Slogging On

Missed a good surfing day today, which always puts me in a funk. I only have myself to blame, though. I got lazy, and it was just so cold. I'm getting soft; I can't handle the cold anymore. We didn't really heat our apartment at all last year. Now I feel like I have to have the heater running all the time. Plus, our apartment has zero insulation, another feature of this place that we won't be missing when we finally move out of here (hopefully soon).

The last few days of 2006, and here I am whining about the heat (or lack thereof). I can't believe we're most of the way through the first decade of the new millenium. In a few months I'll be twenty-nine; in another year, thirty. It doesn't feel like I've got all that much to show for it yet. Here's to next year.

Thanatos

My own sirens I recognize as such, but that doesn't make them any less attractive. It's not a desire for death, so much as a fascination with it. Maybe it's part of my need to imagine the worst, so that it can't catch me by surprise. I do it, but even I don't believe that it really helps. The worst can always be worse than you imagined it.

James et al.

Today's subject is literary greatness. Why is it so hard to pinpoint what makes a great work such? One of the (many) reasons that Hemingway is great is because he is a master wordsmith: there are no extraneous words. Similarly, Cormac McCarthy and Ray Carver. But on the opposite end of the spectrum, Henry James, another acknowledged Great Writer: by the time you read to the end of a Jamesian sentence, you've (or at least, I've) forgotten what the beginning said.

And what about characters? O'Hara and Fitzgerald, who pin characters down to the last detail. Versus those like Eco, whose work is more symbolic. Yet Great Writers all.

Is there no rule? How can we separate the bad from the good from the great without some sort of guideline? Or am I being too much the lawyer again?

Wanting Things

I used to think that I was not a very materialistic person, but it seems like lately all I can think about is buying things. It feels like every day I add something(s) to the list of things that I want. And it never feels like enough, even when I get them: the list continues to grow. I got the new cellphone, but then I needed a bluetooth headset. I've got fifty purses, but I can't stop thinking about this messenger bag I've had my eye on for months (now on sale, but still unjustifiable given the many, many messenger bags and laptop cases I've got in my closet). I got the turquoise cuff, but now I want pink pearls. And I don't even wear jewelry. What's happening to me? It's like the evil spirits of greed and desire and envy have come to rest in my body and made themselves at home.

Something else is happening. It sounds cliched, but it's true. There's a hole in my spirit that I keep trying to fill with things. The things I want are just building blocks, and I'm using them to try to construct the person I want to be, the life I want to lead. But it doesn't work that way. I'm not going to be a better person with my new Coach purse. I'm not going to be more beloved for owning one more cashmere sweater. I already have so many things, material and intangible, for which to be thankful.

I hate how this season has been coopted by retailers. We worry about buying the right things, trying to fulfill people's material desires, and it's sickening when you compare this preoccupation with the real reason for the season: that Christ's birth was a creation-changing occasion, the arrival of God in the flesh. And He came for one reason: to die on a cross, in order to save us. Christmas is really about Calgary and Easter.

Let me remember this, and be tempted no more.

In the Eye

We, my husband and I, were in a crowded restaurant the other day, sitting at a table in close proximity to a mother and her two children. The two children were sitting opposite their mother. All three of them bore a striking resemblance to each other: frizzy brown hair, round freckled faces, upturned noses, decided lack of cheekbones or distinct bone structure. I bring this up only to give context to the conversation we overheard.

The mother was telling her two children that they had been blessed with an extraordinary physical beauty. The two children's faces as they listened to her were intent, so focused that their eyes bulged slightly and their soft mouths hung open. It could have been comical, but I found myself fervently hoping that they would believe their mother, that they would always believe their mother, no matter who else came along in their lives or what else was ever said to them.

How many of us really believe that we are beautiful, no matter how many times we are told or who tells us? It's always easier to believe the opposite. Back in high school, I had a bad breakup with a boy who is probably now dead (this is a long and unrelated story). I took up with another boy, who I loved (or rather, was slightly obsessed with, which in high school amounts to more or less the same thing). We were good for each other in some ways, and really, really terrible in most others. At some point in our pseudo-but-non-relationship, he told me he thought I was a seven and a half. I felt humiliated. The pain and embarrassment of it was so strong that it still rankles, ten years later, and I have never told anyone else about it.

Even now, I can't help believing it, no matter how many times I hear otherwise - from strangers, acquaintances, friends, family, my husband. I've had men I don't know offer to buy me flowers, stop me on the street to tell me I'm beautiful; once, in LA, someone got down on his knees and started singing. Once, in a restaurant, it was even a woman: she stopped at my table and asked me what it was like to be beautiful. This is weird for me; I look in the mirror and I just don't see it. That seven and a half, it hasn't left me.

