Three Point Eight

Three point eight?

It's not my GPA.  It's not the number of minutes it takes me to shower.  It's not a new tax on real estate.  It's the number of miles from my house to my Unlikely Friend's.  It's an important number.

I've referenced my Unlikely Friend pretty often, here, there, and in real life.  But I've never really explained just how incredibly important she is to me.  After what has turned out to be an extremely difficult week, I feel like right now is the time to explain who she is to me.

We met in kooky circumstances about 4.5 years ago, but it wasn't until she moved those three point eight miles up the road from me that we became such close friends.  In the beginning, we'd just hit up the occasional farmers market or have breakfast together, but that morphed into a more regular schedule. And then life got pretty difficult for the both of us.  Neither one of us had anyone close by to lean on, and so we leaned on each other.  Sometimes she leaned more; lately, I'm leaning so heavy I'm worried I'll tip her over.

I've been lucky in my life, to meet people and have relationships with true friends.  Most people are lucky to have only a couple, and I think I have way more than a couple.  There is always risk though, with any friendship - lines that can't be crossed, boundaries that can't be broken - but with this Unlikely Friend, there is no risk.  I can say anything.  I can do anything.  No matter what she says or does, it registers in me.  I may not like it.  I may not respond.  But I always hear it, internalize it, and think "If my Unlikely Friend thinks so, there's probably merit in that."

The most fun part of this relationship with her is when we remember and realize that I'm just a younger version of her.  Our lives were and are very different, but our values, at the core, are the same.  We have similar insecurities, similar fears, similar pressures.  I look at her and see the qualities of the person I want to be when I grow up.  Strength.  Wisdom.  Intelligence.  A giant heart.  She tells me often that she'd do anything for me; I believe her.

One of the ways we're similar is in the ferocity with which we identify.  It plays out differently in our personalities, but we are both endlessly stubborn, unwilling to give up, and completely dedicated to the image we have of ourselves.  I love that about myself, and I love that about her.  I've always thought it makes me strong and independent.  It probably makes me frustrating to deal with, but I suspect it's one of the things people generally like about me.  The trouble, as I'm learning lately, is that it makes me think I only need myself.  In my brain, I think:

A strong, independent woman doesn't need anyone, because needy isn't part of the plan.

Well, the thing is, my Unlikely Friend is teaching me it's ok to need people just a little bit.  It's ok to reach out and want nothing but a tight squeeze of your hand back.  And it's ok to admit you can't handle everything all on your own.  Even today, she said "you know, you can let people who care about you show you that, right?"

Can I?  Is that something I can do?  What about the risk?  What about the neediness?  What about my independence?

I don't have all the answers to those questions today, and maybe not ever.  But I do know that I guess I've already given up on not needing people.  I need her.  She pushes me out of my own way when I'm unable to see what I'm doing.  She talks me down off a ledge and leads me to the right answer; she reminds me gently it's the right thing to do.  She helps me dig deep and find the stuff that makes me brave.

Everyone should have a strong, independent Unlikely Friend three point eight miles away.  She might be the only thing standing between you and yourself.

Untitled

Lately, I am finding myself feeling a little stranded in inertia.  I'm past the mid-way point, headed towards change, change that is inevitable, change that isn't worth fighting, change that I myself want and need --- but I am frozen.  The next steps in my life are starting, and I'm so excited about them, but there is just a little piece of me that wishes almost everything could be different.  It's a sharp pain in my gut, a constantly nagging feeling that I could have, should have, done of lot of things better in the last several years.  

The most constant source of comfort for me, beside a couple of amazing friends, is my left wrist.   I think a lot of you know that I have several tattoos (and piercings, but I digress), and there are multifaceted reasons for that.   In a very real way, my body art is a physical reminder that sometimes breaking inertia causes enormous amount of pain; the pain itself, however, is transitory.   They are all important to me, but my wrist, Ganesh, is really special; it was completed in a time of total emotional wreckage, a time that I now can see was The Beginning of The End.  Long ending, huh?  

It reminds me every single day, sometimes multiple times a day, that while there's a lot of bullshit to weed through in life, I only have to do it until there's nothing left to wade through.  Inspirational?  It's not really.  But it's real.

