Quote of the Day. Amen.

"Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option."

Can I get an amen? Y'all don't hear me!

I Am Not Old! (I Don't Care What You Say)

Yes, today is my birthday. Yes, I am one year older. Yes, I'm inching towards "late twenties" at head spinning speed.

But let's get something straight. I am NOT old.

Don't give me that yang-yang claptrap. Naw. I said I am NOT old.

No, really. Give me a break. 26 is NOT old. I don't care what you say.

Okay, okay. If I lived in the Old Testament or something, yeah. I'd also probably have been married off to some old crusty guy and have a myriad of kids by now, too.

But, newsflash: I live in the 21st century. And in the 21st century, 26 is NOT old. In the 21st century, 26 is the age where you're in the midst of what has so conveniently been called the quarterlife crisis. 26 is the age where you are handlin' dat business while silently (or not so silently) wondering whether dat business you're handlin' is the business you were meant to handle. 26 is the age where you experience the ups and downs of apartment life (ups: freedom! downs: bills!). 26 is the age where you say, I've always wanted to go back to school full time and knock this Master's degree out, and you're resilient enough (and unburdened enough) to quit your job and do it. 26 is the age where you seize every opportunity to travel the world. 26 is the age where you face reality but aren't so tainted by world-weary cynicism that you don't still hope. 26 is the age where you finally realize what you want and aren't afraid to wait for it when going after it proves futile.

Por favor. 26 is NOT old. Like I said, I live in the 21st century, and in this unique moment in history, I am NOT old. And if you had a mug like mine that shines, "I'm still 19!" you would feel even more un-old.

Oh, uh-uh. Don't even think it. 26 is not even CLOSE to being old. I don't care what you say.

Night

The only Holocaust literature I've ever read would probably be classified as Young Adult. The Diary of Anne Frank, Number the Stars. I recently read Night by Elie Wiesel. It's a harrowing account of his time in Nazi concentration camps.

I guess maybe I fall into the trap of staying away from "depressing" stuff because I know how easily my mood is affected. I have to make sure I'm in a really good, resilient mood before I attempt anything by Haruki Murakami. I don't even listen to Coldplay anymore, despite how much I really love the band. I take advantage of every sunny day and brace myself for every rainy one. That's just me.

But sometimes we have to face the reality and even the horror of things because it is truth. We have to allow ourselves to come to terms with evil. Maybe we have to force ourselves to see how low humanity can go.

Something that scares me about being human (as if I could be anything else) is the recognition that we all have the capacity to commit atrocities. It's so easy to think, especially when you have made the choice to resist evil and surround yourself with positive, godly examples, that you are above sinking so low. But the fact is that we are all made of the same stuff. Given the right cocktail of circumstances, victim or victimizer, how can you say how you would react? How could you say that you'd never throw another human being into an incinerator if you were made to believe that you were superior and that you were completely justified in doing so? How could you say that you'd never kill another human being over a piece of bread if you were nothing more than a starving shell of what you used to be and your only impulse was the basic will to survive? How could you say that your faith would stay intact despite bombardment with demoralizing and dehumanizing images and situations: being jam packed into train cars without room to move or breathe, seeing babies thrown into fire pits, smelling the stench of burning human flesh, living in constant fear and being stripped of everything you love and hope for?

On the flip side, once seeing examples of the horror that humanity is capable is creating, in the end, I realize that even though I can't do anything about history, I still have a choice now. I can choose to rise above evil. I can choose not to sit idly by when I see evil being committed. I can do everything in my power to never allow the Holocaust to ever happen again.

I Want Laser Resurfacing Surgery

I can't believe I'm writing about this, but I must because it's about something that has bothered me for a long time.

From the time I was about 14 till I was a sophomore in college I had a horrendous and relentless struggle with acne. (It metamorphosed into inconceivably severe acne once I entered college.) The dermatologist prescribed everything under the sun. Seriously, if I were ever on a game show and one of the question categories were "Acne Medications" I could rack up some serious points. I finally arrived at the drug of last resort, the super-strong, use-only-if-all-options-have-been-exhausted, Accutane.

