MAN UP

There is no man on this planet I adore more than my younger brother Beavis. He is my hero. He is funny, smart and twisted to such a perfectly balanced equilibrium that there must be a higher power involved with his creation. I understand Angelina Jolie’s fraternal worship (that runs so strongly that the casual observer interprets it as incestual) and it never struck me as gross because I understand, fundamentally, how you can adore someone so strongly, so completely and yet not feel a moment’s lust for them. Even my own mother says, “I know better than to get you started on [Beavis]. You just worship him.” He is most certainly my favorite person ever.

My father’s mother fell and broke her hip at the end of February and we were made aware of her hospitalization the day before my Beavis’s birthday (March 3rd being his birthday). Being that Beavis lives in Los Angeles and my grandmother lives in San Francisco, he felt prudent to go to the hospital and visit her. After all, she is in her mid nineties and this sort of injury is a lot to recover from at any age. The morning of his 26th birthday, he woke up early and called our stepmother (or at least I think she’s my stepmother; the last few times I saw my father, he was wearing a wedding band but there was never any mention of whether or not they were ever formally betrothed).

Frankly, I find her detestable and the idea that he was able to stomach a conversation with a woman who makes up stories about his flagrant racism to drive a wedge between he and my father, already declares Beavis infinitely more patient and benevolent than I. So, he spoke with the stepbitch to get my father’s new cellphone number and was forced to listen to yet another barrage of lies about how she keeps trying to convince my father to get back in touch with us. (Perhaps not coincidentally, my mother has recently revealed to lawyers the fact that she uncovered evidence that a woman who looks remarkably like the stepbitch has been using my mother’s identity to access joint accounts with my father.)

Beavis was subjected to an extensive “I’ve been trying to get your father to embrace you guys” lecture in order to get my father’s new cellphone number. Not surprisingly (for Beavis) that did not deter him entirely from the task at hand; seeing grandma in San Francisco. He then called our father.

My father, being my father, wept and wallowed in a good hour’s worth of “Woe is me because I’m a terrible father.” My father indulged in a mea culpa for close to an hour and failed to notice two things: 1. Beavis was merely calling for directions and 2. Not once in almost an hour of blathering about what a terrible father he is did our father once ask anything even remotely resembling, “How are you?”. The whole time Beavis neither engaged in a fight (which I would have done) nor falsly condoned my father’s self-indulgence. Beavis is a pillar of stoic masculinity and well-articulated honor in spite of the example our father sets.

Once again our father missed the whole piece about how our ailing grandmother is not about him.

“All I wanted was directions and as he crying all I can think is, ‘Man up. This isn’t about you.’” And in his succinct commentary, Beavis managed to encapsulate the entirety of my issues with our father; our father needs to “man up.” Frankly, for all my verbosity, I would never be capable of such a crystalline and pure description of the issue at hand. Consequently, I’m going to steal my brother’s usage of “man up.”

I need to man up.

Z has been making himself present in my world and so I finally decided to reach out to him. He is aggressive about meeting me more than half way and I adore his company. When I am with him, I am want for nothing and he has no qualms about fighting hell or high water to be with me.

Friday (3/23), I finally called Z.

“Do you want to speak English?” I asked as he uses, “Speak English” in lieu of “your [my] company.” (I have been assured by all my Chinese girlfriends that the custom is to not be too outright as to scare off a woman and he’s using “speak English” not literally but metaphorically.)

“Yes,” he said so quickly I barely finished my sentence.

“Ji dian?” [“What time?”] I asked.

“19 o’clock.” Z answered with the Chinese typical military time of 7.

“Okay.”

“I will meet you at the East gate.” Z arranged to meet me at my gate despite the fact that it’s now light out at 7 at night and his gym is literally across the street from my front gate.

“Okay. Bye-bye”

“Bye-bye”

As we hung up, I looked at my watch and realized it was 5 minutes to 7.

“Shit!” I muttered as I threw off my gym clothes (I had just gotten back) and tried to find something clean to put on.

Five minutes later, Z was escorting me to the gym and he was very happy.

As we ascended to the dance studio space, I was greeted with the large group of kids learning Tae Kwon Do. It was such a lovely surprise to see the studio filled with students and there was barely a space to sit down. Z got me a seat and then some water and I watched the adorable, fearless 4 year olds learn how to fight.

Once the kids were finished with their classes, Z and I had dinner and rehashed a bit of what when wrong in our relationship. We had a really good clarification session and Z suddenly discovered he was in the mood to celebrate.

The next thing I knew he was calling his friends up and we were in a cab going to a club. In the cab was the other primary school gym teacher and it was really cool to see him out of his usual stern-teacher mode. I was shown that he’s a really fun 20-something with a great sense of humor and a very laid back nature. Frankly, I wanted to pat him on his lovely little head and then set him up with one of my girls.

In the cab, Z returned to being very comfortable touching me and it just felt natural. There was no hesitation and there was no weirdness. It is so rare that a man can touch me without me having to over-think it. When Z touches me, it just feels like the way things are supposed to be and in the back of the cab, with his hand on my knee, it suddenly occurred to me how unbelievably stable the good times between us are. There is nothing off kilter and nothing askew. And, I started wondering if things could really be this easy or if I was fooling myself in thinking such an on-paper-doomed-relationship could be easy.

“Where is the problem?” I started to wonder.

We finally got to the club and Z and the other gym teacher made it to our table first. At our table was another teacher from school and her friend. Seeing the way the friend lit up at seeing Z, it was clear she knew him and had designs on him. Then she saw me and the way her face fell, I didn’t need to know Chinese to know that the things she started saying to the female teacher as she gesticulated towards me and glancing at Z.

The friend had one final, frustrated outburst. The female teacher said, “Sorry” to her friend and shrugged. The friend then decided to do what girls in that situation tend to do; she got very, very drunk very, very quickly.

At first, she used her drunken state as an excuse to be dependent on Z. Z wasn’t having it and maintained some seriously clear boundaries. Considering his behavior with her, he knew exactly what was going on but wasn’t remotely interested.

To be honest, the friend is such a beautiful, petite, well-coifed little club girl that I was not even remotely threatened. She is confident in her desirability the way mid-20’s beautiful women tend to be. She doesn’t look LIKE an anime hero; she looks like she’s been lifted straight from an anime book without any translation to real life. The bottom line is that she’s the antithesis of me.

I am confident in my sexuality and I don’t really care all that much about whether or not large groups of men find me attractive. In fact, instead of feeding off being adored by large groups of men, I am unnerved by it. I have hard and fast lines about what I need and I am what I am. Unlike the friend, I am not good at maintaining facades to the detriment of my own well-being.
In other words, someone interested in doing business with her would, most likely not be interested in doing business with me. I’ve always found it strange to be threatened by entities wholly separate from one’s self as a set of needs that far from what I provide reveal something that was certainly never going to need me. She is wholly separate from me. Z was free to choose and he very clearly chose me.

