Small Goodbyes

An old friend once said that goodbyes were tough, because once you say goodbye, nothing is ever the same again.

I’ve had a number of goodbyes in my life, some by choice, some against my will, some necessary, some by accident, some easy, some incredibly painful. It is true that once you say goodbye, nothing is ever the same again. Sometimes that is a good thing. Sometimes, that is not. Often, we don’t know the outcome when we say goodbye. That’s the hard thing about saying goodbye – we risk what is known for what is unknown.

Yet, we can not journey through life without saying goodbye. We do it in the smallest of the everyday. We say goodbye to loved ones when we leave the house, we say goodbye before we end a phone conversation, we sign our e-mails “best regards,” “love” or “miss you.” We say these throw away goodbyes fully assured that when we return things will most likely be the same as when we left. For the most part, this will be true.

It’s the big goodbyes that are the struggle. Because these are the goodbyes that bring change, and with it, risk. Move away and you are saying a big goodbye to a city, to a way of life, to friends and loved ones whom you’ve grown to know and who have grown to know you. Get married and you are saying goodbye to the single life and take the risk to be completely vulnerable to another person. Have a child and all bets are out the window – say goodbye to sleep, to sanity, to life as you know it.

The past year has been one of big goodbyes. I didn’t get married or have a baby, but I did say a big goodbye to a life in Chicago of ten years. I said a big goodbye to friends who know and love me. Goodbye to someone I was growing to love.

Through it all, I naively thought that any big goodbye, if done thoughtfully and well, would be a one-time-per-event kind of thing. In saying goodbye well I would honor the good, cherish the memories, remember all that I’ve gained and learnt, recognize and mourn the loss, look forward to the future and then move on.

Except.

I’ve been fooling myself by believing that after the big goodbye done well I can move on unfettered by thoughts and memories of what used to be. What used to be doesn’t understand that I’ve already said my big goodbye well. What used to be calls to me everyday as if I never left. It doesn’t care that I’ve mourned its loss. It begs me to yearn for it, for no other reason than it was what used to be. What used to be mocks my looking forward. It continues to exist, beckoning me to return to it.

I find myself having to say many small goodbyes to what used to be. I say a small goodbye when I do things I never would have done in Chicago – play poker, go rock climbing, learn to ride a bike. I say a small goodbye when I do something that I would have done in Chicago – host dinner parties, cook for friends, go to dinner and a movie.

I say a small goodbye every time I open my heart and show who I really am to my new community in Los Angeles. I say a small goodbye every time my community draws me in and I become more a part of this new family.

With every small goodbye I find myself growing that much sadder that I can not return to what used to be. Yet with every small goodbye what used to be leaves my now and takes it rightful place in my memory. Each small goodbye plants me firmly in the present.

Small goodbyes have to happen over and over again. That’s not easy. It’s incredibly painful – which is why I suspect there are some who believe that the one big goodbye is enough for moving forward. They resist the small goodbyes afterwards and consider it “wallowing in the past.”

As for me, I’m more and more convinced – small goodbyes aren’t about looking back, it’s the roadmap for moving forward.

Really!?!

I'll confess. I'm feeling pretty incredulous about where my life seems to be heading.

But instead of ruminating and reflecting more (which while cathartic can become self-absorbed) I've decided to spend a little time trying to find the funny in all of this.

Here's one of my favorite segments from SNL. Watch and you'll get what kind of a mood I'm in. Just the tone though. No one in my life is soliciting anyone in any airport bathroom... well, no one I know of anyway.

http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/video/play.shtml?mea=164674

It's Like Learning How To Ride A Bike

Perhaps it's because I am actually learning how to ride a bike for the first time at age thirty; maybe it's because I'm learning to date for the first time at age thirty, but floating around in my head is the phrase, “Learning to date is like learning how to ride a bike.”

Everyone is constantly surprised that I never learnt to ride a bike as a child. Learning to ride a bike is such a rite of passage. The bike gives you the freedom to go places you’d never be able to go to on foot. Places miles from home are now within your reach. With your new wheels you wander and you have adventures.

Everyone is equally surprised that I was thirty and dating for the first time. Dating, too, is a rite of passage. The first time you notice a member of the opposite sex, your first kiss, your first boyfriend or girlfriend, are all milestones in learning how to love. With each dating relationship, you hopefully move from loving as a child would – selfishly for your own needs, to loving as an adult would – loving the other sacrificially.

Funnily enough, the things that kept me from learning how to ride a bike were the very same things that kept me from dating. I was a shy, overweight and awkward child. My weight kept me insecure enough to never try anything new. I was always afraid of what other people would think of me. So I stuck to doing things in which I knew I would succeed. I wrote a lot and thought a lot, but there were no bikes in my house and no boys came calling.

