Sometimes I really hate Facebook. Not often, but when it serves as a tool to remind me on a semi-regular basis just how single I am, I do. Almost daily I discover one new acquaintance who has either gotten married or having a child, or both.
This rant or complaint session is not completely in agreement with my standards or life expectations as late. In fact, you could say they are quite contradictory to my latest future plans. Every now and then I get the travel bug. It's like an itch I just have to scratch. I want to travel the world, see everything, go everywhere, learn about different cultures, learn new languages, etc. How could this be possible without being completely independent?
Yet I can't help but fantasize about doing all this with a partner. I see the pages of people I've known traveling with their husbands, seeing the world and living. Living. Together. How much more romantic could you get? Today I happened upon some pictures of a girl I knew in college. She just got married wearing the most gorgeous gown I've ever seen. Her pre-wedding party was on the Red Sea. She and her husband had the most beautiful professional photos I've ever seen taken. I was overflowing with jealousy.
But why should I be jealous? In fact I've been elated lately with this newfound sense of independence I've developed. For the first time in my life I've been actually relieved to not be tied down; to not owe anything to anybody. Yet, part of me still years to find my other half, my soul mate, if you will. Is that a bit contradictory? Perhaps I can simply justify it by my Gemini-ness, which I do define to the T.
Maybe not in the near future, but I do want to be married. I certainly have no clue what my future will hold, but I can't help but fret that it will be experienced entirely alone. It's a bit terrifying.
Today while reading serenely in the warm air on my balcony I watched a pregnant neighbor watering her lawn. I had never seen her before, but she looked about to burst. Wearing a heather grey maxi-dress which only accentuated her ready-to-burst belly, she spoke jovially with another neighbor across the street. I imagined what I would look like pregnant. As someone who has always had a few hangups about my weight, it was strange to find myself thinking this. A thought that once would have nauseated me was now, suddenly, intriguing me. I imagined myself pregnant with twins, a handsome foreign husband by my side visiting my current job telling my boss about all the adventures my husband and I had gone on, the places we'd seen, the things I had done with my career, and even imagining which possible country my wedding and the conception of my children had occurred in.
Yes, I've daydreamed about my future before. Yes, it often includes a husband. But rarely does pregnancy ever factor in. Usually the thought repulses me. Today, however, it did not. Perhaps it's the fact that my twenty-fifth birthday is now looming an all-too-close two weeks away. Maybe my biological clock, as it were, is just ticking. Who knows. Who possibly can know? I suppose only time will tell, and hopefully, this mood, too will pass.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
chapter 3
A little over six hours later my plane made its connection in London. I made sure to locate where I was to board the plane to Bangkok. Then I found a place to sit, have a snack and attempt to connect to the internet and check in with my parents. This effort being unsuccessful, either because there was no free wi-fi, or because I was too technologically incompetent to figure it out. Regardless, I found a set of computers at which I could take a moment to send my mom a quick email to let her know I had made it successfully to London and was ready to continue my journey to Bangkok.
Some time passed and I was finally able board that plane. I sat anxiously in the boarding area where others waiting to take their seats on the same plane sat. The gate was located in a small corner area of the airport at the end of several winding corridors. My excitement was palpable. I tried to remain patient, switching back and forth between trying to read my book, glancing at my watch, and studying the others waiting for the flight.
What was there story? It was a mixture of other Westerners and Thais. I did not realize until much later that many of these people were also from Australia; the plane would pause in Thailand and then continue on to Australia.
After what seemed to be an eternity I boarded the plane and took my seat on the giant craft. I was seated on the right hand side, sandwiched between two other people. I tried my best to make myself comfortable for the more than fourteen hour flight. I hadn't slept at all on the flight to London despite the fact that I had hardly slept the night before. I took some sleeping pills and hoped for the best, but my excitement and the nervous exhilaration of my journey got the best of me. Those hours combined with the difference in time zone brought me from Tuesday morning in Boston to mid-morning on Thursday in Bangkok. I changed my watch, as well as the time on my iPod accordingly mid-flight.
I staggered off the plane, leaving behind those who were continuing to Australia. After entering the gigantic Bangkok airport I began to look for the place where I would claim my luggage. First I had to go through security. Before the checkpoint I stopped at the money exchange counter and changed the few hundred dollars I had removed from the bank in Boston into Thai Baht. There was a line at the security checkpoint and I stood impatiently amongst the others waiting to enter the country.
When my turn came I was unsure what to do. The man first gestured for me to come forward, then told me with his hands to stand back as I started to come forward. He sorted through a few papers in front of him and then motioned me forward again. I approached, holding both my passport and my plane tickets, just in case. I handed the papers to him. He tossed the tickets back at me then began flipping through my passport. He studied the non-Immigrant B visa I had acquired back in Boston. It would be good for ninety days once I entered the country. Although I was planning to be there for approximately ten months, my boss ensured me that a more permanent work visa would be acquired for me before these ninety days were over. The man at the desk signed and stamped my passport, handed it back to me, and I was then on my way to claim my bags.
I almost always feel nervous at baggage claim. This time I was particularly nervous due to the length of my flight and the fact that I had to connect in another country first. Also, one of my bags had been too heavy and I was nervous that that would be an issue. Finally I saw my two gigantic bags bearing just about every possession I owned come around the baggage belt. With all my strength I grabbed each belt and yanked it off, nearly pulling myself to the ground while doing so. It didn't help that at that time I had hardly any strength left and probably did not weigh that much more than either bag. I located a cart on which I could put my two enormous suitcases and carry-on, then began my search for Mr. Vee -- the man whom I was told by the agency who had found me the job would pick me up at the airport. I waited for quite a while in the pick-up area watching person after person be claimed by their loved ones or drivers with signs. There was no sign of him.
Beginning to get nervous, I extracted the paper on which I had written the phone numbers of Phil and Claire, the couple who had arranged the job for me, and called them from a pay phone after studying the unfamiliar change in my hands. Claire picked up the phone. I identified myself, told her I had arrived but could not find Mr. Vee. Seeming quite perturbed, she dialed his cell, then told me where to look, what he was wearing, and in which direction to head.
I hung up the phone and began heading toward the 7-11 she said he was also heading towards. 7-11s, I would soon learn, are almost, if not more, numerous in Thailand than in America. Finally, there he was. He held no sign, but clearly spotted me from a mile away. I couldn't have been hard to miss. A small petite American girl all alone, wide-eyed, lost looking, and carrying enough baggage for a medium-sized family. He greeted me with wonderful English and took my cases.
He led me toward the exit to the parking lot where his taxi was waiting. As we opened the doors leading outside the heat hit me. It was like walking into a sauna.
"How do you like the heat?" Vee asked me.
"I absolutely love it!" I responded. After a very long winter in Boston, I did truly love it at the time. It was uncomfortable, but certainly a relief. I couldn't help but anticipate all the time I would spend in the sun, getting as dark as humanly possible. Overcome with excitement, I thought to myself, "I made it, I'm here."
We found the car and after he finished loading the heavy suitcases in the trunk I began to get into the car. On the wrong side. Of all the minor details I'd read about Thailand, it seemed to have escaped me that, like England, Thais drive on left side of the road. He laughed as I foolishly tried to get into the drivers seat and asked, "Oh, you're driving, are you?" I chuckled, excused myself and walked around the car and got in on the correct side of the car.
Vee was a really nice guy, as I would find out is true of just about all Thais. The ride to the hotel I would be staying at that first night was a long one and included a pit stop at a gas station. On the way he offered me some fresh fruit he had just picked up in mass quantities at the market. I wasn't very hungry. My stomach had been tied in knots for days. But, in order to be polite I took one of the small, pink fruit, which had long, green spikes on its exterior. I had no idea what it was. After coaching me for several minutes on how to pronounce the name in Thai I still could not master it. Nor could I open it. Cheerily astonished at my naivety, Vee took the fruit from my hand and masterfully tore open the rind of the fruit and handed it to me to open. The fruit inside was white and juicy. I ate several more on the long ride to the hotel.
I was astonished at how huge Bangkok was. It seemed like we drove forever, passing multi-laned highways, all equipped with toll-booths, down massive main streets with bicyclists, motor-taxies and tuk-tuks whirling past us in the dense smog. Palm trees, people, food stands, markets, restaurants, and stores abounded.
We reached the hotel and unloaded my bags. To the right was a dining room. To the left was a seating area. The check-in desk was in the middle. I checked in and my bags and shortly after Phil and Claire met me to say hello and give me a copy of Lonely Planet's guide to Thailand. I was elated. I gave them the Boston souvenirs I had bought them in the airport. We made arrangements to meet in a couple hours after I had showered and freshened up.
I made my way to my room and set up my laptop. After calling my parents on Skype, assuring them that I was alright and telling them how beautiful the country was, I settled in and took a shower. The room was clean, but due to my own paranoia about unfamiliar showers, I wore my flip-flops anyway. I also dodged the tiny little ants inside. These ants, I would later learn, were just a small part of living in Thailand that I would have to get used to.
After that refreshing shower I began to get dressed and put on my make-up, which was a futile effort, being that I would sweat most of it off later anyways. As I waited for the arrival of Phil and Claire I began to reflect on the past few months and what had influenced me to come here in the first place.
Some time passed and I was finally able board that plane. I sat anxiously in the boarding area where others waiting to take their seats on the same plane sat. The gate was located in a small corner area of the airport at the end of several winding corridors. My excitement was palpable. I tried to remain patient, switching back and forth between trying to read my book, glancing at my watch, and studying the others waiting for the flight.
What was there story? It was a mixture of other Westerners and Thais. I did not realize until much later that many of these people were also from Australia; the plane would pause in Thailand and then continue on to Australia.
After what seemed to be an eternity I boarded the plane and took my seat on the giant craft. I was seated on the right hand side, sandwiched between two other people. I tried my best to make myself comfortable for the more than fourteen hour flight. I hadn't slept at all on the flight to London despite the fact that I had hardly slept the night before. I took some sleeping pills and hoped for the best, but my excitement and the nervous exhilaration of my journey got the best of me. Those hours combined with the difference in time zone brought me from Tuesday morning in Boston to mid-morning on Thursday in Bangkok. I changed my watch, as well as the time on my iPod accordingly mid-flight.
I staggered off the plane, leaving behind those who were continuing to Australia. After entering the gigantic Bangkok airport I began to look for the place where I would claim my luggage. First I had to go through security. Before the checkpoint I stopped at the money exchange counter and changed the few hundred dollars I had removed from the bank in Boston into Thai Baht. There was a line at the security checkpoint and I stood impatiently amongst the others waiting to enter the country.
When my turn came I was unsure what to do. The man first gestured for me to come forward, then told me with his hands to stand back as I started to come forward. He sorted through a few papers in front of him and then motioned me forward again. I approached, holding both my passport and my plane tickets, just in case. I handed the papers to him. He tossed the tickets back at me then began flipping through my passport. He studied the non-Immigrant B visa I had acquired back in Boston. It would be good for ninety days once I entered the country. Although I was planning to be there for approximately ten months, my boss ensured me that a more permanent work visa would be acquired for me before these ninety days were over. The man at the desk signed and stamped my passport, handed it back to me, and I was then on my way to claim my bags.
I almost always feel nervous at baggage claim. This time I was particularly nervous due to the length of my flight and the fact that I had to connect in another country first. Also, one of my bags had been too heavy and I was nervous that that would be an issue. Finally I saw my two gigantic bags bearing just about every possession I owned come around the baggage belt. With all my strength I grabbed each belt and yanked it off, nearly pulling myself to the ground while doing so. It didn't help that at that time I had hardly any strength left and probably did not weigh that much more than either bag. I located a cart on which I could put my two enormous suitcases and carry-on, then began my search for Mr. Vee -- the man whom I was told by the agency who had found me the job would pick me up at the airport. I waited for quite a while in the pick-up area watching person after person be claimed by their loved ones or drivers with signs. There was no sign of him.
Beginning to get nervous, I extracted the paper on which I had written the phone numbers of Phil and Claire, the couple who had arranged the job for me, and called them from a pay phone after studying the unfamiliar change in my hands. Claire picked up the phone. I identified myself, told her I had arrived but could not find Mr. Vee. Seeming quite perturbed, she dialed his cell, then told me where to look, what he was wearing, and in which direction to head.
