FAMILY
That family of which I was speaking earlier has reared it’s (not-so) ugly head. It’s just heat breaking.
One of my girls here has had her heartbroken. The man she has loved since before she understood love has left her entirely. His parents have deemed her “too poor” to marry, despite the fact that they come from the same town and have less money than her family. They told her they would reconsider after she wrote his father a letter explaining that her drive would change her familial destiny of “poverty” and that she would be a success.
And it’s true. She’s worked her whole life and she’s dragged herself up to make it in the “Big City” of Xi’An. In a world that values women who strive to be Paris Hilton, she’s gotten herself from “farm girl” (the Chinese equivalent of the Indian “untouchables”) to “Xi’An English Teacher” (the most respected type in a highly respected profession). She works twelve hours a day, seven days a week and rests only during a few days every New Year. She is an amazing woman and has accomplished so much in her life. I can only imagine how much she has left to accomplish. Were I in a position to bring anyone to America, I would choose her as she has never depended on the gifts of others to accomplish.
Nevertheless, the patriarchy that views woman as mere receptacles for the abuse of men has deemed her unworthy of the love of her life. And the love of her life, being a coward and a repugnant human being, has kowtowed to wishes of his parents. I find it morally repugnant the way that the Chinese lack the will to ever stand up to their family. It’s not that I necessarily advocate the American style of always standing up to your family for everyone but in this situation, he truly needs to grow a set and be a man.
Actually, in the long run, he needs to do nothing. If he is, as I originally estimated him to be, then he needs to wallow in his cowardice and reap what his cowardice sows. I find comfort in the idea that anyone who could do that to my girl will always live knowing he had perfection and because of his cowardice, he let it slip away. For that reason alone, I wish him an eternity of crystalline, lucid thought. May he never know a moment’s senility and on his deathbed may the memory of having been loved so completely and allowing his castrati-like behavior to turn it away be as fresh as it is now.
Friday, December 28, 2007
IN WHICH I BECOME A WHORE
I’ve been, done and see a lot of things in my almost-thirty years on this planet. The one thing I’ve never been is a whore; in the bad sense of the word. The fact is that while I’ve compromised, been promiscuous and been disingenuous, I’ve never felt like I’ve sold anything essential to my core being.
Now I can check that off my list of “never”s.
For Christmas, the school decides to break my contract and make me work the day. However, the night before they take me out to dinner for what they deem to be appropriate fun. In other words, this means a banquet dinner followed by KTV (Karaoke TeleVision… yeah, I know). Last year we had the banquet but were too far from KTV to go to KTV. This year, however, they chose a restaurant I know well (in fact, my Brazilian Angel and the Jude hosted my birthday dinner there) and it happens to be right next to a KTV.
I find Chinese banquets remarkably unsatisfying as basically all your food is on a Lazy Susan in front of you and you have to pick at your food while you make small talk. Usually, by the time you’ve sampled everything and find something that you like, it’s eaten, cold and certainly not swinging back your way anytime soon. Also, most of the dishes are meat laden as banquets are the time to break the bank but frankly, I don’t like Chinese meats and my stomach has adjusted to a more or less lacto-ovo (eating milk and eggs) vegetarian diet. So, I get very full very fast but you’re supposed to just keep eating and eating. Physically, it’s just unpleasant.
I guess I’d like the set up better if I could understand the conversation but being a guest of honor in a situation where I can’t understand the “praise” being heaped on me is a bit disconcerting as there’s a TON of toasting (read: lots of drinking and very little eating) and I’m supposed to look grateful and appreciative as the each person sitting at the table stands and gives me a long-winded speech.
Which brings me to my whoredom.
Last year, I could get away with being overwhelmed but not this year. I knew I had to toast. So, as the last of the people finished their toast to me (15 people in total; imagine 15 shots of hard liquor on a relatively empty stomach) I knew I had to say something and it had to be good.
I had been sorting out what to say most of the day and some of that evening. I kept circling around the idea of “family” as, for them, it’s the most important thing… to the razing of self. With the help of my former boss I gave my toast to the table.
“I just want to thank you for your generosity and being my family away from my family.”
And, as the toast was translated, I was greatly cheered and applauded. And, it true form, I found cheeks flushing and myself unable to look anyone in the eye.
They would have seen my reaction as my “innate” shyness. I’m by no means a shy woman but they have all decided that’s what I am. My reaction, however, was one of shame.
I realized that I just sold out the most important thing to me; my family. My family is not a conventional one, nor is it all blood, nor is all blood included in it. It is, however, distinctly and very separately mine. It is the one thing, the one place on this planet where I am seen, for better or worse, as what I am. My family is strewn about the globe and they don’t all know each other but I love all of them desperately and would do anything for them.
The more I think about having offered up, as a point of business, something as precious as a position within my family disturbs me and I am, fundamentally bothered by what I did. However, I see no way to right it. I don’t know what to do about it. It is the Chinese way- to blend so permanently business and family to the inability of extraction- and it seemed to be the most appropriate concession to make. Instead, I found myself a million miles from home telling my John on Christmas Eve (to me, one of two days of family) that I did in fact love him and it wasn’t about the money. Being a person who values her passion and earnestness above all other traits it greatly upsets me that I so easily and casually forfeit all that I value for very little discernable reason. Hopefully this “feeling like a whore” thing will fade soon. I’ve certainly learned my lesson.
I’ve been, done and see a lot of things in my almost-thirty years on this planet. The one thing I’ve never been is a whore; in the bad sense of the word. The fact is that while I’ve compromised, been promiscuous and been disingenuous, I’ve never felt like I’ve sold anything essential to my core being.
Now I can check that off my list of “never”s.
For Christmas, the school decides to break my contract and make me work the day. However, the night before they take me out to dinner for what they deem to be appropriate fun. In other words, this means a banquet dinner followed by KTV (Karaoke TeleVision… yeah, I know). Last year we had the banquet but were too far from KTV to go to KTV. This year, however, they chose a restaurant I know well (in fact, my Brazilian Angel and the Jude hosted my birthday dinner there) and it happens to be right next to a KTV.
I find Chinese banquets remarkably unsatisfying as basically all your food is on a Lazy Susan in front of you and you have to pick at your food while you make small talk. Usually, by the time you’ve sampled everything and find something that you like, it’s eaten, cold and certainly not swinging back your way anytime soon. Also, most of the dishes are meat laden as banquets are the time to break the bank but frankly, I don’t like Chinese meats and my stomach has adjusted to a more or less lacto-ovo (eating milk and eggs) vegetarian diet. So, I get very full very fast but you’re supposed to just keep eating and eating. Physically, it’s just unpleasant.
I guess I’d like the set up better if I could understand the conversation but being a guest of honor in a situation where I can’t understand the “praise” being heaped on me is a bit disconcerting as there’s a TON of toasting (read: lots of drinking and very little eating) and I’m supposed to look grateful and appreciative as the each person sitting at the table stands and gives me a long-winded speech.
Which brings me to my whoredom.
Last year, I could get away with being overwhelmed but not this year. I knew I had to toast. So, as the last of the people finished their toast to me (15 people in total; imagine 15 shots of hard liquor on a relatively empty stomach) I knew I had to say something and it had to be good.
I had been sorting out what to say most of the day and some of that evening. I kept circling around the idea of “family” as, for them, it’s the most important thing… to the razing of self. With the help of my former boss I gave my toast to the table.
“I just want to thank you for your generosity and being my family away from my family.”