Mean

Everyone has a certain image of him/herself. A certain way you want other people to see you. The things we say, the way we act, the clothes we wear - all these things are chosen to make a representation to other people as to who you are.

Why can't I go along with it? Let people pick their own image and pretend to see it too? I take sick pleasure in showing people how they are posing themselves, in twisting their representations to show them that they are not who they want to be. I do this even with people I love. I don't know why I do it; part of me recoils at the thought of hurting my friends, but there is a part of me that presses forward nevertheless. I think I must be a terrible person.

Quiet

Rain bothers me. Particularly rain against tall gray buildings. Out by the ocean, or in a forest, I don't mind it so much. But rainy cities, yes. Rainy suburbs are the worst. All those strip malls, drenched in rain. People going about their mundane business is bad enough on a sunny day. In the rain, it's unbearable. Watching a middle-aged lady in nondescript clothes struggling to get her soggy groceries into her nondescript car - how can anyone not get depressed by this? It's not the woman, or the groceries, or even really the rain. It's the idea that we get up in the morning, go to bed at night, and no matter who we are or how special we find ourselves, what we do in between is really just killing time.

Learning to Play Nice

The wife of a friend constantly talks about "mani-pedis" and trips to the spa. Every little bump in the road of life warrants a trip to the spa. Because she doesn't work, life's bumps usually take the form of cooking for a dinner party, or just feeling blue.

Why does this irritate me so much? Okay, so mani-pedis aren't my thing: I can't get used to having long fingernails (a result of years of piano and sports) and I don't wear strappy little shoes often enough to warrant a pedicure (although I am rather fond of my feet, which just look so quintessentially feet). But why does it annoy me that someone else might take pleasure in these things?

It's not that I envy her lifestyle. Now that I work from home, my schedule is certainly free enough to allow me the occasional trip to the spa (something I would never have had time for in my former incarnation as a corporate lawyer). I no longer make any money, but my husband makes enough for a monthly or bi-monthly mani-pedi.

I think that may be it: maybe it's the picture of a woman going to the spa and getting manicures and pedicures while her husband is off at work, doing far more important things. The picture of a frivolous woman, "kept" in the way a house pet is kept. I fear that woman. I fear that she lives in me, too. Certainly most people might justifiably confuse me with her. I don't have a corporate job or a regular salary anymore. I spend a lot of time shopping (although, to be fair to me, this is because it's nearing Christmas). I am my little family's primary meal-cooker, home-cleaner, and errand girl.

In sum, I guess my friend's wife irritates me because she brings up yet again the question over which I have been obsessing for the last four months: did I do the right thing in quitting my job to pursue what may well prove to be a chimera?

Ice

The water is supposed to be warmer during El Nino years, but I almost froze to death while surfing. As soon as I touched the water, I realized it was colder than normal, but I was there, I'd struggled into my wetsuit and with strapping and unstrapping the board, and damn it, I was going to surf. Fifteen minutes in, my fingers and toes were tingling with pain. Half an hour later, I could no longer feel them, which I had at first thought was a positive development. An hour later, my lips and nailbeds were blue and I thought I should get out. But I hadn't caught anything to speak of, and there were finally waves coming in. Two hours later, still having caught nothing, I could no longer paddle. My arms felt like they were lead, or big blocks of ice. I finally got out. It took me another two hours after that, and a very long shower, to feel like myself again.

Into the Woods

We live close to a park, and every morning, when I open the blinds, I look out onto sunrise over the tops of the trees across the way. It's beautiful, and it makes me happy to be here, even if the apartment has been a disappointment in other respects. In general, I've been feeling much happier lately. Part of it is the excitement of the holidays, and friends and family coming into town. Part of it is...I don't know. Better attitude?

My biggest source of worry these days is my sister. She recently broke up with her boyfriend, and, while everyone who cares about her agrees that this is a good thing, she has been taking it rather hard. I wish there was something I could do. I'm not sure that setting her up with someone new would help that much. And even if it would, I don't know anyone. I used to know a lot of single guys, but in recent years they have all become part of couples. Plus, she's my little sister and I don't want to set her up with just anyone. He has to be perfect, or as close to it as possible.

Worry...it's funny, even though I no longer work for the Man, I feel like I still have just as much worry in my life, although it is a different kind of worry. Things that I didn't have time to worry about before, but now I do. What's that rule, the one that says that things expand to take up as much time or as much room as has been left for them? I guess worry is the same way.

It Shows

December already. A new month, almost a new year. I can't believe how cold it is, but I'm excited for the holidays. Friends coming into town, holiday lights and spirit, and all that. I'm also excited for Mavericks to start breaking, so I can go watch the truly hardcore tangle with the rocks and the sharks. It's never been about the adrenaline for me, but I admire the people who get out there.

