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Mixed messages

It's been nearly two years since I quit school, and sometimes it's not clear whether during these two years I've grown beyond my friends who are still in school or if I've simply fallen hopelessly behind.

On the one hand, I've had to show up for work every day, learned how to balance my checkbook. Skipping work is not an option, not if I want to keep paying my bills, which is also something most of my classmates don't have to do, so I show up for work. Every day. 7: 45 a.m. I shop for groceries, plan my meals, cook: living on pizza, beer, and Lucky Charms is not as much fun as you might imagine. No one else schedules my dentist appointments, makes sure I get my annual physical, no one checks to make sure I made it home each night.

I've gotten raises and promotions, researched car insurance, signed lease agreements. I have not spent my weekends getting sloppy drunk, haven't slept around with dozens of guys, haven't dropped out in any one of the possible ways a person could drop out, and in all these respects I seem much older & wiser than most of my friends.

On the other hand, I can feel the ways I've been left behind; the discussions about authors I haven't read, theories I've never heard of, plans for graduate schools that I'm never going to attend, a whole world they're preparing for that is no longer on my path.

And on the other hand (don't ask where that one comes from): the world they're heading for doesn't look as promising as I once imagined it.

Just some of the reasons I don't have many friends at school any more.

Hard to explain my mixed feelings about all this. It's irritating to be working at a job where I know I could do at least my boss's job, and probably her boss's job as well, but know that no one would ever even consider me for those positions, even if I'd been working there for five years or more, just because I don't have a college degree.

Nevermind that my boss asks me to draft letters for her, or that I'm the one who set up our spreadsheets. A lack of a degree means I'm stuck.

Lately my parents have been hinting that I should go back to school. They can help now, they say; we'd be happy to help you out with expenses. And I know it's true. Sometimes I'll see a professor who remembers me, who asks, "When are you coming back?" Even my friend Bash thinks it's time for me to be heading back to school. Or at least that's what he told me last weekend when he was here in town. He thinks I'm wasting my time hanging around here, hanging out with Frank. And since he's a certified genius on a full academic scholarship at MIT, I should probably pay more attention.

And if I had any idea of what I wanted to do, I would. It's just that all the old ambitions no longer seem so appealing. I feel like I have more in common with the woman who works at the bakery than with my friends who are thinking about careers in public policy or plans to become journalists or teachers. I like physical reality: water, wind, the feeling of a knife in my hand while chopping onions, the soft roughness of working wool with wooden needles. I love all these things, and I'm not sure about throwing myself into a course of studies that is all about ideas, that destines me for a life of office jobs, air conditioning, and uncomfortable shoes.

Plus. Bash's motives are suspect. He kissed me. And I kissed him back.

So, maybe I don't know what I want to do, but there is something going on with me that is just totally nuts. I've never felt so full, so sleepy, so wildly alive. This kiss from Bash is not the first inappropriate kiss I've had these last weeks. Clearly, I am ready for something.

And yes. The messages are mixed. Definitely mixed.

Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings - Yes

YESterday at Barnes & Noble, while racking my brains over whether to buy Dwell or InStyle and eventually deciding to spend my money instead on a caramel brulee frappuccino, I watched an older woman browsing the art magazines. You know the type: mid-50s, dark hair with reddish highlights, obviously dyed, lipstick a little too dark, eyeliner a little too heavy, some kind of red wool jacket with those cutesy buttons -- Laurel Burch? giraffes? cats? Anyway. She picks up one of the magazines with a huge splash headline, The Best of Drawing! One of those issues that promises to yield up the mystery of great art to the common person, to reveal that secrets that will transform your stiff & stodgy still lifes (?) of vases of flowers into fluid renderings expressing love, anguish, and desire, earthshaking beauty. I see her flipping the pages, pausing to read some, flipping past others. Thinking. Hoping. It won't work, I want to tell her. That magazine won't change your life. If you want to draw, you have to practice looking. Just look, draw, look again, and keep on trying. Or at least I'm pretty sure that magazine won't work any better than buying Dwell or Instyle will transform my fluorescent-lit apartment or my dowdy wardrobe into anything more glamorous than it really is.