And, as the toast was translated, I was greatly cheered and applauded. And, it true form, I found cheeks flushing and myself unable to look anyone in the eye.
They would have seen my reaction as my “innate” shyness. I’m by no means a shy woman but they have all decided that’s what I am. My reaction, however, was one of shame.
I realized that I just sold out the most important thing to me; my family. My family is not a conventional one, nor is it all blood, nor is all blood included in it. It is, however, distinctly and very separately mine. It is the one thing, the one place on this planet where I am seen, for better or worse, as what I am. My family is strewn about the globe and they don’t all know each other but I love all of them desperately and would do anything for them.
The more I think about having offered up, as a point of business, something as precious as a position within my family disturbs me and I am, fundamentally bothered by what I did. However, I see no way to right it. I don’t know what to do about it. It is the Chinese way- to blend so permanently business and family to the inability of extraction- and it seemed to be the most appropriate concession to make. Instead, I found myself a million miles from home telling my John on Christmas Eve (to me, one of two days of family) that I did in fact love him and it wasn’t about the money. Being a person who values her passion and earnestness above all other traits it greatly upsets me that I so easily and casually forfeit all that I value for very little discernable reason. Hopefully this “feeling like a whore” thing will fade soon. I’ve certainly learned my lesson.
JEALOUSY
Jealousy comes in all forms and I am suffering from one but not the one everyone expects of me.
Everyone I am surrounded by is stuck in a (relatively) miserable relationship. No joke. And this is not sour grapes. In all honesty, I love to see healthy, happy, contented, long-lasting relationships because they give me hope and strength for the long haul of the brutality that is being "pushing 30 and still single" for a woman. However, I can name all those relationships that I know of on my left hand.
Out of the blue, my Italian friend has ditched me. I had no idea why and he had bailed on me for numerous plans for coffee. Now, I wasn't hurt by his discarding of me so much as irritated. Any man who spends the vast majority of our time together asking me to agree just how beautiful and perfect his rather boring, tedious, self-centered and obnoxious ex-girlfriend is certainly is not bound to grab my lust, much less my heart. Nevertheless, it was nice to have some male company and not feel pressured to go anywhere with it. However, as I discovered yesterday when my French friend and his obnoxious wife showed up at my house (I'm dog sitting), it turns out Italy has a new Chinese girlfriend. It also turns out she's less than thrilled with him but she's essentially sleeping her way to the top and he's more or less interested in proving to his ex that he too can fuck someone after their relationship.
It's not that I begrudge them their dysfunction- lord knows we all need some in our lives- but what I do begrudge them is their condescension. My French friend and his obnoxious wife invited me out as a "Thank you" for dog-sitting for the next two weeks and they invited Italy because he's my +1 in such settings. However, they invited him out and only just discovered that he has a new girlfriend. So, when the new couple wasn't making out at dinner (dear god that always makes me uncomfortable; I just don't need to know some things about my friends libidos) Italy was shooting me apologetic looks as if he knew that I loved him and this was breaking my heart.
Which, in turn, made me want to punch him in the face.
Frankly, it's fine. I'm not jealous that he has someone because I want him. I'm jealous that he has someone because I want someone. Desperately. Frankly, the only thing I want more than a lover is not to be with the wrong person. Nevertheless, I'm unclear exactly when I was supposed to have fallen in love as he never listened to me, only talked about his ex and treated me like one of the guys with no regard for either my ego or my femininity. I'm not particularly insulted by any of his behavior as I was merely looking for company but I am infuriated that this would make me the subject of condescension. Whenever he would shoot me one of those groveling looks of "Can we still be friends" I wanted to put my fist through the back of his head. Really, where do men get their egos?
Also, where do men get their taste in women? I don't get it. Men I find to be perfectly reasonable human beings are married to the most obnoxious and inane women simply because they think the women are beautiful. I can understand an affair based solely on the physical but a marriage? What is that?
I don't know. I'm just having a bad day compounded by a dinner that was supposed to be a "thank you" that somehow morphed into a "poor you." So, please forgive the irritation. I'm sure it will wane soon.
Jealousy comes in all forms and I am suffering from one but not the one everyone expects of me.
Everyone I am surrounded by is stuck in a (relatively) miserable relationship. No joke. And this is not sour grapes. In all honesty, I love to see healthy, happy, contented, long-lasting relationships because they give me hope and strength for the long haul of the brutality that is being "pushing 30 and still single" for a woman. However, I can name all those relationships that I know of on my left hand.
Out of the blue, my Italian friend has ditched me. I had no idea why and he had bailed on me for numerous plans for coffee. Now, I wasn't hurt by his discarding of me so much as irritated. Any man who spends the vast majority of our time together asking me to agree just how beautiful and perfect his rather boring, tedious, self-centered and obnoxious ex-girlfriend is certainly is not bound to grab my lust, much less my heart. Nevertheless, it was nice to have some male company and not feel pressured to go anywhere with it. However, as I discovered yesterday when my French friend and his obnoxious wife showed up at my house (I'm dog sitting), it turns out Italy has a new Chinese girlfriend. It also turns out she's less than thrilled with him but she's essentially sleeping her way to the top and he's more or less interested in proving to his ex that he too can fuck someone after their relationship.
It's not that I begrudge them their dysfunction- lord knows we all need some in our lives- but what I do begrudge them is their condescension. My French friend and his obnoxious wife invited me out as a "Thank you" for dog-sitting for the next two weeks and they invited Italy because he's my +1 in such settings. However, they invited him out and only just discovered that he has a new girlfriend. So, when the new couple wasn't making out at dinner (dear god that always makes me uncomfortable; I just don't need to know some things about my friends libidos) Italy was shooting me apologetic looks as if he knew that I loved him and this was breaking my heart.
Which, in turn, made me want to punch him in the face.
Frankly, it's fine. I'm not jealous that he has someone because I want him. I'm jealous that he has someone because I want someone. Desperately. Frankly, the only thing I want more than a lover is not to be with the wrong person. Nevertheless, I'm unclear exactly when I was supposed to have fallen in love as he never listened to me, only talked about his ex and treated me like one of the guys with no regard for either my ego or my femininity. I'm not particularly insulted by any of his behavior as I was merely looking for company but I am infuriated that this would make me the subject of condescension. Whenever he would shoot me one of those groveling looks of "Can we still be friends" I wanted to put my fist through the back of his head. Really, where do men get their egos?
Also, where do men get their taste in women? I don't get it. Men I find to be perfectly reasonable human beings are married to the most obnoxious and inane women simply because they think the women are beautiful. I can understand an affair based solely on the physical but a marriage? What is that?
I don't know. I'm just having a bad day compounded by a dinner that was supposed to be a "thank you" that somehow morphed into a "poor you." So, please forgive the irritation. I'm sure it will wane soon.
WHEN DID LIFE GET THIS HARD?
Answer: About the fifth grade. And “hi” by the way.
The following conversation was held by me with my first love over IM. I- as I am apt to do when in a funk- opened with the rather direct “when did life get this hard.” His response more or less sums up every reason I ever loved him and why I still have faith in menfolk. The usual response to a question like “When did life get this hard” is some sort of pity-fest. I kvetch about the problem, my friend consoles me, we work on a solution and the conversation comes to conclusion.
Not my boy.
He knows there is no real solution short of allowing me to run my moods. He also knows there is great validity and universality to my quandary. And best of all, he knows how to admit he’s listening, thinking and unable to answer the larger issue but he does it with humorous truth. I think I have no dearer friend than he. Our time has passed and there are a great many things about my life he will never overtly know because, considering our history, I simply cannot speak to him about them but there is something so distinctly precious to me about what is left between us.
