College Dorm Life – Rough

I’m going to die of heat exhaustion. I can’t breathe. Is SADS a thing (Sudden Adult Death Syndrome)?

Those were the most prevalent thoughts I can remember from my freshman year in college. Waking up in my pitch-dark dorm room to the sound of any one of my three female roommates performing fellatio… oral sex… giving head, to a strange (and some-what stinted) male cohort.

With the spine of an ostrich, I would quickly, quietly, pull my comforter up over my head and shallowed (is that a even a verb?) my breathing so as not to draw any attention to the fact that I was awake. I would stay there, sweating through my pajamas in my saturated bedding like a frightened child without bladder control.

My hair (now matted to my forehead and neck) started producing droplets of sweat on it’s own, one drop after another slowly started down my brow and splash, splash, splash they fell into my eyeball one after the other. Why wasn’t I blinking? Were all my reflexes shutting down? Panic consumed me and I would think, I’m going to die.

I thought it so loudly, projected it with all my might that surely one of them would hear me and stop what they were doing. If not from embarrassment, then from knowing they were about to kill me. How did they never hear me thinking!? How did they not hear the loud pounding of my heart, the echoing drips of my brow sweat or the sloshing of the pool created in my bed from said sweat!? Were they deaf? I can still hear my heart pounding like an echo from the past. Loudly.

So, suffocating, wet, and unable to sleep I schemed how I would get back at them for attempted murder.

And just as I’d figure out how I would build my time machine, go back to the beginning of the night to give a strongly worded speech on basic roommate etiquette, I’d pass out.

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I thought I would love my first college roommates. I thought we would form bonds that would last a lifetime. On move-in day, I walked into our itty-bitty, teeny-weeny dorm room and thought, “this place is huge!” There were four beds, four desks, four dressers, and a bathroom. It was twice the size of my room back home (that I shared with my sisters) and had one bathroom to share between the four of us which were way better odds of ample bathroom time, than the single bathroom I shared for eighteen years with six people.

As my father and I dragged in the second hand, faded black, military duffel bag with it’s duct-taped handle (which until very recently I thought was actually ‘duck tape’ and could never figure out the connection between ducks and adhesive so I finally gave up), we heard three voices heading into my new dorm room.

With self-assured and measured pacing, three women (not girls) appeared. “Your bunk is there. That’s your dresser, your closet, and your desk. We put stickers on our items in the fridge,” said the tall blonde one.

“We have a fridge?” fridge was all I heard. It was mini, brown and the top worked as an extra shelf for what appeared to be a very thin, artsy, glass-vase (which I later found out was a bong).

“Well, we, rented it from the university along with the microwave. If you want to use them, you’ll need to chip in for the rental. Didn’t you read the welcome pack?”

Truth be told, I skimmed it. The welcome pack arrived late – only a day before move in, along with my decision to go to this university, so I was behind on everything. I had, however, memorized the names of my roommates, their interests, their parent’s professions, and of course each of their majors:

Kelly: Played on her high-school field hockey team, fought for the right to try out for the wrestling team, and won, but never played due to no guy ever matching her weight class. She out weighed them all and she wasn’t fat. Kelly’s father was a Waste Management Engineer… I’m still not sure what that means, but I watched Soprano’s and decided it was better not to ask. Kelly’s chosen major, Early Childhood Education.

Amy: Played on her high-school field hockey team (and was Kelly’s teammate). She and Kelly grew-up three houses away from each other and have been friends since birth. Amy’s long-term goals were to teach art at the pre-K level, open an art gallery in her industry-deserted hometown, and travel to the Louvre. Amy’s father was a Human Organ Transporter. Soprano’s, Soprano’s, Soprano’s. Amy’s chosen major, Art History.

And lastly there was Rebecca.

Rebecca: Played on her high-school soccer, volleyball, and girl’s basketball teams. Rebecca turned her life around after being caught using marijuana on her high-school campus 180 times (that’s everyday for an entire school year, people). Realizing the ill affects of her choices, she became a teen mentor to other kids heading down the path of marijuana addiction and was awarded a full scholarship to university for her humanitarian work. Rebecca’s mother was a CPA, a single mom, and grew marijuana for medicinal purposes. Rebecca’s chosen major was accounting.

I picked up the end of my duffle with the duck duct-taped handle and commenced dragging it sluggishly toward the empty bed when Kelly, tall blonde, grabbed the center handle, picked up the bag with minimal effort and tossed it onto my mattress. My father and I stared in awe.

