A field guide to growing up without growing apart
You know that problem, when the people in your life that you love just don’t seem to get along with the each other? And you’re stuck in the middle? Well, I have been feeling that way a lot recently- especially as regards to my house. […]
So I’m single. I have been for a while. And in my day to day life it is most often not an issue. I have great family and friends and I don’t feel I lack love in any way. I even find ways to get […]
So I Went To California.
Oh man. Where to start? A list of course!
want that, a field I love, a place I know I’ll enjoy no matter the level of experience I’m in. How do people choose that? How do you decide to be happy in one area and not be afraid to take the time you need to work up to the position you want? I want it all, and I’m afraid I’m going to end up with nothing.This rarely happens on planes so I smiled to myself at the opportunity, fully planning to squander it by shyly absorbing myself in my book(which I hadn’t found a spare second to read all week) but as luck would have it this male peer was less apathetic than myself and put it upon himself to speak to me. Like many people, I tend to make jokes when I get nervous, so what could have been a short. “Hey, how are you. You’re nice for switching seats,” conversation turned into a full on flirt fest. (Also, who decided that feeling uncomfortable should be a sign of attraction anyway?).
Did I mention he was attractive? Nothing as perfect as the bus guy, but still and he was outgoing enough to make me bold. Before long we were really talking; he’d only flown once before and is the middle child of 5 boys, likes dirt bike racing and is on his way to becoming an EMT. I told him about my trip and my current lack of direction, why I fly on planes so much and what I miss about Seattle. It was nice and he was interesting; it had been a while since I’d held eye contact a few seconds too long. But as the flight continued and we got to know each other it became apparent that even if we lived close enough to date, I wasn’t interested.
He told me his family never vacationed together, that they’d never had the time or money to spend on things like that. He hadn’t gone to college and just quit his job of managing a Subway restaurant to join a year long church program that would eventually place him as an intern in his home church. He said he’d never really connected with his brothers. He said he knew exactly how his life would look from here on out. I liked him, I really did, but I travel all the time with my well –off family. I’m close with my brother and expect my children to get college degrees. I’m not religious and I have no idea what my future will bring. I found myself shocked as I realized these things mattered, even though they seem so secondary.
It’s terrible really, that a few external things can make such a difference, but as I’ve gotten older the more value I place on background and outlook in my relationships.
So why is it that a person’s background is such a turn on or off? Is it biological in that my ovaries aren’t willing to take the risk that he might turn out like his drunken brothers? Is it emotional in that I I’ll never be able to fully understand him? Or is it more about my privilege, wanting to find someone similar so I don’t have to feel guilty for being born into a happy home?When it comes to friendships, I feel like I gravitate toward people different than me; I crave adventure and new experiences. But I hold the people I date to a different standard, one that may well be impossible to meet. I want to be challenged, but apparently not by someone with less wealthy, outdoorsy and educated parents than myself. I want to choose my favorite passions, but I don’t want to fall in love with someone who thinks he has it figured out. I want to have children with a person who believes in magic, but not to raise them in a church.
I don’t know what it is, and part of me still hopes I’ll meet someone worth ‘overcoming’ our initial differences, but when I look at every happy couple in my life, they have most of those fundamental things in common. I used to believe opposites attract, but lately I feel more like the saying is opposites don’t attach.
We talked the rest of the flight, learning about each other and discussing philosophy and emotions. I got him to admit to feeling lonely and left out by his brothers and he got me to talk about what I want in the future. I learned a lot and had a wonderful time. I even got to debate religion with him. But I stopped worrying what he thought. We were different, and no matter what else we found in common, we’d always be platonic.
On Saturday I went to a Mormon Wedding. Okay so that is a lie. I’m not a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints so I am not physically allowed in the temple to watch the secret ‘sealing’ service that magically […]
My name is Sleeping Booty and I’m a hoarder. Well, sort of. I like to think of myself more as a memory preserver than a junk collector, more like an information database than a maggot infested trash dump. I’m a keeper of records and saver […]
It is has been a while since I last wrote a Lady Mareena post, and, due to several circumstances in my life, I feel like that time has come again. I was hesitant about posting this, not least because I fear the judgement not only of you internet viewers, but even more so of my best friends, the naughty princesses. However, this blog is built on honesty- on revealing the tough spots and the surprises our twenty-something life can throw at us- so, it is in that spirit that I write this post today.
As always, names and facts have been altered to protect the identity of those involved from internet stalkers.
Chapter Four
When we left Lady Mareena, she was crying, broken-hearted over the betrayal of Herman. He had shown his true colours, and those were of a low and short sided man. So Lady Mareena had written him a letter- a harsh letter- telling him that things were over, no more would they be friends or walk the halls of the castle together. Now, it has been months. Mareena has hardly seen Herman in passing, and her once poignant grief has melted away and slowly her spirit has regained strength. Instead of living under the shadow of Herman, and her dreams of him, she has become her own person again, one living her own life.