If you've ever read anything about it, you'd know it is not some stuff you mess with. Because there is a slight chance Accutane can mess up your liver, I had to get blood work done every month to make sure my whatever-it-is-that-can-mess-up-your-liver levels were normal. Since I'm female, I also had to take a pregnancy test every month because if a fetus were to ingest Accutane, it would turn into an awful-looking creature with an enlarged, misshapen head along with various and sundry other deformities. (They included a little drawing of one in the little pamphlet that accompanied each package to discourage the Accutane-dependent from putting themselves at risk to turn up preggers.) All of that to say that you have to be pretty badly off before a dermatologist recommends Accutane.

They say it's a wonder drug. And it pretty much was. They also say that once a round of it has been completed, 75% of people never have problems with acne ever again. I was one of the 25% that had to take another round of it to exorcise the acne demon from my pores once and for all.

Needless to say, the whole ordeal, from initial acne consumption to eventual Accutane cleansing, left my self-esteem in shreds. I must admit that I am still hyper-sensitive about my complexion, even though it looks better than it ever has post-treatment. Though I am so thankful that I don't suffer from it as I did before, here's my problem: The emotional scars left behind aren't noticeable, but the physical ones are.

Again, I know I have a lot to be thankful for. There are no huge, gaping holes, no deep, pitted craters. I know. But like I said, what is there is noticeable. And as much as I've tried to shrug it off and say, "Oh, well, I'll never have perfect skin, so I just have to live with it," something just won't let me leave it at that.

I have done a little bit of research into cosmetic procedures to smooth out scars. There's dermabrasion, microdermabrasion, chemical peels and laser resurfacing. One problem is that all of these procedures have additional risks for people like me who were born with tans (as I jokingly tell students of mine who moan, "Omigawd, I'm so pale! I'm, like, SO going to the tanning bed!"). Laser resurfacing seems to be the most successful with what I want done, and there are even lasers that can be used on all skin types. The key is to find a doctor who is experienced in working with ethnic skin.

Another big problem is that most of this stuff is crazily expensive, and homegirl ain't rich. In fact, I'm about to become really poor since I'm going back to school full-time in the Fall. This is awful, but sometimes I think I won't be completely happy with myself until I can somehow do whatever I can to remedy this lingering thing that has always bothered me. So, I'll either somehow strike it rich and go for it, or continue to go with the less expensive option of sucking it up.

The End of the Guy 2 Chronicles

Due to circumstances too mortifying to even begin to recount, there will be absolutely no more Guy 2 musings on this blog. I'm tempted to go as far as to delete everything on here I've written that has anything even remotely to do with Guy 2 (or any of his previous incarnations, which shall remain un-divulged), but, in the end, I look at it as, hey, what's done is done. Trying to artificially (and tardily) undo it would be utterly inauthentic. Somehow not true to myself. The reality is that once it's out there, it's out there, and no matter how much you'd like to, you cannot take it back.

Sometimes me forgets that this is the WORLD WIDE WEB we're dealing with here, baby. If you dish it out, you've got to be able to take it.

Meet the Sister

I really am sorry for this endless Guy 2 cataloging. But the best place to talk about it is in a place where nobody (with a few miniscule exceptions) knows who I'm talking about.

Today his little sister came in town to visit and he wanted me to meet her. Awwww. She was a cutie pie. The way he treated her made me wish I had an older brother. It's no fun being slapped with the "bossy big sister" stigma. I guess it has been well-earned, though. I won't lie.

I was just short of flabbergasted that he called me again today. Didn't he just see me yesterday? He told me his little sis was coming, but I figured they'd want some sibling time. I thought it was sort of sweet that he wanted to include me. I brought another friend along, and we all had a nice time. It was a beautiful day today.

Yet Another One for the Team

See this post for the title to make any sense.

