Have a Heart: My Relationship Is Not a Convent

I was really sad today. One of those “I could walk in front of a train” days - they start happening in November and follow until mid-Spring. These days often turn into me doing not-so-surreptitious research on joining a convent (usually Catholic, I’m traditional if nothing else. Though I’m not at all Catholic.)

I’ve fantasized about being a nun almost my whole life, and I absolutely blame Rodgers and Hammerstein, and bloody Maria von Trapp.

One of the most poignant moments for me as of late was about Mother Superior and How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria? She’s a devil - she’s an angel - she’s a giiiiirl! And with that the nuns promptly decide that perhaps Maria does not belong in the convent and perhaps Mother Superior should hire her out to be a governess to a cranky widower. “You’re not really cut out to be a nun, Maria,” they say, “Being a child in a tree and looking down at our quiet, holy lives does not prepare you to make these vows.”

The more important part of the story comes later when Maria gets frustrated and comes back to the convent, citing that it was too hard and she couldn’t get through to the children. Mother Superior tells her to “climb every mountain” in one of my favorite solo songs. At its essence, the song (and Mother Superior’s role) is to encourage Maria to stop hiding from her problems. A convent is not built to keep your secrets, or for you to ignore your unprofessed love of the Captain, or to… hide. (We know because Rolf found them in the end anyway. I know, it’s a true story, but hush. I’m making metaphors out of molehills.)

Relationships, like convents, are not good places to pretend you don’t have problems. A habit cannot save you from your reckless dreams, and a relationship can’t save you from the problems you’ve been trying to avoid your whole life.

Maria has wild abandon. She’s not suited for a quiet life of being a nun. I have issues that look like whatever the opposite of wild abandon is. I’m not suited to be a wife right now.

So, unable to afford the therapist I want to see, I’m borrowing a leaf out of my own crazy book and turning (after 15 years of holy abandon, practicing almost entirely by myself) to organized(ish) religion. Because I’m craving so much solitude and contemplation, I started going to the weekly dharma gathering at the NYC Shambhala Center. I don’t know a lot about Buddhism yet (beyond what I can glean from the Beats), but I am pretty great at sitting still for long stretches at a time and focusing on my breath.

Today we did a love-kindness focused seven-part guided meditation and I was really bad at it. I had trouble focusing on our meditation phrase, “May you find happiness.” We started with a benefactor, then ourselves, then a neutral person, then someone who annoys us, then all the people in the room, and then the whole universe. Not only did I have trouble picking a benefactor (because there were too many!), but I had trouble picking a person I was neutral towards, and an even harder time picking someone who annoys me. People who just “rub me the wrong way”... I don’t have very many of those.

I could’ve used more love-kindness focus - I ended up mostly annoyed with inability to focus.

Anyway, once I abandoned the phrase and focused on drawing the warmth from my heart and center, I was able to radiate compassion for the universe like the sun. I can’t imagine what I must have looked like, but I felt like a sunflower. My face raised towards the ceiling, shoulders relaxed, smiling like an idiot. Wrapping the world in love and kindness like a babe.

In our brief one-on-ones, I spoke with a young woman who had the opposite problem - she couldn’t focus on extending to the universe, but individuals didn’t give her too much trouble besides the crying. She felt so deeply towards her friends and benefactors, loved them so much that she cried. I cry a lot too, but usually only when people I love leave me, or I’m just too sad to find another expression.

I liked her - she reminded me of Maria.

The Perils of Taking Online Dating Offline

*This is not an exploration of the pros and cons of online dating - nor offline dating, for that matter. This is just a story about a Friday night. Or more accurately, it's a story about a Saturday morning.

This was too perfect...

I woke up on Saturday at 1:24 p.m. - which is about four hours later than I ever sleep in. I rubbed my eyes, my head, wondering if the previous night was just a bizarre dream. I check Facebook - the most reliable and uncompromising record of recent history in most of our lives.

Status update from the early hours of Saturday morning: OH. MY. GOD. NO.

I wish I could just leave it there. I wish a lot of things with regard to Friday night. However - in the interest of processing what happened, and hopefully preventing someone else making the same mistakes - I will share my experience with you, albeit with a bit of reluctance.

The picture: I'm sitting in my gorgeous apartment on Friday night, having finished work late. I'd eaten a delicious dinner, read my book, and had settled down with Netflix and a glass of red for the evening. At a few minutes past midnight, my evening bliss was broken by the buzz of my phone ringing.

It was the guy I'd been talking to online for a few days, with whom I'd made plans for Saturday afternoon. We'd talked about going for a walk through Bute Park, which runs alongside the River Taff in the centre of Cardiff, then maybe finding a pub for a quiet drink. I hadn't felt butterflies, but he seemed nice enough, cute enough, just enough for a Saturday afternoon.