Instead of paying her any mind, he tried to show me lots of club games the Chinese play like a dancing/drinking version of rock/paper/scissor. I am terrible at statistical games and so I kept fucking it up. I’m such a loser unable to learn anything statistical but, whatever, we were having a good time.

As Z and I were busy talking, being silly and playing, the friend was getting more and more drunk and within the first hour of being there, she had her first serious trip to the restroom to rescue her liver.

When she returned and at the suggestion of the female teacher, we started playing various games involving passing things from mouth to mouth aka ‘Suck and Blow.’ Before we played, I made sure the friend had another drink of alcohol to kill any of the germs and ate some pineapple to clean her mouth.

Essentially, we started with slices of fruit and the friend place herself between Z and the other boy gym teacher leaving me on the other side of Z and flanked by the female teacher. The friend took the piece of watermelon from the other gym teacher and proceeded to eat most of it, leaving only a small slice sticking out from her lips, forcing Z to kiss her or drink. Z got the fruit and then passed to me. I passed it to the other female teacher and she passed it back to the other gym teacher. It should be noted that it became the responsibility of the other three people not passing the fruit to shove the heads of the two passing the fruit together. It also became a point of serious fascination for everyone else in the club to watch the Western girl kiss the Chinese girl. Even the military guards placed around the club to deter fights found reasons to stop by and watch.

Soon it was clear that the friend was taking every opportunity to kiss Z but as a girl raised in bars and on Western snogging, I was not threatened by her actions. Drunken bar activity is drunken bar activity and kissing seems to be par for the course. Z, however, was becoming uncomfortable with her drunken antics and ended up switching places with the other female teacher. In other words, Z actively chose kissing a man over kissing another woman. I must say, I’ve never had a man go gay FOR me.

Upon being flagrantly rejected, the friend proceeded to down a few more and then do everything she could to make out with the fellow gym teacher. The fellow gym teacher was clear on what was going on and so he actually took to holding her face so that she couldn’t stick her tongue down his throat. Frankly, it was painful to see the scene she was making.

We closed out the club with our antics and the friend really started give to the fellow gym teacher the full court press… between trips to the vomitorium. The fellow gym teacher was very well behaved and he took care of her while maintaining some levels of propriety.

While we were walking from the club to the late night restaurant for some nourishment before bed, the friend turned from the fellow gym teacher and started yelling at Z. It was clear what she was telling him despite the fact that I don’t understand Chinese. I never thought I’d hear how much someone would rue the day he failed to pick her being yelled at full volume in the middle of a deserted street in the middle of Mainland China at 3:30 in the morning. Then she turned to me to warn me that nothing but bad things would come of the two of us before she stumbled off, laughing into the hesitant arms of the fellow gym teacher. And, out of respect, I feel not an ounce of pity towards the girl. Frankly, who hasn’t been in her place (at least in their head if not literally drunk and yelling in the middle of the street) and the last thing you want is pity. All I could think was, “Yeah, it sucks to be there but you’ll get through and be just fine... just like the rest of us.”

Immediately, the female teacher turned the yelling into a joke and Z tried to explain her yelling as, “Drunk words.”

“Zhe do. Ren ren renshi ‘drunk words.’ Mei yi sa.” [“I know. Everyone knows ‘drunk words.’ They don’t mean anything.”] I explained.

We then went on to be silly and play-stalk the fellow gym teacher and the friend as we continued our long walk to get some food. It was a lot of fun to be so silly and it occurred to me how little 20-something shenanigans exist in my life. Not that I have any desire to flood my life with such insanity but it is nice to leave my 35+ group of friends and cut loose a little every once and a while.

As we ascended stairs to the late-night restaurant for dim sum, the heavy weight of anxiety started to settle over me. Being such an incongruous emotion, I found myself a little more sober than my blood alcohol would imply. Regardless, Z was taking every opportunity to care for me and make sure I didn’t hurt myself going up the marble stairs while the friend drunkenly ran up the stairs to make her fifth or sixth trip to the restroom to boot.

Z held my elbow as we made our way to the table as my exhaustion was making me appear more drunk than I was. As we got to the table, he put me in the window seat on the left side of the table so that I could have a nice view and so that I wouldn't be bumping anyone with my left-handed chopsticks.

Being that it was 4 am, sleepiness was beginning to take over and, frankly, I have less control over “sleepy” than “drunk.” As I slouched over the table, watching everyone speak Chinese, Z placed his arm on the back of my chair and gently rested his fingertips on my shoulder. The two teachers and Z spoke about a variety of things, including the friend during the times that she would disappear to the bathroom. For my part, I could just listen and try to understand.

Every once and a while, Z and his friends would stop talking and try to explain the more complicated bits in English. It was very nice and as I thought, “I very much like this and wouldn’t mind this being the sum of the quiet social moments in my life” the anxiety that had settled in around me started to seep into my bones and grow.

Every time Z touched me, the comfort and ease I felt reflexively seemed to amplify the anxiety that was steadily growing.

When we left, the fellow gym teacher and Z and I all piled into a cab and in order to not pass out from the exhaustion, I opened a window for some air.

“You okay?” Z asked concerned from the front seat as the fellow gym teacher next to me reached out to touch my shoulder.

Sleepily, I nodded. “Yes, I’m just tired.”

The echoing silence following my statement made it clear they had no idea what “tired” meant.

“Very sleepy.” I clarified as I know they know what “very” and “sleep” means and for the Mandarin mindset, it seems to be the easiest leap to make from my behavior to the fact that I was exhausted and not so drunk I was about to vomit.

They both thought “sleepy” was a cute word and repeated it, laughing.

Z made sure that the taxi dropped us off by my front gate and the boys saw me to the compound, making sure the military guards knew I was there before leaving me. The next thing I knew, I was in bed about to pass out.

The next morning, I was reflecting upon the night we spent and I was definitely freaked out. I didn’t quite understand why I was so unsettled by loving Z and the fact that he clearly loves me. We’ve had what is tantamount to our first fight (he fights like I do; simply going away until he’s sorted things out) and now I’m completely freaked out. The love I have for him, while not as shiny as it was at the very beginning is definitely stronger than it had been. Consequently, I was having a very hard time sorting out why my flight reflex was screaming, “NO! RUN!”

I spent the day in a very weird space and ended the day the way I ended my days as a little girl. When I was little, bedtime was always the time I would always confess to my mom whatever it was that was bugging me. The thought of going to bed without having talked to her left me feeling hollow and alone. So, I called her.