Okay, obviously Guy 2 still wants to hang out. Obviously, I still do too.

The question is, when am I going to be "too busy" so that I don't slide back into emotional limbo?

This time it was ice cream and Books-a-Million.

We talked about Barack Obama, racial identity, what we each plan to do after we get our Master's, books we've read, books we plan to read, French and how it compares to Spanish, and yes, what we really "want." I gave him a recap of this. (I left out the "beyond my reach" part.) He initiated that whole question, so I answered it according to what I'd pondered. Whether he was smart enough (or presumptuous enough) for it to dawn on him, I dunno.

He's shorter than average (around 5'7), and I'm slightly taller than average (around 5'6), and he commented more than once on our heights. Like, he seemed relieved to know that he's actually taller than I am. Okay . . . I guess other times I'd worn shoes with somewhat of a heel, and this time I had on flip-flops. Why does it slightly intrigue me that he seems to care about being taller than me?

Why doesn't God just wrap this thing up? I've come to terms with the position we're both in, but what will it take for there to be some kind of closure and finality to everything? There are only three options:

1. He meets someone else.

2. I meet someone else.

3. God works a miracle and we end up together.

God, please do one of the three (or a combination of 1 and 2) so that I can know without a shadow of a doubt. Thank you.

Pinpoint

“I don’t know what I want” has been my mantra for a long time. In retrospect, being unsure of what I really wanted was a major player in the demise of my last (and only) serious relationship. The entire time, I questioned myself: How can he be so totally sure while I’m so totally not? I was the poster child of indecisiveness. The quintessence of vacillating, fickle hesitance. I couldn’t make up my mind. He was patient. It wasn’t fair. I bailed. (He later found a more decisive girl. He got married. He lives happily ever after.)

In addition to “I don’t know what I want,” I adopted a shoulder-shrugging, “Well, at least I know what I don’t want” philosophy and applied it liberally. Maybe even bordering on unfairly. But at least I realized that I could be decisive . . . although in the negative sense.

Recently, I’ve had the bittersweet realization that for the first time I recognize what it is that I want. It’s sweet because it’s not a lofty ideal. It’s not a disassociated, theoretical, irrationally idealistic concept. It exists in living, breathing, flesh and blood reality. On the other hand, it’s bitter because now that I can finally pinpoint it, it exists beyond my reach.

I guess it might do me (and the unlucky few who attempt to understand me through reading this stuff) well to explain what “it” is. A big part of it is drive. It isn’t type A, aggressive, anal-retentive, CEO drive. It’s altruistic, big picture drive. The kind of drive which always has the forest in mind despite the trees. It’s the kind of drive that can multitask, not the kind that single-mindedly plows ahead. It’s a flexible kind of drive that doesn’t reel and hemorrhage if it hits a snag. There’s a hunger in this type of drive that isn’t satisfied by accomplishing a quantifiable goal. In fact, the appeal to this drive is that it’s always seeking to learn, improve, augment. There’s no, “I have arrived. Time to turn it in, shut it down, cash out and settle into flat, status-quo existence.” This kind of drive continually seeks and yearns.

Another part of it is insight. It’s the ability to take the complexities, ambiguities, and contradictions of human beings into account. It’s the kind of insight that stunts reactionary responses to people’s actions. This kind of insight can view a humiliating, demoralizing experience as a genuine learning experience. This kind of insight is fitted with observant eyes and ears. The kind of insight that can even decipher my womanspeak! (Aside: I have a habit of unconsciously beating around the bush when trying to explain myself. It’s speech rife with disclaimers and euphemism, and simply trying to spit it out while grasping at words. This insight can take all of that, and turn it into pared-down, concrete statements that are exactly it.)

The drive and insight I described are at the heart of what I want. These are the essentials. The rest, as far as makeup is concerned, are details and, for lack of a better word, negotiable. But outside of makeup, “How can two walk together except they agree?”

Now that I can finally pinpoint it, it exists beyond my reach.

Go, Barack!