It’s a lot harder to learn to ride a bike when you’re an adult. Past the stares of strangers on the street and in the park who are stunned that they even make adult training wheels, there’s always that fear of falling. I’m not as small, as light, or bounce back as quickly as my six-year-old self. When I fall off a bike, which I have inevitably done, I hit the ground hard.

Break your arm when you're six and it's scary and painful for an hour, and then you're that cool kid with the cool injury. Friends come round; they want to sign your cast. There's a big party when the cast comes off.

Break an arm when you're thirty and you worry that you have to take time off and collect disability. You struggle with taking showers and making meals. You wonder if at age sixty that bone is still going to ache every time it rains.

Having a dating relationship for the first time at thirty is equally perilous. Past the incredulous looks of those who are stunned that a grown woman has never kissed a man, much less had sex with one, there’s that delicate balance between enjoying the romance of your first-evers -- first date ever, the first time you held hands ever, the first time you were held ever -- and the real knowledge that this first-ever relationship will have one of two endings. You will either marry him, or you will break-up with him. The fifteen-year-old can believe that you will marry your first love. The thirty-year-old wants to believe this.

First time heartbreak at age thirty is far more sinister. The fifteen-year-old rules your emotions; the thirty-year-old rules your reason. While you know it would be satisfying to send a hundred cash-on-delivery pizzas to his house, spread the rumor that he is not merely emotionally small, blame the demise of the relationship completely on him, your thirty-year-old mind warns you against such pettiness.

At thirty you know that dating relationships, first-ever or not, tend to be grey. There are a few moments that either one of you can say, “You were completely and utterly wrong” but for the most part, each person in the relationship plays a role in its ending. You know that at the end of the day, pettiness is only one step from bitterness. And you know that bitterness is one dark, angry mold you do not want growing in your soul.

So, heart-broken at thirty, you stay in your corner. Cry a lot. Journal a lot. Resist the urge to think poorly of him, resist the urge to beat yourself up for not "seeing the signs." But most of all, you resist the urge to demand reasons for why things ended. You quietly let him go, because it's what he wants. At thirty you choose to be gracious even when you feel graciousness was not extended to you.

And you wonder if at age sixty your heart is still going to ache a little bit every time you hear “your song.”

The good news about learning to ride a bike is that with a helmet, patient friends and lots of practice, I have every confidence that I’ll soon be riding my shiny yellow beach cruiser down by the ocean. Sure, I crashed into a fence, arms splayed cartoon-style, the last time I got on my bike. But that just made for a better story.

As for dating, I have hope that the same rules apply. Have patient friends to support you and get lots of practice learning to love. (I probably will skip wearing the helmet as it will likely hinder the getting of said dates.) Sure, I crashed really hard my first time out and it wasn’t all that funny. But, like riding my bike, I will get up and dust myself off.

With time, I have every confidence that I will love and be loved.

Scarves

I'm a big fan of the blog Stuff White People Like. It's a tongue-in-cheek look at common things White People are a big fan of, including anything ethnic, anything not American and anything organic/fair trade.

In April, the site did a post about scarves, how White People loved them because it helped to regulate White People's inconsistent body temperatures and set them apart from other White People. I laughed at the time, and then...

Saturday, at my neighborhood Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, I saw a white woman, wearing a white scarf and a sundress. Again, not a problem, except the temperature on Saturday in Los Angeles was something close to 100 degrees. Yep, it was one of those California heatwaves with record high temperatures. And there she was -- White Woman in a sleeveless sundress and a scarf.

I think this counts both as Amazing and Absurd, don't you?

For more of what White People like, see Stuff White People Like

As Thoughts Percolate

Lots on my mind, slowly bubbling, developing into something coherent. In the meantime, enjoy something from Best of Criagslist. No deep thoughts about this one, it's just funny. Warning: some crude language follows.

Rant: Person with a wooden leg that lives above me.
Date: 2008-04-22, 8:58PM CDT

I have no idea who you are. I do not know if you’re male, female, young, old, black, white, straight, gay, ambidextrous, or a midget. What I do know is this: You are almost certainly obese and have at least one wooden leg.

It is likely that I am completely off in my speculation, but at least hear me out. I do have some evidence that would warrant such claims.

First of all, if you aren’t a manatee with at least one wooden appendage, I must assume then, that you do indeed have your feet blocked in cement. At the very least, you have a horrible case of elephantitis of the lower body causing your feet to stomp and drag and cause a great amount of disturbance. Now I’ve lived in apartments before, some being quite rowdy seeing as I did attend college for five years. Despite this, you my heavy hooved friend, are one of a kind.

At first I thought it might be sex. You know, the old headboard pounding the wall. I would be impressed if that were the case, but I doubt that. The noise moves when you move, so it can’t be the headboard. If it were, then I would REALLY be impressed. Hell, you even knocked the light fixture off of the ceiling in my foyer after some intense peg-leg floor pounding. I was picking glass out of my feet for a few weeks after that! Not bad for what could potentially be some afternoon delight.