I’m in a funk because I’ve got what I want romantically on paper but not in life. What I want in life is not to be mine, my girl is leaving and I’m in domestic limbo with my home. And last night, I slowly came to realize that all my friends will do everything in their power to make the paper-perfect man my lover because they like him and they like me and so the two of us as a couple would be perfect for them.
The paper-perfect man is a lovely gentleman who would care for me and do anything for me until the end of time. He has the means and the will to provide me any lifestyle I would like to grow accustomed to. He is European, elegant and smitten with me. He is kind, smart and self-effacing. He sees me and he is simultaneously elated and at ease. He is does and says things with great regularity with the express purpose of making me feel good about myself. There is nothing creepy or unsettling about him. He is truly, genuinely lovely.
However, there is no spark for me. And somehow, I understand implicitly that he would always be little more than my slave because of that. I have absolutely no desire for that. I crave an equal and it gets damned lonely without one but even lonelier with a servant. The notion of having to hurt this man is truly unappealing. However, my friends are going to make it damned hard to extract myself from the situation because they’ve all clearly decided we’re to be together.
This certainly is not one of life’s great horrors but it has left me notably blue and feeling markedly guilty. The guilt is only compounded by the fact that while I should have been fully present with the paper-perfect man, I kept drifting to the man who truly has my attention; a man I may never see again and a man with whom I could never be the platonic friend his girlfriend would demand. An artist friend of mine, J, to whom I have confessed my smitten state said, “I thought so.” Of course, hearing from him that he could tell there was something between us only deepens the guilt as it strengthens the attraction by confirming its less-than ephemeral existence.
However, I am resigned to this state so well captured by Cesaria Evora’s “Besame Mucho” because of the dinner I had on Sunday night. I had dinner with my French friend married to the Chinese woman alone in their home. She made the decision she wanted to go out and tango dance with a single man friend of theirs and so I was invited to their home for dinner to keep my French friend company. In short, they’re both still dating, despite the fact that they’ve just married. That may work for them but it wouldn’t work for me and if I were to take up with the paper-perfect man, it would be the only way our relationship would survive.
So, instead, I have Cesaria on repeat and take comfort in the greatness I once had and may have again.
Answer: About the fifth grade. And “hi” by the way.
The following conversation was held by me with my first love over IM. I- as I am apt to do when in a funk- opened with the rather direct “when did life get this hard.” His response more or less sums up every reason I ever loved him and why I still have faith in menfolk. The usual response to a question like “When did life get this hard” is some sort of pity-fest. I kvetch about the problem, my friend consoles me, we work on a solution and the conversation comes to conclusion.
Not my boy.
He knows there is no real solution short of allowing me to run my moods. He also knows there is great validity and universality to my quandary. And best of all, he knows how to admit he’s listening, thinking and unable to answer the larger issue but he does it with humorous truth. I think I have no dearer friend than he. Our time has passed and there are a great many things about my life he will never overtly know because, considering our history, I simply cannot speak to him about them but there is something so distinctly precious to me about what is left between us.
I’m in a funk because I’ve got what I want romantically on paper but not in life. What I want in life is not to be mine, my girl is leaving and I’m in domestic limbo with my home. And last night, I slowly came to realize that all my friends will do everything in their power to make the paper-perfect man my lover because they like him and they like me and so the two of us as a couple would be perfect for them.
The paper-perfect man is a lovely gentleman who would care for me and do anything for me until the end of time. He has the means and the will to provide me any lifestyle I would like to grow accustomed to. He is European, elegant and smitten with me. He is kind, smart and self-effacing. He sees me and he is simultaneously elated and at ease. He is does and says things with great regularity with the express purpose of making me feel good about myself. There is nothing creepy or unsettling about him. He is truly, genuinely lovely.
However, there is no spark for me. And somehow, I understand implicitly that he would always be little more than my slave because of that. I have absolutely no desire for that. I crave an equal and it gets damned lonely without one but even lonelier with a servant. The notion of having to hurt this man is truly unappealing. However, my friends are going to make it damned hard to extract myself from the situation because they’ve all clearly decided we’re to be together.
This certainly is not one of life’s great horrors but it has left me notably blue and feeling markedly guilty. The guilt is only compounded by the fact that while I should have been fully present with the paper-perfect man, I kept drifting to the man who truly has my attention; a man I may never see again and a man with whom I could never be the platonic friend his girlfriend would demand. An artist friend of mine, J, to whom I have confessed my smitten state said, “I thought so.” Of course, hearing from him that he could tell there was something between us only deepens the guilt as it strengthens the attraction by confirming its less-than ephemeral existence.
However, I am resigned to this state so well captured by Cesaria Evora’s “Besame Mucho” because of the dinner I had on Sunday night. I had dinner with my French friend married to the Chinese woman alone in their home. She made the decision she wanted to go out and tango dance with a single man friend of theirs and so I was invited to their home for dinner to keep my French friend company. In short, they’re both still dating, despite the fact that they’ve just married. That may work for them but it wouldn’t work for me and if I were to take up with the paper-perfect man, it would be the only way our relationship would survive.
So, instead, I have Cesaria on repeat and take comfort in the greatness I once had and may have again.
RED’S REALLY NOT MY COLOR
For Thanksgiving, I spent the evening with three of my favorite people in Xi’An; my newly discovered French Canadian girlfriend, my Italian friend and my fellow American, J. We went to the Thanksgiving dinner served here at the Sheraton and had quite a good time. We talked about music and art and life and work. My Italian friend tied a few more than expected on and ended up kvetching about his ex-girlfriend a little more than he should have.
Then Friday night, KLM sponsored a free dinner at the Hyatt in Xi’An to celebrate 35 years of serving the European and Chinese community for the West Egg crowd and I got invited. My Italian and Canadian friends were both going away on Saturday, so they decided not to come but J and I decided to make an evening of it.
J, of course, was lovely and quite honestly, my favorite +1 ever. I had such a great time and being that our relationship is solidly platonic, it such a relief to be around an equal without having to worry about cultural landmines. Sitting with us were my favorite couple who hail from Bristol (he is wonderful and she is everything I hope to be) and Mr. Bristol paid me the best compliment I have received in a very long time; “You and [Mrs. Bristol] are the very same kind of woman.” You see, Mrs. Bristol is singularly minded, got married in her mid-thirties, had children in her late thirties and is the only woman I know in Xi’An here on her own dime keeping her husband company because she’s earned a full retirement. She gives me hope and she’s just a wonderful person to boot.
After dinner, a Korean woman (who clearly began life as an anatomical man) insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Bristol, J and I join she and her husband at the bar on the ground floor.
Along for the ride was the most delicious looking man I have seen since I first laid eyes on the Turk. However, unlike the Turk, his energy was more simmering than explosive; the Turk burned hot and bright but this man is slow and steady in the way that made me recall a conversation I had with my Canadian girlfriend. We were both speaking about how neither of us can relax in situations where everyone else is relaxed; we need to be surrounded by people who are more capable than we are in order to relax. This new man has the energy of someone capable of being more capable than me. And, despite this delicious man’s English accent, there was something indefinably familiar about him. There was some underlying something that felt like common ground.