Yet in the background, a friendship was developing. A year ago Lady Mareena had met the young son an Earl who was visiting her father at their castle. They had become fast friends, even though Lady Mareena was often distracted by Herman, and her feelings for him, from really paying attention to this new friend, Percival. And then, alas, last summer the time had come, and the visit of the Earl was now to end, and he was taking his son back home, to their castle in Lombardy. Lady Mareena was sad; she honestly had believed that she would never see Percival again.
Yet fate had something else in store. Less than a month after Percival went back to Lombardy, a letter arrived via pigeon post, addressed to Lady Mareena herself. Mareena tore it open, inside was the pages covered with a curling lomardian script. Percival had written her! Over the next months they exchanged many letters, talking of their lives, of their hopes and fears.
Now it is the spring. It has been months since Mareena gave Herman that letter, and nearly a year since Percival returned to his castle in far-off Lombardy. One morning, while sitting in the crisp sunlight in the garden, Mareena is greeted by a servant carrying a new letter. Mareena is no longer surprised that it is from Percival. However, this letter contains something new. Inside, Percival tells her that his father is ready to send him abroad, to learn about new cultures and work to cultivate good relations with his allies. He has given Percival two choices of where he might go: he may go to Rome, capital of the known world, and serve at the feet of the Emperor himself, or he can go back, to Mareena’s little country, and live there in a castle by the sea. The first job has more honor, it would be good for Lomardy and good for Percival himself, as he would get to see many new things and cultures. Mareena is happy Percival but also a little sad as she his words, would it not be so great if her good friend lived closer to her? But as she keeps reading in the letter, she comes upon these words: ‘Mareena, I think I may choose your country, it seems the better place.’
Mareena is scared, she doesn’t know what to do. She would love for Percival to come here- to be close to her- but she wonders why he is making this choice. Truly, all things seem in favour of him choosing Rome. It makes her wonder in her heart: is Percival making this decision for me? This thought scars Mareena. She is scared because although she likes Percival and he is her best friend, she knows that he follows the customs of Lomardy and does not worship her God. This is important to Mareena. So important that she knows she must tell Percival before he makes his decision.
So the day has come. Lady Mareena has to gird herself with courage to do what she knows she must do. She pulls out her quill and writes to Percival. She is honest, she tells him exactly how she feels. ‘Percival,’ she writes, ‘I am worried about this decision you are about to make. I am worried it is, on some level, about me. But I have to tell you- as much as it hurts me- that at the end of all things I don’t see us together. I worship the high and Almighty God. I do not think I can share my life with someone who does not believe and does not love what is most important to me. So, I needed to warn you, you needed to know the truth before you make a decision like this- as much as doing so pains me, you needed to know.’ She signs the letter, seals it, and sends it off.
Days later a reply arrives from Percival. She is hesitant even to open it. She does not know what it will say or what she wants it to say. Slowly however she pulls off f the wax. Inside was a letter, most beautiful she had ever read.
‘I understand what you said,’ he wrote, ‘I understand that living with me would be like only living with a part of yourself. I understand that although I would go to the cathedral with you, and stand by your side, that my joy would not be your joy. It would be joy in being with you. It is not right for me to ask you to accept this.
Still, in the evening, I like to dream and believe something can change. That I can change. In the evening, after seeing you and talking with you, I want to believe something can change. In the evening I would choose your country. With all my self. With all my hope. Probably with too much hope, overflowing into selfishness. Choosing your country would mean, for me, to believe something beautiful can happen.
Then comes the morning. This horrible time when all the dreams of the evening fade away and reason holds sway. The reason the annihilates everything. In the morning the reason underlines how unsolvable the problem of believing is and it warns me I shouldn’t deceive my self and, more importantly, you. On this last point reason is totally right. I can spend my time and my hope but I do not want to waste yours. Bettter for me is that far place in Rome.
I would like to keep hoping but I don’t want to do it at your expense. I don’t want to press you into believing something which could never be. I don’t want your hope to turn into a bitter source of unhappiness.
This problem is so painful. How I would like I could solve it just by my will. But I can not do it… I can not promise I will do it… I can not forsee if I will ever be able to do it. If I could choose whether to believe or not like souls in Plato’s rebulic choose their own destiny- I would choose to believe without a second thought.
I do not want you to change. I am the only one who can do it, and I will not lie or pretend- that will never be a solution. The chances feel so small. I want to believe it is possible. I would like you to believe but I am not asking you to. How can I look into your eyes if, after all the time you invested and after all the prayers you prayed I still do not believe. I am afraid I may never be able to believe… I am afraid I can not see Providence… I am afraid I may end up believing by deceiving even myself, just to be with you.
I would like to believe I am right, then there is not and there has never been any hope. But, if you are right, then there must be a answer. I must believe that God would not have left this problem without a solution.
