“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” F. Scott Fitzgerald

Speaking of memories…

The holidays are here.

I assumed the holidays wouldn’t be easy this year and expecting that, I wasn’t all that surprised to have sly, sharp jabs of memories sneaking their way in over the last few days. While so many things in my life are going right these days, I also haven’t had much time to sit back, take a few deep breaths and acknowledge the few that aren’t. Those few struggles I do have are definitely the ones that tend to make the holidays a strange affair.

I don’t have the typical family problems around the holidays. You know the typical family problems; the family gripes, drama and panics that all culminate in singing carols in the living room on Christmas Eve and opening presents in p.j.’s on Christmas morn’. In fact, ever since I moved out of my home in my mid-teens, I rarely see family at all, much less for the holidays. I was very young when I started my own network of friends and trusted ones; creating my own family out of the supportive people around me. Is it the same? Sometimes, yes, and sometimes, no. Like anything in life, it has its pluses and minuses. It’s a pretty incredible feeling to know that the friends and loved ones I do have, love me back for no other reason than they want to. No one I know was obligated by blood or familial ties to care for and spend time with me. And yet, there they are. When I have a bad day, when I am pissy for no reason, when I want to play, when I have chattering nonsense to share; they are there to hug, admonish, laugh, and listen. So, all in all, I’m a very lucky girl.

But it doesn’t mean that I avoid the pangs of missing that blood obligation come winter. Something about family, knowing that they’ve seen your face change from a wrinkled babe, to a just-beginning-to-be-wrinkled 26 year-old, of having memories so old that they’ve become lore and no one really remembers how it went down – there is a comfort in that.

I feel compelled every so often to go walk up and down my childhood street. Feeling oddly pulled to sit on the front porch and look down the worn street littered with fall leaves at my old bus stop. To pause in front of the house where I had my first babysitting job.  And the one next to it where I regularly dog-sat – a strange house where I inadvertently saw my first Playboy (rather a mint collection of many years) and so began to get my first inkling of what men really want. I feel compelled to find the giant sewer drain where I smoked my first cigarette and the nearby creek where I had my first kiss. To sit on the stump of an enormous tree across the street in the neighbor’s front lawn. That stump is all that remains of the pride and plague that was the largest, tallest tree in our neighborhood, and for all we knew, the world.  It was in that tree that our neighbor’s boys would climb, jump and sometimes, inexplicably, pee out of. I definitely wouldn’t mind a  glare at the peach tree in my old backyard, still resentful of too many afternoons picking up the rotten, fly infested peaches that fell to the ground, uneaten. To this day, I won’t eat peaches raw. But I resist the compulsion and I don’t do any of those things. Although my childhood home isn’t that far from here, there is never a good time to walk down that particular memory lane. Especially when it’s fraught with so many potential potholes and detours of regret. And I can obviously do that just as well sitting in my room, thirty minutes away.

I’m not worried though. With every passing month, the memories of the past dim ever darker and I find a new reason to be excited about the future. Sometimes the lessons I’ve learned don’t reveal themselves right away. It’s a surprise I may stumble upon when I’m least expecting it and I find, to my pleased astonishment, that I’ve actually learned something along the way. Learning is a small, but gratifying reward for the pain of growing. Already a in the midst of a hurricane of activity and blessed to have incredible friends all around, these holidays will fly by and I am certain they will have all the moments of sweetness I could hope for – the memories from holidays past will only serve to remind me how far along I’ve actually come.

Just another dream in the life of Jen.

During my wonderful and many uninterrupted hours of sleep last night, my brain (apparently ecstatic with the much needed sleep) went into imagination hyper-drive. My dreams were a spinning, swirling mixture of what would be perfect TV show drama.

Dressed in a very red, very risque evening gown, I have a hazy memory of navigating a giant maze of a mansion. The mansion ceilings dripped in chandeliers that create a deceptive golden glow. Random people were all over the place, in little groups or all alone, littering the house like bits of lost, forgotten toys. While aimlessly wandering through this house, wondering just what I should be looking for, I met a few people I knew. We stood and chatted awkwardly. I could tell they felt as out of place as I did and we were all relieved to end the conversation and keep moving. Still wandering, I ran into a familiar smug smile from my past. After that unpleasant run in with an ex-fiance hell-bent on revenge , I found out much to my surprise I was pregnant. I’m not sure when the impregnating occurred, but in the world of dreams, logic is decidedly Alice in Wonderland-related at best. After a quick birth in the hospital, I didn’t have a moment to catch my breath. Taking my new, impossibly little baby girl and a bag, I was hustled out of the room. I was rushing but didn’t know why. Next thing I knew I was on a plane bound north, and suddenly I start panicking.

I don’t know what to feed newborns! I didn’t have a baby shower! I have no car seat, carrier or diapers. Every single thought I have is now consumed with pure panic about this tiny, soon-to-be-pooping-everywhere little baby in my arms. What do I name her? What kind of diapers do newborns wear? I start asking all the people around me, completely aware of and simultaneously not remotely concerned with my obvious fragile mental state. Think what you want about me, but just tell me what diapers to put on my baby! I’m getting raised eyebrows and big eyes, but I don’t care. Someone tries to discreetly answer my feeding question by raising a finger, indicating my upper chest. The light-bulb goes on and I look down excitedly to find— nothing has changed! Milk is nowhere to be found. I can’t feed my new baby!