I hung up the phone and began heading toward the 7-11 she said he was also heading towards. 7-11s, I would soon learn, are almost, if not more, numerous in Thailand than in America. Finally, there he was. He held no sign, but clearly spotted me from a mile away. I couldn't have been hard to miss. A small petite American girl all alone, wide-eyed, lost looking, and carrying enough baggage for a medium-sized family. He greeted me with wonderful English and took my cases.
He led me toward the exit to the parking lot where his taxi was waiting. As we opened the doors leading outside the heat hit me. It was like walking into a sauna.
"How do you like the heat?" Vee asked me.
"I absolutely love it!" I responded. After a very long winter in Boston, I did truly love it at the time. It was uncomfortable, but certainly a relief. I couldn't help but anticipate all the time I would spend in the sun, getting as dark as humanly possible. Overcome with excitement, I thought to myself, "I made it, I'm here."
We found the car and after he finished loading the heavy suitcases in the trunk I began to get into the car. On the wrong side. Of all the minor details I'd read about Thailand, it seemed to have escaped me that, like England, Thais drive on left side of the road. He laughed as I foolishly tried to get into the drivers seat and asked, "Oh, you're driving, are you?" I chuckled, excused myself and walked around the car and got in on the correct side of the car.
Vee was a really nice guy, as I would find out is true of just about all Thais. The ride to the hotel I would be staying at that first night was a long one and included a pit stop at a gas station. On the way he offered me some fresh fruit he had just picked up in mass quantities at the market. I wasn't very hungry. My stomach had been tied in knots for days. But, in order to be polite I took one of the small, pink fruit, which had long, green spikes on its exterior. I had no idea what it was. After coaching me for several minutes on how to pronounce the name in Thai I still could not master it. Nor could I open it. Cheerily astonished at my naivety, Vee took the fruit from my hand and masterfully tore open the rind of the fruit and handed it to me to open. The fruit inside was white and juicy. I ate several more on the long ride to the hotel.
I was astonished at how huge Bangkok was. It seemed like we drove forever, passing multi-laned highways, all equipped with toll-booths, down massive main streets with bicyclists, motor-taxies and tuk-tuks whirling past us in the dense smog. Palm trees, people, food stands, markets, restaurants, and stores abounded.
We reached the hotel and unloaded my bags. To the right was a dining room. To the left was a seating area. The check-in desk was in the middle. I checked in and my bags and shortly after Phil and Claire met me to say hello and give me a copy of Lonely Planet's guide to Thailand. I was elated. I gave them the Boston souvenirs I had bought them in the airport. We made arrangements to meet in a couple hours after I had showered and freshened up.
I made my way to my room and set up my laptop. After calling my parents on Skype, assuring them that I was alright and telling them how beautiful the country was, I settled in and took a shower. The room was clean, but due to my own paranoia about unfamiliar showers, I wore my flip-flops anyway. I also dodged the tiny little ants inside. These ants, I would later learn, were just a small part of living in Thailand that I would have to get used to.
After that refreshing shower I began to get dressed and put on my make-up, which was a futile effort, being that I would sweat most of it off later anyways. As I waited for the arrival of Phil and Claire I began to reflect on the past few months and what had influenced me to come here in the first place.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Morality, Charles Manson, and God: the All-Knowing, All-Seeing A-Hole?
I've been obsessively reading Helter Skelter this past week and it's gotten me thinking a lot about morality. Charles Manson was a nobody who was in and out of jail his whole life, yet by 1969 he had the world on its knees. Following the murders of Sharon Tate and four others, all of Los Angeles, and most of the world for that fact, was engulfed in fear and paranoia. He did not actually perpetrate any of these murders himself, but convinced several young girls to carry out his whims for him. Before I started reading I always thought to myself, "How is this possible?" I'm only about halfway through but, basically it was a concoction of sex appeal, "far out" philosophy mixed with really convincing theological theories, and psychological tricks. He would take young girls who were trying to conform with the hippie culture of the time (this, in and of itself is actually quite an ironic statement), weren't the most attractive girls and convinced them that he was basically Jesus. And more than that, that he thought they were beautiful.
Now, I admit, I've always been kind of an idiot when it comes to men. While reading last night, I put myself in the position of one of these girls and thought really hard. It occurred to me that had I been living in LA in the late '60s, I probably would have ended up joining the Manson Family.
Wait -- WHAT?
Yes, that was my first reaction to myself. This sounds like an utterly psychotic statement, and maybe it is, but I simply could not refute it. I'm easily manipulated, have low confidence, am easily intrigued by any sort of philosophical conversation (or any man that shows any interest in any sort of philosophy whatsoever; in fact I once fell head over heels for a guy simply because he had a book by Nietzsche on his bookshelf), and I sort of think he was attractive at the time. Yes, I know, don't vomit, but I must say I'm a sucker for skinny guys with curly hair. And attention, and musicians (he was a mediocre guitar player and song writer, but I guess I'm one of those stupid girls who falls for any guy holding a guitar). He would have had me cutting up people left and right also.
I'll tell you exactly what it was about Manson's philosophy that really turned me on, so to speak. He preached to his followers or "Family members" that morality was basically a sham created by the establishment or "the man." Essentially, there was no concept of right or wrong because every action happens for a reason, everything is natural, all lives are equal (i.e. stepping on a blade of grass is equivalent, or equally meaningless as killing a human being). Therefore, there would be no consequences for your actions, and as long as you believed that Manson was a messenger from God and did as he said, everything would be just peachy-keen.
Now, it's not all that rare for me to ponder the idea of morality, particularly from a religious perspective. Although both my parents are Jewish, I was not raised with any particular faith. Yes, we celebrated Hannukah and I had a rough idea of the story behind this holiday, but to me it was no more than an excuse to receive presents for eight consecutive days at some point in December when the rest of my friends got to sing Christmas carols, decorate a tree, and be visited by Santa. But as I've gotten older, I have begun to think about the psychology behind religion and morality and God. All religions have a more or less stringent set of rules that its followers must follow. Most of these rules, however, seem, at least to me, to contradict a large percentage of the instincts with which mankind has been naturally imbued. For example, everybody has the urge to have sex, yet both Catholicism and Islam do not condone sex before marriage. Some people even go so far as to say that God does not want men and women to have sex unless it is for the purpose of having babies, and let's face it: nobody wants eight hundred kids running around, so this doesn't exactly seem fair to me.
Think about it: we are all born with genitalia. Those genitalia have sensations. Good sensations. Sex supplies a natural high. It literally releases endorphins in your brain. Alcohol and drugs are both man-made creations and therefore I can understand a religion not condoning heroin or LSD or crystal meth. Wine and marijuana both come from the earth, however, so for me, these are a bit different, but that's not the point. My point is that it just seems cruel to create things and then tell us it's wrong to use or do them. Just like Adam and Eve were tempted with that delicious apple from the tree of knowledge, modern day human beings are tempted by sex, drugs, alcohol, drinking, partying, or even other small things that are specific only to certain religions, like eating pork, for example. It's like dangling a carrot in front of a bunnies nose and expecting it not to run after it.
I was talking about this with my roommate on the car ride home from work today. We drove by a pile of clothing or garbage or something. It sort of looked as if it was the remnants of a person who had simply disappeared, leaving the earth behind. This caused my roommate to say, "that looks like someone who got Raptured." It was funny because it's something that everybody has been talking about lately. Supposedly, last Saturday, all those souls who believed in God, did all the right things, didn't do any of the wrong things, etc. would be zapped off the earth and sent directly to heaven while all us heathens were left behind to suffer the impending Apocolypse. Well, Saturday has come and gone, and as far as I'm aware of, nobody disappeared. Supposedly the man who decided on this date had determined it through a strict mathematical study of the Bible. He and his followers believe that the date of the Rapture can be determined by studying the use of numbers in the Bible, determining the correct mathematical formulae to apply to them and then being able to actually do this math. Only hours before the supposed arrival time of the Rapture, he called it off, saying that he had calculated incorrectly and the actual date would be November 21st or something like that.
My roommate and I were debating the idea that this was even possible. Ben made an excellent point: why can't we say that it is possible just as easily as we can say it's impossible? I agreed. In fact, this is sort of how I view the existence of God at all, as well. Then he asked me why, in my opinion, God would create such an intricate system to tell us our expiration date? Why would he make it so difficult?
I replied, "Because God just likes to fuck with us."
After a slight moment of hesitation my roommate asked why I would say something like that, or think it for that matter. I told him my theory about how God must be cruel in order to create things just to tempt us, then tell us they're off limits. I made an analogy that I had never thought of before, but that I think is quite apt. "Maybe God doesn't have cable." Ben was dumbfounded. I began to clarify. If Genesis is correct, and God really did create the entire earth and all the people, animals and plants on it, then wouldn't he want to make things a little more interesting? If you're an omniscient being who can see, hear and know everything that happens on this world you have created, wouldn't you want something interesting to watch and listen to? I think God actually created reality TV, but it came long before the Real World or Big Brother. It was called "mankind." If people walked around following all the rules, wouldn't it be rather boring for God to watch? Why give us instincts, personalities, and emotions if not to watch and see what we do with them? If nobody ever did anything naughty, everything would be really boring. Just because God is God, it doesn't necessarily mean that he's required to be kind, or on the contrary, that he's not allowed to have a sense of humor. Actually, I think in order to be God, you'd have to have a sense of humor. I mean, seriously. Have you ever seen a platypus?
All of this is stuff I think about on a semi-regular basis. It's almost enough to make you crazy. That must be why I make awkward choices, or why I would probably have joined the Manson Family if I were alive and in the right place at the right time. My overall sense of morality is based on a mixture of "do what you think is natural," and "treat others as you would want to be treated." In other words, if your actions don't hurt anybody, then what's the big deal? If something is natural or instinctual then how could it possibly be that bad? I guess one assuring fact is that it would never feel natural or desirable for me to kill somebody. Maybe I'm not completely tapped, but I guess that's a subjective idea, too.
Now, I admit, I've always been kind of an idiot when it comes to men. While reading last night, I put myself in the position of one of these girls and thought really hard. It occurred to me that had I been living in LA in the late '60s, I probably would have ended up joining the Manson Family.
Wait -- WHAT?
Yes, that was my first reaction to myself. This sounds like an utterly psychotic statement, and maybe it is, but I simply could not refute it. I'm easily manipulated, have low confidence, am easily intrigued by any sort of philosophical conversation (or any man that shows any interest in any sort of philosophy whatsoever; in fact I once fell head over heels for a guy simply because he had a book by Nietzsche on his bookshelf), and I sort of think he was attractive at the time. Yes, I know, don't vomit, but I must say I'm a sucker for skinny guys with curly hair. And attention, and musicians (he was a mediocre guitar player and song writer, but I guess I'm one of those stupid girls who falls for any guy holding a guitar). He would have had me cutting up people left and right also.
I'll tell you exactly what it was about Manson's philosophy that really turned me on, so to speak. He preached to his followers or "Family members" that morality was basically a sham created by the establishment or "the man." Essentially, there was no concept of right or wrong because every action happens for a reason, everything is natural, all lives are equal (i.e. stepping on a blade of grass is equivalent, or equally meaningless as killing a human being). Therefore, there would be no consequences for your actions, and as long as you believed that Manson was a messenger from God and did as he said, everything would be just peachy-keen.
Now, it's not all that rare for me to ponder the idea of morality, particularly from a religious perspective. Although both my parents are Jewish, I was not raised with any particular faith. Yes, we celebrated Hannukah and I had a rough idea of the story behind this holiday, but to me it was no more than an excuse to receive presents for eight consecutive days at some point in December when the rest of my friends got to sing Christmas carols, decorate a tree, and be visited by Santa. But as I've gotten older, I have begun to think about the psychology behind religion and morality and God. All religions have a more or less stringent set of rules that its followers must follow. Most of these rules, however, seem, at least to me, to contradict a large percentage of the instincts with which mankind has been naturally imbued. For example, everybody has the urge to have sex, yet both Catholicism and Islam do not condone sex before marriage. Some people even go so far as to say that God does not want men and women to have sex unless it is for the purpose of having babies, and let's face it: nobody wants eight hundred kids running around, so this doesn't exactly seem fair to me.