I assumed he was calling to talk about our plans, or possibly to cancel. It was late, and I was tired, but I picked up the call, curious to hear his voice before meeting in person.

As soon as I picked up the phone, I could tell he was having a good night. He laughed a lot, I could hear the smile in his voice and it was infectious. He cajoled me into agreeing to meet him for a drink, and I dragged my butt off the couch and got dressed - nothing too impressive, I didn't want anyone to think I was prepared to put in effort for a last-minute meeting after midnight.

As I walked toward the buzz of Cardiff Bay, I couldn't keep myself from yawning and hoped the guy wouldn't be too put off by my obvious exhaustion. Turns out, I needn't have worried about what he was going to think - about me or about anything else. He was already wasted, with the sole intention of getting even more so, and no interest in getting to know me at all.

As we walked into a bar, we ran into three boys - I can't call them anything else, they looked like they were about 14 - and ended up chatting with them for a while. One was tall with Bieber-sweep hair, and formed an instant drunken bond with my date. One wasn't drinking, and was kind of cute (for a man-child.) The third one . . . well, he at least had some interest in getting to know me. Over lunch, the next day.

I politely declined, at first out of respect to my date and the plans for the following day, which I could tell I was probably going to cancel at this point, especially after he went outside with his new little bro to smoke a cigarette. Dating smokers just isn't my thing.

Before they went outside, Bieber asked me what I wanted to drink and then bought me some sickly pink cocktail that I couldn't drink. I pretended to be sorry, he pretended to be offended. Or perhaps he was truly offended. Either way, I ordered three shots of tequila and said thanks for the drink, while his two friends, and my date, looked at me with bewildered admiration.

Manchild #3 asked me again if he could meet up the next day for lunch. I asked him how old he was.

"I'll be 22 in nine days." I couldn't help myself, I burst out laughing. I almost told him I was 24-and-three-quarters, but caught myself.

He was persistent, showing his age as he began to beg - beg! - me to let him take me to lunch, or coffee, or anything. At a couple points, he leaned in to kiss me, and my own laughter wasn't enough to stop him, though pushing him away to arms' length was.

He told me he was mature for his age, in spite of my efforts to explain that a mature man knows what "No" means without continuing to beg for what he's already been denied. I continued to decline his offers, less politely, for a myriad reasons, some more legitimate than others - but none of them were enough.

Weary from trying to explain why I didn't want to go to lunch and trying to inflate the kid's self-esteem, and feeling tired from the booze, though unfortunately nothing else, I watched Bieber stroll in with my date and announce he had to leave. Who knows what happened out there, but suddenly I was left with a swaying, slurring guy who kept calling me dude (which I kind of like) and accidentally hitting my boobs every other emphatically gesticulated sentence (which I didn't like.)

Now he was sufficiently shit-faced, the topic of conversation (read: monologue) turned to getting high and coming back to my place to hang out. He leaned in to kiss me, his tongue rapidly going from right to left as it approached my face. He didn't even register my look of disgust or my laughter as I pushed him away and told him I'd be going home alone.

Regardless of any "stranger danger" element here - the guy was clearly harmless, just someone who'd had a bad week and gotten too drunk to do anything but drink and rant about work - there was no way in hell I was bringing anyone home with me. I told him as much. I didn't want to help him walk anywhere, I didn't want to help him up four flights of stairs, I didn't want him crashing at my place, I didn't want to deal with him in the morning, I didn't want to meet up in the park.

I. Don't. Want. You.

I wasn't sending mixed signals, I was being completely unequivocal. I was done here.

Well, almost done. He'd lost his sense of direction, and I knew he had to get to the other side of the city, probably two miles from where he currently stood, leaning on me for support. I hailed him a cab, took out the cash I'd withdrawn to pay for drinks, and gave it to the driver, telling him to take my date to wherever he could unlock the door.

Waving them off, I turned, shuddered, and walked home, where I finished the bottle of wine I'd started earlier, and looked at the clock. Almost 3 a.m., I though, shaking my head. What a weird night.

After finishing the wine, the movie I was watching on Netflix, and skyping with my best friend to regale her with my crazy night, I collapsed into bed at around 4 a.m., struck by the surreality of the night, and laughed gently to myself as I drifted off to sleep.

Now, I realise I shouldn't have gone out for a drink with a guy who calls at midnight. But when he said, "Why not?" I literally didn't have (or perhaps want) a reason why not. I just moved to a city where I don't know anyone, and was getting pretty tired of sitting on my own in the evenings. I wanted the spontaneity of deciding to go out at midnight, having a wonderful time with a guy I'd just met, and coming home again. The potential was there. Unfortunately, the guy was not.

I think I'll keep my spontaneous meetups to the daylight hours from now on.