I blathered on and on at her about what was going on and most importantly about this newfound resistance I was chaffing against. She said something about “chasing a mistress” and then I realized that was it.

I’m not going to start off chasing a mistress with Z. I’ve always chased a mistress before. My own father couldn’t love me unconditionally and so I’ve recreated that with every man I’ve ever been with. I don’t understand what it looks like to be loved by a man without competition and so I’ve only ever loved men with one foot out the door. I date men too old for me because I’m supposed to be the reckless, irresponsible one. It’s expected of me to fuck up those relationships. I fall in love with men my own age who are in torn between me and another woman. I’ve never loved anyone without some ready-made excuse as to why it would fail.

Z isn’t interested in anyone but me and to be totally honest the other men all fall into the category of having a ready-made excuse for failure. Yeah, we’re from different cultures but we overlap in so many ways and we’re both fairly amenable to tolerating cultural differences that I’m not scared by the difference. I’m terrified of the notion that I’ve got no one to blame if this relationship goes belly up but us. I know that love isn’t always enough but I’m terrified to have that proven to me in the flesh.

I explained all of this to the Jude and she said the only thing she could, “I wish I knew what to tell you but I don’t. You’re right. It is a big responsibility to love and it is scary.” In that moment I realized that though my father never loved me unconditionally my mother does. She’s wise, kind and she adores me. We’ve got a pretty damned good friendship and so maybe there’s hope for me.

“No, this is where you tell me to man up. I need to man up. I have a great guy, he loves me and my problem is that he’s not interested in other women. Man up.”

To that, the Jude just laughed knowing I had plagiarized Beavis’s phrase of the moment.

IN WHICH I TOSS A SPANNER INTO MY OWN WORKS

For those of you not up on your English slang, “tossing a spanner into the works” is the equivalent of “tossing a monkey wrench into the machinery” (or however the hell it goes; “spanner in the works” just seems to stick with me better than “monkey wrench”). Because a thousand different men isn’t enough, I’ve made the active decision to welcome one more man into the orbit of potential candidates for, “snogging (and a few more, unspeakable activities) buddy.”

Like Z, he too is a teacher within the private school system I work at; an absolute recipe for disaster but a reflexive choice I’ve made nonetheless. My gut wants what it wants. It’s gotten me this far, it only seems fair to continue to trust it. My one saving grace is that the two men don’t know each and rarely cross paths because they work at different schools. This addict may use clean syringes but she’s still shooting into the vein.

This afternoon (3/22), I decided to indulge my growing fantasy for the history teacher so adored by every other woman at school. He has a “boyish” beauty about him that I find wholly unappealing as a singular image and yet every other female around me is practically falling all over herself to simply get a photo with someone so stunning. What I like most about him is his clear discomfort with such idolatry and his utter lack of interest in trading on it. He is, in fact, so disinterested in being adored, he often sits with students, as it is a deterrent to many of the boyfriend-hungry women at school. He clearly takes a lot of joy out of having lunch with the non-predatory females and is always swamped by adoring students. He is has an easy smile and the overwhelming nervousness that most of my fellow teachers have around me does not exist in the realm between us. And he’s a history teacher. As the daughter of an historian and as an art history major myself, how sexy is “history teacher?” It’s not sexy; it’s zexy.

Yesterday as I came into the central courtyard of the Middle school for my Wednesday classes, he happened to be roaming the halls and walking in the same direction as I was. We smiled at each other and the familiarity there had the comfort of old friends so I opened my mouth to start talking to him. He simply looked at me, anticipating what would come out of my mouth.
It wasn’t until I started to vocalize that I realized we didn’t have a common language. It was a very strange realization and confused, I looked at him. He nodded in return.

“Wo wang le. Ni bu hui shou ying yu he wo bu hui shou han yu.” [“I forgot. You don’t speak English and I don’t speak Chinese.”] I explained.

He laughed and nodded. “I can speak little English.”

“Wo hui shou han yu yi dianr” [“I can speak little Chinese.”] I clarified.

He nodded and smiled as the bell rang and students poured out into the hallway with us. Immediately, he offered me the stairs first and as I ascended, he slipped behind the mask to maintain respect with a woman to which he has not been formally introduced. I forgot what a clear line there is between public and private Chinese life as it has been a while since I have existed in the “public” sphere.

I glanced back at the history teacher to see the mask was on fully and wouldn’t be coming off in front of the students in order to maintain respect for me. The two single teachers everyone seems to have a crush on fraternizing in the stairwell makes for some good gossip. Hell, the students know about a math teacher, his wife and their lover because they follow the teachers who peak their interest. A publicly indecent relationship between the two of us would certainly make things irritating for me.

However, I’m brazen and certainly not as concerned with my reputation as I should be. People are going to talk. I’m a lightning rod. There’s nothing to be done about those two things. Let them talk. I’ve disowned my own father and my mother’s not about to disown me, much less over something as silly as my “reputation.” I have nothing to lose.

Today I took every opportunity to flirt with the history teacher. At lunch, he was just sitting over my left shoulder and I could see him out of the corner of my eye. The couple of times he turned to glance in my direction for whatever reason, I turned to look at him and smile. To my good fortune, he saw me and smiled back every time.

Then, after I finished my classes for the day, we happened to be in the hallway at the same time. I was with my Chinese Angel and were talking and he was a little behind us.

“Lao shi” I said, stopping. My Chinese Angel looked at me and then glanced around the hallway as she knew that I would never call her “lao shi.”

It took the history teacher a moment to realize I was talking to him. Shocked, he looked at me, smiling. I was breaking through the mask and flagrantly ignoring the rules of propriety. He’s made friends with my friends. He’s literally been in the same social circle (read: physically around our mutual friends when I was there so I could see that he’s not a scumbag) but we have not been formally introduced (the final of more or less three steps to introduction and my least favorite step as it involves a mutual friend speaking to the two of us about the beginning of our friendship ad nauseum; it’s reasonable, it’s rational and it makes total sense, but I’m a garish American; ultimately, I will simply go after what I want… ceremony be damned).

“Ni…” I trailed off trying to remember this week’s Chinese lesson. “Ni de mingzi shi shenme?” [“What’s your name?”]

Infinitely amused, he started laughing and looked to my Chinese Angel who raised an eyebrow and nodded once, indicating my unorthodox methods are fine by her and he may continue.

As he soon as he got the approval from my Chinese Angel, he turned to me and did something most Chinese people don’t do; he enunciated and spoke slowly. I watched his mouth move and it actually helped me to understand what he said. Most of the Chinese people I’ve met don’t get that English is in the front of the mouth, not the middle of the mouth like Chinese and so most Chinese people I’ve met don’t understand how important the visual of enunciation is to English speakers.

I repeated his name back to him and got it (more or less) right. “Xie” [“Thanks”] I said.