Think about it: we are all born with genitalia. Those genitalia have sensations. Good sensations. Sex supplies a natural high. It literally releases endorphins in your brain. Alcohol and drugs are both man-made creations and therefore I can understand a religion not condoning heroin or LSD or crystal meth. Wine and marijuana both come from the earth, however, so for me, these are a bit different, but that's not the point. My point is that it just seems cruel to create things and then tell us it's wrong to use or do them. Just like Adam and Eve were tempted with that delicious apple from the tree of knowledge, modern day human beings are tempted by sex, drugs, alcohol, drinking, partying, or even other small things that are specific only to certain religions, like eating pork, for example. It's like dangling a carrot in front of a bunnies nose and expecting it not to run after it.
I was talking about this with my roommate on the car ride home from work today. We drove by a pile of clothing or garbage or something. It sort of looked as if it was the remnants of a person who had simply disappeared, leaving the earth behind. This caused my roommate to say, "that looks like someone who got Raptured." It was funny because it's something that everybody has been talking about lately. Supposedly, last Saturday, all those souls who believed in God, did all the right things, didn't do any of the wrong things, etc. would be zapped off the earth and sent directly to heaven while all us heathens were left behind to suffer the impending Apocolypse. Well, Saturday has come and gone, and as far as I'm aware of, nobody disappeared. Supposedly the man who decided on this date had determined it through a strict mathematical study of the Bible. He and his followers believe that the date of the Rapture can be determined by studying the use of numbers in the Bible, determining the correct mathematical formulae to apply to them and then being able to actually do this math. Only hours before the supposed arrival time of the Rapture, he called it off, saying that he had calculated incorrectly and the actual date would be November 21st or something like that.
My roommate and I were debating the idea that this was even possible. Ben made an excellent point: why can't we say that it is possible just as easily as we can say it's impossible? I agreed. In fact, this is sort of how I view the existence of God at all, as well. Then he asked me why, in my opinion, God would create such an intricate system to tell us our expiration date? Why would he make it so difficult?
I replied, "Because God just likes to fuck with us."
After a slight moment of hesitation my roommate asked why I would say something like that, or think it for that matter. I told him my theory about how God must be cruel in order to create things just to tempt us, then tell us they're off limits. I made an analogy that I had never thought of before, but that I think is quite apt. "Maybe God doesn't have cable." Ben was dumbfounded. I began to clarify. If Genesis is correct, and God really did create the entire earth and all the people, animals and plants on it, then wouldn't he want to make things a little more interesting? If you're an omniscient being who can see, hear and know everything that happens on this world you have created, wouldn't you want something interesting to watch and listen to? I think God actually created reality TV, but it came long before the Real World or Big Brother. It was called "mankind." If people walked around following all the rules, wouldn't it be rather boring for God to watch? Why give us instincts, personalities, and emotions if not to watch and see what we do with them? If nobody ever did anything naughty, everything would be really boring. Just because God is God, it doesn't necessarily mean that he's required to be kind, or on the contrary, that he's not allowed to have a sense of humor. Actually, I think in order to be God, you'd have to have a sense of humor. I mean, seriously. Have you ever seen a platypus?
All of this is stuff I think about on a semi-regular basis. It's almost enough to make you crazy. That must be why I make awkward choices, or why I would probably have joined the Manson Family if I were alive and in the right place at the right time. My overall sense of morality is based on a mixture of "do what you think is natural," and "treat others as you would want to be treated." In other words, if your actions don't hurt anybody, then what's the big deal? If something is natural or instinctual then how could it possibly be that bad? I guess one assuring fact is that it would never feel natural or desirable for me to kill somebody. Maybe I'm not completely tapped, but I guess that's a subjective idea, too.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Don't judge a book by it's cover
Today I went with my father to run an errand in Central Square. It was close to noon and being as I didn't have work today, I hadn't eaten breakfast and decided to go to Au Bon Pain to get a coffee and bagel while I waited. He took a bit longer than I expected and I was left waiting outside the building he had entered to pick up some tape transcripts and had plenty of time for people watching.
I went out last night and was really in no physical condition to be judging people by their appearance. I had about fifteen minutes to throw on some clothes and put a few things together, brush my teeth, etc. before leaving the house. My hair remained in its usual morning-craziness, I had thrown on my over-sized black Juicy pants, some flip flops and my sorority sweatshirt, and worst of all no bra. My makeup was smeared all over my face because I didn't have time to thoroughly wash it off, and honestly hadn't been in any condition to wash it off before going to bed last night. People probably thought I was some kind of crazy person and I wouldn't blame them.
As I was people watching, I noticed a homeless man in a wheelchair. He was holding a cup hoping for someone to toss in some coins. I'm sure he wasn't expecting this woman to stop and talk to him for a solid ten minutes. From the spot under a tree where I was standing, I watched their entire conversation. She didn't really look like the sort of woman who would stop and have a genuine conversation with anybody, let alone a bum on the sidewalk. Yes, I'm absolutely making judgements based solely on appearance. She had cheaply dyed bleach-blonde hair (with roots), tacky tight black sweatpants, was smoking some strange sort of cigarette and looked like the sort that I would normally stereotype as "white trash."
She must not have had a very busy day ahead of her because she stood talking and laughing with this man for quite some time. I couldn't hear their conversation, but I know I was probably staring, as I'm prone to doing. As she said goodbye, I heard her say to him, "have a great day, you're a very nice man!" She started walking in my direction and the man looked pleased that somebody actually noticed him and took the time out of their day to talk to him. Most people probably just avoid eye contact and quickly pass by. I hate to admit it, but this is what I usually would do in this situation. She threw me a bright-eyed smile as she walked by and despite my hesitancy to interact with strangers that I tend to have not long after I've woken up, I couldn't help but grin back.
I was utterly impressed with her actions. After walking by me she stopped to talk to yet another bum. I watched her flip her bleached hair as she spoke and thought to myself, "hmm...I would never have expected someone like this to behave this way." Then I started to wonder about myself. What do strangers think about me when I walk by? I'd be willing to guess that they assume I'm a snobby, stuck-up bitch. I'm really not (most of the time), but I know that when I think to myself, which I almost always do, my face contorts accordingly and usually winds up looking like a sourpuss. I can't help it.
People constantly surprise me. They're almost never what you'd expect them to be. I should probably stop judging people by how they seem to be on the outside.
I went out last night and was really in no physical condition to be judging people by their appearance. I had about fifteen minutes to throw on some clothes and put a few things together, brush my teeth, etc. before leaving the house. My hair remained in its usual morning-craziness, I had thrown on my over-sized black Juicy pants, some flip flops and my sorority sweatshirt, and worst of all no bra. My makeup was smeared all over my face because I didn't have time to thoroughly wash it off, and honestly hadn't been in any condition to wash it off before going to bed last night. People probably thought I was some kind of crazy person and I wouldn't blame them.
As I was people watching, I noticed a homeless man in a wheelchair. He was holding a cup hoping for someone to toss in some coins. I'm sure he wasn't expecting this woman to stop and talk to him for a solid ten minutes. From the spot under a tree where I was standing, I watched their entire conversation. She didn't really look like the sort of woman who would stop and have a genuine conversation with anybody, let alone a bum on the sidewalk. Yes, I'm absolutely making judgements based solely on appearance. She had cheaply dyed bleach-blonde hair (with roots), tacky tight black sweatpants, was smoking some strange sort of cigarette and looked like the sort that I would normally stereotype as "white trash."
She must not have had a very busy day ahead of her because she stood talking and laughing with this man for quite some time. I couldn't hear their conversation, but I know I was probably staring, as I'm prone to doing. As she said goodbye, I heard her say to him, "have a great day, you're a very nice man!" She started walking in my direction and the man looked pleased that somebody actually noticed him and took the time out of their day to talk to him. Most people probably just avoid eye contact and quickly pass by. I hate to admit it, but this is what I usually would do in this situation. She threw me a bright-eyed smile as she walked by and despite my hesitancy to interact with strangers that I tend to have not long after I've woken up, I couldn't help but grin back.
I was utterly impressed with her actions. After walking by me she stopped to talk to yet another bum. I watched her flip her bleached hair as she spoke and thought to myself, "hmm...I would never have expected someone like this to behave this way." Then I started to wonder about myself. What do strangers think about me when I walk by? I'd be willing to guess that they assume I'm a snobby, stuck-up bitch. I'm really not (most of the time), but I know that when I think to myself, which I almost always do, my face contorts accordingly and usually winds up looking like a sourpuss. I can't help it.
People constantly surprise me. They're almost never what you'd expect them to be. I should probably stop judging people by how they seem to be on the outside.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
chapter 2
I had never once considered being a teacher until November or December of 2009. Teaching requires patience, and as far as I was concerned I didn't have any. And besides, teachers don't make a lot of money. Throughout college I bounced between majors. I tried advertising, journalism and finally finished with a degree in film. It was as if every time I chose a different major I immediately knew it wasn't for me. But college is expensive and finally I had to stay on one course in order to ever graduate.
Immediately after college I started working in Nordstrom. I genuinely enjoyed this job for quite a while. But eventually, I grew to enjoy training new employees more than I enjoyed fighting for sales. Seeing a new employee blossom and grow before my eyes made me feel wonderful. This, however, ended up being my downfall in the end. In the world of retail numbers are sacred and in order to help others build their skills as salespeople I sacrificed my numbers. Eventually the pressure got to be too much, and when compounded with a miserably prolonged breakup, I sort of lost it. My manager pulled me aside one day and said, "I feel like you just don't want to be here anymore." I paused for a moment and thought. The joy that I felt from interacting with customers before was gone, I had chosen to transfer from the men's department where I had loyal shoppers and could generally interact with new customers easily to the juniors department where I had to deal with awkward pre-teen girls who all but ran away when I even greeted them. I didn't leave willingly. My original boss had been a mentor and huge influence on me. Actually, his tough love approach and emphasis on being tough have contributed a lot to my character. By this I mean that I understand the importance of being tough; I'm still working on being that way. Anyways, after he was replaced by an absolute dunce of a woman who cared more about buying new shoes with her manager discount than making the customer happy, I found my performance constantly being threatened. I did not want to quit but I could not work for that woman. But, I also did not have the passion that I once had in my new department. I looked at my manager and said, "You know, you're right. I don't." Moments later I was signing resignation papers and walking out of the building. I was in such a stupor that I didn't buy anything on the last day that I would have a discount.
I enjoyed about two weeks of vacation time during the summer until I secured a job at the mortgage company where my mother works. It was never meant to be a permanent job. Scanning files, making copies and sorting mail were redundant and boring tasks, but I was making pretty decent money for ridiculously easy work. Then, due to certain changes in the industry, which I won't explain in detail, I was assigned the task of divvying out appraisals to different appraisers on a specific list which our company worked with. This resulted in a constant storm of complaints from both loan officers and appraisers, both of whom were used to getting some sort of advantage from working with certain people. I was placed right in the middle. But, despite being bored to tears by this job in which I had no interest, I did my best. When the rules changed yet again and I was put in charge of reorganizing the entire process, I spent countless hours, skipped lunches and tried to create as perfect a system as possible. None of this was in my original job description, by the way. So when I went to my boss asking for a raise since I was now doing a completely different and tiring set of tasks that were not discussed in my initial hiring, I figured it wouldn't be a problem. But it was. Apparently my boss had forgotten that this was not why I was hired.
I found some of the journal entries I wrote from that time. The banality of my life at that point is staggering. I'm not quite sure how I survived that time. Every time my alarm clock went off I wanted to cry. At one point I was drinking a bottle of wine a night just to numb my anger. And that's also when my eating habits really started to go downhill. Before starting I had lost quite a bit of weight from the stress of breaking up with my ex.
Whenever I've faced stress or sadness in my life I've lost my appetite. Sometimes the sight of food alone can make me nautious. It's not that I stop eating intentionally. Well, I didn't at first anyways. My ex had this incredible way of making me feel not-good-enough in every way possible, including the way I looked. I couldn't even trick him into telling me I was pretty, particularly towards the end, and therefore had to look to myself for gratification. Not that self-gratification is a bad thing, it's just that sometimes a girl's confidence can suffer if she doesn't hear a compliment every once in a while. As my relationship deteriorated, my weight began to plunge, but I liked it. For the first time in my entire life I could look in the mirror and see soemthing I liked. I could fit into size zero jeans. That had always been an unconscious goal of mine, and finally it came true.