If these were your average college freshman, then I needed a couple rounds of steroids and a few more years of hard living to catch up in stature and confidence. I stood alone next to my bed and as I turned around I saw the three of them, Kelly – tall and blonde, Amy – equally as tall and brunette, and Rebecca – oddly short with the thickest, longest, curly locks I’d ever seen – standing shoulder to shoulder assessing me. They stared me down like an opponent, they were the defensive linemen and I was the quarterback in the end zone missing her team. I immediately labeled them: Ladies-I-Would-Not-Want-To-Meet-In-A-Dark-Alley.

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As I lay, once again, trapped there in my bed pretending to be asleep for the twenty second time that month, I pulled out a mini Three Musketeer bar from the stash I’d begun keeping in my pillowcase. I quietly, expertly unwrapped what may have very well been the last thing I ever ate, as surely this may have been the night I succumbed to the lack of oxygen in the coffin that was my bed. Then I heard it, for the first time, someone spoke during this nightly ritual, “Open your mouth I need to cum,” strained, impatient, urgent and then silence.

NO MORE. My moment was now. The point of no return, I sat straight up, dripping sweat from my soaked head and I turned on my reading light, opened a book and began to reading. No mouths would open again that night, but a deep cleaning of someone’s bed sheets was in order.

The next day, after my classes, I returned to my dorm room to find my duffle bag packed, less my reading lamp – which lay, purposefully destroyed atop my bag, and a note that read:

“You should find a new place to live.”

Cycling Through That One Relationship

10482455_10152975622434418_2079828188648728613_nIn the current atmosphere of sharing and sisterhood I will tell you a story that is both personal and uncomfortable.

Before I met Jason I was in a brief relationship with someone I referred to as my boyfriend. Our interaction lasted for about eight months. Leading up to our first date he had made several awkward and endearing attempts to flirt with me over the course of about two years, but I was too obtuse to notice.

A friend, that knew us both, had clued me in on the secret and encouraged me to go out on one date. She, at the time, thought very highly of him. And since I thought very highly of her, I agreed to go on one date.

Very quickly, too quickly, one date led to two dates, led to three, and so on. You know how these things go. He was charming, shy, and smart. I am a romantic, open, and very empathetic. He acquired his adjectives through practice and I earned mine because of a deep desire to connect with people. His gave him an advantage; mine got me in trouble.

Like many relationships, the beginning consisted of lots of dinners where there was a lot of wine. After a glass; often two, I was light-headed and giddy and listened with much intent as he poured out his pain in a broody, rugged, very masculine way. He told me about his previous, and only, two relationships. He’d been in love with women that didn’t appreciate him. They didn’t appreciate the amount of time he invested in his future, or his passions. They didn’t appreciate the home he worked so hard on, or his career, or his body. They took for granted the life he was willing to share with them. They had both left him without a word. Vanished, leaving nothing but a Dear John on his mantle. Two Dear John letters, from two different women, to one man.

These were clues and I admit I was guilty of ignoring them. It was easy to ignore the bad things he said because he said them while floating between French and English. And with the most mesmerizing French-Swiss-American accent. I mean, it’s tough to hear words when someone is speaking so beautifully. All I heard was music.

When he drank he would cycle through mood changes quicker than a post partum, first time mom. He was always boisterous at first, then sad, sad turned into anger, and eventually he was tired and cuddly. I thought he was working out some demons that the alcohol was surfacing, but don’t we all have demons? Don’t we all get a little sad or angry when we imbibe? I brushed it off. I didn’t want to see the bigger picture. I just wanted it to be easy. He was, after all, highly respected in his career, held an MBA from a prestigious university, and was almost ten years my senior. I promised myself he was just working through some “stuff” and it was only when he was drinking… and of course at this point there was always drinking involved. So I made a silent pledge: no alcohol on our next date.

I should have recorded myself and played the tape back. I should have listened to me. I should have left then. Right then. But I didn’t, because we had an impromptu trip planned overseas, and a huge hiking weekend coming up, and we had just bought theatre tickets and well, there were so many commitments already made.

I was not desperate to be in a relationship. I loved dating, meeting new people, the adventures. I did not suffer from any relationship co-dependency. I was not in love with him, not yet anyway, not ever that I can remember, though I do think I had love for him. The thing is, I didn’t listen to the warnings because I wasn’t taught to. I was taught to think of the women that dated him before me as crazy. That the behavior his previous girlfriends exhibited was erratic, wrong, bitchy. I was taught not to trust them, but to sympathize with the broken hearted man in front of me. He was too good for them.