I can't believe it's almost 2007. Where did the first decade of the new millenium go? I was listening to the radio this morning, and they were taking calls from parents on the topic of whether they would let their eleven- or twelve-year-olds date. My immediate response was, NO WAY. I can't imagine letting a kid that young date. And then I had a sudden flashback. When I was twelve years old and boys would call me, my parents would freak out. I thought they were so unreasonable. At twelve, having boys call and want to ask you out seemed like the most vital thing in the world. How could my parents deprive me of that? Now, sixteen years later, I'm thinking more like a parent and not like a kid. When did this transition happen? The age, it's starting to show.

Broke

I broke a pitcher today, one of my favorites, which we received as a wedding gift off our registry. I wasn't hurt; only the pitcher broke, because I did something very stupid. I poured hot water into it. Our apartment (uninsulated, poor heating) is very cold, and apparently the temperature differential was too much. I'm kicking myself because it actually occurred to me before I poured the water that maybe it wasn't such a good idea - but I did it anyway. So the pitcher broke. No big deal. It was expensive but not that expensive. So what's wrong with me? Not just today, not just about the pitcher, but about everything. I have so much to be thankful for - so very, very much. When I stop and think about all the things for which I have to be thankful, I just feel overwhelmed with how blessed I have been. So why do I find myself in tears over little things, like the pitcher breaking, like someone scratching the paint on my car? And not merely crying, but full-on weeping like the whole world broke around me?

Awake and Barely Breathing

I can't sleep. I keep thinking that I need to go back to work. What is wrong with me? I'm living the dream, but I keep trying to run away from it.

Living the dream. That's what they used to say, as a joke, when it was late at night and we were still in the office, cranking away. It's not like I miss that. When I was there, I couldn't wait to get out. So what is it that I want?

Every night, my own life flashes before me like scenes from a movie. I feel so disconnected. Maybe it's not a good idea to spend so much time living in your own head. Maybe it would be good for me to see other people every once in awhile. But not my neighbors.

In the Water

A list of injuries I have sustained while surfing:

• concussion
• black eye
• absolutely enormous bruise on my inner thigh, from my enormous center fin (unclear how this happened)
• wax under my fingernails, resulting in detachment
• many, many other bruises and cuts
  

But it still comforts me. I'm not very good (or any good at all), but surfing is the one thing I do where I don't care if I'm any good or not. I do it because it makes me happy. We live up the hill from the ocean. Sometimes when it's foggy and overcast here, we'll drive down to the beach and it'll be sunny. Of course, it happens the other way around too. Today it's hazy up here. It's supposed to rain again. They say it's an El Nino year. During El Nino, the water is supposed to be warmer, but so far, it's not.

On My Knees

I do believe, Lord; help me in mine unbelief.

Sidewalks

It's pouring rain. From where I'm sitting, in my dark "office", I see it falling on eucalyptus, oaks, redwoods. When I was a teenager, and as angst-ridden as any I've ever met, I used to love the rain. Rain opens up possibilities: it used to feel like things could happen when it was raining that couldn't happen when the sun was shining. Good things, like someone falling in love with you. Or like escaping, this place, this time, this person. I used to feel like if I could claw through my skin, someone else would emerge from the carcass, someone more lovable, more beautiful, just more. I could live a white-clothed life hazed in gold, and I would finally be able to be happy.

Back then, I had a friend who routinely made me cry. I think I was in love with him, at least a little bit. The way he palmed the steering wheel when he drove. The way his voice sounded late at night. Back then, I was always looking for someone to understand me. The nightmares in my closet, the rage and ache knotted in my chest. He said once that he loved the smell of sidewalks after the rain. But that wasn't what I meant.

Now I know that I wasn't so hard to understand. That makes me saddest of all.

Scared

I feel so scared. It's a horrible feeling. I have no real reason to be afraid, just a jumble of insecurities and anxieties that never leave me (perhaps the most faithful friends I've had in a long time). I feel like I'm having a long, drawn-out panic attack that has already lasted several days. I just want to stay in bed, stay asleep.

A sample of the voices in my head:

• I quit my job to be a writer, and I'm afraid that I'm not any good at it, that I'll never be any good at it. At the same time, I don't know why I care about being good at it.

• My friends are scattered and far away, and I'm afraid that the loneliness I feel will never abate.
  
• The walls of this apartment are closing in on me. My neighbors are bizarre characters from fun-house nightmares, and I am afraid that I will never be able to afford a house or get away from here.
  

On the subject of my neighbors, here is what I mean:
Next door to me is an officious, domineering software consultant. He even tries to boss me around; I hate to imagine what his wife has to put up with. He is married to someone we believe was a mail-order bride. She looks several decades younger than him, she's beautiful (he's not), and she speaks very little English. She looks terrified whenever I try to talk to her. I don't often do so, because he is almost always with her (he works from home).