After watching his speech on race relations that he gave in Philadelphia this morning, I am even more convinced that Barack Obama is the man for the job.

So many times, Americans would rather sweep questions of race under the rug. It makes us uncomfortable to talk about it. We'd rather ignore things and hope they'll eventually go away and work themselves out, or worse, convince ourselves that race isn't an issue anymore.

Though I know people mean well when they say it, it bothers me when people profess to be colorblind. "I just don't see color." I know they're trying to say that they don't judge people based on color (and no matter what you say, we all do subconsciously), and that's admirable. But telling me that you don't see color is another way of telling me that you'd rather look past who I am so that we can all get along. Hold up. Don't look past me. Look at me. I want you to see me for who I am. Instead of focusing on minimalizing differences into watered-down, inauthentic generalities, we should recognize differences, do our best to understand differences, and embrace them.

In his speech today, Obama tackled some issues head on, and I highly admire him for the tact, balance and eloquence with which he pulled it off. It's almost 40 minutes, but once you start watching, it will be hard to turn away. If you have some time, stop, press play, and hear the man out. (The story in the end might bring tears to your eyes, so if you're a crybaby like me, be prepared!)

Another One for the Team

See this post for the title to make any sense.

Tonight is the first time in about a month I've hung out with Guy 2. "Do you want to grab something to eat later?" he texted. Oh, so off-the-cuff, just-friends, no-strings-attached. I hadn't seen him since the, um, fireball. No, not true, I randomly ran into him earlier this week.

It wasn't awkward or anything, we laughed, had fun and enjoyed each other's company as expected. No weird pregnant pauses, no rehashing of the fireball. It was fine.

I hate reporting this like it's some kind of breaking news. Teryaki chicken and Starbucks. Big whoop.

I mean, I feel alright about Guy 2. My hopes concerning him have changed, though. Though my mind still plays The Game, in all seriousness, I'm not hoping for things to change for my sake anymore. I'm primarily hoping things change for his. It may very well be that whatever God has for him has zero to do with me. And I'll have to be okay with that.

A Totally Unrelated Addendum

Today a flaxen-haired 6th grader innocently looked up at me while I was bent over helping her look up a word in a Spanish-English dictionary and asked, "How do you get your hair that way?"

I stepped back and blinked a few times, flummoxed. What way? I laughed nervously. Why did that question unsettle me? "I um, er . . . "

"I mean, it looks so smooth. Do you use hairspray?"

T'yeah. That and a lot of other stuff you've never heard of. "Yeah. Well, I straighten my hair, um, with a chemical that would burn your hair out if you used it and use a lot of other stuff. Um, hairspray, curling irons, moisturizers . . . "

"Well, all I have to do is wash my hair in the shower and blowdry it when I get out."

I just smiled, nodded and gave her a little teacherly pat on the head.

The Insane Game

I hate when my mind starts to play The Game.

It's ridiculous and a total and utter waste of mental energy. But The Game plays on. The rules are kind of fuzzy, but this is the gist of it:

1. Before The Game can start, I have to be experiencing some kind of maddening mix of uncertainty and hope about something.

2. There are two . . . okay, in sticking with the game analogy, goals. One goal is called "Why It's Totally Unreasonable and Never Going to Happen." The other goal is called "Why It's Okay to Think That in Spite of Everything, It Will Still Happen."

3. Then the whistle blows, and what would ordinarily be considered likely happenstances or mundane coincidences turn into little soccer-like balls that go hurtling into the direction of the "Why It's Okay to Think That in Spite of Everything, It Will Still Happen" goal. The goalie guarding it gets mercilessly pelted, and the balls that don't blindside him go whizzing past him into the goal with superhuman speed. The goalie guarding "Why It's Totally Unreasonable and Never Going to Happen" just kind of stands there. He's just chillin. He's examining his fingernails. His job is pretty much done even though The Game is going on, because (I forgot to mention this part of The Game) before the whistle blew to signal the start of the game, a big, firey, gignormous monster of a soccer-like ball tore past him into the goal and burned right through the net. It's now lying there abandoned, smoking on the ground.