When people who don't have tats or piercings notice mine, they scrunch up their faces and say "but didn't that hurt?"

Well, I just paid someone to shove a needle in my flesh, over and over again, mostly likely until I bleed.  Duh.  Why would you think it wouldn't hurt?  People really are jackasses sometimes, right?

So fine, I admit it hurts.  I don't find solace or peace in the pain. I don't wake up on Tattoo Day and say "yippee!  Today is going hurt but it's all for the best so it's a-ok!"  Why do it then?

Do I get my jollies from some sort of physical pain?  (I don't.)
Is it some sort of rite of passage? (Not really.)
Could it be that I'm crying out for attention?  (Not even, my friends, a little bit.)

Instead it's about acceptance; there is nothing yet that I have found worth doing in my life that doesn't ultimately cause discomfort and pain.   That stuff that hurts is the stuff that I later appreciate; I find serenity in healing.

I bet it seems like I think I'm pretty clever, but I don't.  If you know me though, you've heard me say that about tattoos over and over again.  And you probably figured out that though it's true about tattoos, I'm not really talking about them at all.  I'm talking, instead, about heartache.

I'm talking about losing a turtle pendant, from someone who loved me once, several years ago, and finding it my laundry room floor.  The other day.  The same laundry room floor I've been walking on for seven years.  When I saw it, it struck me as funny what I can find when I'm not longer looking.  And it's funnier still, that a gold turtle pendant from a lifetime ago can bring back so many complicated emotions that I smiled while my lips quivered.  At the same time.

I'm talking about splitting up pets who have never known anyone except the same two people and the rest of their clan, for their entire lives.  And the teary eyes when you realize a clean break from them is kindest to everyone involved.  Maybe it sounds silly to you, but right at this very moment, everyone of them, of us, is missing another.

And, I'm talking about making choices I never wanted to make, because it was best for the life I thought I wanted.  Except it wasn't for the best, and there is no resolution, no overturned decision, no taking it back.  I just wake up and forge ahead, hoping next time is the better one.

There's more things, of course, that flood my brain almost by the minute.  Many about TxB.   Many about other stuff, and not all of them sad.  Some of them are scary and wonderful, like a new relationships and second chances.

The entry doesn't have the a title or a boiled-down, punch-line ending like the others, and that's why it's taken a few days to post it.  I work on it a little everyday, but it's finally occurred to me that if there was ever an entry that wasn't neat and tidy, this is the one that can be.  The whole point is that stuff takes the time it takes, regardless of frustration, sadness, panic or love.   It will be what it is regardless of what you call it.  And, tattoos will hurt, then scab, itch and scar, and you'll be left with, after careful tending, a perfectly healed reminder of the process.

That's what makes it worth it.

Be Brave. Do Nothing.

I wrote something a week ago about bravery and courage, action versus inaction, and the general state of be terrified.  I knew it missed the mark, so I asked my Unlikely Friend for feedback.  "The writing," she said "is good, but I don't think I agree with much it."  If anyone knows my heart, she does, so here I am today - back to the drawing board.

I think I didn't quite know what I was trying to convey the last time, but lessons seem to be coming at me swiftly these days.  The newest lesson: there is nothing wrong with pure, unadulterated fear.  And by the way, courage is sometimes as simple as just being present in the moment.

When I get scared, I run away.  Sometimes I physically remove myself.  I pack up my dog and my ipod, and I camp in Cape Henlopen for 3 nights.  (True story!)

Other times, I emotionally withdrawl from the people I should lean on.  Phone calls go unanswered; emails are perpetually marked as unread.

But most often, I do things that seem crazy; I create antics that are designed to sidestep my fear.  You don't think it's random that whenever I find myself afraid, I come home from Philadelphia with another hole in my body do you?  More ink on my already tatted skin?   Well, if you think it's random*, it's not. It's a diversion.  It's an opportunity for me to fake everyone, even myself, out.  See?  I got a new body mod.  That makes me brave.  Right?

Wrong.  It's not really bravery at all; it's just a distraction from the mental gymnastics of spending so much of my life actively afraid.  Afraid of the future.  Afraid of the past.  Afraid of becoming someone I'm not.  Afraid of letting myself be who I am.  There are a lot of things, my friends, of which I am afraid.