I spent the second half of the summer of 2009 feeling beautiful, going out often and flirting with many men, who all found me attractive. My confidence was boosted. I attributed it mostly to my weight loss. I was still haunted by the residual mental side-affects of dating such a bastard, but the attention helped to mask the pain. Also, I started dating someone whom I had kept on the backburner for some time. We didn't have much in common, but he was a good distraction, and also didn't want to be too serious with me (perhaps because he sensed that I wasn't too serious) and therefore I had the freedom to go where and do what I pleased, with noone to answer to..
At the end of July I began working at the mortgage company. The work was easy enough, but deathly boring. I figured I would just enjoy my life, which I was able to do because it didn't really matter if I was hungover while making copies or not, not worry about work, and figure out my future later. This was fine for a while, until I began to become aware of all the things that bothered my about that job. A big part of it was the people. There was a high enough concentration of disrespectful, rude, and downright nasty people I was dealing with that really just struck a nerve with me. I won't even mention the incredibly assonine ones. There were certain people sprinkled throughout that company at varying positions (all higher than mine, of course) who, for some reason, really got under my skin.
I always felt like a target. I may not have been well-versed in the details of the industry, but I was never the kind of person to turn the other cheek to people superior to me who are not very nice, being absolute idiots. Although I made all attempts to keep my words professional, my temper was just uncontrolable. Attempting to keep these feelings bottled up was no help, either. I would often go home so enraged that my stomach felt as if it were tied in knots. Naturally, I was unable to eat. But this didn't really happen for a few months after I started.
In fact, for the few few months I rather enjoyed my life. My job was simple. I didn't have to socialize with anyone at work. My social life was blossoming. I was making decent money. Everything was great. I didn't even mind doing boring work. Having a mindless job seemed like a great opportunity to focus on my self. Everything was okay, for the time being.
But then he entered my life...
Immediately after college I started working in Nordstrom. I genuinely enjoyed this job for quite a while. But eventually, I grew to enjoy training new employees more than I enjoyed fighting for sales. Seeing a new employee blossom and grow before my eyes made me feel wonderful. This, however, ended up being my downfall in the end. In the world of retail numbers are sacred and in order to help others build their skills as salespeople I sacrificed my numbers. Eventually the pressure got to be too much, and when compounded with a miserably prolonged breakup, I sort of lost it. My manager pulled me aside one day and said, "I feel like you just don't want to be here anymore." I paused for a moment and thought. The joy that I felt from interacting with customers before was gone, I had chosen to transfer from the men's department where I had loyal shoppers and could generally interact with new customers easily to the juniors department where I had to deal with awkward pre-teen girls who all but ran away when I even greeted them. I didn't leave willingly. My original boss had been a mentor and huge influence on me. Actually, his tough love approach and emphasis on being tough have contributed a lot to my character. By this I mean that I understand the importance of being tough; I'm still working on being that way. Anyways, after he was replaced by an absolute dunce of a woman who cared more about buying new shoes with her manager discount than making the customer happy, I found my performance constantly being threatened. I did not want to quit but I could not work for that woman. But, I also did not have the passion that I once had in my new department. I looked at my manager and said, "You know, you're right. I don't." Moments later I was signing resignation papers and walking out of the building. I was in such a stupor that I didn't buy anything on the last day that I would have a discount.
I enjoyed about two weeks of vacation time during the summer until I secured a job at the mortgage company where my mother works. It was never meant to be a permanent job. Scanning files, making copies and sorting mail were redundant and boring tasks, but I was making pretty decent money for ridiculously easy work. Then, due to certain changes in the industry, which I won't explain in detail, I was assigned the task of divvying out appraisals to different appraisers on a specific list which our company worked with. This resulted in a constant storm of complaints from both loan officers and appraisers, both of whom were used to getting some sort of advantage from working with certain people. I was placed right in the middle. But, despite being bored to tears by this job in which I had no interest, I did my best. When the rules changed yet again and I was put in charge of reorganizing the entire process, I spent countless hours, skipped lunches and tried to create as perfect a system as possible. None of this was in my original job description, by the way. So when I went to my boss asking for a raise since I was now doing a completely different and tiring set of tasks that were not discussed in my initial hiring, I figured it wouldn't be a problem. But it was. Apparently my boss had forgotten that this was not why I was hired.
I found some of the journal entries I wrote from that time. The banality of my life at that point is staggering. I'm not quite sure how I survived that time. Every time my alarm clock went off I wanted to cry. At one point I was drinking a bottle of wine a night just to numb my anger. And that's also when my eating habits really started to go downhill. Before starting I had lost quite a bit of weight from the stress of breaking up with my ex.
Whenever I've faced stress or sadness in my life I've lost my appetite. Sometimes the sight of food alone can make me nautious. It's not that I stop eating intentionally. Well, I didn't at first anyways. My ex had this incredible way of making me feel not-good-enough in every way possible, including the way I looked. I couldn't even trick him into telling me I was pretty, particularly towards the end, and therefore had to look to myself for gratification. Not that self-gratification is a bad thing, it's just that sometimes a girl's confidence can suffer if she doesn't hear a compliment every once in a while. As my relationship deteriorated, my weight began to plunge, but I liked it. For the first time in my entire life I could look in the mirror and see soemthing I liked. I could fit into size zero jeans. That had always been an unconscious goal of mine, and finally it came true.
I spent the second half of the summer of 2009 feeling beautiful, going out often and flirting with many men, who all found me attractive. My confidence was boosted. I attributed it mostly to my weight loss. I was still haunted by the residual mental side-affects of dating such a bastard, but the attention helped to mask the pain. Also, I started dating someone whom I had kept on the backburner for some time. We didn't have much in common, but he was a good distraction, and also didn't want to be too serious with me (perhaps because he sensed that I wasn't too serious) and therefore I had the freedom to go where and do what I pleased, with noone to answer to..
At the end of July I began working at the mortgage company. The work was easy enough, but deathly boring. I figured I would just enjoy my life, which I was able to do because it didn't really matter if I was hungover while making copies or not, not worry about work, and figure out my future later. This was fine for a while, until I began to become aware of all the things that bothered my about that job. A big part of it was the people. There was a high enough concentration of disrespectful, rude, and downright nasty people I was dealing with that really just struck a nerve with me. I won't even mention the incredibly assonine ones. There were certain people sprinkled throughout that company at varying positions (all higher than mine, of course) who, for some reason, really got under my skin.
I always felt like a target. I may not have been well-versed in the details of the industry, but I was never the kind of person to turn the other cheek to people superior to me who are not very nice, being absolute idiots. Although I made all attempts to keep my words professional, my temper was just uncontrolable. Attempting to keep these feelings bottled up was no help, either. I would often go home so enraged that my stomach felt as if it were tied in knots. Naturally, I was unable to eat. But this didn't really happen for a few months after I started.
In fact, for the few few months I rather enjoyed my life. My job was simple. I didn't have to socialize with anyone at work. My social life was blossoming. I was making decent money. Everything was great. I didn't even mind doing boring work. Having a mindless job seemed like a great opportunity to focus on my self. Everything was okay, for the time being.
But then he entered my life...
Saturday, May 14, 2011
The Year in Review, chapter one
One year ago yesterday was the day that I left for Bangkok. I've been thinking about this a great deal this week. The changes in my life that have occurred since then seem so unbelievable. It was both a long and a short year, if that's even possible. My mind has been flooded with memories so sharp that I feel as if they were only yesterday. Certain moments have remained so clear in my mind, whilst other things, even those which may be far more important, slip my mind. When I compare my life as it is now to how it was one year ago, or even in the year that led up to that point, I can't help but concede that maybe my life actually is more interesting than I always considered it to be.
About a month ago I bumped into a friend I hadn't seen in years. I had recently returned from Brazil and told him this when he asked me what was new. "Look at you," he said, "little Morrisa Higer doing all this big cool things. Your life is so amazing." "What are you talking about?" I retorted. He replied, "I look at your Facebook. You've gone to Thailand, Brazil, all these places and you're always doing something interesting. You're a teacher, you make a difference, I'm just so impressed."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I never thought my life was all that special. In fact, I usually consider myself a disappointment. There are a million people I can think of who are more interesting, talented, intelligent and have traveled to more places, seen more things, done more, contributed more and experienced things in life that I have only ever dreamt about.
I remember every detail of the morning I left for Bangkok in surprising detail. I spent the night before watching the Tudors with the girl who was at that point my best friend. We were obsessed with that show. There were only a few episodes left in the series at that point and we knew we would not be able to watch them together as we had done every week for the past few months. We drank wine and talked about myriad subjects, including her deepest darkest secrets about her family life, the details of which made me cry and not want to leave her. She was always the strong one and listening to her in a moment of weakness made me feel irresponsible for leaving her and not being there to protect her for the next year. She left shortly after midnight and we hugged before she walked out my door. We were close, but we never embraced. It was strange and left a pit in the bottom of my stomach. I knew that I wouldn't sleep, but that it did not matter because I would have to wake at 5 a.m. the next morning to head for the airport. I trudged slowly up the familiar green carpeting of my stairs, past my parents bedroom and down the hall to my own. It looked strangely empty as I passed my packed suitcases and got into my bed for the last time in what I thought would be a year.
Five a.m. came very quickly and I woke up, put on a black, sleeveless, floor-length cotton dress, a lightweight black cardigan. I completed the outfit with a gaudy koi fish necklace. Before closing my door I looked at it fondly then walked out with an excitement coursing through my veins I had never felt before. I was doing something big. Not big, huge. For a year I'd be living on the opposite side of the planet in an entirely different country doing something unlike anything I had ever done before. Despite the pleading from my friends not to go, I was going. They were afraid I would be robbed or killed or even sold into the illegal sex trade industry since I'm not much bigger than a child anyways.
Even though their fears were irrational and made me quite nervous, to be honest, I felt touched by their concern. After all, at that point in time I was a frail little girl. My weight had been steadily dropping over the last year and I weighed a measly 107 pounds. Fragile bones peaked out from my skin, mostly in my chest, back and hips. A strong discontent with my job, mixed with continuous heartbreak had induced a loss of appetite starting and remaining off and on over the last year or so. I, however, was unaware that my appearance had become somewhat ghastly and caused a great deal of people around me to be nervous. The loss of weight manifested itself as a source of joy at a point in my life when I was unhappy with nearly everything in it.
My father pulled the car up to the Quantas airline door of Logan Airport and my mother, my father and I all got out of the car. They came inside with me to help with my two large suitcases packed with much more clothing than I really needed and stood in line with me as I waited to present my one-way ticket to the woman behind the desk. After this process was complete, my parents walked me to the security check-in. I was a little bit early and we stopped and stood by one of the few food stalls that were open at that early hour. I had no appetite, but bought a bottle of water. I drank half of it before handing it over to my father, knowing that I would not be able to bring it through security anyhow. I removed my white Northface fleece jacket, which I knew I definitely would not need in Thailand, but wore to the airport because it was particularly chilly for a May morning, and handed it to my mother. "Can I wear it while you're gone?" she asked sadly. "Of course," I said, feeling a tinge of sadness thinking of my mother in my jacket all the way in Boston, while I would be in Southeast Asia. I hugged my parents goodbye and walked towards security. They remained standing in that same spot and watched until I placed my heavy suitcase on the conveyor belt, removed my laptop, shoes and jewelry, then walked through the metal detector. I turned back one last time to wave goodbye, then picked up my belongings on the other side and headed towards the gate.
After meandering through the hallways of the airport I finally found the gate where I would be boarding my plane. There was a small Borders bookstore by the gate. Inside I bought a packet of three black Moleskin notebooks and a copy of Eat, Pray, Love. I had heard it was a good book, and seemed like a fitting choice, seeing as I was about to set off on my own journey. When I brought my selections to the cashier she asked me if I was a Borders member. I told her was not and when she asked if I was interested in becoming one I told her that I'd be living out of the country for a year and that it was pointless. There was a sense of pride in my voice when I said this and I could feel my heart pounding with the excitement for the changes that were imminent in my life. For the first time ever I felt like was really doing something. I sat down, opened the package of notebooks and began to write. Eventually, the plane began to board and after getting settled in my seat, calling my mother one last time and shutting off the phone I knew I would not be able to use for a long time, I continued to write.