4. Mind you, there are no teams per se, just balls that go flying in one direction except for the monster fireball that burned straight through the net on the other side. The score is always disconcertingly lopsided. 50 million-1. Something like that.

Okay, I've already reported on the huge fireball (albeit in hazy terms) concerning Guy 2. Now begins the onslaught of millions of little balls that go whizzing past at superhuman speed. And my goalie can do nothing to stop them.

• He called the other night!---GOOOOAL!
  
• I failed to mention to him I was going to Auburn for my Spain orientation thing the next day but still just happened to run into him on the way to the meeting!---GOOOOAALL!


• At the orientation meeting, I asked a girl next to me something about the forms we were filling out, and I when I looked over at her form while she was answering my question, I noticed that she had the same (uncommon) last name as Guy 2!---GOOOAAALLLL!

And these are just the most recent soccer-like speed balls. The irony of it all is that the winner of The Game is rarely the winner in real life. "Why It's Totally and Unreasonable and Never Going to Happen" often comes out on top despite the insanely lopsided score. There must be something about the sound of the speed balls whistling past that keeps my hopes, even if a mere millimeter, above ground.

In the end, I have faith that God can do anything, no, more than that, He's proven to me that He can on several occasions. But there's a difference between having faith and leaving things in God's hands and obsessively and irrationally clinging to an absurd, selfish wish. More than anything else, I pray that I don't pitch head first into the latter.

Kinda Cool How It Happened

I really need to get back to work on the dreaded midterm.

I will. After I write.

I totally forgot to mention a really cool thing that happened.

I'm definitely leaving my place of employment this time, and I've felt a little worried because I knew that it would be hard to find someone to take my place. Not because I'm this irreplaceable perfect person, please. It's just that many people either aren't willing to work with both elementary and middle school aged children, or aren't experienced in doing so, and on top of that, proficient in Spanish, which is kind of a must-have for my position.

Last week, I sought quiet refuge at Barnes and Noble at around 9 pm, fully expecting to have a people-less place to get some serious reading done. Whatever, the place was packed! I finally settled on sitting at one chair out of a 4-chair grouping. A 30-ish couple occupied two of them already. When the lady complimented my new Sketchers out of the blue, I noticed she had an accent and I asked where she was from. Peru. Well, then we started chatting up a storm in Spanish. Even weirder was that it turns out hubby knew a bunch of people I knew from an A/P church he used to attend in another city. The voluptuous denim skirt kinda gave me away, I guess. Anyway, Peruvian lady and I hit it off really well and we met for coffee later on that week. She told me all about her life in Peru, and how she met her American hubby. It turns out that after a degree and career in Business, she realized teaching was her calling and went back to school and majored in what we'd consider Early Childhood Education. She's had experience teaching little ones, and she also had experience teaching older kids English as a Second Language (her English is fabulous because she grew up learning it and went to a British high school in Peru).

Anyway, that night it dawned on me that she would be perfect to take my place if she were interested: she has experience working with younger and older kids, she's well-traveled and can bring that experience into the classroom, and she's naturally fluent in Spanish. The next day I called her up and asked her if she'd be interested, and she said she'd love to because she was wanting to get back into teaching. I emailed Headmaster about it today and he said he'd call her this week!

I really felt a relief because I think she's a great candidate for the job and I feel confident about her being able to handle it, and to be creative and have fun with it. I don't feel like I'll be leaving my place of employment high and dry to try to scramble to find someone.

God is so weird. I mean, in a good way. He places people in our paths and He handles things in His own way. The way I met Peruvian lady and her husband was so random . . . but things just sort of slid into place. It makes me feel more secure about what I'm doing because everything concerning my upcoming transition is doing just that--sliding into place. It gives me hope that other unresolved issues concerning this transition will follow suit.

In the Meantime

I finally got the reading done that I wanted to get done this weekend. Now, it's time to embark on the midterm. Which, naturally, I don't feel like doing.