Amused if not a touch flabbergasted, he shook his head.

“Oh,” I said, surprised at having forgot my manners, “Christina.” I said pointing to myself.

He started laughing again. “I know.”

I shrugged, a little embarrassed at my redundancy. I knew he knew. Everyone knows my name. I can’t do anything about this little bubble of fame I’ve stumbled into. However, it’s only good manners to introduce yourself when someone introduces themselves. It just seems rude to presume that everyone knows me.

We left him at the class he was to teach, laughing. My Chinese Angel shot me a look, knowing full well I’ve just tossed a spanner into the works. What can I say, the devil in me pops up at the oddest times and she’s hard to ignore.

HUH

It was another Monday morning (3/19) yesterday and another visit from Z. And, I’m further confused by his presence. He spent most of lunch speaking with Yente (perhaps he’s ultimately interested in her?) with the brief exception to speak to me in order to point out his fellow female colleagues who would like to learn English with me. He’s clearly trying to ingratiate me into his circle of friends at work but I don’t get why. His two female colleagues have been consistently cheering him on with me and one of them even attempted to speak English with me.

His rapid-fire conversation with Yente was primarily about me. Before, I was unable to understand Z’s Sichuan accent but it’s becoming clear to me.

“Ta zhe do.” [“She knows”] Z said to Yente.

“Zhe do sha?” [“What do I know?”] I asked. It was clear Z was advising her to take a up a sport I know but I didn’t know which one specifically as Z knows all the sports I know consequently narrowing the field down to about one hundred.

“Yoga” Z said without missing a beat while Yente turned to me, flabbergasted.

“You understand?” She said, her jaw to the floor.

“Yi dianr” [“A tiny bit”] I explained as Z nodded and then he launched back into his Mandarin conversation. And what struck me was what has always struck me about Z; his complete comfort with me as an entity. He’s entertained, he’s amused but he accepts and ultimately doesn’t question why, “A girl/woman like [me] could/would/should do that.” He’s fully aware of my strange, incongruous and unfeminine nature and it, ultimately, doesn’t stall him out. He’s neither impressed nor intimidated by who I am. It’s an incredibly rare trait, anywhere in the world and I’ve missed having it around.

And, another incredibly rare trait is that he came back. I’ve actually never had a man come back without my “consent” (read: without my begging). It’s always been that the moment I decide it’s over, it’s over. I decided it was over. I made an ass of myself and he ceased to exist in my realm. Greater than any screaming or yelling or hateful words, I simply refused to acknowledge his presence. We would pass each other in the hall and I would simply look the other way or find a student to distract me. I have always functioned like that and it has always been incredibly effective. No one has ever had the balls to challenge the silence of my rejection.
So I talked to my Chinese Angel about it at dinner last night. She asked what I wanted and what I thought about it all. I explained I didn’t know because I don’t understand what he wants. I’ve never been in a position where someone has come back after my rejection so I have no idea what he wants, much less what I’m supposed to think about it all.

She then pressed the issue that perhaps he wants me back.

“I really needed him when I got sick and not only did I find out at my lowest that I couldn’t trust him but that someone who meant so much to me didn’t care about me. I can be as alone as I am here. That’s okay. What I can’t be is that alone but thinking I’m not only to have it revealed in my weakest moment it was all an illusion. Without trust, there is no love.”

She nodded. “Maybe he realized he made a mistake.”

I suppressed the reflexive urge to say, “Fuck you” because that’s the one answer that leaves me all vulnerable and further confused. The easy answer is just to write him off as an asshole but the easy answer also grants humanity to no one but me. I’m certainly a hypocrite, of that there can be no doubt, but I don’t know that I can stomach being a hypocrite for something as cheap as my own ego. Perhaps we can be friends provided a little clarification is made.

HELLO, MY NAME IS CHRISTINA AND I AM AN ADDICT

As the daughter of an impressively un-rehab-itable addict (who chooses sublimation instead of real work between relapses) and as well as having been raised to be the addict’s caretaker, I can assure, I’m relatively aware of signs of an addict. I can also assure you, I’m starting to exhibit them myself. I am addicted to men. I’m addicted to the way they make me feel and I’m addicted to the way they make me laugh.

I absolutely could stop if I wanted to. There is no doubt in my mind that if my desire for men dried up today that I would never think twice about men. I’ve had more than my fair share of swan dives into empty pools and the unbridled humiliation inflicted upon me by my hormones is more than enough to sustain any healthy person in their quest for celibacy for the rest of their life. The problem with an addict is that, despite the abject humiliation, the suffering they inflict upon their loved ones and the general collateral damage ratcheted up in the quest for their substance of choice, the desire will absolutely never dry up. I am clear that while my desire for men might ebb if I have a particularly humiliating or heartbreaking experience, it will, ultimately, follow me to the grave. Like a real addict, this is something that I could give up if I wanted but I will never want to give up.

There’s just something about men. The young ones, the old ones, the in between ones. With each new man who expresses whole-hearted interest in me, I’m willing to sign off on all the rest and devote myself fully to the drug at hand. There’s something about each man who has the ability to bring me fully into the moment that captivates me. I’m fascinated by the Zen simplicity of men when contrasted with my own Baroque confusion. I amazed at the things they can cut through and the ways that the world opens to reveal itself as better than I ever thought it. I’m fascinated by men’s ability to amplify or obliterate various voices in my head as if the broken radio that is the inside of my brain actually works perfectly well, it just needed a little tuning. And, I am stopped dead by their ability to manage all these things without me noticing or even expecting it.

I am consistently blindsided by the affections of men. It never ceases to amaze me when I am chosen out of a room full of perfectly lovely women to be pursued, much to my own ignorance.

Last Saturday, at the West Egg barbeque, the attentions of my interest garnered us some legendary status first at a dinner my Brazilian Angel held on Tuesday and then at the formal West Egg gathering on Friday. At both events, one of the major topics of conversation was how my interest, a bank executive who is normally so precise, coordinated and unflappable, could not get a simple game of numbers down. “Clearly it was Christina.” I have been labeled as having Svengali-like powers over men. This new label, as a single woman in a society full of married couples will that only come back to bite me in the ass, has only served to build my great pleasure in proving how evident it is that my drug likes me back. Like a proper addict, it does not really concern me that such labels begin the ticking clock of my eventual and inevitable pariah state. However, like a prudent addict, I resist the urge to flaunt my addiction in the public eye and instead demure with, “Yeah, right. Sure,” when such statements are made; though I choose not the road to recovery, I am aware that I have a problem.