Downstairs is a woman of about sixty-five, although she could easily be older than that. She's a nice old lady, but has a tendency to violate your personal space when she's talking to you, thus affording me the opportunity to observe that she nearly always reeks of alcohol. I ran into her in the parking garage one day, after she had just parked her car, and it was the same thing. I can't believe someone of her age wouldn't know better than to drive drunk. She lives alone, and depresses the hell out of me.

We have already discussed Crazy Fed Ex Lady. I still can't figure out why she was so freaked out about her package that she couldn't wait for a couple of hours for us to get home from work, but had to have the package RIGHT NOW. My theory is that it contained some sort of illegal substance.

The apartment manager, who also lives in the building, has a frightening smile.

Crazy Lady

There's a crazy lady who lives in my building. Today her Fed Ex package got delivered to me by accident, by our building managers. (For some reason, Fed Ex doesn't give us packages directly; they all have to go through the main office.) I saw the package at my front door, but I was on my way out, so I put it right inside my apartment and left.

An hour later, I'm fielding desperate phone calls from the building managers' office. Crazy Lady is hyperventilating about the package. She's been told that they accidentally delivered it to me, and that they'll contact me to see when I'll be home, but this isn't good enough for Crazy Lady, who threatens to call the police unless the package is put in her hands RIGHT NOW. She is apparently very intimidating; at least, she has the building people thoroughly cowed.

Meanwhile, I'm about half an hour's drive away, where I was planning to get some work done. I suppose I could have been a hard-ass (and probably should have been) and told the building managers that it wasn't my problem and I wasn't going to make a special trip home just because THEY misdelivered a package. But instead, I rolled over into my natural doormat form. And here I am, back at home.

The Unbearable Lightness in My Head

Been abusing the caffeine again. I know some people use it every morning to wake themselves up and get them ready to face the day, but it makes me ADD. I've been wasting all kinds of time today, and I blame the coffee. I have this jittery, anxious feeling, like I'm waiting for something...something's about to happen... [Cue music.]

It's a gorgeous day here in the Bay, but I've got to get some work done. Why is it that working for the love of it, rather than working to get paid, feels so much harder? I always thought it would be the other way around.

Keep your fingers crossed for me that whatever it is I'm waiting for, turns out to be a good thing. I've got a case of diet Dr. Pepper calling my name, but I'm staying strong, folks, staying strong.

Divided by Babies

As I get closer and closer to thirty (only two more years now!), my friends increasingly divide themselves into two camps: those with babies and those without. The two groups don't mix. I don't have a baby, but for some reason the baby group accepts me and lets me hang with them. This may be because they're trying to convert me.

They may be succeeding. Lately, I find myself eyeing babies. Especially during Halloween, when parents dress their babies up in those adorable plush costumes. I find myself avidly reading my friends' baby blogs and waiting impatiently for them to post new pictures. All of this scares me to death.

If I have a baby, will my babyless friends reject me? Technically I will no longer be one of them - but could they continue to love me anyway? Will they understand when I can't go out for drinks, or to a movie?

Even beyond my social life, I'm afraid of how a baby might force changes I'm not ready to make. I've already made a lot of big changes this year, giving up a $200,000/year job for a job that currently pays me $0, moving to a new city, cutting my previously waist-length hair. I'm not sure I can handle any more changes right now. But balanced against that is the ever-present fear that if I keep waiting, one day I'll wake up and find out I'm too old. Being almost thirty is freaking me out.

Why do babies have to be so damn cute?

On High School Reunions

My ten-year high school reunion took place this weekend. Although there were more people there than I had expected, including people I was in fact pleased to see, it still turned out to be a boring evening. I knew these people ten years ago and have not spoken to most of them since - I felt like I spent the night making small talk with strangers. Probably it is my lack of curiousity about other people that is the problem, and not that the people from my graduating class are actually boring.

There were the usual ten-year role reversals: a girl from my senior year English class, who had been overweight and afflicted with dandruff, had grown six inches (she was tall to begin with) and lost fifty pounds. She now looks like a runway model. Whereas the popular girl - who had been tall, blonde, and athletic - is still tall and blonde, but has gained fifty pounds and looks like a diner waitress, which, coincidentally, is what she now is. Just like an '80s movie.

And where did I fit in? People knew who I was in high school, but I didn't run with the popular kids. (This may sound snide, but: thank goodness.) Someone came up to me at the reunion and said, "You know, I predicted that the odd-looking girls would now be hot and the cute girls would no longer be cute. And it's true - look at you." I honestly didn't know whether he meant that I was now hot, or now no longer cute. Of course, it didn't help that the rest of the night people kept telling me that I look exactly the same.

Title

Regarding the name of this blog: Although I am Asian(-American; people usually forget that it's a two-part identity), it's not a racial thing.

If You Want to Walk on Water, You've Got to Get Out of the Boat , by John Ortberg