1 comments, continued

Re Kelly's post:

You're right to point out that almost nobody is really that pleased with their own looks. But the catch is unfailing-- when people are kind and I start to feel a little safer, something happens to make my stomach plummet and I may even get that strange pain in my chest... possibly some joke that came across the wrong way, or a comment he surely would not have made, had he thought a bit more, and suddenly it's like I'm the only person in the world with this problem. You're right: the trouble is in our focus. The trouble is not that I'm believing the wrong people, but that I am believing people. The only one who's always, always, always going to know the truth about me is God.

Thank you for encouraging me on the "job dedicated to helping people" front. I am really shocked, over and over again, at the way some people love and even respect me. It will never make sense to me, but it gives me the push I need to take risks and do what I can. They see things that are hidden to me. I suspect that's how it's meant to be for all of us.

"You get lots of tickets when you talk." Ha ha. Thanks. :) Truth is, though, you do too. You're just a little less abtruse.

About the expectations and being myself... I'm learning. I just regress sometimes.

What drugs am I using? Primarily an ancient depressant known as REM.

Maybe you're going to have to get me into Lost. If we have that kind of time.

Things do change really fast, don't they? I've recently seen it in Jordan. Wondered where my little brother had gone. And God reminded me that I had made those same transitions and then some more. It helps me see the whole thing, including my own future, in... perspective. Yes, Jenny will probably have kids by the time I get married, if I do. And what you said about me being a mother-- I hope you believe that for yourself.

Funny, all those thoughts about planes are ones I've had.

Nice bit about comets. :)

I hope you'll excuse the raised pitch here but YOU DO NOT HAVE A BUTCH VOICE. Honestly, I have tried to wave away many an envious thought on the subject. I like your voice.

Thanks for not minding my singing too much.

"I swear, kids do not like me." = Almost verbatim what Justin always said before Brayden came. Now, freed from the death grip of fear because this is his own child, he's ridiculously loving and Brayden loves him ridiculously. When the baby is at our house and Justin's jingle comes on the radio, Brayden searches the room in excitement, eyes wide, head still wobbling a little bit. Don't you remember yourself in NY? Kids will like you if you talk to them. Maybe for a while (like me) you'll have to be in the right sort of situation so you don't feel awkward, but I know we can both get past that.

You are not too intellectual. Here and there your analyses may cast a long shadow that makes some people feel uncomfortably like a Dorothy Gale who just landed in Oz. There is nothing wrong with that. As long as you shun arrogance, treat people with grace, and choose to see the beautiful-mysterious side of things as well, your practical intelligence will be a blessing.

I mean, my somewhat analytical personality helps me. When I was a kid, a friend tried to tell me that "people who ride bikes are not as good at running." As though biking is bad for your stamina. I guessed she was telling me some distorted outgrowth of the fact that biking and running use different muscles. 'Cause I have to think about why stuff is the way it is.

"Don't confuse laziness with not constantly adhering to what everyone else things you should be doing." Thanks.

"You can't help but change. You are alive." You're right.

Permanently saddled with this

I really, really don't want torturous to be a word. I don't like it. It's like a person with a third leg.

I do enjoy the word tortuous. So free and graceful without that ridiculous "r".

But the ugly word has its own definition and cannot be discarded.

TORTUOUS: convoluted, tangled, involved

TORTUROUS: excruciating, ...SATAN

God's joke on us?

I promised to "keep in touch", and Kelly says "stories = keeping in touch", so here's a story.

Last week Jenny and I went to Shadyside Park to speedwalk the trails. While we walked we discussed a variety of things, not least, of course, the pressing topic of exercise.

And then somehow the conversation turned to types-- you know, things that attract us. I pictured Jason standing high over the stove and cooking something so peppery it should burn holes in their palates, and I asked her whether she'd always been into men who are tall and lean. She told me there were a couple of things she'd been into:

A. Tall skinny guy.

B. Rugged natural guy who looks like he farms.

C. Black guy. Dancing black guy, even better.

I was pleased to find out about that last one; it makes three siblings who have harbored the same quiet thoughts of rebellion.