My brief, new interest has given me one more reason to feel beautiful. I have no designs on home-wreckage or even a realized affair but the idea that someone as attractive as he might find me attractive makes me feel beautiful. I sorely lack romance in my life right now and to be wooed with handmade crafts and doting from a man who could easily afford (in any country) the best professionals to care for a mistress-type figure is the best of all worlds. There is something about the notion of a man who makes the active choice to care for you personally despite the fact that he has the means to have others care for you so much more efficiently. It is quite possibly the world’s strongest turn on... or at least it is until I meet my next drug. He could afford the most exotic and rare flowers shipped in from any country in the world. Instead he chooses to roll paper napkins into little roses. In his world, someone is always around to top off water glasses before one asks but when I have had a bit too much to drink, he takes it upon himself to make sure my water glass is always full and tells me where to find the best hangover medication in China should the water not be enough. In a world that is so often filled with trinkets and their price tags, he chooses to converse about experience, knowledge and curiosity.

Continuing in my addiction, I attended the formal West Egg party on Friday (3/16). I was very excited at the potential to see my new interest again. However, it turns out something came up and he was unable to attend. Instead, I met one of the lovelier young men on the planet. He’s quite intelligent and filled with passion. He’s passionate about his work and he’s passionate about China. Unfortunately, he’s 21 years old and beautiful to distraction. When I first met he and his handsome friend, I was so blown away by his physical beauty that I remember turning to look at him, extending my hand to shake and raising my eye line to meet his. I also remember the release of my hand and turning to look at his friend. However, my memory of actually looking him in the eyes is obliterated. There is a brilliant white space in my mind during the period in which we must have said hello is completely erased. Infuriated by his ability to simply be beautiful and stop my mind, I was determined to beat this beauty of his and get to know him a bit better.

Quickly, I headed over to him and stood next to him as we talked about the stunning view of the city the restaurant possesses. In standing next to him, I was relieved of the obligation to look him in the face under the pretext of sharing the view and I could actually listen to him. We talked about his active choice to come to China, Xi’An in particular, and his fascination with the history of China. We shared stories and I offered some helpful hints about the practicalities of functioning within China. We then parted ways in time for dinner; I, contented with having gotten to know the boy beneath the beauty a bit. A few moments later, he wandered by my table with his friend.

They were speaking English, and in retrospect I only now realize that was for my benefit as they are a both Dutch-speaking Dutchmen. Not just that, but I remember his commenting about the self-consciousness he has over his “poor” English. I reminded him that if we had to talk in Dutch, the conversation simply wouldn’t happen, so I was grateful for his excellent English.
“Where should we sit? I don’t know where we should sit.” The great beauty asked as his friend as they walked by looking like first-day-at-the-new-school students carrying their lunch trays (or buffet chinaware, as it were).

Not even thinking twice about it, I offered the block of empty seats to my right. “Have a seat here.” On my left was a series of my friends but as I had spent far too long getting to know the beauty, I was relegated to a seat on the outskirts of my friends’ table.

The great beauty sat down next to me and we talked a fair bit more about life in China. I decided to give him my card as I was genuinely beginning to like this boy.

And then he started to make me laugh. God, there is something so sexy about driven, multilingual boys willing to be silly for my benefit. Granted at this point, I knew he was 21 so he had been relegated to the “younger brother” pantheon but there is something undeniably sexy about him despite his other worldly, crystalline beauty and his youth. Perhaps he might find his way out of the “younger brother pantheon.”

Then there’s Z. Z clearly wants me back. He’s been waiting in the wings and watching me since the declaration that he misses me. I’ve made the active choice to do nothing about it. At the moment I have no interest in attempting any sort of romantic relationship ever again with him but I can’t say that he won’t pull a rabbit out of his hat. He’s done it before. I don’t doubt he could do it again. He is this strong, virile man who is not afraid to be vulnerable around me and, his complete desertion during my illness notwithstanding, he too really knew how to take care of me with great specificity.

I am such an addict, it has even extended itself to my masseur. I’ve been going to a blind masseur to fix my distorted spine (from too many years of intense academic education and consequent distortion over the latest paper, book or research source). His hands are stronger than steel and the abuse he inflicts upon my warped spine is true torture. Frankly, if it didn’t help so much, I would never seek out massage again. While he is fully abusing me, I forget that he is capable of managing anything other than aggressive, staggering pain. However, a wisp of my hair occasionally falls down upon an area that he’s working on and the gentle touch he uses to put it back so sharply contrasts with the brute force he uses on the rest of my body that I am reminded how well calibrated at touch he is. Which invariably ends up leading to all sorts of inappropriate thoughts… when the blinding pain lets up.

When I am with each new drug, they obliterate all the others and I am willing to swan dive into nothingness for them in the moment. However, the one that sticks with me when I am alone is Bill. I miss Bill. I want Bill to come back.

Bill is the comfort I seek. His steady hand and gentle nature make me feel enhanced without being off kilter. There is all the wonder and beauty of infatuation without any of the enslavement such a spell so often promotes. I feel no desperation or need to hide around him. I feel neither time pressure nor ravenous hunger with him. And yet, I have the clarity that the spell promotes. The world is brighter and colors more beautiful when he’s around. I feel sublime under his gaze and want nothing more than to know what might make him happy. I guess we’ve all got to have “The One That Got Away,” right?

AND I AM CONFUSED

Lewis Black is a comedian/actor/writer/playwright I happen to most align with in terms of “world views”; I’m a bitchy curmudgeon who’s seen a fair amount, is entirely too New-York-Jew and a fair bit too articulate when I’m mad for it to be any good. That is not to say I don’t occasionally become perplexed beyond all capacity for speech when confronted with the weirdness that comprises life, it’s just to say that in those moments of complete and utter dumbness, I have a specific flash of Lewis Black.

The specific flash is in his show, “The End” and he is talking about seeing the Superbowl Halftime show. Apparently, this was the halftime show where Britney Spears, ‘Nsync and Aerosmith were performing together. Spastically, he reaches out with one hand says, “Britney Spears” and then he reaches out with the other hand and says, “Aerosmith” then he brings his hands together in front of his beyond-perplexed face and finally says, “And I am confuuuuuused.” He then reaches the punchline involving a spoon but what sticks with me is the placid face of complete and utter confoundedness at the absurdity of life from a man so commonly wrapped up in rage and fury. The sublime nature of the snarky individual pushed beyond all reason always makes me feel just a little warm and fuzzy inside because I am not alone.

Z sought me out, sat down with me for lunch today and then told me he missed me.

Let me repeat that: Z sought me out. Z sat down with me. Z told me he missed me.

He actively chose to sit with me today (3/14) and not his friends who were saving him a seat nearby. As Yente, my usual lunch mate on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays was not there today, it ended up being just the two of us at our table.

Yeah, it was weird. He attempted to make small talk with me and I just had nothing to say. I was “confuuuuuused.”