Then something happened. Something that forced me to pay attention. We were cycling through the hills. He became competitive, angry, wanted to race up hills, and down long winding paths. I giggled and took my time, thinking it was a game and silly. And when I smiled and laughed at his taunting, he took it as a personal affront. He started screaming at me. Bellowing from somewhere deep, yelling things like, “YOU’LL NEVER LEARN!” And when I didn’t respond after nearly ten minutes of his berating, but instead turned around to leave, he rode his bike straight into mine knocking me down to the ground.

My shins were badly scraped and my knee deeply bruised, but I stood up, picked up my bike, shakily climbed atop, and headed in the direction of my car. I couldn’t hear him yelling; the wind was strangely quiet, and my heart was pumping very hard and fast. I felt his presence behind me, following me, and I thought I could hear him calling out my name; softer now, and caring. I pedaled faster. As I approached my car, which was parked in his driveway, he quickly approached me and swiftly herded me inside the house. I wanted to run, but I didn’t. I also wanted him to be sorry. And for a moment he was.

It was a “mistake,” he said. He’d had a “hard day,” and a bad call with his “troubled mother,” and it came out “wrongly on you,” he said. And then came the remorse, almost rehearsed, articulate, astute: “Please” would I stay and let him “prove” to me that “this isn’t who” he is. “Haven’t I ever been angry and made a mistake?”

Yes, I had, but I’d regretted those mistakes. And my mistakes happened while I was a child, not a fully cooked adult.

We’d been dating for four months now, and he insisted I knew him better than this one action. And I thought maybe I did, maybe this was an isolated occurrence.

What I told myself in that moment was I knew I would never be a woman in an abusive relationship, and no, that’s not what this is, no, no, no. That’s preposterous. No. No. NO. Maybe he didn’t knock me off my bike maybe I stumbled against the curb because he rode too close. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he was coming over to hug me and I misinterpreted the whole thing. Maybe it was an honest mistake.

And so I stayed. I STAYED. Not because my knee hurt and my shins stung. Not because I was being held captive. I stayed because I felt bad for thinking he was abusive. And if I left after such an ordeal – him unscathed and me bleeding – he would think I didn’t believe him. It was only one mistake, and he wasn’t a bad guy. Would a bad guy be drawing me a bath and putting ointment on my injuries? Everybody thought the world of him, and so I wanted to as well.

Things were normal-ish for a while. We both worked a lot, so our limited time to hang out became fodder for his testy remarks: “You don’t want to be seen with me, you must be ashamed of me.” And, “I’m a much more important person than you, just because you are busy doesn’t make you better than me.” Or my favorite, “If you don’t pay more attention to me I may have to start dating one of the many other girls that like me.”

I was nonplussed by his remarks. They were juvenile and stemming from his insecurity, and I just let him throw his tantrums and then I would coddle him back to happy by showering him with compliments. I would tell him how handsome he was, how dashing. And I would tell him the thing he needed to hear the most, “It gives me such a great sense of pride to be seen with you; such a handsome and accomplished man.”

Gag.

This was the glue that held the relationship together and admittedly I got a rush fixing us. Once we were back to happy I felt myself walking on eggshells trying not to enrage him while he basked in the warm sun of his own ego.

Why didn’t I break up with him? I should have, so many times. I wanted to and he knew it. But I felt trapped…because we worked together. In the same building, for the same company, crossing paths all day long. Which is worse than breaking up with someone you live with. Once you leave someone you live with, that’s it. It’s final, done, unless you want to see each other. Breaking up with a co-worker is difficult, messy, and you spend more time in each other’s space than you do at home.

To my credit, this is why I had purposely remained obtuse to his flirtations for two years. I did not want to be aware of him. I did not want to have a relationship where I worked. Not at all, not ever. It is also the precise reason I made him promise that we wouldn’t announce we were dating to coworkers, or to anyone at work, not until the relationship was serious; not until we’d been together for at least a year. I wanted to keep my personal life segregated from my work life.

Obviously he felt differently. Unbeknownst to me, he had told people all over the building: the receptionist, my clients, V.P.s, the cafeteria staff, his carpool, anyone whose attention he could hold for thirty seconds.