We were taking a long curve where the foliage forms walls that hide the path ahead. Jenny told me how a friend had commented on her marriage to Jason.

"Brittney said, 'Well, you didn't get your hot dancing black guy, but you got your farm boy.'"

She was just beginning to clarify that while her husband has never actually lived on a farm--

A shirtless man appeared jogging round the corner in a blur of copper-brown glory. In relaying the story to our mother, Jenny described him as "sculpted". I can't confirm that, because I was looking at his face, searching in vain for an expression. His face was deadpan. As we passed him, my sister and I glanced at each other in disbelief, and then I cracked up.

"Manda!" she scolded under her breath, but she was smiling big and then she was laughing too.

I love the way Jenny laughs.

Erythraeum, pt II

I wait by the water and stare at the sea
The light on the water is glaring at me
Surprised when the breath of the desolate east
Treads dry on the edge of an unmoving sea
It shakes like it sees something coming
Or I'm making believe and it's nothing
This has got to be where I start losing my mind
I cannot really stare into something this bright
But in all of my dreams you are waking me up
So fall on the water that waits between us

I'm fine, why?

If you ask me whether I'm worried about something, I'll usually say no. I don't mean to lie. It's just I regularly cohabit with such a wealth of preoccupations that a little extra does not seem worth mentioning.

The fact is, I'm distressed by the size of my waist, the shape of my knees, the dryness of my elbows, the asymmetry of my eyelids, the angle of my forehead. I slave away over my skin and hair and eyes, and never feel very good about them at all. I worry that people loathe me for taking long, scrupulous showers and being a smelly lump of oil anyway. I know some people have one outfit, but I have a hard time appreciating my wardrobe because surely people disapprove when I have to wear the same shirt twice in one week.

I worry that I'm not worthy material for a job at McDonald's, let alone a profession in social work. I worry that if I need to make change for customers, I'll never get used to it. I'm afraid I'm going to be one of those grown-up kids who don't move out until they're kicked out. I know I'm going to cause a brutal car accident eventually. I wonder how each person will reject me in his own way when word finally gets around that I'm not good at anything.

I worry that I use too many words to make my point. I worry about insulting a professor by doing badly on a test. I wonder when my professors will confer with each other and finally give up on me, when the Dean of Students will stop smiling at me, when she will ask me whether I'm using substances or having trouble at home.

I worry that I'll never be mature enough to be married. I fear that my husband will love me a little bit. I wonder whether I'll really be able to stand up for myself or sacrifice for his sake. I worry that we'll have differing opinions about sex and that he'll be right. I feel sure most of what I cook will be burned or slushy or both, and he'll opt for Chinese takeout when he can.

I wonder how I could ever get through pregnancy and childbirth. As I watch parents, I say to myself, "What a lack of discipline!" and "When I have a kid, I'm never going to talk at him that way," and all the while my gut tells me that when the time comes, I will be Monster Mom.

I live a couple of minutes from an airport, but since I was a kid I've got a sick feeling when a plane passes low overhead. I worry that scientists will succeed in their attempt to impregnate a man. I wonder when a comet is going to crush one of our continents. I worry that communists will overrun the country and put a ban on mascara.

I worry that my voice is loud and nasal, and I worry that I irritate people when I speak softly. I wonder whether I should stop making jokes, since people don't get them. I worry that I talk too much, don't reveal enough, and don't listen well. I doubt I'll ever have a conversation with more than two people at once and walk away feeling good about how I handled it. I feel I should adhere more closely to others' expectations, and I'm horrified by my capacity for bootlicking, fakery and cultural absorption. I sometimes doubt anyone actually likes me.