The plane lands, we leave the airport and get in a rental car. We’re following long, winding roads somewhere in Michigan; giant statuesque pine trees surround us and the ground is a blanket of brown needles. I’m relentless in my demands to stop at a store where I can buy everything I may need to take care of my little “Amy”. No, not Amy. Becky? Ah, Madeleine. ‘Yes, it’s perfect.’ I decide to name her Madeleine as the car pulls up to a Piggly Wiggly nestled in the middle of this thick northern forest. We all get out and I start frantically hunting for whatever I can think of she might need. Jars of baby food she most likely can’t eat, baby powder, every kind of diaper I can see – it’s all going in the sack. All around me, the buzz of people chattering gets louder and more insistent, eventually snagging my attention and pulling me away from the shelves of confusing baby products. Cradling Maddie close to my chest, I wander over to the gathering group of people cautiously, trying to suss out the source of  obvious trouble without getting too close to the crush of bodies.

“Forest fire. And they won’t let us leave.” I hear this mumbled over and over and suddenly notice the strange heat coming from the opposite wall. I run to the door and lean outside. Listening intently, I hear a deep rumbling noise in the distance, not unlike the sound of a tumbling avalanche, except this avalanche is blanketing all in its path with burning fire instead of snow. Everything gets chaotic now. I’m the only one with common sense, trying to get in the car and drive in the opposite direction at top speed. The people I’m with insist we’d be safer inside. Out of nowhere, I start bleeding from leaving the hospital too early. All the police are too busy fighting the fire, I know they’ll never rescue me in time. I start dramatically telling people what to do with my baby, what her name is, and where she should go. Telling them to be sure not to spoil her and make sure she reads.  Dramatic pause…then, I woke up!

As I lay there, listening to the sound of one of my roommates playing with the dogs in kitchen, I played the dream over in my mind, holding tightly so it didn’t all fade away like dreams have a tendency to do. And, as I tirelessly do, I wondered what meaning this dream may have or what events stirred such a fantastic tale. I’ve gotten a fantasy trilogy out of a good night’s dream before, so this is nothing terribly new – but they are always worth noting. Mmmm….dreams.

“Inside all of us is a Wild Thing.”

— Maurice Sendak (Where the Wild Things Are)

Where The Wild Things Are was at once everything and nothing that I expected. I expected it to be beautiful, and it was very beautiful. I expected it to be dark, and it was terribly dark. What I didn’t expect was how it would make me feel.

Sitting in that darkened theater, entranced like everyone else around me by the artistry and grotesque beauty of the film, I felt almost uncomfortable with the myriad of emotions it conjured up in me. Flashbacks to the most awkward moments of my preteen youth danced rapidly through my head and my chest. I distinctly remembered how it felt to be filled with many confusing emotions, all so near to the surface and warring constantly with one another to be on top. That period of time I usually treasure as footloose and fancy-free was very often fraught with unpredictable fear and paranoia, both valid and completely irrational – and I think we adults often forget that.

Even more striking was how time seemed to be in a different dimension then – each day an adventure, each hour a surprise. Sometimes an hour flew by so fast that dusk fell before you could prepare for it, catching you and your playmates altogether unawares. Suddenly it was time to go in and you weren’t ready for it, so a game of Flashlight Tag was hastily proposed. Or just as often, Time slowed to a creeping crawl. After cramming what felt like a month’s worth of fun and activity into just one hour, you felt changed somehow at the end of the day, barely recognizing your own face in the mirror. I remember I spent ridiculous amounts of time in front of the mirror as a child, reconciling what I saw with what I felt changing inside.

As I sat there, mesmerized by the depth of character found in those amazing puppets’ facial expressions, all those memories and more flickered in and out of my consciousness. The absolute, all-consuming fear of what may be hiding in the dark shadows under my bed came rushing back in a stomach tightening flood.  The euphoria of being found when I was lost and frightened, the confusion when presented with adults misbehaving, the desperation to be heard, to be noticed, to be loved…it all bubbled up to the surface of of my heart, reminding me that maybe those feelings had never strayed that far away after all. Reminding me that perhaps I’d just gotten better at ignoring it, or maybe just better at giving the unknown a name and a face, compartmentalizing everything in an effort to better make sense of the world around me.

I teared up at odd, unexpected moments in this world of the Wild Things where there is no clear bad guy or good guy, in this childhood version of the psyche where the battle for good and evil plays out in the jungle of your overwhelming heart and mind. As it is in real life, the life of the Wild Things is bittersweet, usually more bitter than sweet because they have the annoying tendency to eat their kings and they have no mommies. Carol, the impulsive, raging, angry, friendliest monster, was the easiest to relate to. No one plays the wronged, temper-tantrum-thrower like James Gandolfini. Something about Gandolfini’s voice and way makes even Tony Soprano, the murdering mob boss, lovable.  Carol moved me to tears, especially when he felt compelled to show Max the wooden city he’d built. It was a vision of what Carol wanted life to be, his paradise where everyone lives together happily in one house, they have fun all the time and sleep together every night in one giant pile.