This is what I wrote:
My journey begins. I've checked my two oversized suitcases, managed to lift my heavy carry-on into the over-head compartment and have now settled into my seat. There are very few people on the plane to London. It doesn't sound like many are making the extended journey to Bangkok that I am. I've send the last text message I will send for a year on my American phone It was to my mother and it said "I'm on the plane now. It seems comfy. Love you." I hope that she will be alright. I miss her so much already.
I also miss Charlotte already. Last night she poured her soul out to me and I felt so sad about all the things that had happened to her that I'd never known before. I cried, but she is fine with it now. She is so strong. I hope that I can have some of her strength over the next year, as I'm certain I will find times when I need it.
This feeling is so surreal. As I look out the window, I can see Boston and the signs for the highway I've driven on a thousand times and can't believe I won't see any of this until February. I will miss Boston, even if I always complained about it.
I will miss my family and friends and city, but I still longingly await my arrival in Thailand.
Shortly after the plane took off I put away my notebook and pen and began to chat with an American man going to London on business. I explained that I was not going to London, but catching a connecting flight to Bangkok. After explaining that I had chosen to move their for a year to teach English as a Second Language, he was thoroughly impressed. He lauded my bravery and I felt like a million bucks. As the plane gained elevation I watched my beloved city of Boston shrink away reverently. I sunk into my seat, selected a movie to watch and waited patiently for the plane to reach London.
*To be continued*
About a month ago I bumped into a friend I hadn't seen in years. I had recently returned from Brazil and told him this when he asked me what was new. "Look at you," he said, "little Morrisa Higer doing all this big cool things. Your life is so amazing." "What are you talking about?" I retorted. He replied, "I look at your Facebook. You've gone to Thailand, Brazil, all these places and you're always doing something interesting. You're a teacher, you make a difference, I'm just so impressed."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I never thought my life was all that special. In fact, I usually consider myself a disappointment. There are a million people I can think of who are more interesting, talented, intelligent and have traveled to more places, seen more things, done more, contributed more and experienced things in life that I have only ever dreamt about.
I remember every detail of the morning I left for Bangkok in surprising detail. I spent the night before watching the Tudors with the girl who was at that point my best friend. We were obsessed with that show. There were only a few episodes left in the series at that point and we knew we would not be able to watch them together as we had done every week for the past few months. We drank wine and talked about myriad subjects, including her deepest darkest secrets about her family life, the details of which made me cry and not want to leave her. She was always the strong one and listening to her in a moment of weakness made me feel irresponsible for leaving her and not being there to protect her for the next year. She left shortly after midnight and we hugged before she walked out my door. We were close, but we never embraced. It was strange and left a pit in the bottom of my stomach. I knew that I wouldn't sleep, but that it did not matter because I would have to wake at 5 a.m. the next morning to head for the airport. I trudged slowly up the familiar green carpeting of my stairs, past my parents bedroom and down the hall to my own. It looked strangely empty as I passed my packed suitcases and got into my bed for the last time in what I thought would be a year.
Five a.m. came very quickly and I woke up, put on a black, sleeveless, floor-length cotton dress, a lightweight black cardigan. I completed the outfit with a gaudy koi fish necklace. Before closing my door I looked at it fondly then walked out with an excitement coursing through my veins I had never felt before. I was doing something big. Not big, huge. For a year I'd be living on the opposite side of the planet in an entirely different country doing something unlike anything I had ever done before. Despite the pleading from my friends not to go, I was going. They were afraid I would be robbed or killed or even sold into the illegal sex trade industry since I'm not much bigger than a child anyways.
Even though their fears were irrational and made me quite nervous, to be honest, I felt touched by their concern. After all, at that point in time I was a frail little girl. My weight had been steadily dropping over the last year and I weighed a measly 107 pounds. Fragile bones peaked out from my skin, mostly in my chest, back and hips. A strong discontent with my job, mixed with continuous heartbreak had induced a loss of appetite starting and remaining off and on over the last year or so. I, however, was unaware that my appearance had become somewhat ghastly and caused a great deal of people around me to be nervous. The loss of weight manifested itself as a source of joy at a point in my life when I was unhappy with nearly everything in it.
My father pulled the car up to the Quantas airline door of Logan Airport and my mother, my father and I all got out of the car. They came inside with me to help with my two large suitcases packed with much more clothing than I really needed and stood in line with me as I waited to present my one-way ticket to the woman behind the desk. After this process was complete, my parents walked me to the security check-in. I was a little bit early and we stopped and stood by one of the few food stalls that were open at that early hour. I had no appetite, but bought a bottle of water. I drank half of it before handing it over to my father, knowing that I would not be able to bring it through security anyhow. I removed my white Northface fleece jacket, which I knew I definitely would not need in Thailand, but wore to the airport because it was particularly chilly for a May morning, and handed it to my mother. "Can I wear it while you're gone?" she asked sadly. "Of course," I said, feeling a tinge of sadness thinking of my mother in my jacket all the way in Boston, while I would be in Southeast Asia. I hugged my parents goodbye and walked towards security. They remained standing in that same spot and watched until I placed my heavy suitcase on the conveyor belt, removed my laptop, shoes and jewelry, then walked through the metal detector. I turned back one last time to wave goodbye, then picked up my belongings on the other side and headed towards the gate.
After meandering through the hallways of the airport I finally found the gate where I would be boarding my plane. There was a small Borders bookstore by the gate. Inside I bought a packet of three black Moleskin notebooks and a copy of Eat, Pray, Love. I had heard it was a good book, and seemed like a fitting choice, seeing as I was about to set off on my own journey. When I brought my selections to the cashier she asked me if I was a Borders member. I told her was not and when she asked if I was interested in becoming one I told her that I'd be living out of the country for a year and that it was pointless. There was a sense of pride in my voice when I said this and I could feel my heart pounding with the excitement for the changes that were imminent in my life. For the first time ever I felt like was really doing something. I sat down, opened the package of notebooks and began to write. Eventually, the plane began to board and after getting settled in my seat, calling my mother one last time and shutting off the phone I knew I would not be able to use for a long time, I continued to write.
This is what I wrote:
My journey begins. I've checked my two oversized suitcases, managed to lift my heavy carry-on into the over-head compartment and have now settled into my seat. There are very few people on the plane to London. It doesn't sound like many are making the extended journey to Bangkok that I am. I've send the last text message I will send for a year on my American phone It was to my mother and it said "I'm on the plane now. It seems comfy. Love you." I hope that she will be alright. I miss her so much already.
I also miss Charlotte already. Last night she poured her soul out to me and I felt so sad about all the things that had happened to her that I'd never known before. I cried, but she is fine with it now. She is so strong. I hope that I can have some of her strength over the next year, as I'm certain I will find times when I need it.
This feeling is so surreal. As I look out the window, I can see Boston and the signs for the highway I've driven on a thousand times and can't believe I won't see any of this until February. I will miss Boston, even if I always complained about it.
I will miss my family and friends and city, but I still longingly await my arrival in Thailand.
Shortly after the plane took off I put away my notebook and pen and began to chat with an American man going to London on business. I explained that I was not going to London, but catching a connecting flight to Bangkok. After explaining that I had chosen to move their for a year to teach English as a Second Language, he was thoroughly impressed. He lauded my bravery and I felt like a million bucks. As the plane gained elevation I watched my beloved city of Boston shrink away reverently. I sunk into my seat, selected a movie to watch and waited patiently for the plane to reach London.
*To be continued*
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Am I a Bully?
Am I a bully?
I have been thinking about this question a lot over the last couple of days. It's not a thought that has crossed my mind ever before at any point in my life. I'm a small, short girl who was picked on when she was younger, and I'm generally kind to everyone. But recently I can't help but notice some changes in my behavior patterns.
Over the last five or so years I have changed significantly and matured an extraordinary amount. I've been in a variety of relationships: two major, long-term relationships and several short term affairs of the heart or whatever you want to call them. But titles are inconsequential. What I'm driving at is that I've had my heart broken God-knows how many times by a whole bunch of guys. At some point this winter I decided to set off on a quest to be more selfish. By this I don't mean be mean to others intentionally, but to think more about what I want, what I need, and not simply cater to the wills or whims of other people in my life, particularly men who certainly do not or will not reciprocate this compassion or consideration.
This quest to be selfish (or shall I say self-considerate?) has impacted my love life lately. I've been single (or at least without a man whom I call my "boyfriend") for nearly two years now. In that time I've mercuriously flitted back and forth between different men in an attempt to find a new boyfriend. Only recently did I have the realization that in order to truly please myself, and act for the good of my future, feelings, etc. I really should be single.
For the last three months, approximately, I have been seeing or "talking to" one boy in particular. I admit, he was not the usual type of guy that I am attracted to, both physically and personally. We really don't have a lot in common, but for the first time in my life I had a person who really made me feel confident, beautiful and intelligent. Initially I ignored his lack of a college degree, heavy Boston accent, provincial speech, lack of interest in intellectual endeavors and different tastes in virtually everything. For the first time in years I felt adored and like nothing too demanding was asked of me. I was simply going along for the ride, not worrying about titles, our future, what he thought about me (or other girls). I was just enjoying my time, and this unique situation in which I had freedom to do what I wanted but also had someone with whom I could spend tender moments with.
But, a couple weeks ago things started to change. The compliments began to dwindle in number and he started to get rather snappy with me. I found that I was growing more and more irritated with him more and more often. The grammar corrections I would make when he spoke in the beginning were made light-heartedly and in a playful manner. But over the last couple of weeks they have become, totally unnoticed by me, somewhat malicious, snide, and simply unkind.
My last serious boyfriend was not smarter than me, yet he always had the ability to make me feel inferior. If imbuing the feeling of inferiority on others were an art form, he would be Picasso or Da Vinci. I always demonize him when describing him to others, but lately, I wonder if I'm imitating some of his behavior. In all my previous relationships I am usually the one to follow orders, take shit and do what they want. I still have to do the majority of the driving in this current situation, but he still does take more initiative to come to me when possible. That's an improvement, I suppose.
This guy might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but nonetheless he made me feel appreciated (at the beginning at least). So why have I been so mean? Perhaps my ambition to be an independent, self-sufficient, worldly, sophisticated femme fatale-type of girl has made me cruel. Maybe my quest to recognize and acknowledge my good qualities has transformed itself into a superiority complex. This reaction, when combined with my lack of self-confidence might be what is leading me to be such a bully. It sort of seems that way in this case, at least. Of course, colloquial and proper English do have their differences, and I do recognize this, but it does genuinely irritate me when native speakers produce sentences like "Oh, he don't know nothing." Of course, this should be "He doesn't know anything." More and more Americans seem to be working to remove "doesn't" and "anything" from the English lexicon. As an English teacher, I find this quite obnoxious.
Of course I notice anytime someone makes a mistake like this, but I can usually ignore it in most people. I understand that some people either received a poor education or simply aren't graceful with their words, but it still annoys me. Particularly if I see an attractive guy and he begins to speak in this manner. It's sort of like the reverse Adam Sandler effect. A lot of women find him attractive because he's funny. If he weren't a rich, successful, famous actor, he would not get girls like he does. He's not attractive, but his sense of humor and personality make you change your mind (not for me, this effect works better on me with Jon Lajoie, who, by the way, is extremely underrated). The reverse effect occurs, for me at least, when I see a good-looking guy who, the moment he opens his mouth, sounds like he should be living in the backwoods of the deep south (grammatically, not by accent). I try to ignore it and just concentrate on the visual aspect of a person, but enough grammar errors, either in person or via text (wayyy more noticeable and wayyy more irritating) make their way into my eardrums and I want to cringe every time.
I will probably expand on this specific topic at a later time. The little things that really irritate me about men may possibly constitute enough material for an entire entry. Well, almost. I could combine with my list of really awkward or unusual things that attract me and make a pretty lengthy entry.
But here is another example of a situation in which I may possibly have taken on the bully role. And here I feel extra bad. I have a student in one of my lower level classes who makes me want tear my hair out and make a run for it every time I see him. Obviously I understand that every student has different skills, abilities and difficulties. I also am able to filter nearly, according to level, which mistakes they should or should not be making. So, when I judge, I promise you I am fair. That has to be why I'm particularly scornful of my fellow Americans who speak no other language besides English (and show no interest in doing so, another thing that sort of irritates me, I mean, be a little open-minded, it won't kill you) and still manage to bastardize it.
Despite struggling with the simple past, this guy thinks he knows English better than me. For example, review this dialogue:
Student: Teacher, what mean "from"? Same "than"?