It's recently occurred to me that courage isn't the absence of fear; courage is instead about embracing it to live your life anyway.  So yeah, my natural inclination is to run, far and fast, away from all the things that terrify me.  And right now, sure, there's terror.  How could there not be?  My plans, my careful well-laid plans, are flittering away and I can barely keep up.  I could go to Cape Henlopen, or stop answering my texts, but what would that solve?  The things I'm looking for are right here in front of me.

So, I've steadily and soundly decided to simply stand still.  If it feels right, I'll do it.  If it sounds right, I'll say it.  If it turns out wrong, I'll handle it.  I choose inaction, because inaction, it appears, is the foundation of finding the things that makes me actually brave.

*The fact that tattoos and piercings are fear based is not remotely related to their meaning or importance in my life.  If that confuses you, just wait.  An entry about the religious nature of body modification, while not specifically planned right now, will eventually make it's way out of my odd little brain.

Time Passes Anyway

Someone once told me that time passes chronologically, but we our lives are lived out of sequence.  I couldn't understand what that really meant.  But, I do know that things from 15 years ago feel like yesterday. And events from the other day sometimes feels so long ago, I can barely remember why it happened .  So how can we reconcile how we spend our lives when yesterday feels like it never happened, but our childhood is so tangible we can touch it?  And what does it even mean to live out of sequence?

Time is a really funny thing.  We spend, save, and even waste it like money.  We manage it, foolishly, as if it's something we can hang onto.  We ask for it to be quality time, whatever that is.  We plan our days around time, making sure that we are fully committed at every hour of the day; we even plan when to sleep.  We use it mark the segments in between life events.  Everything we do, and everything we don't do, it's almost always about time.

But time passes anyway, no matter what we do with ourselves.  The sun goes down, and then comes back again.  It's always done that since before we had life, and it will keep doing it long after we die.

I had lunch with someone today, an old, wonderful friend Marcelle, who I never see enough.  As we caught up, told stories of work stress, new puppies, promotions, therapy sessions, and hip thingies, both of us interjected questions proving that time is a social convention we can't even articulate.  Neither of us could remember when big important life event -like masters degrees or breakups- even happened.  But we knew they did.  Isn't that all that really matters anyway?   I can't tell you how old her brother is now, or when she finished graduate school, but we spent most of the time together today laughing like no time had even passed between us at all.  

It had me thinking that I now know what living out of sequence means, and I think it's not really about time at all.  The desire to measure our lives in bits and pieces is merely about managing the relationships we have with others.  Some are hugely important, like friends and family.  Some are necessary like our co-workers or bosses.  But time really only exists for us, so I know when to pick you up, or when to clock out.  It's important so I know how long it will take to get someplace, or when our beach trip is.  It matters only so I can quantify how I spend today.  The sequence doesn't matter, but rather, it's the value of our interactions.  That's why there are years of my adult life that almost don't exist in my memory.  

I can walk away from lunch today knowing that it's at least six months before I see my old wonderful friend again. But six months makes nearly no difference to me.  We'll find ten new things to talk about all over again.  We'll skip over the day to day, but it won't feel that way.  And it won't even matter.  The place that relationship has in my life will never be altered, it will never be weathered; it won't age, it won't diminish.  The sequence isn't logical, and it never can be.

Time just isn't real.  Only people are real.

What a long strange trip it's been

If you're reading this, you probably know me.  And if you know me, you are aware that I live my life in a perpetual state of song lyrics.  This week has been no exception.

Hey, so I'm not particularly a fan of The Grateful Dead.  Don't get me wrong, Garcia was a super talented guitarist, and let's face it, Jerry Bears are pretty cute.  They've just never been my thing;  the last three or four days, however, I've found myself continuously singing those words in my head.  Strange it has been.

The past year of my life has been a whirlwind.  I went from Band Girlfriend to Solo Act in the span of 12 months.  Literally.  TxB's band played one of the first "real" gigs on my actual birthday last year.  I gathered the people I loved the most in this world, and we all went out to booze it up for them.  I remember glow sticks and patron shots.  What's a girl to do when her boyfriend is playing on her birthday?  Suck it up and play nice.  And hey, I probably didn't realize I hated that so much.  It seemed sort of fun at that time.