Carol: It’s going to be a place where only the things you want to happen, would happen.
Max: We could totally build a place like that!

Without changing a single important piece of the story, director Spike Jonze and writer Dave Eggers, managed to subtly address the most common pain children experience today, the pain of divorce. We all forget, due to the frequency of it’s occurrence,  how terrible a toll divorce takes on the innocent victims, the children. Wild Things doesn’t let you forget. Especially the most important question children have, “Do you still love me just as much?”

For those of us adults still possessed of an active imagination and jealously harboring the bits of the child still left inside, Where The Wild Things Are is a strange, dark and yet beautiful journey into all of our not-to-distant pasts. And for those of you shaking your heads, muttering about your extended age and life experience,  don’t forget that the world is ancient and we are each nothing more than seconds on it’s considerable time line. Let the wild rumpus start!

“There are things that we never want to let go of, people we never want to leave behind. But keep in mind that letting go isn’t the end of the world, it’s the beginning of a new life.” -unknown

 

For three years of my life, I felt vibrantly alive. More alive than I’ve ever felt, before or since. Every single day, for better or worse, was an adventure. I would wake up in the morning and my first thought never changed, although it felt like a revelation every time. Each emotion I had trembled through me; every feeling I had, magnified to an almost unbearable degree. Music and food had a new, deeper sweetness. The air smelled different, and the most mundane things in life took on new meaning. It was as if I had my heart and eyes taken from me and had them cleaned by a professional and then given back and suddenly I saw the world for the first time. All this when I never knew they were dirty in the first place. In all my life experience and reading up until that point, I hadn’t realized that it was possible to feel this way. I’d read about falling in love and, in all honesty, scoffed at the Shakespearean drama of it all. But I had fallen in love. Hopelessly. Irretrievably. Inescapably.

Now, two years after that three-year period of my life, I realize that once you truly fall in love, you don’t ever really have a moment where you fall out. You can leave, you can dwell on all the awful reasons that made you leave, you can even dislike the person in question very much…but you won’t ever stop loving them. They snuck in when you weren’t looking and took up permanent residence in your psyche. As you begin to forget them, and even as their piece of property in your mind shrinks around them, they are busy searching for a smaller, less visible patch of mind to occupy, until one day you resignedly allow them a small lot in the back acre of a forgotten farm. When you share certain parts of life with another person, when you go through serious loss together, struggle financially, attempt to buoy each other up when life is wearing you down, when you eat at least two meals a day together every day for years – a bond is created that shall always remain. Your life is changed forever, all just by caring for one other person in life. It’s remarkable, really. How we ever take entering into marriage lightly is beyond me…but then, I’m speaking from a place of experience and perspective.

It is such a profoundly strange thing to end a long-term relationship with someone, despite the frequency of its occurrence. It is one of those things that happens every day, so we become immune to its power. Like the sun rising, or just the mere fact that we are alive, thinking and breathing in and out. In a rare, non-hectic moment at work, I was struck by how odd it felt to have little pieces of my heart left behind in various places and how remarkable it is that I, myself, most likely hold a few pieces that belong to others.

We unload untold amounts of ourselves into a relationship. Sharing silly thoughts and random, private stories in those quiet moments before falling asleep, or the softness of that sweet morning light. When the beginning part calms and you begin to take it for granted that the other person will be interested in your little, daily stories; the real sharing takes play.You find out how your partner deals with commonplace things, like work stress and family events. They learn your unique little habits; like how you always tap your left foot when you think about bills, how you lean your forehead against the window when you’re sad, or how you absentmindedly play with a tiny strand of your hair when lost in a serious daydreaming session. You reveal things about yourself you never wanted to or never even thought to share with your friends. All the while, like it or not, the two of you become ever closer.

You begin to promise each other things. On one of those evenings (those evenings when the sun has just gone down and you’ve both crawled into bed after a long, busy day) when you’re both grateful for the stillness, you draw close together for a lazy hug. One of you whispers, “Promise I’ll never go to sleep by myself again.” A whisper comes back, low and gentle with meaning, “Never. I promise.” Or it’s an outing with friends you attend and it’s with another couple that argues loudly and endlessly. They are obviously nearing some kind of ending. You look at each other and squeeze hands simultaneously, eyes full of promises to never be like that. You talk and laugh about it later, high on your current success, and gleefully dreaming of a bright future in love, you play-fight all the way up the stairs to your newest apartment.

Later, out of sheer boredom, you find yourselves doing things you never thought of before. Like lying on your front lawn, pointing out satellites or falling stars. Talking all night long until neither of you know who fell asleep first. Harmonizing lazily together while he learns a Bob Dylan tune on the classical guitar you bought last year. Walking idly around the nearest library. Playing Try-To-Guess-The-Number-I’m-Thinking game. Seriously. You get bored!

And one day, it’s all over.

Simple. Fast. Final. Like the door to your childhood home slamming in your face, you are never ready for it and the ache will always linger in some form or fashion. Even with copious warning signs; the incessant fighting, not touching while you sleep, no longer maintaining eye contact, and eating dinner in oppressive and total silence – nothing prepares you for that severed cord. It’s grief, it’s loss. The severity of the loss is directly related to the amount of yourself you ended up sharing. And while the pain and hurt fade and even disappear with the relentless but welcome erosion of time, that piece of you will always be gone.