I was not flattered. I was upset. I was embarrassed. I was betrayed. My trust had been violated. However, I carried on at work in the same manner I did before he and I dated and before anyone knew.

His volatile behavior escalated with each passing week. If I did not allow him to steal kisses in elevators, or meet him for coffee breaks when he demanded, or respond to his inter-office messages immediately, he would pull me outside the building and question my loyalty while demanding an apology for not being available at his beck and call. I reminded him I had a job, and a demanding one at that, and the building was filled with my clients. He reminded me that he ranked higher than I did. That if I didn’t stop being a “Bitch” he would make it impossible for me to work on my accounts that he oversaw.

His complete arrogance and the sense of entitlement he felt over me made me feel like a hostage. I felt I had to keep the peace and I prayed he would break-up with me so I wouldn’t lose my job or have to quit.

We went on a trip; a six hour drive up to the mountains. When we arrived at our destination he drank and quickly became upset. There was no one thing I could say correctly to avoid the anger that came as a postrequisite to his drinking. When morning rolled around he was still feeling disappointed, hurt, wronged.

“You’re just like everyone else. You don’t get it. I could be somebody,” he muttered to me, to himself, to the empty room.

I wanted to leave, but instead he left to go ski and I stayed behind, under the guise of writing. I called hotels, no vacancies. I tried busses and trains and car rentals. There was nothing. NOTHING. No escape.

When he got back we went to dinner. He drank some more. He became agitated and loud. I sat silently, waiting out his storm. But the storm didn’t pass. We got back to the condo and he helped himself to another drink, and got angrier. I left the room to separate myself and made a phone call. I would wait out the storm away from him. He came up the stairs. I set the phone down. His face was red from the blood rushing to it, his anger seething. I approached him, gently asking if he was okay, I was legitimately concerned and with one exhale he came toward me, picked me up and threw me clear across the room where I crashed against a wall and then plummeted to the ground.

I was whole, not bleeding, and nothing was broken, so I remained calm. I asked him to leave and he tried to throw my suitcase off the second story balcony into ten feet of snow.

He left the room and I locked the door behind him.

His articulate, astute voice replaced the rage as he tried to get back into the locked bedroom. When it didn’t work, the anger resurfaced. He was on the phone, speaking in French with someone. I understood very little, but recognized the tone of the voice. He was talking to his mother. He came back to the door demanding I open it or as his folle mère advised him to, he’d have to “slap me into submission.”

The door remained locked until morning.

 

I made it home. I broke up with him. I told him to get mental help.

He didn’t acknowledge our break up. He relentlessly made excuses to talk to me. Not because he was sorry; I don’t believe he is capable of empathy. He needed to win. And I’m not sure what winning “looked” like to him, and I didn’t want to find out.

After weeks of his relentless pleas to speak with him, I gave in. It was just easier. He wanted to tell me the following:

  1. He’d seen a therapist at my behest to “win” me back. The therapist diagnosed him as being “of superior mental health.” That he was not a candidate for therapy. And that he should break up with me immediately for suggesting he needed counseling.
  2. Didn’t I see that we were supposed to be together? Couldn’t I see the future, a wedding, a baby?
  3. Everything was my fault. I provoked him to feel a great deal of animosity.
  4. Why did all the “girls” he dated treat him like this?
  5. His mother was right, he should only date very young women that were not pressured by their biological clocks. And that he should have slapped me and thrown me off the balcony.

I could go on, but it would just get really repetitive.

So I gave him what he wanted. I told him what he wanted to hear. I told him he was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I’d learned so much from him. That I wasn’t enough for him and his mother was right: my need to procreate had indeed made me and all other women of menstrual age unbearable. He indeed did deserve better. I told him I thought his “therapist” was correct to suggest he break up with me, and that it was an inevitable conclusion.

And that was it.

One week later I found out he was dating a young woman, almost twenty years younger than him, at the office. She had just graduated… undergrad.

I wanted to warn her. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to give her my number in case she needed help.

When she would see me she’d unashamedly run in the other direction. She refused eye contact. And she glowed with pride when she held his hand around the office building. He frequently strutted her past me with purpose.

It wasn’t her fault she didn’t trust me; she wasn’t taught to listen to the women that came before her, either. Maybe she was riding the same cycle I had. Maybe she still is.

Thankfully I rode in a different direction.

It’s Not Happening If I’m Not Watching, Right?