She doesn't pay any more attention to my advice than I do to myself. Holds onto the magazine, keeps browsing, picks up a couple of other magazines, Somerset Studio, Cloth/Paper/Scissors, stuff like that.

A few minutes later, a few art student types come by, in black, pierced and expensively tattered: if I were still in school, I might know them; they might remember me. They are looking at Inked and Juxtapos, fantasy magazines, crap like that. Still, they are young, sure of themselves. One points to the drawing magazine, "There's one I need to get," he snickers. Not meant to be unkind. But the older woman suddenly holds her magazines closer to her chest. Hiding. Thinking that maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe she should just return the magazine to the rack... as soon as these assholes leave, of course.

Suddenly I want something for her. Don't do it, I think, as hard as I can, while pretending to be absorbed in my caramel brulee frappuccino. Don't put it back. Keep the magazine. Hold onto your hopes. Don't stop trying.

And I am glad to see her head to the register instead.

Sunday Scribblings

Thin Ice

On the way to the pond Saturday night. B. is driving. I'm in the front seat. We stop at an intersection to turn left onto a two-lane highway. I looked to the right to check traffic, and for some reason, he's pissed. "What's that for?" he asked. "I'm driving. None of your looking is going to stop another car if I make a mistake."

I must have looked surprised. "You know," he said, "you need to just trust me."

I started to make the usual protests. Of course I trusted him. We are friends. Good friends. If I didn't trust him, why would I accept a ride? I could have just walked home and gotten my own car. But then there was that look I stole. Just checking. I always check. Even with Frank. Even with my friends. My friends do it, too.

Made me wonder: Is there anybody I could be with where I would feel like I didn't have to look?

Instead I practiced not looking for the rest of the ride. It was hard. Very, very hard. I'm not sure I could ever do this with anybody.

Briefly back.

I'm not sure what momentary lapse of rationality made me think that I could maintain any kind of project of my own with any kind of consistency through the mad rush of fall fund-raising events and class reunions. As you can see, I failed.

The reunions and the fund-raisers worked, pretty much, just barely, sort of, kind of. Well, maybe not as well as everyone would have liked. Money is tight, and everyone expects the axe is going to fall. I can only hope that I'm just cheap enough and just productive enough that they'll decide they can't live without me. C is nervous, though, and if she goes, her boss will do his part to turn me into a resentful old woman long before my time.

No more word about Provence. B. tells me that if that's where I want to go, I need to make it happen myself. Probably true.

So maybe my horoscope was off by a day or two

And I don't know how he does it, but he somehow manages, even after a day of sawing, sanding, and varnishing, to taste just like a rootbeer float. Sweet and creamy, with just a tickle of sassafrass.

Afterwards, we talked about a trip to Provence. Maybe next spring.

I must have been crazy to think anything was wrong.

The Key (Sunday Scribblings)

According to my horoscope, Friday was supposed to be a MOST auspicious day for romance. So, after work, I packed some treats -- the traditional bottle of wine, crusty bread, a luxurious camembert, a ripe pear, and me -- and off I went over to visit Frank.

Frank, however, was getting ready to leave, his keys jingling in his pockets. He was meeting his friend, Mike, he said. At Casey's. He'd be back soon. Feel free to wait. Or. If I got tired of hanging out, just be sure to lock up before I left.

Casey's. More than a quick beer, I'd be willing to bet. More like a few hours, at best, a return accompanied by a thick haze of whiskey and smoke. Strong likelihood afterward of urgent groping. Probably not the sinuously developed romantic encounter I desired.

What to do? Wait at Frank's among the lush scent of the nocturnal jasmine, the polished plank floors, the purring cats, and warm lights. Or return to the shabby sparseness of my own fluorescent-lit kitchen.

I could lock up and leave anytime. Wouldn't make any difference at all. There was the key.

Sunday Scribblings