My actual birthday this year was spent in the worst class of my entire academic career.  The professor is dreadful.  And yet, I felt so much more grounded in my own skin, so much happier to be sitting in that classroom than I ever did as Band Girlfriend.  And, I got to have dinner with my Unlikely Friend, who, as it turns out, is more important to me than nearly anyone else I have ever known.  On a whim.  Happy birthday to me!

In this year, the most significant relationship in my life ended.  It's been a hard, rocky road.  Inner panic, outer panic, fear, sadness, lust, envy, joy, excitement.  A whirlwind, indeed.

But it's more than just that, right?  Of course it is.   I got promoted - a big promotion.  I kicked up school to a new level that will allow me two concentrations in just 17 months.  I mastered driving stick (don't laugh, I'm pretty proud). And hey, there is more, but it's not blogworthy.  Or maybe it is, but I'm not going to tell you.

And then I turned 30 yesterday.  A year ago, I dreaded birthdays.  I dreaded doing or saying anything that put me in the limelight.  I was Band Girlfriend, and she didn't like the spotlight.  30 is a whole new beast.  This Solo Act waltzed herself into a birthday dinner, in a hot little outfit, happy to celebrate with the people who love her.  This Solo Act enjoyed the experience, the attention, the love of her family.  This Solo Act scored herself a date with someone sexy and smart.  A first date.  The last night of my 29th year.  My very first first date.

I feel like my 29th birthday was 29 years ago.  Perhaps it happened to me in another life, or maybe it's not my life at all.  I don't wish Band Girlfriend was someone else all those years ago, because it's foolish to wish away the life you had.  And yet, I never ever want to be her again.

It's been long.  And it's been strange.  But my what a trip this year has been.

Real Life in India

When we landed in Ahmedabad, a driver picked us up and he drove us around  Gujarat everyday, from city to city.  His name is Bensi Lal.  None of us know if that's his first name, or if Lal is his sir name.  After a few days, I noticed by dad added Bhai.  It literally means brother, but is a familiar sign of respect as well.  I bet not many other people, besides his actual family, calls him Bensi Bhai.

He put up with us for five days over seven cities.  Nice guy.  He only spoke Gujarati,  so we couldn't really talk to him much, but he and my dad chatted a little bit throughout the various long drives.

He dropped us off at the hotel in Ahmedabad on the first day, and we asked my Dad where he was going to sleep.  He said his fees to the car company included a room for him, and that was the end of it.  On the second night, we had a dinner party in Rajkot, and Dad invited him to join the family and eat with us.  He never showed.  

As we were walking to our cousins' house that night, we noticed his van in front of the hotel, and he was in it.  Dad stopped over to talk to him for a minute, and we learned two things.

         1. He tried to go into the party three times, but was turned away by the hotel staff.  Dad even told the front desk he was invited, but that didn't seem to stop them.

         2. He sleeps in the van, and like every other nightmare he intended to do that in Rajkot.  

What the hell did the fee Dad pay for get used for then?

That's all the information he gave Dad, and he didn't push.  But Swati, Nina, Jeff and I were careful to get everything out of the car after that, so he had as much room as possible to stretch out.

Sunday was a super long, extremely difficult day.  We spent over 15 hours in the car driving through the dessert back to civilization.  We stopped really late, at like 9pm to eat dinner.  He had us wait because there was a water park, and he knew that it would be clean, with reasonable western toilets, and bottled water - we clearly appreciated that.

Dad asked him to sit and eat with us, all throughout the trip, but he declined. For whatever reason, maybe he finally felt comfortable, or maybe he was worried that my dad would be offended - or maybe it was something else - but he finally joined us for dinner.

We wanted to know about him, so we asked my dad to translate.  Nina asked "can you tell us about yourself?"  We asked a lot of follow up questions, and through the conversation, we learned his story.  I feel quite certain no one has ever really asked him before; if anyone had. It certainly wasnt a foursome of spoiled Americans.  I'm also certain his story shocked all four of us.