At last, he stopped talking, looked me straight in the face for a while and then spoke, “I miss speaking English. I miss learning English.”

There it was. Z telling me he missed me. Where does one go with that? What?

I was so dumbfounded and lost that I simply sat with him for the rest of lunch. Frankly, I’m still without a language to articulate quite where my head is.

Utterly perplexed, I went to my Chinese Angel.

“Wha… wha… what?” I stammered after I explained what happened.

“Who knows. Don’t do anything. Just see where it goes.” She said.

“But I don’t understand.”

“Second chance?”

“But I’m confused.”

“Don’t do anything, just see where it goes.”

“No, I get that. I understand that. I’ve made a fool of myself before. I’m not doing it twice.” And I’m truly at a loss as to what he could possibly be thinking much less what he could possibly be doing, so how on earth am I going to be able to act on anything?

And I am confused.

SEEN AND UNSEEN

Since my last entry, the fireworks have more or less died off and I am afforded the opportunity to sleep through the night. However, that does not mean that I was able to at first. It took me several days to get back into the swing of sleeping at night and being (somewhat) fully conscious during the day. That being said, all is much better now and my great irritation at all things permeating my life has begun to lift.

There was a party at West Egg last night (3/10) and I found the universe, once again, reflecting back all that has been going on in my life. During the past week, I’ve been crankier than usual and my normal cheery self has been pulled in, unwilling to say my usual “Hello”s to everyone on the compound. I’ve been having a seven-month itch, if you will. I’ve got my stores, my ex, my job, my social circle, my home, my exercise routine, my indulgences, my language classes hell, I’ve even got my coffee. I’ve settled comfortably into my routine, learned to grasp the basics of surviving comfortably by myself and plateau-ed into that space where things are comfortable enough that my brain is starting to rot inside my head for lack of struggle. Granted, it’s a phase and I’ll get through it but I’ve definitely been overwhelmed at the thought of staying in this (head) space for any period of time.

So, I decided to embrace the opportunities for change that the universe has seen fit to provide. My Brazilian Angel has been harassing me to join the nearby gym for some time and I finally decided to take action on that. We went together on Friday (3/9) and I joined. I took some seriously tiring classes that night and left feeling much better. Then, while my Brazilian Angel was trying to negotiated the best price for me at the gym, my cellphone rang and the American hostess who has the massive home in the South was calling to personally invite me to a party she was throwing on Saturday.

“I’m sorry, I just think of you and [your Brazilian Angel] as the same. You’re just always together. I know it’s wrong and I apologize. I invited her and it was stupid of me not to invite you,” she flooded me with, I found, a misplaced apology. It’s true, within West Egg, my Brazilian Angel and I are rather inseparable; I need a shoulder to lean on as I often feel utterly out of place in the world of business men and their housewives (who are not really interested in the arts or culture but rather creating a flawless and decadent home) and le Francais is more often than not completely disinterested in going so she always needs a date. In that it is a community made up entirely of married/married-like, coupled-up couples, if you invite one person there is a counterpart who is inherently invited with that invitation; I am like that inherent invite for my Brazilian Angel. Considering my anomalous presence, it would be ridiculous to think that on occasion, my “single” status wouldn’t cause this sort of occasional oversight. I suspect, at this point, and considering some of the looks my Brazilian Angel and I get, much of West Egg is under the impression that I’m a third party in their marriage.

“Oh my god, dude, don’t worry. Thank you for the invite. I’d love to come,” I accepted, firmly deciding it was time to establish myself as a singular entity and a distinct person within the Western sphere here in Xi’An.

Saturday morning, my Brazilian Angel and I met up briefly and she told me she wouldn’t be able to make the party and so not only would I be going alone but I’d also be flying totally solo the whole party. Nervous at that made me, I tried to play it cool.

I was then off to meet my Chinese Angel for theraputic massages. As long as I can remember, there’s been something wrong (in the “pinched nerve” genre of injury) with my neck where my shoulder and neck meet on my left side and I had decided to take matters into hands before I get any older and sort things while my body’s still pretty good at healing. I don’t want to have to have back/spinal/nerve surgery of any sort when I get older and considering how much more my neck has been hurting and tingling with all the traveling and stress, it seemed a bit of a “wake up call” moment.

We wandered into the South together because she had called 114 (which is the informational line here in Xi’An; you want anything and they can tell you where to get it) and therefore knew exactly where to go for our issue.

As I was laid out there on the table, my masseur explained that I had injured myself quite seriously but that he could fix me up fairly well in seven sessions. Considering I have been in a fair amount of pain for years, seven sessions of his abuse (and wow, it hurts like nothing I’ve ever experienced) doesn’t seem too daunting. So, I agreed and we sorted a schedule for my rehab. Then he lifted me and twisted my head around, cracking my neck in a multitude of places, releasing a lot of my tension and apparently, resetting some of my vertebrae. Yeah, it freaked me out to be twisted up like some sort of chicken about to be prepared for dinner but my neck feels phenomenally good now. I’m sore as a bastard but can’t remember the last time I felt this range of motion. I also have those circular hickies on my back because he’s been using the suction cup therapy to test my blood circulation. Apparently, if the skin under the suction cup turns red, you’ve got good circulation. If the skin turns purple, your circulation is not so good. The circulation on my upper left side is, as you may have guessed, not so good. You can even see, though the pressure on all the suction cups was the same and placed in mirror image locations on my back, the ones around my injury are a deeper shade of purple than the ones far away from the injury.

Hicky-fied, my Chinese Angel and I parted ways and I headed off to the party. Upon entering the party, I made friends with a new New Yorker. I recognized her right off the bat as having the same shade of dark red hair I had when I got to Xi’An, my naughty-library spectacles and a fabulous New York intellectual blasé air about her. It was love at first sight.

I hurried over to her and we immediately hit it off. We were talking about learning Chinese and teaching English (many of the housewives here teach a couple of hours of English a week to keep busy and out of the house) and I mentioned, “Sha yi si.” (It sounds like “Sha ee za” or when said emphatically, it sounds like the German stigma-equivalent of our “fuck” though it means “shit” literally.)

“I haven’t heard that one. What does it mean?”

“It’s the local dialect for ‘What’s the meaning’ or ‘What is that’ but it sounds just like that very naught German word,” I explained, not wanting to holler German curses in front of a room half filled with native German speakers.

“Oh, I don’t speak German. It just sounds like ‘shiksa’ to me. That’s a very naughty Jewish word. My ex husband was Jewish,” said my fellow shiksa.