Because this week has been difficult and I have found too many tears flowing and the rain is relentless and is quite literally breaking my very old house, I have decided to forego a traditional blog post and leave you with my new recipe for happiness.

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1 Cup of Hot Coffee

1 Scoop of Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream

2 Ghirardelli Chocolate Mint Squares

1 Can of Whipped Cream

1 Magical Unicorn Mug named Clark

Pour hot coffee into Clark and stir in the ice cream and then stir in 1 chocolate mint square. Add whipped cream to top. Add 2nd chocolate mint square to top it off… or drizzle with chocolate sauce or sprinkle with chocolate chips – your call.

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Next, sit down, exhale and enjoy. It’s the small things after all. 

See you next week.

Sanity

The first time I questioned my sanity I was eight years old. My older sister and I were sharing the small, dark-wood paneled bedroom at the top of the stairs, to the right. The room to the right had a plastered ceiling with swirling designs that you could stare at for hours and find almost any scene imaginable, shape, and animal in if you squinted hard enough. It was the only room in the house that was this ugly. It had previously been an office to the former homeowner. The carpet was a multi-colored shag rug of maroons, pea soup green, and maize and it smelled of stale shoe prints… dusty and earthy. I know this to be true because we used to bury our face in the fraying yarn and take deep breaths, I don’t know why, but we were weird, we were kids.

That night I had woken up completely and totally wet. Soaked. It must have been very, very early, or really, really late depending on how you read time, because it was dark and everyone was still sleeping. I thought maybe I had peed the bed. But if I had peed the bed, why was the whole bed wet and my hair damp… is it possible to pee all the way up to your hair? It didn’t occur to me at this age to sniff for urine.

My heart was racing. I was afraid of the quiet and the dark and when I realized everyone was asleep but me, I also realized this was the same as being all alone… in the dark… at night… a witching hour leaving me susceptible to anything lurking in the house. I let out an inaudible squeal as I jerked my comforter over my head and begged myself to go back to sleep, but this just resulted in making me overly heated and severely sweaty, and by default more damp and the bed more unbearably wet.

I made a deal with myself: if I could rip the comforter off and I could make it to the light switch and flip it on, I’d be okay, even if it did wake up my sister, which wouldn’t be so bad because then I wouldn’t be alone in the middle of the night – even if she did get really irritated at being woken up; I mean downright angry. On the count of three (obviously) I would go. I must have counted to three a million times, because the wetness forming around me was about as deep as the kiddie pool. Finally, unable to even breathe, I worked up the courage to bolt for the light switch, all of three feet from my bed, but at that point it might as well have been a mile. I screamed all the way to the light and heaved a sigh of relief once it was on. Nothing bad happens in the light, I had convinced myself some time ago.

Since no one stirred from my screams of panic or the bright light that flooded the room, I alone began to strip my soggy sheets, then peeled off my sopping pajamas and wrapped my soaked hair into a knot on the top of my head. Then I crawled onto my naked mattress and pulled the comforter over me – light still shining brightly above – and drifted back to sleep with ease.

Before we jump to conclusions on why I was so afraid, and worried, and panicked with fear of the dark I’ll let you know that no one bad thing had happened to me, per se. No, I have anxiety; genetic, chemical imbalance, run of the mill anxiety. It’s fairly ordinary and shows up in the dark usually, which is better than a lot of folks who suffer theirs in broad daylight, in crowds of people, and all the time.

If you’re a person that didn’t witness anxiety through a parent or sibling and are the first to be diagnosed, you may feel pretty relieved to find out that you’re not crazy, and that it’s fairly common, and you shouldn’t feel stigmatized by it. Maybe you’ll take beta-blockers, or anti-anxiety meds… forever. Maybe you’ll start a blog and channel lots of those fear driven stories into the blog to connect with others.

BUT if you’re like, just the next generation to get it handed down in your DNA, your reaction tends to be less enthusiastic and sound more like, “yup, cool, thought it skipped me – not. Ugh. No, I prefer to stay unmedicated based on the many examples of over-medicated people in my life, but thanks. I’ll just keep up the cardio and magnesium rich foods, and maybe take a few more personal days than I should, and yeah, I’ll go back to therapy because I do not want another anxiety attack under the artificial daylight inside Costco.”