Shot Through the Heart: Rejection and the Modern Workplace

I’m still not entirely sure what I want to do with my life, but I am happiest when it involves stimulation and creativity. Entering my full-time job was a dream come true: an easygoing nine-to-five with low overall stress in a fast-paced, quickly growing creative media company. I had started eighteen months earlier with them as a contractor, covering for two people on learning tours in other departments. I was pretty good at it. Every eight weeks or so I had a new project on my hands and happily dedicated myself to it. When the time came for my contract to end, my boss let me know that new full-time position was opening up and strongly hinted I should apply.

After a year and a half of doing the same two or three things without new projects, I grew bored. I lost all intellectual stimulation outside out of my work friends and stalled. The company made a few really exciting changes, but having to suddenly handle content I found extremely offensive wore me down daily. Looking back, I think everyone could see it. 

I don’t hide my feelings well. It’s a professional flaw.

Coming full circle, around that time I did my own learning tour during a co-worker’s maternity leave. She decided to stay home with her new baby, and thus, the job I had been covering for the past four months was now open. Ecstatic, I stalked the job board like a crazed lion waiting on the wounded gazelle. I had my resume ready, and a stellar cover letter. I worked eight a.m. to six p.m. with them every day, they knew my dedication and loyalty. Best of all? No surprise penises or rape in my afternoon inbox. (For real. I am not kidding about that.)

I don’t know what I was expecting when I walked into the interview. I mean, I did prepare for the interview with all the normal types of questions, so I think I thought I knew, but then most of the questions caught me off guard and I realized I was recycling answers from my very first interview with the company three years ago. Was it really possible I hadn’t grown professionally since then?

I walked out of the interview feeling bewildered and blindsided. A sudden sinking feeling overtook me. All my patience in waiting for this job was going to be for nothing: I had the confidence, but lacked the acumen to back myself up. I had proven myself in the setting, but was unable to speak of my accomplishments in my regular department. I felt like I had no translatable skills beyond the four months I had just completed.

I got the call a few weeks later. My boss from the learning tour thanked me for going through the interview process and told me the position was offered to an outside candidate. I’d been a contender, but this woman arrived with the appropriate background: she knows about apps and analysis. I know about books and organizing collected data. (Although I am really good with a semi-colon, and I think that should’ve weighed heavier in my evaluation than something like knowing about apps. Anybody can learn programming; a good semi-colon is bred into you like wine-making. It takes generations. GENERATIONS!)

It's fine. I'm fine. NBD, right?

The department is stretched thin. They probably needed a candidate who already had a few years of experience, and not the deep-end crash course I had. Somebody who wouldn’t potentially have so many teachable moments. This is what my logic is saying.

Or maybe I really did just suck. This is how my heart feels. My failure to make a minor upward move after almost two years as a full-time employee feels like the car died. The drive train is shot. This is where I am right now, and despite my friends telling me to chin up and try again, I’m worried this is where I will stay. 

In the end I know that I am very good at my current job, and both the company and I benefit from where I am. It's stable, steady work that requires an extreme attention to detail and the nuances can be hard to pick up. For now I keep repeating this to myself, hoping for another opportunity with better timing: I am lucky, I have more than work. I have a career. 

I just need to figure out how to better steer it.

Confessions of a Crushaholic

Hi, my name is Lindsay. ("Hiiii Lindsay.") And I am a Candy Crush addict.

I still have yet to announce on Facebook that I am hiding this deep, dark secret. Nor have I agreed to link my Facebook page to the game itself, to earn more lives or bonuses, etc. I am too embarrassed for all of that. No, I'll just admit it to all our new, lovely followers, on our new, lovely blog.

I am, however, proud of the fact that I have not spent a dime on this app yet. I have waited the allotted days in between levels and time in between lives. I've spent way more time than I'll admit, to beat it the old fashioned way, just like our great nation... free. I swear sometimes the gnomes in my phone running the game (they live in all phones, right?) are out to get me to open my wallet, though. Just as I have a few jellies left to clear, I lose. But on the other hand, I think they also feel bad for me when I've wasted 30 lives trying to beat level 68. They throw me a bone, and I'm onto obsessing about the next level.

My addiction can be blamed on good old fashioned peer pressure. I was getting Candy Crush requests left and right on Facebook. I always laughed them off, like I had better things to do with my time. What losers, am I right? Then one day came where I thought, "What is all the fuss about?" Big mistake. I am now addicted. When I fessed up to my husband what I had done, he said, "That's like saying, 'I just want to try crack to see what the fuss is about.'" Touche.

It's like this picture was made for my blog entry.

So here I am, at level 95, patiently waiting another hour or so (when I'll unlock a new quest without paying for it) to play again. But hey, the first step in the process is acceptance right? Well, I accept it.