“Yeah, I know shiksa. One half of my family is named ‘Yardeni’ and the other is, well, not,” I said, not explaining that my Jewish family is probably the most tolerant and least likely to use language like that out of all the factions comprising my notion of family despite their history of Shoah survival and the blonde/blue-eyed nature of the rest of my family. In fact, I wear the ‘shiksa’ badge with honor though they wish I “wouldn’t use such language.” I figured, considering her flinching at the mention of the word shiksa and the immediate mentioning of an ex, that she bumped into a matriarch who was not about to mix blood lines and discussing how lucky my family has been to have had the open and accepting matriarch that was my grandmother was certainly about to win me no fans.

My new favorite lady friend and I made it to the dinner table only for me to discover that the one man I would have considered having had an affair with was, in fact, married and to my fellow shiksa. “Well done on that,” I thought.

Everyone eventually sat down and we all started to eat. As we joked about sex and life and work and culture clashes, I found myself remarkably comfortable within the casual sphere. It will always be clear to me that I am not a part of that world but I’m not usually a part of any group I’m supposed to fit into and the women who (to me) really seem to make or break social circles did everything in their power to accept me despite the fact that I am single and the only men at the tables were their husbands. Usually, married women look upon single women as a parasite looking to pick off a husband grown too comfortable in his matrimony. Unlike most parties comprised of married couples, the wives seemed to have no problem with my presence.

During dinner, I got to hear first hand accounts summing up global impact of the Shanghai stock market crash, the devastation of Africa by AIDS and poverty, the healthcare in India and the best places to buy chorizo in Spain. A girl could get used to a life filled with such stories.

After dinner, we blew out several dozen eggs to make Easter eggs. As we hung out, being silly and making terrifically bad jokes about who could “blow” the best, I started to notice one of the men at the table, whose wife is back in their home country, was clearly focusing on getting my attention. I would be lying to say I didn’t enjoy the attention and one of my more gray areas is flirting. I know that emotional infidelity is a HUGE no-no and I have no interest in promoting it but I also feel that flirting (be it with man, woman, dog, tree, whatever) is a healthy, natural part of being alive. The easy “right” answer would have been to stay at my end of the table and not get up to make friends.

And, I tried that answer for a while. As we painted eggs, I talked politics, art and life with my beloved Bloke (the Englishman who wrote me the somewhat strongly worded email and then recanted moments later) and his fantastic, Grande Dame of a wife. He seemed quite interested in my perspective on a multitude of political issues to the exclusion of the other Americans at the tables. It no longer seems at though he’s patronizing me but actually interested in my conversation. I quite enjoy our discussions as he’s well versed in all the things that interest me and often teaches me about the historical context of my passions.

Eventually however, my friend at the other end of the table won my interest back and after dessert, I scooted down to his end of the table under the pretext of talking to a friend of mine seated beside my new interest. We got to talking and as coffee was being served, the hostess and I reminisced about college drinking games like Quarters (you bounce a quarter on the table to get it into a cup; if it lands in the cup you don’t do a shot, if you miss the shot, you do a shot). She then decided that we all needed to play Quarters.

We inverted the rules of Quarters to make it so that if you actually made the shot that you’d need to do a shot. Someone else then added the rule that if you made the shot, you chose a drinking buddy who had to drink with you. Someone else then added the rule that if the quarter went under the table while you were trying to make the shot, you had to drink with a buddy.

So we played Quarters for a little while and then decided to switch up to a leg slapping game. Essentially, everyone sits in a circle, places one hand on the thigh of the person to their left and one hand on the thigh of the person to their right. Then, going clockwise, each hand must slap the thigh it is on in the order of hands laid on thighs; a “wave” of slaps, if you will. Considering the twisting and intertwining of arms, it’s damned hard. And, if someone hits a thigh twice, the slapping shifts directions. If you fuck up, you take a shot which, of course, really helps with the whole not-fucking-up-again thing.

Before we explained the game the hostess and I told everyone to sit boy-girl-boy-girl as we figured some of the more conservative men at the table would be uncomfortable with touching other men like that. Granted, most of the men were perfectly comfortable with the notion but we decided it would be good to nip the issue in the bud in lieu of turning the dinner party into a political stand.

My (male) friend and I switched seats so I was between he and my new interest. Everyone, of course, made the requisite inappropriate jokes about touching each other and we were off.

Of course, I would be the first person down. And then the second as well. The Bloke started teasing me about not sending the chain towards me. Several of the men on the other side of the table (with the Bloke) started heckling me about taking all the fun. Mercifully, someone else screwed up and as we played a few more rounds, everyone got fully toasted either as the drinker or the partner of the drinker (we kept the ‘If you drink, you’re not drinking alone’ rule).

Then we took a “water break,” either to make it or to drink it.

“I’m so sorry, what’s your name again?” My interest/friend asked me.

“No worries, it’s Christina.” I didn’t ask him for his name as I knew it from the hostess having mentioned it to me. Also, as a verbose man, I wasn’t sure my friend wasn’t just looking for a sounding board as so many married men are. My “sussing out” period tends to be one where I give very little back verbally and so many married men take my silence to mean I’m just a receptacle for all the things their wife doesn’t want to hear about. Married men seem to be the demographic most starved for someone just to listen. The idea that I’m pulling in information is often lost on most married blather-ers; frankly, they’re not interested in me as a person just me as a dumpster. So, I waited to see if it mattered whether or not I was retaining information such as what his name was or if my presence was merely about his own release. Most of the time when a married man talks that much to me, it’s about his own release and I am irrelevant but every once and a while, he’s just a talkative dude who is interested in my friendship.

He glanced at me, pausing, waiting for something. Clearly he had been expecting the same question back; a point in the direction of “talkative dude interested in a friend” and not “talkative dude interested in a dumpster.” “Do you know my name?”

I simply said his name and his eyes lowered, clearly a bit embarrassed at not having retained my name. “Don’t worry about it. I can never remember names. The only reason I remembered yours was because [our hostess] just said it.” I tried to explain my complete not-taking-of-offence position. “Besides, we were never formally introduced.”

He looked me straight in the eye and spoke so close to the end of my sentence he nearly cut me off, “Yes we were.”

I smiled. “I’m not that drunk. No we weren’t.”

“The Sheraton. Christmas.”

I retreated into my head to review all the people I had met at the Sheraton that night and I would have sworn on my mother’s life that we had not met. Fortunately, for the Jude, no one took that bet. He was sure we had met and it was the second time in as many days that someone had seen me in a fully present way they marked their memory that simply made not a single wave in mine.

On Friday, I was told by a coworker that one of her friends who I met briefly saw me with a “Foreign Man” and she wanted to know if he was my boyfriend. I saw neither the friend nor could I remember being with a foreign man. I eventually figured out that they had mistaken my shorthaired Chinese Angel with her fluent English for a foreign man but it is strange to me the way many people seem to have taken greater notice of me than I would have ever thought. Even my beloved colleague has been attempting to find me a boyfriend, despite my complete ignorance as to why he’s been introducing me to various single Chinese men and asking if I could find a suitable girl for them. (My Chinese Angel eventually had to clue me in to the fact that he’s taken it upon himself to find me a man.)