Nevertheless, I got rather wrecked by the fallout from the Turk, so despite my hormones, I made the decision to avoid the very thing I want because, well, the things that I want never turn out to be all that good for me. I took a seat across from my Korean girlfriend and Mrs. Bristol took the seat next to me. And, the Mr. Delicious took the seat next to Mrs. Bristol and proceeded to have an intense conversation about the NGO work that he does here in China that Mrs. Bristol is desperate to get involved with.
Every time I stole a glance at Mr. Delicious, he was looking at me and it was lovely. And, I would be lying if the fact that he could fill out his suit and has body hair wasn’t remarkably appealing. I’m so sick of hairless men swimming in cavernous, worn out suits tacky suits that are always inevitably feminizing. However, Mr. Delicious’ suit was clearly chosen with European taste.
After a brief conversation about his travels around the world and experiences in America’s “Heartland,” it was revealed that he was Jewish. And then I was able to place the familiarity. The two deepest loves I’ve ever had were with men who come from Jewish families and I don’t think that’s a coincidence. It’s something about the focus on life-long education for education’s sake and the quite, reasonable approach to everyday life. And, there’s something about the sense of humor. It just all comes together in a way that I understand and at last I finally understand when my secularly Jewish aunt told me that she didn’t care about marrying from a specific country but she only wanted to marry a fellow Jew. There really is something common and easy about the basics, despite the country of origin.
He then excused himself to go to the restroom.
“I quite like him.” I told Mrs. Bristol.
“He’s got a girlfriend from Australia.” She told me, god bless her.
“Oh well,” I shrugged, determined to push him from my mind, which proved rather easy as he then went into the snooker room and started play with the other men as Mrs. Bristol and I talked about her upcoming trip back home.
And then that fucking Titanic song. The bar band started playing that fucking Celine Dion Titanic song and that was where I drew my line.
“Let’s go into the snooker room. It’s much more quite in there and there’s a couch we can sit on.”
Mrs. Bristol consented immediately and we fled for our lives.
“Celine Dion finally did you in, eh?” Mr. Delicious teased, smiling as the door opened up.
“A girl’s got to have her limits,” I said.
And all I got in return was the sort of smile that makes your toes curl.
Mr. Delicious then left mid-snooker game and pulled a chair up to our couch under the pretext of talking to Mrs. Bristol but he proceeded to watch me for most of the conversation. There was something distinctly lovely in his observation of me. There was no tinge of desperation or escalation. He was simply trying to sort me out.
However, he’s got a girlfriend and I’m all sorts of gun-shy, so I certainly made no efforts to make things easy for him. Nevertheless, he was not to be deterred and he pushed through my inattention.
Finally, he managed to get a real conversation going and suddenly he broke left and the conversation went down the loveliest non sequitur road possible; his status as a “single” man.
“I have the worst problem in this country. I’m 25 and not married- single- and everyone here is asking ‘What are you doing with your life?!’. They all think it’s a waste.”
“Oh honey, I’m 29, female and single. They think it’s a medical emergency.” I held up my left hand with the jade ring on my middle finger. “Why do you think I wear this? Since I started wearing it, no one asks anymore.”
Clueless, he shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Jade in China is the stone of marriage and any woman with a ring on her middle finger is engaged.”
“Oh, I had no idea.”
“Yeah, it’s the equivalent of wearing a big diamond on my ring finger in the West.”
We all continued to chat while he watched me some more. I always find being watched like that so amusing because, really, what you see is, more or less, what you get. There’s very little to sort out. It’s quite pathetic, actually but yes, I am that simple.
And when it finally came time to call it a night, he ducked out and while saying his goodbyes would shoot me looks whenever whomever he was talking to would look away. It was quite charming. However, he did not ask for my contact information, which I kind of liked. If he does have a girlfriend, I like that he’s not going mess around on her and if he doesn’t have a girlfriend, he’s not escalated anything. “Slow” is a nice thought.
While I was happily settling into the warm glow of a simmering man, trouble was brewing elsewhere over my friendship with my Italian friend. The fact is that, while my Italian friend is lovely, I simply don’t view him as an equal and therefore he will never be an acceptable candidate for lover. He’s too naïve and too gullible for me. I want to have children; I don’t want to date them. I adore him and I adore tending to his fragility because I need to get out my mothering impulses in ways other than sorting out the phrase, “Teacher, he hit me!” Designs on him, I certainly do not have.
However, my friend from France married to a Chinese woman has mistaken our companionship for dating. Apparently, his Chinese wife (a beautiful girl who makes me nuts and, unfortunately, is best friends with the putrid ex-girlfriend) was infuriated by the idea that my Italian friend might be getting on with his life and she insists that though the ex-girlfriend moved back to the US to move in with an old lover (and resume said love affair), the ex-girlfriend and my Italian friend are still exclusively dating. Which, apparently, led to her tearing into my character. Which, in turn, led to her husband (with whom I have a closer-than-should-be relationship) tearing into her for tearing into me.
“You should have heard him defend you,” my Brazilian Angel related to me after she explained the whole story. “It was really sweet of him. I tried to explain the situation so that she wouldn’t tell [the ex-girlfriend] but he thought she shouldn’t say anything bad about you to begin with.”
Which split me in two. I am touched that the people I value defend me even when I’m not around and- my god- to the exclusion of their spouses. However, the inevitable has finally begun to happen. I was always concerned about being the only single woman in the area as I would eventually get labeled the adulteress.
And here it comes.
Granted, I find irony in the fact that on the very night I met another man who- despite a possible girlfriend- I would absolutely say yes to anything asked of me, a single man whose bed I would truly choose second in a contest between he and my own brother is gaining me a very large, very scarlet “A.”
For Thanksgiving, I spent the evening with three of my favorite people in Xi’An; my newly discovered French Canadian girlfriend, my Italian friend and my fellow American, J. We went to the Thanksgiving dinner served here at the Sheraton and had quite a good time. We talked about music and art and life and work. My Italian friend tied a few more than expected on and ended up kvetching about his ex-girlfriend a little more than he should have.
Then Friday night, KLM sponsored a free dinner at the Hyatt in Xi’An to celebrate 35 years of serving the European and Chinese community for the West Egg crowd and I got invited. My Italian and Canadian friends were both going away on Saturday, so they decided not to come but J and I decided to make an evening of it.
J, of course, was lovely and quite honestly, my favorite +1 ever. I had such a great time and being that our relationship is solidly platonic, it such a relief to be around an equal without having to worry about cultural landmines. Sitting with us were my favorite couple who hail from Bristol (he is wonderful and she is everything I hope to be) and Mr. Bristol paid me the best compliment I have received in a very long time; “You and [Mrs. Bristol] are the very same kind of woman.” You see, Mrs. Bristol is singularly minded, got married in her mid-thirties, had children in her late thirties and is the only woman I know in Xi’An here on her own dime keeping her husband company because she’s earned a full retirement. She gives me hope and she’s just a wonderful person to boot.
After dinner, a Korean woman (who clearly began life as an anatomical man) insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Bristol, J and I join she and her husband at the bar on the ground floor.
Along for the ride was the most delicious looking man I have seen since I first laid eyes on the Turk. However, unlike the Turk, his energy was more simmering than explosive; the Turk burned hot and bright but this man is slow and steady in the way that made me recall a conversation I had with my Canadian girlfriend. We were both speaking about how neither of us can relax in situations where everyone else is relaxed; we need to be surrounded by people who are more capable than we are in order to relax. This new man has the energy of someone capable of being more capable than me. And, despite this delicious man’s English accent, there was something indefinably familiar about him. There was some underlying something that felt like common ground.