Me: No..."from" and "than"? No, they're very different.
Student: No, I think same.
Me (smiling politely): No, they're different.
Student: I think "from" same "than."
Me: No, I promise you they are completely different. Trust me.
Student: You sure?
Okay, now you try not being annoyed by that. Compound the ludicrousness of that conversation with the fact that you've had to literally turn every page in his book for him while he blankly stared at what you wrote on the board fifteen minutes ago, then have to close the book to get him to pay attention to you while you're explaining something. This attention at this moment is essential if you don't want to repeat your directions and instructions a second time to the one student who wasn't paying attention. This bothers me, not just because I don't like to repeat myself, but also because it wastes the other students' time.
Last session, by some miracle (or more likely in some kind of cheating or mathematical error in the teachers' correcting or something) he passed on to the next level. I happen to be so lucky to have him now that he has conquered the simple past, future and how to form a question using "do." The other students in the class move at an appropriate pace for the level and seem to understand everything new they learn quite easily. Then there's this person. It honestly takes him fifteen minutes longer to do everything than everybody else. This is annoying to the others, but it's also destroying the pace of my class. I mean come on, it's the beginning of the third of four weeks and we're only half-way through the book. Normally I'd be at least 80% finished by now. It makes me nervous and I don't like it.
Now, in my defense, this is something else that really bothers me. And this example definitely ties in with my theory that I'm becoming a bully by recognizing and attempting to eradicate my inferiorities. I'm a woman and sometimes, with very certain people, I feel that I am disrespected or presumed to be unintelligent by others just for being a woman. And young, to boot. So, after he called me over to his desk on Monday in order to tell, not ask, me to sharpen his pencil for him, "You sharpen pencil?" he says with that smug smile that makes me want to scream, I responded with "do you have legs?" As this was coming out of my mouth I realized this was probably not something I should be saying. So, with the addition of a playful smile, I responded to his affirmative answer with "Well, then, you can walk over to the pencil sharpener and do it yourself." He tried to tell me that he didn't know how it worked but I insisted it was a standard electric pencil sharpener and worked just like any other sharpener. Just shove the pencil in the whole, hold for a few moments and magically you have a nice, sharp pencil point. Okay, so I didn't put it quite like that, but my response was good enough and I walked icily away.
After this incident, I felt like I was King of the World. But yesterday, when he asked me about a sentence created earlier using the pronoun "he" instead of the man's name used in the original question, I got noticeably bothered. We had finished talking about this question at least ten minutes prior to the question. Additionally, I was so dumbfounded that he was asking me this question (of course you can say "he" instead of the name!). I'm not even sure what I said but immediately after a felt a strange feeling. For a split-second I was proud once again, but then I thought to myself: "Who are you and what are you doing?" Yes, I should be shocked when someone one third of the way through our program doesn't know this (or is asking just to show off or something), but should I really react that way? Am I becoming a total bitch? I have had issues with not being a strict enough in the teacher in the past, and I've found ways to insert my authority while still maintaing the sense of relate-ability that I think makes me (at least) a likable teacher, but am I finding some malevolent joy that may be signaling impending authoritarianism? That's definitely not my style.
I'll be quite honest. Maybe this shouldn't bother me all that much. I'm not really sure what the point in writing all this was. And analyzing every thought I have tends to drive my self against myself. But I'm still not sure. Am I really changing? What will the final outcome of this metamorphosis be? Or am I just going through a mean phase? Who knows.
I have been thinking about this question a lot over the last couple of days. It's not a thought that has crossed my mind ever before at any point in my life. I'm a small, short girl who was picked on when she was younger, and I'm generally kind to everyone. But recently I can't help but notice some changes in my behavior patterns.
Over the last five or so years I have changed significantly and matured an extraordinary amount. I've been in a variety of relationships: two major, long-term relationships and several short term affairs of the heart or whatever you want to call them. But titles are inconsequential. What I'm driving at is that I've had my heart broken God-knows how many times by a whole bunch of guys. At some point this winter I decided to set off on a quest to be more selfish. By this I don't mean be mean to others intentionally, but to think more about what I want, what I need, and not simply cater to the wills or whims of other people in my life, particularly men who certainly do not or will not reciprocate this compassion or consideration.
This quest to be selfish (or shall I say self-considerate?) has impacted my love life lately. I've been single (or at least without a man whom I call my "boyfriend") for nearly two years now. In that time I've mercuriously flitted back and forth between different men in an attempt to find a new boyfriend. Only recently did I have the realization that in order to truly please myself, and act for the good of my future, feelings, etc. I really should be single.
For the last three months, approximately, I have been seeing or "talking to" one boy in particular. I admit, he was not the usual type of guy that I am attracted to, both physically and personally. We really don't have a lot in common, but for the first time in my life I had a person who really made me feel confident, beautiful and intelligent. Initially I ignored his lack of a college degree, heavy Boston accent, provincial speech, lack of interest in intellectual endeavors and different tastes in virtually everything. For the first time in years I felt adored and like nothing too demanding was asked of me. I was simply going along for the ride, not worrying about titles, our future, what he thought about me (or other girls). I was just enjoying my time, and this unique situation in which I had freedom to do what I wanted but also had someone with whom I could spend tender moments with.
But, a couple weeks ago things started to change. The compliments began to dwindle in number and he started to get rather snappy with me. I found that I was growing more and more irritated with him more and more often. The grammar corrections I would make when he spoke in the beginning were made light-heartedly and in a playful manner. But over the last couple of weeks they have become, totally unnoticed by me, somewhat malicious, snide, and simply unkind.
My last serious boyfriend was not smarter than me, yet he always had the ability to make me feel inferior. If imbuing the feeling of inferiority on others were an art form, he would be Picasso or Da Vinci. I always demonize him when describing him to others, but lately, I wonder if I'm imitating some of his behavior. In all my previous relationships I am usually the one to follow orders, take shit and do what they want. I still have to do the majority of the driving in this current situation, but he still does take more initiative to come to me when possible. That's an improvement, I suppose.
This guy might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but nonetheless he made me feel appreciated (at the beginning at least). So why have I been so mean? Perhaps my ambition to be an independent, self-sufficient, worldly, sophisticated femme fatale-type of girl has made me cruel. Maybe my quest to recognize and acknowledge my good qualities has transformed itself into a superiority complex. This reaction, when combined with my lack of self-confidence might be what is leading me to be such a bully. It sort of seems that way in this case, at least. Of course, colloquial and proper English do have their differences, and I do recognize this, but it does genuinely irritate me when native speakers produce sentences like "Oh, he don't know nothing." Of course, this should be "He doesn't know anything." More and more Americans seem to be working to remove "doesn't" and "anything" from the English lexicon. As an English teacher, I find this quite obnoxious.
Of course I notice anytime someone makes a mistake like this, but I can usually ignore it in most people. I understand that some people either received a poor education or simply aren't graceful with their words, but it still annoys me. Particularly if I see an attractive guy and he begins to speak in this manner. It's sort of like the reverse Adam Sandler effect. A lot of women find him attractive because he's funny. If he weren't a rich, successful, famous actor, he would not get girls like he does. He's not attractive, but his sense of humor and personality make you change your mind (not for me, this effect works better on me with Jon Lajoie, who, by the way, is extremely underrated). The reverse effect occurs, for me at least, when I see a good-looking guy who, the moment he opens his mouth, sounds like he should be living in the backwoods of the deep south (grammatically, not by accent). I try to ignore it and just concentrate on the visual aspect of a person, but enough grammar errors, either in person or via text (wayyy more noticeable and wayyy more irritating) make their way into my eardrums and I want to cringe every time.
I will probably expand on this specific topic at a later time. The little things that really irritate me about men may possibly constitute enough material for an entire entry. Well, almost. I could combine with my list of really awkward or unusual things that attract me and make a pretty lengthy entry.
But here is another example of a situation in which I may possibly have taken on the bully role. And here I feel extra bad. I have a student in one of my lower level classes who makes me want tear my hair out and make a run for it every time I see him. Obviously I understand that every student has different skills, abilities and difficulties. I also am able to filter nearly, according to level, which mistakes they should or should not be making. So, when I judge, I promise you I am fair. That has to be why I'm particularly scornful of my fellow Americans who speak no other language besides English (and show no interest in doing so, another thing that sort of irritates me, I mean, be a little open-minded, it won't kill you) and still manage to bastardize it.
Despite struggling with the simple past, this guy thinks he knows English better than me. For example, review this dialogue:
Student: Teacher, what mean "from"? Same "than"?
Me: No..."from" and "than"? No, they're very different.
Student: No, I think same.
Me (smiling politely): No, they're different.
Student: I think "from" same "than."
Me: No, I promise you they are completely different. Trust me.
Student: You sure?
Okay, now you try not being annoyed by that. Compound the ludicrousness of that conversation with the fact that you've had to literally turn every page in his book for him while he blankly stared at what you wrote on the board fifteen minutes ago, then have to close the book to get him to pay attention to you while you're explaining something. This attention at this moment is essential if you don't want to repeat your directions and instructions a second time to the one student who wasn't paying attention. This bothers me, not just because I don't like to repeat myself, but also because it wastes the other students' time.
Last session, by some miracle (or more likely in some kind of cheating or mathematical error in the teachers' correcting or something) he passed on to the next level. I happen to be so lucky to have him now that he has conquered the simple past, future and how to form a question using "do." The other students in the class move at an appropriate pace for the level and seem to understand everything new they learn quite easily. Then there's this person. It honestly takes him fifteen minutes longer to do everything than everybody else. This is annoying to the others, but it's also destroying the pace of my class. I mean come on, it's the beginning of the third of four weeks and we're only half-way through the book. Normally I'd be at least 80% finished by now. It makes me nervous and I don't like it.
Now, in my defense, this is something else that really bothers me. And this example definitely ties in with my theory that I'm becoming a bully by recognizing and attempting to eradicate my inferiorities. I'm a woman and sometimes, with very certain people, I feel that I am disrespected or presumed to be unintelligent by others just for being a woman. And young, to boot. So, after he called me over to his desk on Monday in order to tell, not ask, me to sharpen his pencil for him, "You sharpen pencil?" he says with that smug smile that makes me want to scream, I responded with "do you have legs?" As this was coming out of my mouth I realized this was probably not something I should be saying. So, with the addition of a playful smile, I responded to his affirmative answer with "Well, then, you can walk over to the pencil sharpener and do it yourself." He tried to tell me that he didn't know how it worked but I insisted it was a standard electric pencil sharpener and worked just like any other sharpener. Just shove the pencil in the whole, hold for a few moments and magically you have a nice, sharp pencil point. Okay, so I didn't put it quite like that, but my response was good enough and I walked icily away.
After this incident, I felt like I was King of the World. But yesterday, when he asked me about a sentence created earlier using the pronoun "he" instead of the man's name used in the original question, I got noticeably bothered. We had finished talking about this question at least ten minutes prior to the question. Additionally, I was so dumbfounded that he was asking me this question (of course you can say "he" instead of the name!). I'm not even sure what I said but immediately after a felt a strange feeling. For a split-second I was proud once again, but then I thought to myself: "Who are you and what are you doing?" Yes, I should be shocked when someone one third of the way through our program doesn't know this (or is asking just to show off or something), but should I really react that way? Am I becoming a total bitch? I have had issues with not being a strict enough in the teacher in the past, and I've found ways to insert my authority while still maintaing the sense of relate-ability that I think makes me (at least) a likable teacher, but am I finding some malevolent joy that may be signaling impending authoritarianism? That's definitely not my style.
I'll be quite honest. Maybe this shouldn't bother me all that much. I'm not really sure what the point in writing all this was. And analyzing every thought I have tends to drive my self against myself. But I'm still not sure. Am I really changing? What will the final outcome of this metamorphosis be? Or am I just going through a mean phase? Who knows.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Way My Mind Works
I think. I think a lot. This morning in particular I took note of how strange my line of thinking usually is. I start thinking about one topic and somehow my mind meanders to really strange topics most of the time. This is an example.
Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo and so therefore this morning I was thinking about my plans. Next I started thinking about what I did for Cinco de Mayo last year. My best friend (at the time) and I went to a Mexican restaurant and drank some Coronas. It was a typically American way to celebrate. I thought about my life situation at the time: I was leaving for Thailand in about ten days, I was still working at the mortgage company, and I had just returned from visiting my friends in LA.