Nevertheless, there I sat, looking dumbfounded at this man I swear I had never seen or met before in my life and for the second time in as many days, I was forced to brush off the urge to dismiss it as a case of mistaken identity (as is easy to do in the States but not so easy to do in Xi’An where not a lot of people look like me) and instead had to seriously consider the idea that I was living a life I was not aware of. Frankly, I don’t like the idea of being seen. I like the idea of seeing but not of being seen. It really, really unnerves me that other people remember things about me as an adult that I don’t remember about myself. It’s not the lack of control; it’s my own lack of awareness that bothers the ever-loving hell out of me.

“Yeah, the Christmas party. It’s a shame you guys couldn’t stay,” someone said to my friend.

And then the dominos fell into place. The one foreign housewife I remember ducking out of the Christmas party early had her husband meet up with her for the carols before the dinner. They had a plane to catch or he had just gotten back from a trip or something but their brief, pre-dinner visit stuck with me because I found it strange to make such a visit to a hotel if there was such a pressing travel thing happening at the same time. Granted, at that point, I was still seriously irritated from the drunken jackass who felt the need to insult me and my profession in front of all our mutual acquaintances so my recollection of meeting my friend is spotty, at best.

I remember the firm handshake because it was respectful in an egalitarian sort of way. I remember seeing what an odd pairing this fit, athletic, strong spirited husband-figure seemed to be to the neurotic, melancholy, sedentary housewife I had met previously. His spirit seemed so youthful and hers seemed so broken. I remember thinking what a trap many of the marriages of West Egg seem to be; they can’t leave each other because they’ve spent their whole adult lives shuttling from one country to the next with nary an extramarital anything that isn’t utterly ephemeral and nothing in their home country resembling a support system that recognizes who they are and what their life is like. I remember thinking how much I don’t envy the lifestyle of most of the West Egg community. Granted, there are, as always, those couples that just seem to have it together and really love being with each other (the Bloke and the Grande Dame for one) but by and large most seem to be together simply because they are. I remember all of those things and I remember his heavy gold bracelet and heavy gold necklace, both discretely tucked beneath his shirt, because heavy gold anything always seems tacky to me and it was the only thing I could discern that seemed to coordinate to anything on her. (Her jewelry is all of the very large, very bejeweled, very expensive and very gold variety. She would make a rapper proud.) What I don’t remember is looking him in the eye (which is what I remember about the way people look; actually, I remember the way they look back at me) and so nothing about his face rang a bell.

“Oh yeah, I remember. You left during the carols because you had some travel thing, right?”

He nodded and smiled and the group returned to playing the slapping game.

At the next break, he was sure to get me a fair amount of water, feed me some food and then he started venturing into asking me about myself.

“Do you like teaching?”

“Yeah. For now. Next year or so.”

“What do you want to do after that?”

I shrugged.

“Do you have any idea?”

“I’ve been in disaster services, film production, food services, marketing, banking, education and none of them...” I trailed off and waived my hand in the air to brush them aside.

“Is there one that maybe you could see yourself going back to?”

And the honest answer for today is, “No.”

“Do you have a plan about where you see yourself in a few years?”

And again, the honest answer is, “No.” In a room full of people married to their jobs and the lifestyle their job provides, in a room full of people so well planned out and so well cared for, I was surprised how little fear I had in stating the truth. I was in a room surrounded by adults drowning in money, even-keeled plans and all the things you’re “supposed” to be doing and I felt utterly unashamed by my “fuck it, this is who I am” attitude. I’ve lost my taste for trying to hide the facts of who I am. Besides, in giving up the reigns, I’ve had a much more interesting ride. And, there is the little fact that everywhere I get, I get on my own dime through my own hard work and ingenuity. I am indebted to no one and I live free of the politics of the love/money struggle so many marriages seem to be strangled by.

My friend held my gaze and seemed thoroughly entertained by the idea that I am unabashedly not grown up. “So you’ll just move about until you find the job you love?”

“I guess. I like being a transient.”

“You don’t know the right job now, but you’ll know it when you see it, right?”

“Don’t know. I may have had the right job. It may have jumped up and bit me in the ass and I didn’t notice.” After all, I am, above all, a jackass. I don’t doubt the possibility that I might look back one day and say, “Shit, what the fuck was I thinking giving up job X?!” All I can manage is the best I can manage in each moment. I’ve made some serious mistakes and there’s very little I can do about that. I don’t doubt that the older I get, the more those mistakes will be revealed to me. I only hope that I will take some pity on my youthful stupidity and remember I did the best I could with what I had. Ultimately, you simply didn’t know then what you know now.

We talked a fair bunch more, played a few more drinking games and then it was time for me to head home. I was poured into a cab and was fast asleep before midnight.

LOSING MY FUCKING MIND

It is now March 4th and I arrived back in China on February 18th. I have not had a single night’s sleep nor a decent nap since I arrived back. I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

All day it’s firecrackers set off in the street all day, every day. When I emerge from my compound by the front gate at late morning for my daily fruit run, the piles of firecracker debris is waist high. All night it’s fireworks exploding in the sky outside my window, all night every night. I lie in bed, unable to do anything as the constant explosions outside my window light up my room like a fucking strobe light and rattle my bed like an earthquake. I can’t get away from the noise or the random explosions of light to say nothing of the car alarms the bombings are setting off. This imposed insomnia has turned my world hazy and infuriating. I’m infinitely irritated by the slightest things and I crave silence.

I can’t think. I can’t write. I can’t focus and I’m entirely too emotional for my own good. And then there’s the fact that my grandmother has fallen, broken her hip and now my father has been forced back into my everyday life as I get updates from his sister about his interactions with their mother. To top it off, one of my least favorite students (the one who likes to tell me daily that I’m fat and a calls me elephant) has made friends with the students who hang out at the playground outside my building and now whenever I pass, they like to giggle, point at my ass and try to play the game of who can smack the fat ass first. Not to mention, Z does everything in his power to flee the moment he sees me. He’s ducked into classrooms he didn’t need to be in to avoid me, as well as skip lunch so he doesn’t have to be in the same room as me. My Brazilian Angel is still abroad for the holidays, my Chinese Angel is upset about something and not interested in talking to anyone, my hand washed laundry won’t dry and though I’ve spent most of my day cleaning, I’ve still got a pile of dishes to wash in the sink. I’ve got no one to talk to, no one to relate to and no peace.

Sometimes it just feels like the world is against you. This would be one of those times.