I still sleep with the lights on when I’m alone and the television on when I’m not (because it has a timer). And before Jason Beeber and I became lifelong roommates I booby-trapped the hell out of my bedroom to keep the night prowlers at bay. And it works for me. It mostly, really does. You don’t need to analyze it. We all know I’m projecting a lot since that night when I was eight and had the first attack I can remember. But the light soothed me then, and it still does now (minus that one time in Costco recently), so I let it be that.

AND now that I share a bed with a large, hairy man – I don’t actually know if I’m sweating out my anxiety, or he’s over-heating us both, or someone has peed the bed. It gets very weird and uncomfortable.

Casual F(riendship) Buddies

Jason told me I didn’t know how to be a casual friend. This after my long-winded self-indulgent diatribe, on why I feel like I’m the person that does all the planning and reaching out in my friendships and I still never get to see anybody, because everybody is too busy all the time!

Before you’re offended dearest friend that probably does try to make plans with me and I’m always busy or was always busy, trust me, I am and I was, I swear.

We’ve all felt like that at some point or another. We have. I know this to be true because I’ve read the countless status updates on Facebook regarding this exact theme.

The truth is, when I wasn’t married or a mother it was really easy to just hang out with friends. Drive anywhere to meet up, any hour of the day or night and still have time to work a job, sleep, eat, and be generally merry.

Now that everyone’s a bit older, it’s a GODDAM miracle to even plan a phone call.

When I was still going into an office it was a lot easier. I became friends with my officemates. We ate lunch together, gossiped on coffee breaks, met up outside for quick jaunts to stretch our cramped desk legs, planned post-work workout sessions, and sometimes there’d be a happy hour and then home. Don’t fool yourself, comrades, working for “The Man” can be amazing!

Now that I work from home, independently, I’m alone, but for my kid when he’s not at daycare, and my husband who’s doing the same thing I am. And while we adore each other’s company – hence we put a couple rings on it – it’s not the same as meeting up with girlfriends on the regular, and I miss that. I do.

I don’t have it anymore. People keep moving far away, growing in their professions, and meeting mates that take them away from friendships. And I’m happy that life is taking them on these paths. I am. I am happy for them. But where are they during those in-between moments and why aren’t we together?

Let’s be honest I’ve never been very good at being a girls’ girl who plans “Girls’ Night” and weekend “get-aways” for the crew. I’ve never even had a crew. I never even went away on spring break in college – I worked… as desktop support at the on-campus computer lab. So, I don’t have an awful-secret-I-know-what-you-did-last-summer blackmail to bind anyone to me in a relationship.

And my history of making and nurturing friendships is hazy. It took years of therapy and overcoming a confusing upbringing to understand why, how, and what to look for in a friendship, which boils down to two things:

1 – Stay away from people with BPD and

2 – Stop trying to fix people with BPD.

Then, once I had my baby, I found out that I really don’t have that many deep and personal friendships. Because when I could no longer be the one to reach out and continuously coddle, listen, and make my time in our friendship yours BECAUSE I have a baby that needs me and frankly with all the hormones that were driving through my body, and an ill mother, and no familial support, I needed you and you weren’t there.

That’s right, nobody called. Nobody showed up. No friends checked in, regardless of whether they’d been through it before or not. And let me be frank, you don’t notice that I’m not in your life anymore. If you did you’d call or text or try to make plans.

Then I needed someone, I needed someone very badly to come and tell me I was okay. I texted a lot of people (I called too, but you know – we push that shit to voicemail) and mostly got the same response:

“I’m so busy maybe we can meet up for a drink in the next few weeks.”

“Good to hear from you. I’m super busy right now.”

“Ohmygosh, I’m so happy to hear from you. I am SOOOOO busy right now.”

“I’m busy, but maybe like next week? I’ll let you know my schedule.”

“Do you want to go to yoga with me? Yeah? Great, I’ll let you know when I’m free.”

“Do you want to grab a drink, I’m free Thursday at 6pm.”

“I’m having drinks with people at 6, come if you can.”

“We’re having drinks, maybe 6/7ish, come if you want.”

“Drinks at 6, come by. Or don’t.”

I was a new mom, nursing and alone at 6 PM with an infant and frankly, I wasn’t ready to leave him with a babysitter. I just wanted someone to come over and be my friend.

Embarrassed, but also scared of being alone, I called my neighbor. She answered, no voicemail. And I hesitantly asked her if she could come over and hang out with me. She did, immediately, no questions asked, and she sat next to me on the couch and she told me all the gossip in her life and I laughed for the first time in what had seemed like a long time. And she held my baby and she didn’t dump a single problem on me. She was the best a friend could ever be, and incidentally, still is.