It’s fascinating and unbelievable to me how this process happens. Even more so, how it happens over and over again. To tear off that piece time and again creates a new worry. What will be left of you when it’s all said and done?

I have a girlfriend (a sweet, energetic, and wonderful girl) who refuses to have an ex-boyfriend disappear. She, being the wonderful person I just described, places the utmost importance on not burning a single bridge. I don’t know how she does it. I’m most certainly not friends with even one of my exes! But she, even in her young age, has made this a huge focus in her life for the very reasons I’m discussing. The idea of losing people she’s given any part of her heart to makes her sick. And I think we all know why.

I really don’t have a succinct bubble to wrap this particular meandering up in. Like the subject at hand, I’m left and leaving you with more questions then answers. Sometimes, things are just the way they are. And even when you look at these endings as a valuable learning experience, you are still left standing there, hands open and awkwardly full of these various emotions, asking plaintively,

“Hey, I get it, but seriously, what do I do with these??”

In my experience, absolutely nothing but time can answer that question. Time and a lot of pondering.

Like I said earlier, profoundly odd.

“Access to your true essence will also give you insight into the mirror of relationship, because all relationship is a reflection of your relationship with yourself.”  – Deepak Chopra

When the road gets dark
And you can no longer see
Just let my love throw a spark
And have a little faith in me

- John Hiatt

I’m thinking about starting a new blog or at the very least, heavily editing this one. It is time to embrace the turning over of a new leaf and just in time for the best of all the seasons, . . . Fall.

Each day, (unbeknownst to me) the heavy burden I’ve been lugging around for the last few years has been getting lighter – in difficult to notice and tiny amounts that finally added up. The unpredictable and frequent tears I cried in those still, quiet moments have blossomed into small, private grins and genuine laughs for absolutely no reason at all. I’m finding delight in the small and wonderful things and learning to take the big things one piece at a time. My most recent bout with rampant cynicism is dropping off  rapidly and what remains is just enough to keep me feisty and spicy. (Two things I love to be.)

I made some huge steps forward recently. Steps I was wearily beginning to think I would never take. For the first time in such a long time, I feel more grateful and silly than I do pensive and sad. More excited about what the future might bring, instead of dwelling on the scars that the past has left so deeply on my heart. I’m looking at my life with new hope, clearer eyes and even feeling proud of what I’ve accomplished these past few months.

More important than all of this, and for the very first time in my life, I’ve learned to have a little faith in myself. I’m more confident in my abilities because of each difficulty I’ve had to overcome.  Coming out of this last year not only intact, but better than I was, is a real revelation. One that I welcome with wide open arms.

I do not know what my future holds. Will I travel the world like I have dreamt of since I was just a little girl? Or am I destined to live in Texas forever? Will I get the job of my dreams one day or just one that pays the bills? I don’t know. But what I do know is that I have people in my life that love me. People that have shared my burdens when they didn’t have to, people that really care about me and I, for them. I also know that I treasure life and writing and nature and laughing. I know that I am thankful for each new day I am alive to greet and I can’t wait to see what the next few years bring to a still flawed, but wizened and gentler me.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost

I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.  ~John Muir

It’s another rambling mood for me tonight.

Yesterday, as I went with the roommates to the doggies’ agility class, I got an unexpected break from my suburban cement jungle and took a meandering trip down a two-lane country road. It was a perfect time of day, right before sunset when the sun trades in its brilliant sparkle for a warm golden gleam. Weaving and winding our way along this bush-lined, overgrown road, we let the windows down and a rare, cool summer breeze swirled through the car. In the backseat, I raced the dogs to a window and leaned my head out, inhaling the sweetness of the fresh air. Each mile brought with it a new scent; pure wild honeysuckle, a pine-scented bush, faint hints of horse pasture, lilacs, yesterday’s rain and the thirsty earth.

Immediately, all my awareness and worry eased, the day’s problems melted away and I was left with the bittersweet contentment I always experience when confronted with Nature’s beauty.  With Bailey, a Lab mix, standing mouth open and wriggling excitedly on my lap, I leaned my head against the car door and watched the countryside unfold lazily in front of me. Houses and farms, separated by at least 3 acres apiece, were each unique, representing every style under the sun. Some were outlandish and loud, others quaint and cottage-like; one a a log cabin, another a single-story ranch home with a well-loved tire swing out in an ancient, friendly tree – they all felt like home. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny with large clouds that provided just enough shadow to hide away in, ensuring that you could feel the tiny breathless wisps of refreshing air.

The surrounding area was filled with gently rolling plains and dotted with thick, dark green splashes of tall trees. The occasional pine dropped a carpet of yellowed needles all around and my feet itched to leave the SUV behind, exploring every inch of the land until I fell asleep under the stars, exhausted but sated.

