this short and sweet. Ah, the blog. Keeps me sane so very often.
[UPDATE: eh, screw 'em. Images are fun. My boss is out at the moment. And don't I deserve a lunch break, too? Wooo Google Image Search!]
1. Hot Tea. 
I love a good mug of tea; holding it, sipping it, feeling all warmed up. It’s like my mom always says, a cup of tea makes it better, even if just a little bit. I keep a varied stash here in my office, and likely drink far too much. At my right here is cup number five. Hmmmm.
2. Japanese Art.
I don’t know what it is about Japanese art that makes me so happy, but it does. The ornate simplicity, maybe. It speaks to me like no other art ever has. I think I see in it a longing that is all too familiar; haunting, almost. It’s hard to describe.
3. The Semi-Colon.
Ah, proudest of punctuation! I’m an avid semi-colon fan. I use it all the time; makes for such lovely sentence flow, and can really give an almost musical quality to writing. I love love love a properly placed semi-colon. I was at a bar not long ago and a guy there, somewhere in a misguided attempt to flirt with me, asked me if I had any pet peeves. I answered (somewhat drunkenly) “semi-colon abuse.” Who says that?!
4. My Car.
It seems shallow, somehow, to list a material possession on a limited list of things that make me happy, but I have a serious love affair with my car. My car is named Fiona. It smiles at me when I see it in the parking lot, I swear it does, and every time I see a similar cousin out driving on the road, I’m all, “now there’s a cute car.”
5. The Catholic Church.
The Church and I don’t always see eye to eye, that’s true, but I find it an incredibly beautiful institution. More so recently, I think, I’ve come to appreciate the innate sense of community there, and have come to really love the depth of the faith.
6. Boots.
Tall boots, flat boots, riding boots, ugg boots: wearing them makes many a bleak day seem so much brighter. Probably why I favor the fall/winter over the spring/summer. Well, at least in terms of footwear.
Happy!
I seriously believe that everyone should complete this assignment. It’s put me in a better mood today just planning it out. Need a boost? Get crack-a-lackin’ and sharpen those pencils!
As much as I want to be all sparkly and cheery this time of year, sometimes the Bah Humbug seems a lot closer that it should. People are grumpy. Stress is everywhere. My Internet is ridiculously slow (I hate you too, Comcast). Before I even realize it, that nuclear-strength eggnog they’re serving down the hall is seeming an awfully tempting escape, and I don’t even like eggnog. Where are those sugar-plum fairy wings when you need them?
Sometimes you have to fudge them a little bit. Sometimes you just have to work with what you’ve got.
I got home earlier tonight than I’d expected, on account of a cancelled book group; I checked the mail, and found still more bills (speaking of bah humbug…) along with loads of charitable asks. I always read those, and I want to give them all money. But of course this isn’t possible, or practicable, really. I got a note from one of my favorite DC groups, though, and it got me thinking.
I may not have given them anything at another time. But I figured, hey, I’d budgeted money to spend tonight that I wasn’t going to, so may as well send them that $20 and call it a wash (and when I say “I budgeted,” I mean this loosely. Very loosely: i.e. “thought I’d probably spend.” Yeeeah).
I logged on to their site (airline miles too, double bonus!) and sent those numbers off to play.
That’s about when those wings took off, I think. I logged into my World Vision account (shameless plug here because THEY’RE AWESOME) and, um, continued to rack up the miles. For the stockings of my sisters, parents, and brother-in-law, I have procured the following: two chickens; two ducks; hope for sexually exploited girls; food for Africa; and aid for the Mothers and Girls Health Fund.
Woooo! Christmas cheer for the world. No eggnog required.
I turned up the Christmas music (Britney Spears might have been involved, not gonna lie), and was doing my own little happy dance. I danced right into my running shoes and down to the gym which (in this trend of not lying) hasn’t happened in a loooong time. Since before Thanksgiving, definitely. All the elipticals were in use so I had to run, which was tremendously unfortunate; I could only go two miles (depressing), but that’s at least, what, two cookies? At least. I love Christmas.
Nine days till Christmas, it’s raining in my gmail, and my mind is resisting cries of “work!” in favor of “think!” My motivation is feisty like that. Very open to suggestion; keep bad dogs on tight leashes being the moral. Or something.
In the mail last night, among the many insidious slips titled “you owe us money” and the catalogs promising last-minute gifts for the eco-friendly/cat lover/wine aficionado on your list (and, um, gloves knitted with the recycling symbol on them? For $55? Is that a joke?), I found a Christmas card from my very first boyfriend. This isn’t like one of those out-of-the-blue random pieces of history that sometimes just falls out of the sky; no, we’ve been pretty regular correspondents over the past few years, so it wasn’t so much the surprise that struck me. It was the symbol, the “what it all means” of it.
Like, why do I still know this guy? How is it that we’re such tight friends? What would the girl getting trashed in an Oxford pub circa 2000 think if she saw me now, holding this letter, reading these words about how I mean the (platonic) world to him?
Our relationship was, I see now through the lens of time, somewhat ill-advised. I met him my first year of college; I was 17, and had never dated. As in, had been on zero dates; as in, got my education of what relationships are supposed to be about from YM magazines covertly lent from friends and the Party of Five era of TV. A somewhat suspect tutelage, to say the least.
It was rocky; up for awhile, but then crashing spectacularly back down. The whole thing finally combusted (much, I think, to everyone’s secret relief) when I went away to study in England. The distance did us in (but I ended up, for a time anyway, with a fabulous British accent every time I got drunk thereafter. The life of many a party I was, on his account!).