Nevertheless, I got rather wrecked by the fallout from the Turk, so despite my hormones, I made the decision to avoid the very thing I want because, well, the things that I want never turn out to be all that good for me. I took a seat across from my Korean girlfriend and Mrs. Bristol took the seat next to me. And, the Mr. Delicious took the seat next to Mrs. Bristol and proceeded to have an intense conversation about the NGO work that he does here in China that Mrs. Bristol is desperate to get involved with.
Every time I stole a glance at Mr. Delicious, he was looking at me and it was lovely. And, I would be lying if the fact that he could fill out his suit and has body hair wasn’t remarkably appealing. I’m so sick of hairless men swimming in cavernous, worn out suits tacky suits that are always inevitably feminizing. However, Mr. Delicious’ suit was clearly chosen with European taste.
After a brief conversation about his travels around the world and experiences in America’s “Heartland,” it was revealed that he was Jewish. And then I was able to place the familiarity. The two deepest loves I’ve ever had were with men who come from Jewish families and I don’t think that’s a coincidence. It’s something about the focus on life-long education for education’s sake and the quite, reasonable approach to everyday life. And, there’s something about the sense of humor. It just all comes together in a way that I understand and at last I finally understand when my secularly Jewish aunt told me that she didn’t care about marrying from a specific country but she only wanted to marry a fellow Jew. There really is something common and easy about the basics, despite the country of origin.
He then excused himself to go to the restroom.
“I quite like him.” I told Mrs. Bristol.
“He’s got a girlfriend from Australia.” She told me, god bless her.
“Oh well,” I shrugged, determined to push him from my mind, which proved rather easy as he then went into the snooker room and started play with the other men as Mrs. Bristol and I talked about her upcoming trip back home.
And then that fucking Titanic song. The bar band started playing that fucking Celine Dion Titanic song and that was where I drew my line.
“Let’s go into the snooker room. It’s much more quite in there and there’s a couch we can sit on.”
Mrs. Bristol consented immediately and we fled for our lives.
“Celine Dion finally did you in, eh?” Mr. Delicious teased, smiling as the door opened up.
“A girl’s got to have her limits,” I said.
And all I got in return was the sort of smile that makes your toes curl.
Mr. Delicious then left mid-snooker game and pulled a chair up to our couch under the pretext of talking to Mrs. Bristol but he proceeded to watch me for most of the conversation. There was something distinctly lovely in his observation of me. There was no tinge of desperation or escalation. He was simply trying to sort me out.
However, he’s got a girlfriend and I’m all sorts of gun-shy, so I certainly made no efforts to make things easy for him. Nevertheless, he was not to be deterred and he pushed through my inattention.
Finally, he managed to get a real conversation going and suddenly he broke left and the conversation went down the loveliest non sequitur road possible; his status as a “single” man.
“I have the worst problem in this country. I’m 25 and not married- single- and everyone here is asking ‘What are you doing with your life?!’. They all think it’s a waste.”
“Oh honey, I’m 29, female and single. They think it’s a medical emergency.” I held up my left hand with the jade ring on my middle finger. “Why do you think I wear this? Since I started wearing it, no one asks anymore.”
Clueless, he shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Jade in China is the stone of marriage and any woman with a ring on her middle finger is engaged.”
“Oh, I had no idea.”
“Yeah, it’s the equivalent of wearing a big diamond on my ring finger in the West.”
We all continued to chat while he watched me some more. I always find being watched like that so amusing because, really, what you see is, more or less, what you get. There’s very little to sort out. It’s quite pathetic, actually but yes, I am that simple.
And when it finally came time to call it a night, he ducked out and while saying his goodbyes would shoot me looks whenever whomever he was talking to would look away. It was quite charming. However, he did not ask for my contact information, which I kind of liked. If he does have a girlfriend, I like that he’s not going mess around on her and if he doesn’t have a girlfriend, he’s not escalated anything. “Slow” is a nice thought.
While I was happily settling into the warm glow of a simmering man, trouble was brewing elsewhere over my friendship with my Italian friend. The fact is that, while my Italian friend is lovely, I simply don’t view him as an equal and therefore he will never be an acceptable candidate for lover. He’s too naïve and too gullible for me. I want to have children; I don’t want to date them. I adore him and I adore tending to his fragility because I need to get out my mothering impulses in ways other than sorting out the phrase, “Teacher, he hit me!” Designs on him, I certainly do not have.
However, my friend from France married to a Chinese woman has mistaken our companionship for dating. Apparently, his Chinese wife (a beautiful girl who makes me nuts and, unfortunately, is best friends with the putrid ex-girlfriend) was infuriated by the idea that my Italian friend might be getting on with his life and she insists that though the ex-girlfriend moved back to the US to move in with an old lover (and resume said love affair), the ex-girlfriend and my Italian friend are still exclusively dating. Which, apparently, led to her tearing into my character. Which, in turn, led to her husband (with whom I have a closer-than-should-be relationship) tearing into her for tearing into me.
“You should have heard him defend you,” my Brazilian Angel related to me after she explained the whole story. “It was really sweet of him. I tried to explain the situation so that she wouldn’t tell [the ex-girlfriend] but he thought she shouldn’t say anything bad about you to begin with.”
Which split me in two. I am touched that the people I value defend me even when I’m not around and- my god- to the exclusion of their spouses. However, the inevitable has finally begun to happen. I was always concerned about being the only single woman in the area as I would eventually get labeled the adulteress.
And here it comes.
Granted, I find irony in the fact that on the very night I met another man who- despite a possible girlfriend- I would absolutely say yes to anything asked of me, a single man whose bed I would truly choose second in a contest between he and my own brother is gaining me a very large, very scarlet “A.”
WATER WATER EVERYWHERE
Everywhere I turn, there are gorgeous men and lots of whom want to sleep with me but none of whom are available. It’s killing me.
Last night, I went on my first pub-crawl since I came to China. I got super hammered and had a great time. All of the most gorgeous men I know in West Egg were all distinctly aware that their wives were away and that I am single. The night ended with me being propositioned for a threesome with the most beautiful Francophile couple. It was a difficult decision but ultimately, I decided that even though the Parisian is one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen, I really don’t want to test drive him, being as he’s not for sale.
Then, this morning I was invited out to lunch with some of my Chinese friends. There was a PLA policeman at the lunch. Dear god he was delicious. He was super aggressive and an amazing dose of testosterone. He was, in fact, so single minded about getting my attention that our mutual friends apologized on his behalf. It was fantastic and very dangerous. The last thing I need is to hook up with an aggressive, PLA special policeman running high on testosterone but dear god, it’s hard to turn down a handsome, solidly built man’s man singularly focused on seducing me. There’s just something about a man with the right swagger. I seriously need to be manhandled.
Everywhere I turn, there are gorgeous men and lots of whom want to sleep with me but none of whom are available. It’s killing me.
Last night, I went on my first pub-crawl since I came to China. I got super hammered and had a great time. All of the most gorgeous men I know in West Egg were all distinctly aware that their wives were away and that I am single. The night ended with me being propositioned for a threesome with the most beautiful Francophile couple. It was a difficult decision but ultimately, I decided that even though the Parisian is one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen, I really don’t want to test drive him, being as he’s not for sale.