I do find myself in Nature. The constantly spinning thoughts in my head slow down to a more manageable speed and I breathe in deep and slow. The ache of loss is eased, the worry from work is forgotten and the fears for the future are set aside. For that moment in time, serenaded by the welcome warped whistle of the locusts, the repetitive buzz of crickets and the random burp of hidden frogs, I let go and loose myself to the universe.

The bittersweet part comes in because I can’t help but recognize my infinitesimal and fleeting role in the world. The sunset is so beautiful it is arouses my soul, bringing with it a familiar ache. I at once remember all the people I’ve said goodbye to and the people I’m grateful to still have.

Last night’s sunset was wondrous to watch. Out there, away from the lights of the city and blanketed only by wide open Texas skies, I stood quietly in awe as the dark, vibrant colors lit up the sky. Royal purple and blue layered neatly over a shocking pink and mild yellow. They all fought the encroaching black in a valiant but futile display.  Finally, the last bit of dark blue was swallowed up in the night and the stars winked their tentative hellos. The clouds dispersed and left the sky stunningly clear for the full moon to shine in all its glory.

I realized then that I was where I truly belonged. One of these days, someway, somehow, I must find my way to my own quaint country home, complete with a wraparound porch, a giant, old tree and sun tea in a cracked glass pitcher on the deck. On that porch, I’ll watch the sun climb down the sky and wave as the world passes me by, leaving me with a peaceful, if still thoughtful mind.

On another note, I think I’m going to have to start a category for my nature posts. If you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you’ve probably seen them. I’m going back through them and it gets pretty extensive. Let’s see, Saying Goodbye is one, and this one, Life is Chess ….another, Captured Moments and Tours of Duty. There are more but you get the idea.

Nature is an infinite sphere of which the center is everywhere and the circumference nowhere. -Blaise Pascal

I shocked a male friend of mine the other day when I was telling him about a terrible date I had about 7 months ago. The date wasn’t the part that rocked him, it was a throw away comment I made regarding the date that did it.

My bad date, a.k.a Mr. Riddles due to his proclivity for insisting on leaving me riddles to solve each and every time he left my presence, did a great many things to bother me during that interminable evening we spent together, but nothing was quite as uncomfortable as the hand holding. Oh dear, the hand holding.  I’m gesturing wildly while telling my friend about how Mr. Riddles and I ended up walking around the town square at one point, heading back towards the bar and the welcome effects of numbing beer…and then he did it. Mr. Riddles reached for my hand.

I pause at this point to tell my friend something a lot of people don’t know about me.

“You know, I think hand holding is almost…well, it is more intimate than having sex.”

“What?!? You do?! I’m surprised to hear that, especially from a woman.”

I shrugged. What else can I say? It’s the truth, I do feel that way. Rather strongly. I didn’t even realize I felt this way fully until that date. Setting aside that topic for a moment, I went on to describe the several attempts Mr. Riddles made to procure my hand that evening  – not taking the hint each time I yanked my hand back to play with my hair, pick at my nails or even when I did nothing but stare. It is unlike me to be so obviously off-putting, but apparently boys from Boston are dense…or just incorrigible. Maybe both.  Regardless, Mr. Riddles never got the hint and I eventually had to forcefully pull his arm from around my waist and say firmly that it was time for the evening to end.

My friend began to question me about this hand holding issue mid-story though, so he missed out on the ending. It’s a doozy of an ending, but I’ll save that for another time. After being asked to rate my comfort level with hand holding against other forms of intimacy, my answers continued to surprise my friend. As far as intimacies go, hand holding is right up there at the top. I’ve dated and kissed my fair share of boys and men, but I’ve only been comfortable holding hands with three. They were serious relationships; in each one marriage was either proposed or very seriously discussed and/or we shared the same dwelling.

I’ve explored this more since that last discussion and realized that I’ve always just taken for granted that others feel the same way as I do.

For me it is so simple and clear -when you love someone, you hold hands.

You know when you’ve been in a relationship for long enough that you can predict your partner’s order at any restaurant? When you are comfortable enough to leave the bathroom door open and he uses your deodorant because he’s in a rush for work and you just smile because you know he’ll smell like you all day? When you come home from work and the kiss is perfunctory because you’re both rushing to get the pizza/living room ready ready to watch your new favorite HBO show? And when you finally settle into the couch together your bodies fall naturally into routine patterns, twisting until you find just the right place – his arm around your shoulders, her head on your lap? That is the deliciously sweet spot.

It is then that you entwine your hands together, fingers falling naturally into place, (someone’s thumb always in front, the other one’s pinkie always last) without even thinking about it. You stand in line at the grocery store together, your hands stretching apart, fingertips still grasping each other lightly when you lean away to check out the impulse items that always snag your attention. He tugs you back to his side and gives you a mock stern look that says, “No. You always regret this.” You giggle in agreement and silently nod, not a word spoken aloud, now leaning against each other…still holding hands. Or perhaps someone loud, crude and potentially unstable is ahead of you in line and you instinctively reach out to grab your significant other’s hand, only to find them already grabbing yours.

That is hand holding. Anything else is pretend and I just don’t like it! It gives me the heebie jeebies. One-night stands are almost commonplace these days. Ask anyone who watches even the commercials for Sex and the City.

One night hand-holdings are far rarer.