We didn’t really speak again until the weeks leading up to his graduation. We were e-mail friends throughout my senior year. Through law school, I swear, the letters he’d write got me through.
I saw him again when I was in LA for work last year; that’s where he is, back home. Living with his parents, actually, and working at Trader Joe’s (Magda: she picks winners). He’s been seriously dating the same girl going on four years now, and I’m glad. (She? Also works at Trader Joe’s. Is it mean that I find this somewhat hilarious?).
He’s one of the only people who has my work phone (and actually uses it). He never forgets my birthday. And he’s always there with a text message when I need a smile.
I don’t know how it happened, or what changed. But ten years on, finding that card was like a pie in the sky revealed, or better yet, a pie here on my desk with a fork and a napkin: just about the happiest thing I can imagine.
Strangeness has befallen this place, I think. I was just over at the liquor store during lunch (and no, not because work’s THAT bad; I’m entertaining this weekend) and here’s the thing: I didn’t get carded. At the state liquor store. No ID required. Curious.
There are a few plausible explanations.
(1) My neighborhood Virginia ABC is a sham organization fronted by the mafia, where counter-operatives meet and lawlessness reigns (I KNEW IT! I knew it).
(2) I’ve suddenly lost my youthful glow and am just presumed to be among the elderly adult of our population (what a depressing thought).
(3) I go there so often that I’m practically a fixture, and it’s a real wonder they didn’t say “hey, Magda, good to see you today” the minute I walked in the door (Hmmmmm).
Wow is it time for the weekend. Friday cheers all around!
Loving: that I totally kicked some ass on an analytical piece yesterday.
Hating that my managing editor has conspicuously withheld all praise.
Loving: that a cute suit smiled genuinely at me this morning on the metro.
Hating that he was wearing a wedding ring.
Loving: that I know my smarttrip card’s balance is protected, and can be replaced.
Hating that this is why:
Loving: that I am officially licensed to practice law again throughout 2009. No record of disciplinary actions against this lawyer, etc.
Hating that this cost $222 (Merry Christmas, Magda! Love, The Bar Association).
Loving: that my apartment is totally in the Christmas spirit.
Hating that my schedule these days makes it such that I’m rarely there.
Loving: that that envelope under the tree is for my Albanian sponsored child.
Hating that he’s so far away, and that his childhood is necessarily so much less privileged than was mine.
Loving: that I have the means to make his day a bit brighter.
Hating that I can’t do this for every child who needs it.
Loving: that we’ll all be out on an extended “holiday lunch” today, so productivity is not expected to be high .
Hating that this necessarily entails prolonged social exposure to my hateful managing editor and his wife.
Loving: that I’m helping host a christmas cookie exchange party this weekend. Wooo good friends and fattening foods!
Hating that so far only ONE of the Theresas has so much as responded to the evite. I mean seriously, girls.
Loving: that in two weeks I’ll be home again, home again, jiggety jog, all Seattle-style.
Hating that this means Christmas will be over lickety-split.
Loving how far I’ve come in a year.
And hating, happily, really nothing on that one.
It’s been a positively electric day so far. I swear I’ve been sparking off of doorknobs and tea mugs, elevator doors and computer keys since leaving home a few hours ago. I remember learning about static electricity in elementary school, and my sisters and I all got a kick out of rubbing balloons on our hair—and the dog’s hair—to demonstrate. I won’t lie, I still find this pretty amusing. Today, though; today, I’ve got it going on in a big way. It’s electric!
I’m so intrigued knowing that there are electrical fields, and magnetic pulls; invisible forces that keep us where we are and lead us on to where we’re going. Powers that keep everything in balance.
Like Stonehenge, right, and the force-fields that those Druids just knew were there. The way the circles just happen to intersect the invisible channels of energy; how every circle in the isles, even miles and miles apart, is on the very same line. (Raise your hand if you watch too much Discovery Channel. Ohhh, me! Me!).
There’s a lot more to this life than we can see.
I went to confession this weekend, for the first time since I was confirmed. This is most unusual for me. Lord knows I’m not really a by-the-books Catholic, and I’ve passed bover myriad confession opportunities over the last years without regret, without blinking an eye. It wasn’t for me, not then.
I found myself at a young adults Advent reflection on Saturday, though, and against the backdrop of the priest’s touching talk and the Christmas music floating from the back of the sanctuary, I just felt it. I wasn’t planning to walk into that screened room. I certainly wasn’t planning on writing about it. (That’s one of the joys of the veil of the blog: I can write without inhibition, and as the words come; I can share aspects of my real life that I’m more hesitant to share, well, in my real life. It’s a bit of a paradox, that).
My confession was rough, but it was honest. I didn’t know what I was doing, or what to say; I botched every single prayer, and I was so nervous. But then, a calm. A real force; a sense that there was really, truly something there. It felt good. I think I’ll go back.
I’m flawed, sure. But I’m also electric. Those forces, they’re keeping me upright.
All of this makes my new-found dewey decimal ranking so fantastically apt, I think. Because we all know I love the cheesy wisdom of the wide, wide Internet …
magda’s Dewey Decimal Section:
358 Air & other specialized forces
magda = 31741 = 317+41 = 358
358 Air & other specialized forces
magda = 31741 = 317+41 = 358
Class:
300 Social Sciences
Contains:
Books on politics, economics, education and the law.
What it says about you:
You are good at understanding people and finding the systems that work for them. You like having established reasoning behind your decisions. You consider it very important for your friends to always have your back.
So maybe I’m not all over the politics, or the econ. But that notwithstanding? Yes, yes I think this is my section. The force is SO with me today.