We don't know how old Bensi Bhai is, but I'd guess he is in his early forties. He has been driving for approximately 20 years, and obviously drives for the car company we hired.  He lives in Ahmedabad, Gujarat; his family, a wife and four children, lives in an entirely different state called Rajasthan.  That's at least 450 miles away.  450.  But Gujarat is a richer state, and he makes 20% more working and driving here.  He sends all of his money home

He sleeps in his car because most hotels don't have a place for drivers.  Some of the hotels do, but even then he won't stay in the driver rooms.  There are big community rooms that are not only inconsistently cleaned, bu at downright filthy.  Showers, toilets, linens, towels.  All community property.  Some accommodation fee, right?  And I thought strangers touching my neck tattoo was bad.  Imagine living your life with community hygiene.   

Well, Bensi Bhai can't.  So he doesn't.  When he gets a decent place, he showers.  He keeps clean sheets in his car, and does the best he can.  He carries his own towels, and water.  When he's local to Ahmedabad, he sleeps in a garage.

And his family 450 miles away? He takes 5 days off every 3 months to go home.  Unpaid.  If you didn't have a chance to do that math yet, that means he sees his wife and children for a total of 12 days.  A year.  

He works pretty much around the clock and makes 6,000 rupees a month. That is 117 dollars.   To be fair, 6,000 rupees goes a lot further in India than 117 bucks does in the states, but he's not raking it in. Although Dad was charged by the mile, and then for the extra time we needed, on the fly,  Bensi Bhai gets paid the same amount no matter what.  So at the end of our time in Gujarat, we owed the company 2,000 rupees.  It's  just profit for them; he won't get a cent.  If he moved home to his family and drove in Rajasthan, he would still work around the clock.  It's unlikely anything would change so that he could see his family anymore.  Not really, anyway, and so making 5,000 rupees doesn't seem like its much worth it.

He believes he could start his own business for the equivalent of about $30,000.  We asked him what he would do differently if it was his business, and he said that most importantly he would pay overtime to his drivers.  It's not because he knows what it's like to drive around the clock for little money.  Instead, he feels that when a company provides appropriately for its people, they will work harder, with loyalty and dedication.  Customers will feel more satisfied, and the company will get more business.    I agree with his philosophy wholeheartedly; this guy needs to teach a seminar at fortune 500 companies.   I know some people; maybe he could get 30,000 for telling people how the hell to manage.

Of course, it would be pretty difficult for him to realistically save up enough money to make any that happen.  And so, it remains a far away dream for him.

I tell this story not just because this is a person's real life, but because it strikes me as a realty for people in India.  The middle class is growing richer, affording drivers, owning businesses, etc.  The working class, however, is abused, taken for granted; they learn to live with it though, because lets face it - this life is  better than their parents', in a very real, financial way.  And, I don't think a guy who drove a car for a company 20 years ago, maybe even 10, would have any thoughts about how to run their business differently.  Perhaps he wouldn't even think about owning his own at all.

I'm positive that Bensi Bhai is in the minority, but if he is out there, there are more.  Hidden gems, with stories that seem ordinary, even though he couldn't be ordinary if he tried.  

This story has a lot of other pieces of Indian tradition and culture wrapped up in it, some very subtle, and some very blatantly obvious.  The punch line is this: working class people are less equal, in a very real, socially acceptable way.  It doesn't occur to a hotel staff that anyone would invite a driver to a dinner party, so they send him away. Worse, no one on that hotel staff cares enough to find a decent towel or toilet to give a driver.  And, it doesn't occur to a driver that people want to talk to him, sit with him, eat with him.  We asked him every single day, and I know that he was incredibly thankful.  And yet, he wouldn't sit with us any other day, though he often ate in the same places as us. He was gracious, but uncomfortable.  But if people don't keep pushing, it won't ever change, because it doesn't occur to anyone to be offended.   At least in the US, we can find people who have the common decency to be appalled. 

Home, Sweet Home

I made it home last evening, and I'm happy to be here.  I loved the trip, nearly every part of it, but things like this are physically and emotionally draining.

I have a few more entries that I am working on, and even though it may seem odd to post them now that I've returned to the States, I will do it anyway.

I have a feeling things might come to me over the next few months, things I couldn't process yet, or that I didn't know how to say.  If nothing else, at least I'll know this is here.

Thanks for following, and I'll post more soon!