And I realized as our lives change we really do grow up and grow apart, just like couples in marriages. While there’s no divorce in friendships it sure does feel like the same alienation process, the same pain, the same dividing of mutual friend assets.

We move on and realize our needs have changed. I need my friends to be physically present in my life. I need the tangible. I need to feel your energy next to mine. I need hugs and non-verbal cues, things that can only come from being in each other’s personal space.

And I believe that some friendships, despite their current distance, physically or metaphorically, are worth the extra work and patience, because they are worth it in the long haul. But those are few and far between.

And while it often feels deeply personal, it’s not. It has nothing to do with me as a friend. It has everything to do with them and their life, and what they’re going through. I need to move on from that, them, and understand that being a casual friend is okay because in the long run my feelings will be far less hurt.

 P.S. Update: Girls’ Trip scheduled in May with my old crew.

P.P.S. Forgot I had a crew.

AirBnBeebers: from The Uncontrollable to The Downright Dirty

“Is that a condom wrapper?”

airbnbeeber-blog-pic

I think it was the deadpan expression on my face that made Jason question whether or not I was joking. “No, seriously, did they just leave their condom wrappers on the floor? There are two trash cans,” I couldn’t be more serious. There are two trashcans; one so close to the bed itself that with the flick of one’s wrist said wrapper would be sanitarily inside it.

“Uh, I don’t know, it looks like a condom wrapper… Pick it up,” Jason is far less squeamish about everything.

“No, I’m not picking up someone’s condom wrapper. I’m glad they used protection, but I wish they’d used the trashcan,” I wish I had one of those long poles with the prick at the end so I could stab the wrapper from a safe distance and toss it far away from me.

“Where are the disposable gloves?” Really my asking is a stall tactic so that Jason will just come over and pick it up for me.

“I’ll get it, it’s just a wrapper.” Stall tactic working.

 After a minute of staring at the barely visible gold ink against the red foil Jason deduced, “It’s a Korean candy wrapper.”

Not a condom wrapper?”

“No, just a candy wrapper.”

“Is it maybe a Korean-candy-flavoredcondom wrapper?”

“There’s a picture of something resembling candy. It’s fairly ambiguous and I don’t read Korean, but I’m basing my assumption on the Costco size bag of Gummy Worms they threw away in the dresser drawer and the stack of seven empty chocolate boxes next to the trash (again, not in the trash, but closer).”

Fair.

I wouldn’t say I’m judging our guests. I’m critically analyzing the crime scene post departure. Who are these people booking our guest home for a “comfortable get away?” And what are they getting away with? For all I know it could be some tawdry affair that we’ve unwittingly facilitated. Will I at some point have to sit for a deposition and expose the fact that upon cleaning the unit I found what appeared to be at first glance a Korean condom wrapper, but actually may have been just a candy wrapper? Should I put the wrapper in a Ziploc sandwich bag as evidence just in case?

I never even caught a glimpse of the couple when they arrived – stayed – or left! How were they so quiet on all that sugar? And I peeked. Every morning I popped a glance out the curtain, but dammit if we didn’t make the unit to be absolutely private, ugh! And at what point were they actually watching television outside? Because the television was turned to face the outside patio, which means at some point they indeed sat outside relaxing and what, watching a movie, or ‘This Is Us’ (because everybody should be watching ‘This Is Us,’ thank you Jackie). And why have my dogs not barked at them???? They bark at everything – just ask any of my neighbors or the UPS Man.

What I really want to know is, why haven’t they reviewed Us? Am I supposed to leave them a review after they dumped their trash everywhere, except a trash can, and wadded up used towels and left them – damp – inside a wood cupboard, versus on one of the multiple towel hooks we’ve recently installed (or on the floor of the bathroom?). I would like to review them (I’ve even written a rough draft), but I’m not going first. Not this time. This particular relationship is like that awful moment you want to say, “I love you” to the guy (even if you’re not sure you mean it), but you definitely want him to say it first so you’re not out there saying I love you while He doesn’t love you back.

I want to give them my review that says, “I love you… but I’m going to need you to change a couple things about you if we want to see where this thing can go…”

Or maybe I just say, “Very quiet, didn’t even know they were here until they left,” but I definitely need to know are they giving me 5 stars… and an “I love you.”