I feel like I'm too boring for children, too slow for people my age and too frivolous for people who are older. I feel like a prodigal spender who doesn't know how to have any fun. I want to believe it when someone says I can do something, but it's so much safer to let people set all kinds of limits on my potential-- you know, just to avoid being cocky. I consider myself a hardened criminal in disguise, and when asked whether I've ever committed a felony, I scour the darkest recesses of my memory-- just to be sure.

Sometimes I think I'm the only person in the history whose personality has no upside. I worry that my part-time laziness is an indication of what truly lies beneath the corroding surface of my character. I fear my acts of kindness just keep me from realizing that I am completely selfish. I'm scared I'll never change. God help me.

Surprises

111. The house always looks and smells and feels so welcoming.
112. Soft water for the summer!
113. I got much better grades than I expected.
114. I think my professors feel bad for me. Actual... pity, not just a vague sense of sympathy, "Well, you're a nice kid"-- no, I can hear the distinct gurgling, "You wound the heartstrings I didn't know I had." And I mean, it's kind of a weird, uncomfortable feeling, to be pitied, and I don't know what I'm doing to cause it, but I can't deny it helps me out sometimes.
115. Mrs Reddick is so cool that I actually miss being in her class.
116. My second year of college was really good. It scared me.
117. I'm glad I went on that trip to West Virginia. It scared me.
118. I'm trying to get a second job, though that scares the heck out of me too.
119. Mother bought me flowers, and they're really big and pink and soft and smell so wonderful I want to eat them, and I think this is the first time she's ever got flowers for me.
120. She is so patient with me.
121. So is Sherrill. And he's so gentle.
122. Sherrill likes Brayden, and Brayden likes Sherrill.
123. I keep finding out that I underestimated the incredibleness of my brothers and sister.
124. Jason Power seems to be kind of a miracle.
125. I like my car a lot.
126. Dad called me to find out when I'd be coming home.
127. He wrote a sweet card to Jenny and Jason.
128. Marty talks to me like an adult.

Advice

Advice people have actually given me, and which I have come to appreciate

"Don't speed."

"Always, always, always look over your shoulder before changing lanes."

"When you pass a parked car, always watch for little feet behind it. One day, I assure you, you will be glad you did."

"Don't ever think about what it 'would' be like if you had just been given a different life, a different body, whatever it is."

"If the Spirit of God suggests that you hug someone, do it."

"People love you the way they want to be loved."

"Don't withhold a compliment because you wish it were you instead."

"Whatever assignment looks the most impossible, do that first."

"Don't try to make everyone happy."

"Don't file your nails into a point."

Memory #11

Once Stephanie and I stayed at her grandpa's house, which was actually really close to mine. When her mom dropped us off, it was nighttime and he was nowhere to be seen. There is something fun about being alone in someone else's house, especially one that is unfamiliar and dimly lit, so I was pretty pleased to be there.

We set down our bags and kind of stood there for a minute, then Stephanie started looking for the TV remote and asked whether I'd ever seen Dr Quinn.

I hadn't, and subtly indicated a lack of interest.

Her shock was excessive, I thought. But I still didn't really want to watch the show, and began listing other possible activities.

We watched Dr Quinn.

I wore my hat the next day-- my favorite hat at the time, a plain black one with the Nike logo in white on the front.

Her grandpa was... either cleaning out his garage, or getting ready to sell the junk it contained. Because old stuff becomes more interesting right before you discard it, we nosed around in the boxes during the afternoon. I found a bottle of bubbles and secretly wished I could have one of my own.

Then we took a ride around his large backyard. The lawn mower we were sitting on was quite close to the ground and not a "riding" mower, but it was big enough to hold two kids. It traveled at a mind-bending five or ten miles per hour. My hat fell off as we swung into a particularly sharp curve, and the mower mutilated it before I knew what was happening. I yelled out, "Hey!" and somehow we stopped in about twenty excruciating seconds, but by that time we were several yards away from the small, pathetic black lump in the grass. I ran to it, picked it up, and stared at the shreds for a few moments, then returned in silence to the hat mower.