Then, this morning I was invited out to lunch with some of my Chinese friends. There was a PLA policeman at the lunch. Dear god he was delicious. He was super aggressive and an amazing dose of testosterone. He was, in fact, so single minded about getting my attention that our mutual friends apologized on his behalf. It was fantastic and very dangerous. The last thing I need is to hook up with an aggressive, PLA special policeman running high on testosterone but dear god, it’s hard to turn down a handsome, solidly built man’s man singularly focused on seducing me. There’s just something about a man with the right swagger. I seriously need to be manhandled.
IT’S ABOUT DAMNED TIME
It’s fall in Xi’An and- by definition- fall in Xi’An is kind of lame. They literally shake the trees to preempt any leaf-color-change and then quickly sweep away and evidence that there ever were leaves to begin with. They fail to turn on the heat until November 15th despite the freezing weather. The “White” season moves in and the air fills with exhaust, desert dust, construction debris and general pollution so thick a white blanket of fog envelopes the city and you can barely see more than 50 feet ahead of you. The sum total of this is that everyone everywhere is constantly sick. I, for one, have at least three more bouts of bronchitis to look forward to once I’m done with this one.
Another angle on the whole “fall” aspect is that I’ve been rather blue. I have no steadily available man friends to flirt with (all my male friends are married to Chinese women and therefore unable, under threat of castration or worse, to flirt) and my Brazilian Angel is leaving me at the beginning of December.
However, a new male friend who has been threatening to take me out to dinner for ages finally did and it was lovely. There’s no great lighting; it’s just lovely. He called me Saturday night for dinner, we met up and ended up talking until one in the morning. He’s also invited me over for dinner tonight (Sunday) because he’s having a small party with some mutual friends and he wanted me to join them. One of the best parts about it is that there is no pressure. His girlfriend left him here a few months ago and he’s still getting over their breakup. He’s not made any moves to imply that he’s look for me to be a rebound. We can just, simply be around each other and be two adults as two westerners understand “adulthood.” I can dote on him and he spoils me. The conversation is interesting. He’s fun and I can just relax. And, even though he’s Italian (read: not from my culture) it’s so pressure-free and we’re both of such similar temperaments that I completely forget myself. I never thought I would so very much enjoy the relief of playing the role of a man’s +1/date but I have truly missed it.
I was just thinking on Thursday (while trying to extricate myself from a situation where a wealthy, older, powerful man was clearly making the move to turn me into his wife/mistress) how sick I am of being a female (not that I would want to be a man) because it seems to be this sentence to be placed on a pedestal and never be spoken to, merely spoken at. But my Italian friend not only talks to me, he curses (though at first he was very apologetic about saying “damn” until I clarified that I have a mouth like a sailor) and talks to me about all sorts of things with no strings attached. He himself has even declared just how tired he is of trying to talk to the women around here and there being no topic except answering questions about how rich he is and if he’s willing to marry “a Chinese.” We both want to be able to talk about the same things (passion, art, life, politics, relationships, philosophy, etc) with someone of the other gender and now we have it. What a relief!
It’s about damned time.
It’s fall in Xi’An and- by definition- fall in Xi’An is kind of lame. They literally shake the trees to preempt any leaf-color-change and then quickly sweep away and evidence that there ever were leaves to begin with. They fail to turn on the heat until November 15th despite the freezing weather. The “White” season moves in and the air fills with exhaust, desert dust, construction debris and general pollution so thick a white blanket of fog envelopes the city and you can barely see more than 50 feet ahead of you. The sum total of this is that everyone everywhere is constantly sick. I, for one, have at least three more bouts of bronchitis to look forward to once I’m done with this one.
Another angle on the whole “fall” aspect is that I’ve been rather blue. I have no steadily available man friends to flirt with (all my male friends are married to Chinese women and therefore unable, under threat of castration or worse, to flirt) and my Brazilian Angel is leaving me at the beginning of December.
However, a new male friend who has been threatening to take me out to dinner for ages finally did and it was lovely. There’s no great lighting; it’s just lovely. He called me Saturday night for dinner, we met up and ended up talking until one in the morning. He’s also invited me over for dinner tonight (Sunday) because he’s having a small party with some mutual friends and he wanted me to join them. One of the best parts about it is that there is no pressure. His girlfriend left him here a few months ago and he’s still getting over their breakup. He’s not made any moves to imply that he’s look for me to be a rebound. We can just, simply be around each other and be two adults as two westerners understand “adulthood.” I can dote on him and he spoils me. The conversation is interesting. He’s fun and I can just relax. And, even though he’s Italian (read: not from my culture) it’s so pressure-free and we’re both of such similar temperaments that I completely forget myself. I never thought I would so very much enjoy the relief of playing the role of a man’s +1/date but I have truly missed it.
I was just thinking on Thursday (while trying to extricate myself from a situation where a wealthy, older, powerful man was clearly making the move to turn me into his wife/mistress) how sick I am of being a female (not that I would want to be a man) because it seems to be this sentence to be placed on a pedestal and never be spoken to, merely spoken at. But my Italian friend not only talks to me, he curses (though at first he was very apologetic about saying “damn” until I clarified that I have a mouth like a sailor) and talks to me about all sorts of things with no strings attached. He himself has even declared just how tired he is of trying to talk to the women around here and there being no topic except answering questions about how rich he is and if he’s willing to marry “a Chinese.” We both want to be able to talk about the same things (passion, art, life, politics, relationships, philosophy, etc) with someone of the other gender and now we have it. What a relief!
It’s about damned time.
CULTURE CLASH
It’s a difficult thing being a tomboy in China. First of all, I’m not at all what they recognize as female. However, they are willing to grant me leeway on my androgyny for the political advantages I would provide as a wife. Secondly, the rules between men and women are far too isolationist for my good.
My masseur is a lovely man who is hell bent on marrying me. I have time and time again turned him down. I have even told him in no uncertain terms that we will never be together. I have tried to switch to another masseur at the gym but he keeps switching me back. I would stop going all together but I have a highly painful pinched nerve in my neck that needs regular treatment. And, frankly, I’m tired of switching masseurs. I’ve switched several times before this masseur and it always ends up with the masseur asking me to marry him.
Nevertheless, I went to my massage session yesterday and this time he asked permission to kiss me. Yet again, I told him “no” and I even went on to explain that we want different things. He wants to me to be his knight in shining armor and rescue him from this life, marry him, protect him, support him, bear his children, and adore him. Forever. To be honest, I’m so sick of being the physical embodiment of “The American Dream.” It is a dream that is so over-hyped that it can only disappoint in the end.
Frankly, I have come to find the notion of marrying a Westerner less intimidating because my divorce of a Westerner, while devastating emotionally, isn’t devastating politically. Our union would be about us and it would remain together because of us, not because he needed it to work for his parents, society and country. I don’t know that I can live with someone who needs me because his society tells him he’s nothing if one of us leaves and not because the thought of a life without me is too much to bear. It’s too much of a burden to make the whole of China happy with the inner workings of my marriage when I’m not sure I even want to get married in the first place.
But I digress.
Nevertheless, I finally understand where the line that I’m crossing is (in the “I’m leading him on” sense) but I find myself, well, screwed because I’m just not constantly conscious of that line. As an American tomboy, I’m accustomed to speaking with my male friends about all sorts of things, including sex. I’m simply not self-conscious about my male friendships. My super feminine Chinese girlfriends, however, would never dream of having a social relationship with a man who wasn’t related to her (or about to be). And, while most of the time I can maintain those limits very well, when I’m on a massage table with the express purpose of relaxing, it’s a bit harder to remind myself to remain vigilant. When I relax, those filters simply come down.