So, my friend’s final question to me is this-

“So, you have to choose, sex or hand holding. Which one is truly more intimate?”

I hesitate and tilt my head questioningly, making seesaw motions with my hands.

“You’re serious?!”

I nod. He laughs. We grab another brewski and talk about bleu cheese versus smoked gouda.

Am I alone in this? Is it that odd?

]]> http://twelfthjen.wordpress.com/2009/07/23/hand-holding-and-sex/feed/ 30 jenklynn how-to-end-a-bad-date-1 holding-hands SuperStock_1654R-5914-1 http://twelfthjen.wordpress.com/2009/07/07/preteen-gluttony-and-our-spoiled-world/ http://twelfthjen.wordpress.com/2009/07/07/preteen-gluttony-and-our-spoiled-world/#comments Wed, 08 Jul 2009 03:10:45 +0000 j.k.lynn http://twelfthjen.wordpress.com/?p=621 ]]>

I was walking hurriedly down an aisle at work yesterday and something I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. I’m still fuming about this two days later.

A young girl, no older than 10 and followed by her slightly older brother walks casually toward me. Oblivious of her surroundings and talking in that usual, self-conscious pre-teen way, she says “Oh c’mon, Jess. WHAT-evah!” She giggles and flips her hair behind her to irritate him. He shook his head and asked in a weary voice, ” Would ya please stop talking like that?” His tone left no doubt that this question was oft-repeated and just as often ignored. None of these things were my particular irritant. In fact, I barely noted this interaction. I was too busy looking for something I needed about 10 minutes ago.

What shocked me, annoyed me and rankled me, was the girl’s attire. This young child, not necessarily old enough yet to have a monthly cycle, was wearing a very low cut tank top. With a Wonderbra. And crotch cutter shorts. The little boobs she had were on display and out to play. Are you KIDDING me?? Where are the parents? This is unacceptable! Will I one day see the parents of this child on the news, sobbing out their astonishment that their child was kidnapped or worse? Or scaling it down a bit, maybe their daughter has a hard time knowing how to conduct herself in relationships in the future? Her parents certainly condone the “show a lot of skin to snag a man” theory. Maybe she’ll be a stripper and they’ll say they just don’t know what happened.

Is this what we want them to emulate??

I’ve seen a lot of this lately. Especially in the retail line of business. Young kids love to hang out in stores. They, thankfully, still can’t get into bars.  Barnes and Noble (where I used to be employed) is a hot bed of preteen dating. I actually saw a 13 year old girl in a mini skirt drop a book and slowly bend over in front of about five 17 year old boys. Yes, on purpose. Yes, without underwear. Their reaction was exactly what you’d expect. What I see disgusts me, concerns me and more than anything, fills me with shame. Shame for everyone involved. The culture of Can’t Show Enough Tits & Ass that we live in. The celebrities that promote it. The men that drive it and drool over it. The women that don’t teach their daughters that brains matter just as much as beauty, and that sometimes, less is more. Even shame for myself. I’ll admit it, I like my legs and I wear my shorts, short. However, I’m 26 years old and my Mommy and Daddy don’t tell me what to do anymore. Plus, the shorts still cover both cheeks, completely.

We are so fortunate to live in a time of freedom. Women have every right a man does here in America. Every single one. The battle was won, many years ago, not that you can tell. I think we’ve accomplished as women, what men never could. We’ve let ourselves be a sex symbol first, and a person second. We lowered our standards and never made anyone rise to ours. A long time ago, women (and even some men) fought hard to have their voices heard on this matter. Bras were burned, marriages shattered, marches organized, families destroyed. All over the issue of equality. An issue that we take for granted today. Of course equality is right! “Pish posh, we aren’t ignorant fools anymore. Hardy har har.”

Wake up. We are pissing away opportunity every day. We as a people, not just women. Our values suck. My generations seems to think we’re more enlightened than our fathers. I’d say we are. But being more enlightened assholes doesn’t make us smell prettier. And if we don’t do anything with that enlightenment, that just makes us outright stupid.

People will say that women make more strides everyday in the workplace, in college, in test-taking statistics. Ok, fine. Lovely. I don’t give two flying rats asses. Look around you!! What are my eyes telling me? What does my heart know? What do you see? I see an entire new generation, raised on TV as a substitute for parenting, that think it okay to dress like a slut and/or treat women like sluts, and worse.

Someone I worked with once told me to always strive to be better than the best, and not to pride myself on being better than the rest. It was something I needed to hear at the time. I was complacent with being better than most, and had stopped trying anymore, content to settle in the top percent. I think we’ve done the same, but actually one step worse. We’ve lowered our standards as a people. We look at Jerry Springer shows and think, “Ha! I am way better than them!” And you know what? I don’t blame TV/movies, I don’t blame the media, and I sure as hell don’t blame music. Those things are forms of expression, don’t you know that? They are birthed from us! Blame yourself first. Ugh, people who want to point an accusatory finger at today’s media piss me off even more. How about this? MONITOR what your children watch! I know, it’s a tough concept, but just follow the bouncing ball. YOU control what your children absorb.