Now, while on this trip, I met a tall, muscular, blue-eyed Australian guy. Multiple drinks were consumed, laughs shared, and to make a long story short he ended up returning with me to my friend's apartment. Not that I need to defend my actions, but I will say that this is not my typical behavior. So, please don't think that. The combination of Tequila, big blue eyes and a delicious Australian accent made me a little bit more daring than usual. Plus, I was on vacation. What happens in LA stays in LA.
Wait. No. That's Vegas. And this is my life we're talking about. Nothing is ever that simple with me. Well, come to find out, he was vacationing in LA, then headed to Kentucky for the Kentucky Derby then moving to Boston for the entirety of the summer. What a coincidence. Before parting ways I wrote my name and phone number on a napkin. I just assumed he would lose it and I would never hear from him again. That's how one-night stands work, right? Nope. Not for me. About a week or so later I got a call from a strange number and answered it. The voice on the other end of the line was Australian. I thought it was nice that he showed interest in developing a relationship or whatever, but I knew that I was going to be moving to the opposite end of the world within less than a month. What would the sense in that be? My phone was constantly ringing, everywhere I went he would show up. It was totally creepy. Anyways, I guess I thought about him this morning because on Cinco de Mayo last year he was texting me all night.
Anyways, as I proceeded to think about this guy, I began thinking about why I generally avoid one-night stands. It's pretty obvious: I'm terrified of contracting an STD. I might think about this or be more afraid of this than the average person, actually. My usual behavior is fairly precautious and I'm not a complete idiot about the things (or people) that I do. But still, take one sex-ed class, mix the pictures they show you with my over-active mind and your fears might become irrational as well. I then remembered an acronym that my friend created and uses whenever anyone in our group is contemplating getting naughty with a new person. The acronym is WABS.
W stands for "worms." My friend who thought of this thinks penises look like worms, and worms are just gross. Stay away. A is for AIDS. Obviously not something you want. B stands for "babies." Of course, we're not married and having a kid right now would just be wrong. The S stands for "syphilis." This last one I, personally, think is a little strange. In the developed world syphilis is no longer a problem. It's completely curable, easily detectable, etc. Got syphilis? Take Penicillin. Done. Problem solved. I suppose some people must contract it, but it's certainly not the pandemic that it used to be. And it's just a weird disease. You can get skin lesions, go blind, go crazy, and your body can even become morphed and contorted. Ew. I definitely don't want that.
Ok, so this is where it gets interesting. I started thinking about famous people that died of Syphilis. I feel like that's one of those diseases that caused death in an abnormally high number of famous people from the past. I knew Van Gogh had Syphilis. Nietzsche had it. A lot of famous philosophers and artists had it for some reason. Here are a few people who had (or whom people speculate had) syphilis:
Christopher Columbus (along with a large number of his crewmen who accompanied him to the New World)
Al Capone (I always just figured he was shot, but ok)
Napoleon
Vincent Van Gogh
Friedrich Nietzsche
Henry VIII
Winston Churchill
Beethoven
Hitler and Mussolini (that's a weird trend...)
Vladimir Lenin (this information was discovered later, by outside sources since, for obvious political reasons, the people of Soviet Russia were not told this information)
Howard Hughes*
I must say I was pretty shocked by some of these names. Apparently before the discovery of Penicillin, this disease was pretty common. I even read somewhere that some of the remains of the ancient Romans who died in the volcanic eruption at Pompeii showed signs of the disease.
I have no idea why I find this so fascinating. I also don't know how my mind manages to do things like transition from Cinco de Mayo to syphilis. Maybe I'm weird. Not maybe, definitely, but whatever.
Here's one more example of the strange things I think: So, my roommate bought a new stick of deodorant. It's part of a new line from Old Spice and is called "Fiji." It claims to smell like "palm trees, sunshine, and freedom." My first thought was "what on earth do sunshine and freedom smell like?" What would a logical person do? Open it and take a whiff. Did I? Of course not. I closed my eyes and pictured a warm sandy beach, bright sunshine and a total lack of responsibility. This put a smile on my face. I closed the door of our medicine cabinet, leaving the deoderant unopened and un-smelled. Every day since then, I look at this item and conjure up my picture of "sunshine and freedom." I've reached the point where I'm not actually interested in what the smell is, but every morning I bask in my contemplation thereof. Being easily amused can lead you to find happiness in the smallest of things.
*Above information found at http://www.articledoctor.com/diseases-stds/famous-people-with-stds-1320
Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo and so therefore this morning I was thinking about my plans. Next I started thinking about what I did for Cinco de Mayo last year. My best friend (at the time) and I went to a Mexican restaurant and drank some Coronas. It was a typically American way to celebrate. I thought about my life situation at the time: I was leaving for Thailand in about ten days, I was still working at the mortgage company, and I had just returned from visiting my friends in LA.
Now, while on this trip, I met a tall, muscular, blue-eyed Australian guy. Multiple drinks were consumed, laughs shared, and to make a long story short he ended up returning with me to my friend's apartment. Not that I need to defend my actions, but I will say that this is not my typical behavior. So, please don't think that. The combination of Tequila, big blue eyes and a delicious Australian accent made me a little bit more daring than usual. Plus, I was on vacation. What happens in LA stays in LA.
Wait. No. That's Vegas. And this is my life we're talking about. Nothing is ever that simple with me. Well, come to find out, he was vacationing in LA, then headed to Kentucky for the Kentucky Derby then moving to Boston for the entirety of the summer. What a coincidence. Before parting ways I wrote my name and phone number on a napkin. I just assumed he would lose it and I would never hear from him again. That's how one-night stands work, right? Nope. Not for me. About a week or so later I got a call from a strange number and answered it. The voice on the other end of the line was Australian. I thought it was nice that he showed interest in developing a relationship or whatever, but I knew that I was going to be moving to the opposite end of the world within less than a month. What would the sense in that be? My phone was constantly ringing, everywhere I went he would show up. It was totally creepy. Anyways, I guess I thought about him this morning because on Cinco de Mayo last year he was texting me all night.
Anyways, as I proceeded to think about this guy, I began thinking about why I generally avoid one-night stands. It's pretty obvious: I'm terrified of contracting an STD. I might think about this or be more afraid of this than the average person, actually. My usual behavior is fairly precautious and I'm not a complete idiot about the things (or people) that I do. But still, take one sex-ed class, mix the pictures they show you with my over-active mind and your fears might become irrational as well. I then remembered an acronym that my friend created and uses whenever anyone in our group is contemplating getting naughty with a new person. The acronym is WABS.
W stands for "worms." My friend who thought of this thinks penises look like worms, and worms are just gross. Stay away. A is for AIDS. Obviously not something you want. B stands for "babies." Of course, we're not married and having a kid right now would just be wrong. The S stands for "syphilis." This last one I, personally, think is a little strange. In the developed world syphilis is no longer a problem. It's completely curable, easily detectable, etc. Got syphilis? Take Penicillin. Done. Problem solved. I suppose some people must contract it, but it's certainly not the pandemic that it used to be. And it's just a weird disease. You can get skin lesions, go blind, go crazy, and your body can even become morphed and contorted. Ew. I definitely don't want that.
Ok, so this is where it gets interesting. I started thinking about famous people that died of Syphilis. I feel like that's one of those diseases that caused death in an abnormally high number of famous people from the past. I knew Van Gogh had Syphilis. Nietzsche had it. A lot of famous philosophers and artists had it for some reason. Here are a few people who had (or whom people speculate had) syphilis:
Christopher Columbus (along with a large number of his crewmen who accompanied him to the New World)
Al Capone (I always just figured he was shot, but ok)
Napoleon
Vincent Van Gogh
Friedrich Nietzsche
Henry VIII
Winston Churchill
Beethoven
Hitler and Mussolini (that's a weird trend...)
Vladimir Lenin (this information was discovered later, by outside sources since, for obvious political reasons, the people of Soviet Russia were not told this information)
Howard Hughes*
I must say I was pretty shocked by some of these names. Apparently before the discovery of Penicillin, this disease was pretty common. I even read somewhere that some of the remains of the ancient Romans who died in the volcanic eruption at Pompeii showed signs of the disease.
I have no idea why I find this so fascinating. I also don't know how my mind manages to do things like transition from Cinco de Mayo to syphilis. Maybe I'm weird. Not maybe, definitely, but whatever.
Here's one more example of the strange things I think: So, my roommate bought a new stick of deodorant. It's part of a new line from Old Spice and is called "Fiji." It claims to smell like "palm trees, sunshine, and freedom." My first thought was "what on earth do sunshine and freedom smell like?" What would a logical person do? Open it and take a whiff. Did I? Of course not. I closed my eyes and pictured a warm sandy beach, bright sunshine and a total lack of responsibility. This put a smile on my face. I closed the door of our medicine cabinet, leaving the deoderant unopened and un-smelled. Every day since then, I look at this item and conjure up my picture of "sunshine and freedom." I've reached the point where I'm not actually interested in what the smell is, but every morning I bask in my contemplation thereof. Being easily amused can lead you to find happiness in the smallest of things.
*Above information found at http://www.articledoctor.com/diseases-stds/famous-people-with-stds-1320
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
I guess I should say something about Osama bin Laden
So, as an American, I guess I have to say something of our capture and killing of Osama bin Laden. While many celebrate and should "Yay America!" I can't help but be a little weary of what happened. Okay, so Al Qaeda masterminded the whole 9/11 scheme and caused one of, if not the largest tragedies in modern American history. But I can't help but wonder if straight up killing him was the wisest solution. Sure, he may have been the Al Qaeda mastermind, but there are a few things we need to remember. First, in an organization as large as Al Qaeda there are a multitude of people in line to take his place. By killing their leader aren't we just infuriating his followers and ensuring revenge? Sure, the man we've named as our Target and the ultimate resource of terrorism is dead, but now what do we have? I'll tell you: million of pissed off terrorists. Great! Now America's terrorism warning level is code red and we can be expecting to get bombed at any given moment. Good job, troops!
In addition, do you think killing him was really the right idea? After all, didn't the members of Al Qaeda involved in the 9/11 attacks die for their cause? We're talking about a group of people who care so much about what they're trying to prove that they don't care about dying. It's not a big deal to them so long as they get their message across. What good does it do to make bin Laden a martyr? I mean, I'm no political expert (in fact I DESPISE politics) but for all of those who idolized bin Laden, his death may represent a form of inspiration to do harm. Plus, isn't this sort of an old fashioned way of doing things? We're not living in ancient Rome...."an eye for an eye" shouldn't be our philosophy on punishment. Additionally, what can we do with him now? How much information could have possibly been milked for him? Yes, I'm sure getting him to talk and give away secrets would have been nearly impossible, but, in my humble opinion, we should have at least tried. Does anyone else think it would have been wiser to keep him alive and try to get information? Maybe torture him and force him to make a video telling all his followers to stop hurting everyone? I mean, if America is out for revenge, then wouldn't that be the best possible solution? They did it with plenty of reporters that they captured, why shouldn't we have done the same? Perhaps things would be different.
Now, I am certainly no expert on politics, as I have said. In my opinion politics shouldn't be a necessary part of human society. I've always been a proponent of human nature and instinct. If people were capable of following their instinct in a fair way then we wouldn't need politics. Besides, who is to decide what is right and wrong anyways? It's those who are in power that make the rules, and those rules usually benefit the ruler. But, we're a democratic society, supposedly, so who decided to kill bin Laden? I mean, if there were a vote, I wouldn't have chosen death for him. Like I said earlier, how does that help anything?
Well, I've said my piece, but who cares what I think. I'm totally naive about politics. I prefer to be that way. I don't need some president or laws to tell me what's right or wrong. I think that as human beings we are all endowed with instincts and a visceral sense of right and wrong. If people could take a moment and think about their actions, the consequences of those actions and the effects they will have on other people then politics just wouldn't be necessary. And we wouldn't have to listen to politicians campaigning all the time because, let's face it, that's just annoying. If everyone would read a little Nietzsche every once in a while they'd know what I am saying.
I think that's enough for now. I've done my job as a citizen and addressed the latest hot news topic. But, I'm done with that for now. More interesting reading to come, I promise.