And I don’t know what to do about that. Ultimately, it’s simply a place where the two cultures don’t mesh and it’s simply what is but I loathe coming out of the very relaxed state of having my pinched nerve released to overly polite sexual requests. (A man who literally asks my permission to make sexual advances nauseates me, as I am one for the slightly more confident/brutish type. I’m not in high school anymore. I’ll say “no” when I want him to stop.) It’s really getting on my nerves to come out of a state of high relaxation to revolting sexual advances.
And, I can’t complain because he’d get in some serious trouble.
It’s days like this when I wish I was just a super feminine girly girl.
It’s a difficult thing being a tomboy in China. First of all, I’m not at all what they recognize as female. However, they are willing to grant me leeway on my androgyny for the political advantages I would provide as a wife. Secondly, the rules between men and women are far too isolationist for my good.
My masseur is a lovely man who is hell bent on marrying me. I have time and time again turned him down. I have even told him in no uncertain terms that we will never be together. I have tried to switch to another masseur at the gym but he keeps switching me back. I would stop going all together but I have a highly painful pinched nerve in my neck that needs regular treatment. And, frankly, I’m tired of switching masseurs. I’ve switched several times before this masseur and it always ends up with the masseur asking me to marry him.
Nevertheless, I went to my massage session yesterday and this time he asked permission to kiss me. Yet again, I told him “no” and I even went on to explain that we want different things. He wants to me to be his knight in shining armor and rescue him from this life, marry him, protect him, support him, bear his children, and adore him. Forever. To be honest, I’m so sick of being the physical embodiment of “The American Dream.” It is a dream that is so over-hyped that it can only disappoint in the end.
Frankly, I have come to find the notion of marrying a Westerner less intimidating because my divorce of a Westerner, while devastating emotionally, isn’t devastating politically. Our union would be about us and it would remain together because of us, not because he needed it to work for his parents, society and country. I don’t know that I can live with someone who needs me because his society tells him he’s nothing if one of us leaves and not because the thought of a life without me is too much to bear. It’s too much of a burden to make the whole of China happy with the inner workings of my marriage when I’m not sure I even want to get married in the first place.
But I digress.
Nevertheless, I finally understand where the line that I’m crossing is (in the “I’m leading him on” sense) but I find myself, well, screwed because I’m just not constantly conscious of that line. As an American tomboy, I’m accustomed to speaking with my male friends about all sorts of things, including sex. I’m simply not self-conscious about my male friendships. My super feminine Chinese girlfriends, however, would never dream of having a social relationship with a man who wasn’t related to her (or about to be). And, while most of the time I can maintain those limits very well, when I’m on a massage table with the express purpose of relaxing, it’s a bit harder to remind myself to remain vigilant. When I relax, those filters simply come down.
And I don’t know what to do about that. Ultimately, it’s simply a place where the two cultures don’t mesh and it’s simply what is but I loathe coming out of the very relaxed state of having my pinched nerve released to overly polite sexual requests. (A man who literally asks my permission to make sexual advances nauseates me, as I am one for the slightly more confident/brutish type. I’m not in high school anymore. I’ll say “no” when I want him to stop.) It’s really getting on my nerves to come out of a state of high relaxation to revolting sexual advances.
And, I can’t complain because he’d get in some serious trouble.
It’s days like this when I wish I was just a super feminine girly girl.
BLAH
Drama is always remarkably unsatisfying to me, in real life.
Nevertheless, I've been unceremoniously ditched and now I have to deal with the "mutual friends" issue. On principle, I refuse to speak to any of our mutual friends about what happened as he asked (while I was still in a giving mood) that I promise never to speak of what happened to anyone because (for extraneous reasons) he would have gotten in a lot of trouble for the timing of our affair. (Let's just say days of attonement are not usually best spent in the licivious arms of me if you want god to think you're truly repentant.) At the time, I gave my word because I would do anything to protect the people I care about. Now, I keep my word because my word is not worth sullying over someone who can discard me so easily.
However, our mutual friends adore him as a wonderful and fantastic boy. They cannot praise him highly enough. They insist upon knowing what has happened between us (as everyone knew we had a flirtation) and upon my supressing the urge to shriek at the top of my lungs "He used me and then threw me away" and toss dishes acros the room, found myself capable of smiling pleasantly and saying, "I think I'm just not for him."
What took the wind from me and has left me in a bit of a funk was the constant dismissal I have received as every woman who praises him so highly shrugs dismissively at my modest explanation responding with something like, "It's true, I think he likes girls who are, ah, DIFFERENT from you," in the most patronizing tone ever. Frankly, it feels like I'm the one they feel falls short; as if I were dating out of my league and they're not in the least bit surprised that he wouldn't want to be with me.
Never before has being an independent, strong, single woman felt like such a pity case. All these women are married and it's clear that their opinion of me is that I'm just not appropriate "wife" material. Being so effortlessly discarded is rough; finding out people you were close with aren't surprised as said disposal just stalls a girl out.
Thank god for my Brazilian Angel. She is the one confidant here who knows all about what happened and she has been kind enough to not say anything. As it was becoming clear that I had been disposed of and I told her how sad I was, she said to me, "Chris, don't think like that. He's the one who has to spend the rest of his life without you. He had you and walked away? Feel bad for him." And then, after the first such rough meeting with mutual friends and their declarations of how he likes "different" girls and resulted in me crouched into a ball, weeping openly in an elevator, she said, "I'm sorry, everyone says he's so wonderful but I hate him. He's a wonderful jerk. Fuck him. It makes me sick the way they talk about how wonderful he is. I've never met him but I hate him."
I'm still floored and breathless at having been treated like garbage once again but thank god for my girls.
PRESTIDIGITATION
I had been depressed about the vanishing of the Turk (the Turk and I had a wonderful time and then something shifted in him the last time I saw him, he wouldn’t talk about it and I haven’t seen him again), the homesickness of coming back from Beijing (Beijing is just like home in that it is a huge, international city complete with too much shopping and people all over the world) and the suckitude of the returning home of the Jude (having mom around is nothing short of comforting and having her return to the other side of the planet, well, frankly, blows). So, I did the only thing I could; I fought the urge to never leave the house again, squeezed my ass into a nice outfit, resisted the urge to bend to the crappy weather and headed out to see my friends in the West Egg community. I did my best to turn off my brain and just let the auto pilot take me to the Oktoberfest that West Egg was having but it was, nevertheless, super hard. Had my Brazilian Angel not been around, I probably would not have made it to the party.
And, of course, I’m glad I did.
I got to see a close girlfriend from Bristol and her husband, drink lots of beer, eat lots of bratwurst, be horrified by the lederhosen-wearing four-piece band and flirt shamelessly. And most wonderfully, I got to flirt shamelessly with a fellow West Egger who is getting over being left by his girlfriend. There’s nothing quite like being distracted from depression by flirting with a gorgeous Italian with a passion for life and then watching him get on smashingly with my favorite English girlfriend. It was such a nice reminder of life as I recognize it.
And it was such a lovely moment.
I had been depressed about the vanishing of the Turk (the Turk and I had a wonderful time and then something shifted in him the last time I saw him, he wouldn’t talk about it and I haven’t seen him again), the homesickness of coming back from Beijing (Beijing is just like home in that it is a huge, international city complete with too much shopping and people all over the world) and the suckitude of the returning home of the Jude (having mom around is nothing short of comforting and having her return to the other side of the planet, well, frankly, blows). So, I did the only thing I could; I fought the urge to never leave the house again, squeezed my ass into a nice outfit, resisted the urge to bend to the crappy weather and headed out to see my friends in the West Egg community. I did my best to turn off my brain and just let the auto pilot take me to the Oktoberfest that West Egg was having but it was, nevertheless, super hard. Had my Brazilian Angel not been around, I probably would not have made it to the party.