I would like to come to your country, but I worry this choice puts pressure on you. For me, my choice would mean kindling a hope. Can I ask you to believe in the possibility that one day I will believe? Can I ask you to believe this thing that is on the brink of hopeless. How can I ask it of you?’
What then did Lady Mareena reply? I am leaving you in suspense until next time.
I love my mom. She is a wonderful, strong person and I think she did a pretty decent job raising me and my brothers. However, despite the awesome person she is, we have never been extraordinarily close. When I went through my angsty, hormone ridden, […]
So, when I was a junior in high school, I read War and Peace. At the time it took me less than a month to conquer this 1,400-page, giant beast of Russian literature. And, although, I have always been a re-reader (most of my favourite […]
So I’m tall. Five ten and three-quarter inches tall to be exact. Which, accounting for the usual inflation, lands me somewhere over the six-foot mark. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve flared my nostrils over the head of a guy who swears he is 5’9” or out-rebounded a girl who claims to be 6’1.” You’re all delusional folks; we all know I can’t jump.
Height is nothing new for me; my dad is 6’6” so it was kind of inevitable that I’d grow more than your average Scandinavian. I’m the kind of tall that towered over my friends’ older brothers at 10 and got stretch marks on my thighs at 14. I’m the kind of tall that looked like a walking skeleton until I grew into my proportions at 15 and had about eight percent of the male student body to choose from for high school dances. I’m the kind of tall that gets a second look when I walk into a room.
For a while there my relationship with my height was touch and go, but my issues were no worse than any teen girl’s. I hated that I couldn’t play the lead in school plays because I was taller than the boys. I didn’t join the dance team because I knew I’d stand out like a milkweed. I didn’t wear shoes with anything over a half-inch because heels were the honor for tiny people. At a few points I even lashed out at the shorter boys to make myself feel better.
But little by little, I realized my height helped me stand apart, quite literally. I grew into my basketball skills and started standing up straight. I even wore heels to prom. If you asked me what I loved most about myself then, I would have told you my height. And if you ask me now, well, we’ll save that for another post.
Nowadays, the first thing I do when I walk into the room is scan for height. It’s an automatic reflex, like breathing or making sure my ex isn’t making out with another girl in the corner. If a guy is over 6’2” I notice. About ten minutes later one of my friends will usually point him out to me, thinking she’s spotted him first. Yeah Honey, I’ve seen him. And for that matter, I’ve claimed him too. I’m the kind of tall that feels entitled to the height in the room. The kind who has to look away when a giggly 5’5” has her arms locked around a 6’3” waist. It kills me that for all my ‘love your fellow women’ musings I still can’t help but cringe when I see that happy couple.
But what am I supposed to do? As if it isn’t impossible enough to find a smart, attractive, driven, passionate, youngish mountain climber who’s into me, now he also has to be over 6 feet tall and not taken by a more compact version of me.
It’s an impossible standard, this height requirement of relationships, and it’s one that hurts men just as much as it hurts women. The last guy I dated was 5’9” and believe me he counted his lucky stars that I was with him. It was like he was checking off a goal on his bucket list: hook up with a tall blonde, eureka!
Oh yeah, that’s the other thing. I’m blonde. Yes, you can picture it. I’m tall and blonde. I bet you’re imagining a toned Victoria’s secret model secretly typing away, enviously eyeing the cookies her friends are eating. Or maybe you’re seeing a tanned beach girl, running through the waves in slow motion contemplating how to choose between Brock and Brandon. No matter who you thought I was before, now that I’m blonde everything has changed.
I dyed my hair brown once. It was sort of an experiment to myself, my own rebellion against the blonde that I hadn’t chosen. The results were immediate; men didn’t catch my eye anymore- they didn’t even look up when I walked by. One of my relatives actually cried when she saw me, so angry that I had shunned my gift. Was it just me or were people less friendly, less willing to connect with me now that the blonde was gone? I felt invisible, absurdly average. What happened? I knew my face wasn’t extraordinary looking before, but did I actually become unattractive without the blonde? Did the color of my hair truly change how I looked or have we just been conditioned to associate blonde with attractiveness? Is blonde hair false advertising?
And what about height, is the length of my legs also a false draw? Do men actually like tall women, or are they just conditioned to say that they should? Is it possible that my height is actually off-putting?
I’m not worried about my personality, its sparkling. And I’ve learned not to worry about the initial draw, I know how to rock the blonde and the legs when I want to. But should I be worried about those brief moments in between? When the blonde goggles wear off and my guarded awesomeness hasn’t quiet secured its death grip? When the guy realizes he’s actually intimidated by my height instead of turned on by it? What do I do when the guy I’ve been dancing with at the bar asks for my number and I know he won’t recognize me with my hair up?
To be honest, I’m not too worried, if only because I’m genuinely happy being on my own right now. And besides, it is really nice to reach the top cabinets. I suppose the only thing left to do is embrace the benefits of height and relish getting singled out by the blonde-loving ghouls at the haunted house. Or I suppose I could go ginger…