In addition, do you think killing him was really the right idea? After all, didn't the members of Al Qaeda involved in the 9/11 attacks die for their cause? We're talking about a group of people who care so much about what they're trying to prove that they don't care about dying. It's not a big deal to them so long as they get their message across. What good does it do to make bin Laden a martyr? I mean, I'm no political expert (in fact I DESPISE politics) but for all of those who idolized bin Laden, his death may represent a form of inspiration to do harm. Plus, isn't this sort of an old fashioned way of doing things? We're not living in ancient Rome...."an eye for an eye" shouldn't be our philosophy on punishment. Additionally, what can we do with him now? How much information could have possibly been milked for him? Yes, I'm sure getting him to talk and give away secrets would have been nearly impossible, but, in my humble opinion, we should have at least tried. Does anyone else think it would have been wiser to keep him alive and try to get information? Maybe torture him and force him to make a video telling all his followers to stop hurting everyone? I mean, if America is out for revenge, then wouldn't that be the best possible solution? They did it with plenty of reporters that they captured, why shouldn't we have done the same? Perhaps things would be different.
Now, I am certainly no expert on politics, as I have said. In my opinion politics shouldn't be a necessary part of human society. I've always been a proponent of human nature and instinct. If people were capable of following their instinct in a fair way then we wouldn't need politics. Besides, who is to decide what is right and wrong anyways? It's those who are in power that make the rules, and those rules usually benefit the ruler. But, we're a democratic society, supposedly, so who decided to kill bin Laden? I mean, if there were a vote, I wouldn't have chosen death for him. Like I said earlier, how does that help anything?
Well, I've said my piece, but who cares what I think. I'm totally naive about politics. I prefer to be that way. I don't need some president or laws to tell me what's right or wrong. I think that as human beings we are all endowed with instincts and a visceral sense of right and wrong. If people could take a moment and think about their actions, the consequences of those actions and the effects they will have on other people then politics just wouldn't be necessary. And we wouldn't have to listen to politicians campaigning all the time because, let's face it, that's just annoying. If everyone would read a little Nietzsche every once in a while they'd know what I am saying.
I think that's enough for now. I've done my job as a citizen and addressed the latest hot news topic. But, I'm done with that for now. More interesting reading to come, I promise.
Monday, May 2, 2011
What do you want?
"What do you want?" This seems like a simple enough question. We ask this question and are asked this question countless times every single day. Hardly an hour passes in which we don't answer some form of this question whether it's "What do I want to eat for lunch?" or "what do I feel like wearing today?" or "what do I want to do tonight?" But answering this general question is not always simple. When you're a child, you're constantly asked, "what do you want to be when you grow up?" And when you're a child you always seem to know the answer. Your future seems so clear. You think about what you'll be doing when you're twenty-five and you can pinpoint exactly what kind of job you'll have, the kind of husband you'll have, even the gender and names of your children (and of course, when you're little, twenty-five seems like an appropriate age at which to have your life, including these aspects all sorted).
So, I will be twenty-five this upcoming June and my life is hardly sorted out. The details of what elementary-school-aged Morrisa thought adult Morrisa would be are a little unclear in my memory, but I know that at one point I thought I wanted to be an archaeologist (until I realized I don't like digging around in the dirt), at another point I thought I'd be a famous actress (oh wait, I can't act, oops) and there were a range of other dream occupations in between like movie director, famous journalist, etc. But, fortunately, I can't complain about my job. Actually, it's sort of funny. Teaching is one of few occupations that I never considered. In fact, even up until a couple years ago, if someone had asked me if I would consider being a teacher my usual response was "hell no!" Granted, I never thought teaching adults was an option, and even at this point teaching children seems like an excruciating task.
But can I do this for the rest of my life? Something tells me that eventually I will lose motivation or grow tired of teaching. Being so close in age to my students makes teaching both fun and relatively easy. I can relate to and understand my students. Also, I was in their position not too long ago. I still remember what it was like to be a student and they know this.
The more important reason, however, behind why I can't do this job forever may sound strange, but it's jealousy. My students come and go over different lengths of time, but one constant factor always remains: every single one of them, at some point, will leave. They either go back to their countries or to college here in the States. Most go on to earn degrees using their English skills and find fantastic jobs after having a wonderful experience in America. But, when they leave I feel left behind. Of course I am incredibly proud of them and happy to see them do well, but I can't help but feel like this. I feel like this can't be the end of the road. I'd like to earn more money, I'd like to be an expert in something, I'd like to take the next step in my life path. I just don't feel finished yet. But what's next? Am I too old to ask myself the question: "What do I want to be when I grow up?"
I suppose I am not too old, but this question is a lot more terrifying now than when you're seven. I always thought that being twenty-five meant that you were grown up already. All I know is that I certainly don't feel like "an adult." Being "grown-up" sounds, to me, like someone who is finished. Kind of like a fancy meal that you put in the oven, set the timer and when that timer goes off it's completed, delicious, ready to serve, and exactly the way you had pictured it would be. But I know I'm not the only person my age, or older, who feels like there's a few ingredients still missing and cooking to be done left in their life. I just wish I had the recipe and could simply read the directions and know what the next step is. But, nothing is that simple. That's the beauty of it all, I suppose.
But what other "ingredients" are missing? Where's the husband, 2.5 kids, dog and white picket fence? Is that even something I want? I think young children in this country always just assume they'll grow up, get married, have kids and live a life similar to that of their parents. My parents were twenty-one when they got married, so clearly I'm already over-do for that. This did concern me for a while, particularly when, at twenty-three I went through a miserably painful breakup with a boy whom I thought I would marry some day. That was nearly two years ago now. Although I certainly realize that I'm probably the luckiest girl on the planet for having gained my freedom from this blood-sucking leech of a human being, I still can't help but be concerned about being alone for the rest of my life.
The strange part is, however, that lately (at least over the past few weeks) I've realized that I'm actually happy to be single. It's been almost two years since I had a boyfriend (despite having a couple of men in that period who I consider "almost boyfriends"), but for the first time in my life I actually feel independent and comfortable being single. Sure, having someone to spend romantic evenings with would be nice, but I'd rather spend time with friends. I think part of the reason behind this is that I've come to realize that wanting a boyfriend just for the sake of having a boyfriend is just silly and that when it comes down to it I have no idea what I want. I've made mistakes in the past and usually make poor choices when it comes to men and I know that this makes me weary when introduced to someone new now. I guess it all boils down to what I briefly mentioned in a previous blog: I just have a hard time connecting with people sometimes.
That connected feeling is the only thing I know I want in a man. I know I'm a complex person and have some unusual interests and tastes, but what I want is for somebody to at least try to understand me, or at least be interested in what I have to say. I'd have to be an idiot to think that I'll ever find somebody with exactly the same interests as myself, but I can be hopeful that I'll find someone close enough. Then again, if we had the exact same interests that would just be like dating myself and that's sort of strange. Nonetheless, this is one similarity I crave. But, the difficulty of this task is a bit daunting. The more dates I go on, the more aware I become of what I don't want in a man. Granted, finding what you do want via discovering the things that you don't want is one way of figuring it all out, but it feels like it's going to take forever. But, oh well. I'm really not in any rush. If a tall, blue-eyed, nicely built, talented, wealthy, intelligent, funny, cultured man who likes traveling, reading, philosophy and Bjork falls out of the sky and into my lap one day, I'll take him, but I'm not going to sit at my window waiting desperately. After all, I've got myself to take care of, the world to see and a future to experience.
I might not be able to make an exact list of the things I want in my life. Like everyone else, my life did not come with a set of instructions, and I don't know what the next step is, but for the first time ever I'm not really scared about that. As Scarlet O'Hara says in Gone with the Wind: "Tomorrow is another day!"
So, I will be twenty-five this upcoming June and my life is hardly sorted out. The details of what elementary-school-aged Morrisa thought adult Morrisa would be are a little unclear in my memory, but I know that at one point I thought I wanted to be an archaeologist (until I realized I don't like digging around in the dirt), at another point I thought I'd be a famous actress (oh wait, I can't act, oops) and there were a range of other dream occupations in between like movie director, famous journalist, etc. But, fortunately, I can't complain about my job. Actually, it's sort of funny. Teaching is one of few occupations that I never considered. In fact, even up until a couple years ago, if someone had asked me if I would consider being a teacher my usual response was "hell no!" Granted, I never thought teaching adults was an option, and even at this point teaching children seems like an excruciating task.
But can I do this for the rest of my life? Something tells me that eventually I will lose motivation or grow tired of teaching. Being so close in age to my students makes teaching both fun and relatively easy. I can relate to and understand my students. Also, I was in their position not too long ago. I still remember what it was like to be a student and they know this.
The more important reason, however, behind why I can't do this job forever may sound strange, but it's jealousy. My students come and go over different lengths of time, but one constant factor always remains: every single one of them, at some point, will leave. They either go back to their countries or to college here in the States. Most go on to earn degrees using their English skills and find fantastic jobs after having a wonderful experience in America. But, when they leave I feel left behind. Of course I am incredibly proud of them and happy to see them do well, but I can't help but feel like this. I feel like this can't be the end of the road. I'd like to earn more money, I'd like to be an expert in something, I'd like to take the next step in my life path. I just don't feel finished yet. But what's next? Am I too old to ask myself the question: "What do I want to be when I grow up?"
I suppose I am not too old, but this question is a lot more terrifying now than when you're seven. I always thought that being twenty-five meant that you were grown up already. All I know is that I certainly don't feel like "an adult." Being "grown-up" sounds, to me, like someone who is finished. Kind of like a fancy meal that you put in the oven, set the timer and when that timer goes off it's completed, delicious, ready to serve, and exactly the way you had pictured it would be. But I know I'm not the only person my age, or older, who feels like there's a few ingredients still missing and cooking to be done left in their life. I just wish I had the recipe and could simply read the directions and know what the next step is. But, nothing is that simple. That's the beauty of it all, I suppose.
But what other "ingredients" are missing? Where's the husband, 2.5 kids, dog and white picket fence? Is that even something I want? I think young children in this country always just assume they'll grow up, get married, have kids and live a life similar to that of their parents. My parents were twenty-one when they got married, so clearly I'm already over-do for that. This did concern me for a while, particularly when, at twenty-three I went through a miserably painful breakup with a boy whom I thought I would marry some day. That was nearly two years ago now. Although I certainly realize that I'm probably the luckiest girl on the planet for having gained my freedom from this blood-sucking leech of a human being, I still can't help but be concerned about being alone for the rest of my life.
The strange part is, however, that lately (at least over the past few weeks) I've realized that I'm actually happy to be single. It's been almost two years since I had a boyfriend (despite having a couple of men in that period who I consider "almost boyfriends"), but for the first time in my life I actually feel independent and comfortable being single. Sure, having someone to spend romantic evenings with would be nice, but I'd rather spend time with friends. I think part of the reason behind this is that I've come to realize that wanting a boyfriend just for the sake of having a boyfriend is just silly and that when it comes down to it I have no idea what I want. I've made mistakes in the past and usually make poor choices when it comes to men and I know that this makes me weary when introduced to someone new now. I guess it all boils down to what I briefly mentioned in a previous blog: I just have a hard time connecting with people sometimes.
That connected feeling is the only thing I know I want in a man. I know I'm a complex person and have some unusual interests and tastes, but what I want is for somebody to at least try to understand me, or at least be interested in what I have to say. I'd have to be an idiot to think that I'll ever find somebody with exactly the same interests as myself, but I can be hopeful that I'll find someone close enough. Then again, if we had the exact same interests that would just be like dating myself and that's sort of strange. Nonetheless, this is one similarity I crave. But, the difficulty of this task is a bit daunting. The more dates I go on, the more aware I become of what I don't want in a man. Granted, finding what you do want via discovering the things that you don't want is one way of figuring it all out, but it feels like it's going to take forever. But, oh well. I'm really not in any rush. If a tall, blue-eyed, nicely built, talented, wealthy, intelligent, funny, cultured man who likes traveling, reading, philosophy and Bjork falls out of the sky and into my lap one day, I'll take him, but I'm not going to sit at my window waiting desperately. After all, I've got myself to take care of, the world to see and a future to experience.
I might not be able to make an exact list of the things I want in my life. Like everyone else, my life did not come with a set of instructions, and I don't know what the next step is, but for the first time ever I'm not really scared about that. As Scarlet O'Hara says in Gone with the Wind: "Tomorrow is another day!"
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