Baywatch is popular because a bunch of guys, all ages, shapes and sizes want to watch boobs jiggle around. It’s simple enough. Sex has always sold, in whatever form was popular for the time. In Muslim territory, I am sure an ankle glimpse can sell the crap out of some Cola. Back in the Roaring Twenties, sleeveless dresses sold cigarettes by the millions. Millions of cartons, I’m sure. This is not going to change. We are hardwired for sexy time, and there isn’t anything wrong with that.

The problem is that somewhere, down along the path of time (now strewn with discarded clothes, empty synthetic drug containers, older weapons abandoned as newer and more advanced models take their place) at some point, we started communicating these messages to our impressionable youth in a way we never had. Coincidentally or not, our youth has become a demographic for the first time in our history. Children not even close to old enough to work, have oodles of dollars to spend and oodles of time to shop. I again, blame the parents. Stop giving your 5 year old’s cellphones and your 12 year old’s padded bras. I promise that your child will one day recover from the crippling damage that lack of brand name clothing will have on their social status. There is a world beyond the doors of high school, thank god.

Our youth, unable to drink, smoke, even be outside alone legally, should not shape our TV programs. They should not be a stock on Wall Street. We, the adults, should shoulder that responsibility alone. As adults, we’ve found out that the world can be heart-achingly unfair. That no matter how hard you try to be the best, sometimes you still fail. We found out that you can be kicked out of your home, compensated with a paltry sum because the government needs to build a lake there. That sometimes the people you love will not love you back. That parents die, that dreams don’t always come true and we learned that our childhoods were precious gifts. So, we now have the responsibility of keeping it precious for them. Keep them young.

Better yet, learn to say no. It’s a small but effective word and boy, does the world ever need to hear it.

We are spoiled, world. Straight up, mad spoiled. Just think, less than 100 years ago, people were going through a real depression. A wide spread, deeply felt dark depression. They were worried about how they were literally going to clothe their children. Parents were watching their children starve because they didn’t have enough to feed them, much less educate them. Alcoholism hit an all time high as did child labor. Bank robbers were idolized because they represented fighting the system. Big bad government was born. Those people shouldered what life gave them and swore to give a better life to their kids. This was not what they had in mind. Kids throw a shrieking fit just because they didn’t get an iPhone for Christmas? I’m sorry, what is so important that you do in 2nd grade history class that you need unlimited access to the Worldwide Web and text? Gluttony is not the opposite of poor. It is the opposite of wisdom. There is a difference between what you need and what you want. I should know, my father told me that on a weekly basis.

I just hope that we all wake up before we go hurtling down some trash chute, stuck all over with a label that reads Rotten to the Core.

“The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you lived and lived well.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

While desperately pursuing a sweet spot in life, a carefree happiness that’s eluded me for some time, I’ve recently lost sight of any higher purpose. I, like a child, wanted instant gratification. Intentionally forgetting that enlightenment and wisdom most often come through great adversity and pain, I’ve just been trying to get the pain to stop. Doing so, I believe I may be inadvertently slowing the process to that eventual goal. When we set aside our problems to be looked at later and drown our sorrows in the protective presence of friends and beer, those problems don’t disappear. I know this, but I am not living this.

I don’t want to just get by in life, I want to experience it to the fullest, to the absolute hilt.

What I am doing now, how I make use of my time now, will never get me to the hilt.

“In the end, it’s what gets you through the day that counts.”

So many people repeat and/or subscribe to this theory, but dwelling on it this evening, I realized it couldn’t be more wrong. Making the most of your life means doing the exact opposite of that, for sure. It has everything to do with what you choose to do to get you through the day.

For the people who regularly end a long workday with a six-pack of beer and mind numbing television programs, they are making a choice. A life choice. That choice, poor or not, is to zone out, veg out and otherwise zombie-walk through the rest of their lives. Rather than face each day clear-headed and vulnerable to life’s inevitable disappointments, they prefer to immune themselves to trials and tribulations with numbing agents that narrow their fields of perception. There are nearly endless ways to zone out; video games, movies, talking mindlessly on the phone, bottles of wine, whatever. And I’m not saying that a few mind numbing nights are not in order…we all need to zone out once in awhile. However, the ease in which you can slip into that numbing process is dangerous. Suddenly, it’s every night and you wake up one day, wondering what the hell you’ve accomplished in your life. Well, the answer is in the moments you let slip away.

I made some serious promises to myself about a year ago. Promises concerning patience and kindness to others, pursuing wisdom in all things, learning from my mistakes, indulging my insatiable pursuit of knowledge and realizing important goals. I’ll admit it. They’ve been put on the back burner recently. No, not just on the back burner, if I’m being honest with myself. They’ve gone largely ignored as of late and the fault lies only and solely with me.

Coming to the realization a few years ago that I’d lived my life somewhat indulgently and even been reckless with other’s feelings and hearts, I decided then to be more cautious in all aspects of life. That is a difficult task for me, considering my naturally flighty and spontaneous nature. Well, I would say that in many aspects, I was successful. Today I can say with confidence that I am an honest, straight-forward and thoughtful person.