And, of course, I’m glad I did.
I got to see a close girlfriend from Bristol and her husband, drink lots of beer, eat lots of bratwurst, be horrified by the lederhosen-wearing four-piece band and flirt shamelessly. And most wonderfully, I got to flirt shamelessly with a fellow West Egger who is getting over being left by his girlfriend. There’s nothing quite like being distracted from depression by flirting with a gorgeous Italian with a passion for life and then watching him get on smashingly with my favorite English girlfriend. It was such a nice reminder of life as I recognize it.
And it was such a lovely moment.
MYOPIA/UTOPIA
“If you love yourself, no one else will have to,” the Jude always said. And, by and large, I agree; unbridled narcissism tends not to breed what I recognize as “love.” However, the constant self-dismissal I was raised to cherish has become somewhat of an issue. Frankly, I’m just me and one of the many reasons I loathe discussing my past with strangers is because there is the inevitable moment when I run through my litany of experience when the person’s eyes get big and I cease being human and start being larger than life. I always feel like “I” must be such a let down. I don’t have any particularly fascinating stories to tell and I really, truly did Forrest-Gump my way through most of my life. I have been incredibly lucky to be given the gifts I was given and those gifts just seemed to compound themselves. To me, the true delineation between myself and “interesting” people is the day we September 11, 2001 disaster relief workers sat in a conference room and had a frank discussion about why we came to work every day. Clearly, it was not the paycheck, so our leaders wanted to understand what our motivations were so we sat around and discussed it.
“No one would come to this job out of pure virtue. No one would come back day after day simply to help people. We all get something out of this. There’s nothing wrong with feeling like you’re a better person than most for doing this work.”
I sat in that room full of bobbing heads and thought, “No, I really just want to help people because I know that no one else will do it. When people leave this job, no one comes to fill in for the missing.” My whole life, the most powerful poem I ever read goes through a long list of “They came for the Jews and I said nothing, They came for the gays and I said nothing. They came for the…” and so on and so forth. It ends with, “And then they came for me. And there was no one left to speak for me.” After two weeks in the recovery efforts, it was clear that they had come for some of us but most of the rest of us were not about to take a stand.
Frankly, the thought the job might make me “better than you” struck me as odd but I was fascinated to be surrounded by a room full of people all in agreement. The idea that you might want to be above humanity while toiling at its underbelly seems odd to me. That mixture of motivation is fascinating. Virtue born of vice; it’s truly complex and interesting. I’m just pretty nakedly obvious; I’ll carry the load that must be carried if no one else will do it because I’m part of a community and to be so is to have a responsibility to something larger than yourself. I am very cut and dry. I don’t know why that would be of even the slightest interest to anyone. I’m certainly not the thing of revelation or revolution. And I’m certainly not a person of weight.
However, it would appear that my self-dismissal needs to be reconsidered.
Recently, I was given a gift at extreme cost to a close friend and little cost to me. The friend merely asked that I never reveal it, and that I will not do. The act of faith, the leap, the trust that the gift took to give was beautiful and it has made my life a better place. And really, the gift while it had the nice element of feeling good about doing something for someone else, it really was about the act of make this sacrifice for me. It wasn’t done as a gesture of self-sacrifice for my happiness either. It was truly a gift.
For the first time in my life, it was a clean, loving, profound gesture from a friend whose singular motivation was my happiness.
And it has forced me to reevaluate my own sense of self-worth. If this friend, capable of this kind of gift, that kind of selflessness, has deemed me worthy of such a gesture, perhaps I should reconsider how I see myself. Not that I will ever (or would ever want to) be above humanity but that perhaps I should accept less toil. Perhaps I should draw the line sooner and show myself more respect.
I’ve always considered the notion of karma to be a valid one and perhaps it’s visibly manifesting itself. That gift was a bit of a watershed moment. I am surrounded by people I adore, love and like (all together) and I’m infringed upon by very little.
“If you love yourself, no one else will have to,” the Jude always said. And, by and large, I agree; unbridled narcissism tends not to breed what I recognize as “love.” However, the constant self-dismissal I was raised to cherish has become somewhat of an issue. Frankly, I’m just me and one of the many reasons I loathe discussing my past with strangers is because there is the inevitable moment when I run through my litany of experience when the person’s eyes get big and I cease being human and start being larger than life. I always feel like “I” must be such a let down. I don’t have any particularly fascinating stories to tell and I really, truly did Forrest-Gump my way through most of my life. I have been incredibly lucky to be given the gifts I was given and those gifts just seemed to compound themselves. To me, the true delineation between myself and “interesting” people is the day we September 11, 2001 disaster relief workers sat in a conference room and had a frank discussion about why we came to work every day. Clearly, it was not the paycheck, so our leaders wanted to understand what our motivations were so we sat around and discussed it.
“No one would come to this job out of pure virtue. No one would come back day after day simply to help people. We all get something out of this. There’s nothing wrong with feeling like you’re a better person than most for doing this work.”
I sat in that room full of bobbing heads and thought, “No, I really just want to help people because I know that no one else will do it. When people leave this job, no one comes to fill in for the missing.” My whole life, the most powerful poem I ever read goes through a long list of “They came for the Jews and I said nothing, They came for the gays and I said nothing. They came for the…” and so on and so forth. It ends with, “And then they came for me. And there was no one left to speak for me.” After two weeks in the recovery efforts, it was clear that they had come for some of us but most of the rest of us were not about to take a stand.
Frankly, the thought the job might make me “better than you” struck me as odd but I was fascinated to be surrounded by a room full of people all in agreement. The idea that you might want to be above humanity while toiling at its underbelly seems odd to me. That mixture of motivation is fascinating. Virtue born of vice; it’s truly complex and interesting. I’m just pretty nakedly obvious; I’ll carry the load that must be carried if no one else will do it because I’m part of a community and to be so is to have a responsibility to something larger than yourself. I am very cut and dry. I don’t know why that would be of even the slightest interest to anyone. I’m certainly not the thing of revelation or revolution. And I’m certainly not a person of weight.
However, it would appear that my self-dismissal needs to be reconsidered.
Recently, I was given a gift at extreme cost to a close friend and little cost to me. The friend merely asked that I never reveal it, and that I will not do. The act of faith, the leap, the trust that the gift took to give was beautiful and it has made my life a better place. And really, the gift while it had the nice element of feeling good about doing something for someone else, it really was about the act of make this sacrifice for me. It wasn’t done as a gesture of self-sacrifice for my happiness either. It was truly a gift.
For the first time in my life, it was a clean, loving, profound gesture from a friend whose singular motivation was my happiness.
And it has forced me to reevaluate my own sense of self-worth. If this friend, capable of this kind of gift, that kind of selflessness, has deemed me worthy of such a gesture, perhaps I should reconsider how I see myself. Not that I will ever (or would ever want to) be above humanity but that perhaps I should accept less toil. Perhaps I should draw the line sooner and show myself more respect.
I’ve always considered the notion of karma to be a valid one and perhaps it’s visibly manifesting itself. That gift was a bit of a watershed moment. I am surrounded by people I adore, love and like (all together) and I’m infringed upon by very little.
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