And in all fairness I am not picking on these guests, I’m trolling all our guests equally. It’s just we’re only at the end of our first month with five guests done and a new couple checking in tonight… TONIGHT!

After disinfecting the bathroom, polishing, dusting, changing sheets, fluffing towels, and bagging some hairs for evidence – I put out some fun snacks and beverages, turned on a light in case our new guests check-in late and set the heat to a comforting temperature for when they arrive.

I will manipulate these ones into saying, “I love you,” first, and then I’ll say it back. Maybe even if I don’t mean it, because we’ve all done that a few times in our life, amiright?

The saga will continue, no it actually really will because we’re booked up through February. February! Can you Beleeber it? (Thank you Justin Bieber.)

Stay tuned… more to come.


To stay up to date, follow me! New posts weekly!! And to all: a Happy New Year!!

 

I Am a Compulsive Non-quitter

I am a compulsive non-quitter.

When do you walk away? When it’s too hard? Maybe for some, but I’m not a quitter. Or maybe you’d quit when the two hours a week you’re supposed to be investing becomes forty hours a week of unpaid, no benefits bullshit that affects the sanctity of your home? Yup, right then, that’s when you quit… well, right after the additional six more months just in case something changes… and then one more week for good measure, and then BOOM. DONE. Out of nowhere, you quit.

And quitting those 2 hours a week – that actually turned into a full time stress-sesh and WERE actually, when all tallied, nearly 10x more than two hours a week – feels like THE. GREATEST. ACCOMPLISHMENT. OF. YOUR. LIFE. Versus all the actual work, time, and learning that you put into being able to accomplish those 2 hours a week. This is where I am. I am at peace, and I haven’t felt this languid peace in a year… Despite my toddler teething (insert lots of screaming), his obsession with the word “NO!” and the dogs barking in unison at every bird chirp, text-message DING and car door shutting up to a mile away. I AM AT PEACE because I quit. And I don’t fucking regret quitting.

I am a compulsive non-quitter. I persevere for the sake of perseverance. I would consider this the blight of all Midwesterners and it’s not something to be proud of. Lets learn to let go of the shit that holds us back, that doesn’t add value to our lives and that creates turmoil in our relationships! Let’s all just, “Cut-it-Out,” (thank you Dave Coulier, fellow Midwesterner).

What’s the end game? That’s the new question I ask myself – What is my end game? What is the result I want from this? If it’s going to better my career and the sacrifice is worth the gain in the end, then yes, I will survive, we as a family will push/trudge/get in there and keep going. But, if it’s just that I don’t want to be a quitter well, I’m done, from now on. Done.

I had a V.P. tell me once, when I was charged with interviewing candidates for an open position, and forgive me as I paraphrase:

“You want to know how I hire people for the worst jobs, Jaime? I like to hire women. I look for the one that has trouble keeping eye contact. A woman who’s quiet and doesn’t speak up. I hire the woman that looks like she’s in an abusive relationship, because I know she’ll never quit. She doesn’t know how to leave a bad situation.” 

I hired a man and then I quit. 

But that story isn’t even why I’m writing this blog entry. I quit my hobby. My escape. My healthy retreat that turned into a contentious “work” environment. The animosity I felt was not the person I’d spent years becoming. It was the person I left in Michigan when I moved far away and spent years in therapy, meditation groups, and exerting myself fully at physical activities like Muay Thai and Parkour.

I did not want to be the person I was becoming. And the amount of time I was spending fixated on it was dominating me like an addiction.

Those two hours a week plus the entire other 166 hours I was wrapped up in it I became dogged in my need to give 110% of myself. I began nitpicking every comment, every social media post, every group text and emoji. I carefully crafted every word I wrote back in response to emails and on social media posts to appear cool, casual, and a team player. I would spend an hour writing three words, then another hour changing those three words into a full sentence, then one more hour creating a picture montage and using filters in two different apps before posting anything to the limited number of eyes it would reach. And there was no pay for any of this no it was all to build false relationships. There was no hourly wage, just constant expectation. And when I didn’t conform to the pressure of this interaction I was dismissed, forgotten about, not included in private Facebook Groups that were accessed by invitation only.

So I finally composed, in one draft, the last email I’d ever send in regards to teaching a spin class:

I quit.

Thank you,

Jaime

I am at peace.

I am back to being productive. I am happy.

I FUCKING QUIT!

For more information on quitting, keep reading! Let’s be friends, I won’t quit you, I promise. Follow me!