Unfortunately, I can not say that I am any closer to realizing my goals and I am no longer learning or moving forward. I’ve reached a wall in my evolution, and in order to scale that wall, I think I’m going to have to accept a certain amount of fresh pain and grunt work is a must. It’s time for me to cleanse, refresh and start over. Since I don’t have outrageous sums of money to hide away, contemplating in a lake cabin for a year, I’m going to have to suck it up and say no to the temptations around me. I must learn to focus, or I will never reach a single one of these goals.

I see a long and winding road yawning before me.

Deviating from my usual indoor routines, I stepped out into the sunshine this afternoon, fully intending on taking a little detour through the nearby woodsy area and sit languidly beside a stream, while reading my book.

The dogs had other plans for me.

As soon as I exited from my cave (my horrendously messy room) and stepped into the backyard, they eagerly rushed towards me. Bailey’s butt was shaking back and forth at warp speed and Diego, with his signature single-mindedness, was pushing his slobber covered, floppy red Frisbee on my leg. Diego dropped the slime covered thing on my bare foot, and looked up at me expectantly with watchful doggie grin. Meanwhile, the little Maltese mix my roommates and I are babysitting danced excitedly around, trying not to get squished.

I abstained from throwing the toy and stared back at Diego, smiling, waiting to see his next move. Bailey took this showdown as an opportunity to grab her ball and come back wriggling in sheer happiness. Diego looked down at the Frisbee in confusion, as if astonished that it hadn’t moved of it’s own accord by now, and nudged it with his long nose impatiently toward my foot, his eyes never leaving the red disc. Nudge, nudge. Nudge.

I giggled to myself and backed up, watching him. Ooh, a nudge and a bark this time! Jumping forward and batting me with both his front feet, Diego barked his wants at me. He ripped his eyes away from the Kong Frisbee for only a second to glance up at me anxiously and butt me with his head.

Unable to resist the elation and play of the pups, I grabbed both the ball and frisbee, at once deserting my plans for a nature walk and changing them to an afternoon in the backyard. I threw Bailey’s ball on one side of the yard and Diego’s Frisbee to the other. They both sprinted off, sublimely happy for that moment in time. Bailey’s ball bounced off the fence and she leapt her large body straight up off the ground, twisting to snatch the ball right out of the air. Diego, lithe and inexplicably fleet, beat the Frisbee and spun to catch it. All lean muscle and sinew, he resembles a cross between a Short-haired German Pointer and a Whippet. The boy can fly. They both returned to me and quickly dropped their toys at my feet, completely ignoring the tiny, still dancing Maltese mix, Toby.

Grabbing up the toys, I repeated my previous throws and spent the next 30 minutes trying not to accidentally toss the damn things into the neighbors’ yards.  Bailey, panting heavily, finally stopped at my feet and keeping her ball safely in her mouth, dropped unceremoniously  onto the cool, freshly cut grass. Diego, he of the unlimited energy, was also out of breath and content to temporarily accept my pushing away of the Frisbee. After a quick glance to ensure no piles of dog crap were underneath me, I took my cue from Bailey. Stretching out on the lawn, I rubbed her black fur idly with one hand and ran my fingers through the newly shorn grass with the other.

Sounds from the neighborhood swelled around me, intermingling with the heavy pants from the dogs. Shouts, from kids and parents alike,  broke the relative quiet of the late afternoon. They were accompanied by lawnmowers and  weed wackers, all blending together into a relaxing low hum. The sweet smells of cut grass and barbecue lingered in the strong wind, which countered the warm sunshine perfectly.

In that moment, if only for just that second, all the things that have been weighing me down so much lately, lifted and I was free. I distinctly remembered doing this very thing as a young kid. Lazing in the grass, listening to the sound of friends playing nearby and choosing to daydream my time away, participating in the world from a distance.  Firmly in the grips of nostalgia, I felt a flimsy ghost of the blanket of safety from my youth. The world was wide open before me then, nothing was impossible, and no dream too big. Books had opened my mind at a very young age to endless possibility and a promise of exciting adventure someday, thrilled through my bones.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled the clean air through my nose, calming my heart, and absentmindedly (yet again) ran through the journey from Then to Now for the hundredth time in my head. Countless decisions, unrestrained joy and searing pain, detours and surprises litter my path. My father’s deep voice reverberates off the walls in my mind. “Jennifer, if there is a hard way to do something, you’ll find it. You’re stubborn, like me. You need to learn from others mistakes! You don’t have time to make them all on your own.”

Yes, instead of taking the path less traveled by, I took the one you have to chop down with a machete and even occasionally, bulldoze. And that has made all the difference. Brambles and wicked looking trees, prowling lions, swamps, quicksand…you name it and I’ve most likely been there.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about a few things more often than others. One is forgiveness, and the other, is the uncertain road ahead. I yearn…no, I ache  to fulfill a few of those youthful dreams I still hold so dear and the difference is now I feel the newer, unchanging pressure of time running against me. I want to start having more of an answer to the question, “Who am I?” and it is going to require something specific from me…I’m just not sure yet what that is or what direction to head in.

Shaking off these cyclical musings, I jumped up, spilling little Toby onto the ground and dusting off the dirt. The pups jumped up with me and we started another game. My days are often this way, as of late.  Filled with these thoughts, I mean. Something’s trying to happen inside me and I’m not going to be happy until I get it all sorted out.