In the meantime, I'm trying not to wonder so much.

I thought I came to terms with it. I mean, I did. Didn't I?

You know when you're trying not to think about something, and the fact that you're trying not to think about it is what brings it even closer to the forefront of your mind?

Is there a fine line between being resolute and being in denial?

I have placed things in God's hands and I can honestly say that I don't intend to take them back out again. It's just that I wish I didn't care. I hate the fact that every time my phone rings and it isn't him, my heart sinks. I really do. I wish there were some magical way to snap out of it. To just suck it up and move on. I mean, life is moving on whether I want it to or not, so why not make a noble effort to keep up?

However, I realize my wish to not care is akin to wishing I weren't myself. And the reality of it is, I'm going to be me for the rest of my life. Whether that's great news or disappointing news is totally up to me.

Political Name Calling

This morning, I read that an Obama aide resigned because she told a Scottish newspaper that Hillary is a "monster."

Again, I'm easily amused, but that's funny. I guess it was heightened by all of these mental images I got of Hillary arising out of Loch Ness. Or of a giant Hillary breathing fire and wreaking havoc on New York.

I mean, if you're going to make a snarky comment, make a snarky comment, but a "monster"? LOLOLOLOL. Homegirl was kidding herself if she thought they were going to let a little pearl like that stay "off the record."

Obama's still my man, but his peeps keep inadvertently shoving him under the bus. First the way overblown "NAFTA-gate," now this. Obama peeps really need to realize that any little slip up is going to be mercilessly pounced on in an attempt to sift my guy as wheat.

Laugh-Cry Addendum

I stumbled across this gem doing a Google search for "McCain hugging Bush." I'm telling you, every time I look at the picture it's funny. But here's an even funnier addendum. Click here to see an even bigger and higher quality picture replete with gut-busting comments and caption suggestions. My fave? "Heal this man!" LOLOL.

I'm Sorry, but This Is Hilarious

Some people get sick of hearing about politics, especially during an election year where the primaries (well, the Democratic one) has been so prolonged. But I thrive on it. I love it. Here's a still from an ad run by anti-war group Campaign to Defend America that I saw on cnn.com's political ticker. It made me laugh-cry:



Instead of McCain, "McSame"! And look at the way McCain looks hugging Bush! And look at Bush! Omg, it's too much, too much . . .

Come on, whether you're a Rep or a Dem or an independent somewhere in the middle, you have to admit that the picture and "McSame" are hilarious.

Scallop Fettuccine

(sigh) There's a million things I could be doing other than this. There's always something to do. (sigh) I have a midterm due soon and I still have a class to watch and a billion and one pages to read before I can even think about attempting it. Professor is really cool and posted it online and it's open book and everything, but still. Open book is not awfully useful with essayish questions and I'm not keen on, well, for lack of a better term, BSing my way through it. That may work in high school and in undergrad, well . . . okay, it did work in high school and undergrad during those desperate times when it was a procrastinator's last resort. But not this time, baby. Uh-uh.

Nevertheless, here I sit with a baby oil-drenched scalp (a precursor to chemically straightening my hair), and I figured I'd share a few photos of my latest culinary creation. I had a taste for seafood. And I love pasta, so I concocted this idea: I would boil some fettuccine, whip up one of those wonderfully seasoned garlic and herb alfredo sauce packets, sautee some scallops, add some crumbled bacon and see what resulted. And, surprisingly, the results were oh, so good:


Mmmm.

Mmmmmmmmmm!

The good thing about cooking for one is that there are ample leftovers--which means tomorrow morning I can dump some in a plastic container, stuff it in my teacherly lunch bag and skip out the door. No frantically searching for something worthy of human consumption to throw in there in my rush out of the door only to realize what a crummy lunch I have when lunch time rolls around and my stomach wants something substantive. Naw. I got me a good lunch tomorrow, youknaaimsayin?

Okay. On to my monthly chemistry project.