The reason I don’t believe you are getting laid is because the noise occurs quite literally at ALL hours of the day. 4AM? You bet. 4PM? Sure shit. 1AM? Of course. 2:47PM? Why not? If I were able to link the noise to a certain time pattern or a certain location, I could be more certain it might be sex, say on a bed with wheels that moves freely about your place with each thrust. (As I type this now, you’re making some pretty loud bumps and booms). Maybe you are just a really aggressive masturbator? Lastly, I haven’t seen a single couple enter this building to confirm that fact that someone might be getting laid.

I’ve tried to describe the noise you create to many people saying “It quite literally sounds like an overweight pirate with one peg leg pacing back and forth” only to get strange looks in return…as you can imagine. Skeptical as they may be, their hesitations in believing my claims were put to rest as soon as they visited my apartment. One by one my friends, as well as some family, visited my place all to confirm the noises I reported were indeed, real.

Each of them spent a few minutes speculating about what the noise could potentially be. Honestly, the only thing we have all deduced is that you aren’t having sex. This is undoubtedly, an unfortunate conclusion on your part.

Perhaps you are trying to teach yourself how to walk with stilts and you are trying to master the art one leg at a time before attempting both stilts at once. Maybe you’re practicing for the Olympics in Chicago in 2016 and have set up some uneven bars and are trying desperately to stick the landing. Whatever you’re doing, could you please ease up? I do not enjoy replacing all of my picture frames that have either fallen off my walls or from my shelves. Nor do I enjoy being awaken at all hours of the night only to have to wonder what it is you’re really doing up there, whether they be innocent or slightly sexually deviant. My alarm goes off before 6AM due to having one of those job things so a good nights sleep is important. Thanks in advance and if you really are an obese pirate, please don’t break into my apartment and steal my booty…or my food.

Original URL: http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/chi/652643356.html

When All Else Fails...

When I'm feeling particularly bad about myself and the situations I find myself in, I go to this Best of Craigslist posting. No matter how hard I'm crying, how depressed I am, how desolate I feel, this posting makes me laugh out loud.

I post it up here for you to enjoy. Reader beware, crude language does follow. But it's definitely worth it!

you PISSED on my floor
Reply to: Date: 2007-05-07, 1:23AM

so I know things weren't going well. I tried to break up nicely a lot of times. I really didn't want to hurt you, but neither of us were happy. We were both miserable infact. I'm sorry it didn't work out. It would have been lovely if we had both fallen madly and passionately in love- but we didn't. it needed to end.

all of that, however doesn't explain why

YOU PISSED ON MY FLOOR

and then you left.

I called to see if you had somehow slipped. I was hoping there was an explanation. You hung up on me.

I'm pretty sure that means you deliberately

PISSED ON MY FLOOR

i don't even know what to say to that. I don't know what to think.

I'm not sure I can protect your dignity anymore. I need to tell everyone, because it's so fucking crazy.

YOU PISSED ON MY FLOOR.

I have a new rule in my apartment now.

Its the

NO PISSING ON THE FLOOR RULE.

it goes like this-

DON'T PISS ON MY FUCKING FLOOR.

thanks for a good laugh though. It's so much better than the cliche shit that ends way too many relationships. I"m sure the next time I break up with someone, I'll be saying

AT LEAST HE DIDN"T PISS ON MY FLOOR.

Location: not in the toilet
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Original URL: http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/nyc/325829361.html

Protest

It's 1.30 on a Wednesday afternoon. Outside the office, traffic has come to a standstill. On the corner, protesters holding signs are marching on the corner. Angry drivers honk. Protesters ignore and continue to march, signs raised, adamant. I am not sure what they are protesting about -- a Google/Craigslist search turned up nothing.

I, too, would like to protest. March up and down with my signs declaring that the injustice I perceive needs to come to an end. I would like to make everything come to a standstill so that someone, anyone, will just listen. I would like to be adamant about what I want, what I need, how I feel. I would like to ignore the anger of and the inconvenience to others.

I want to protest.

But at the end of the day, when the cops come (as they inevitably do), and they use their pepper spray on you (as they inevitably will), and they drag your limp body into the paddy wagon and hoist you off to jail, what would have been accomplished?

Did you really have a voice in your protest? Did anyone really listen? Did anyone really care? Were you just a one-act drama on the corner that was, at best, mildly annoying? Did you bring change?

And so, the reality hits. I pack away my signs, put away my slogans, quiet myself. The phrase, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks" flits across my mind. I realize that at the end of the day, you can say what you want, feel what you want, even do what you want as loudly as you want. But that it can't change the words, feelings and actions of those around you.

I suppose, as much as I hate it and wish it were otherwise, we all have free will. Darn it, even I have free will!

So I use my free will. Will my heart to be quiet, will my mind to stop spinning, will myself not to protest.