Psych!

Firstly, I just wrote a blog that was too whiny to publish. Does anyone else write a lot of things they don't actually publish?

Secondly, ecovillages are fascinating. If I weren't already too busy this summer, I'd just take off and live in one. I enjoy the middle of nowhere.

Thirdly, why do I seem to create instant friendships and bonds with people I shouldn't get involved with?

Fourthly, I really mean it, ecovillage really are amazing. Go people! They're in over 50 countries; there's over 11,000 in Sri Lanka.

Fifthly, something I've read recently said that the re-tribalizing of the world was inevitable. Prepare to be dis-assimilated. Resistance is futile.

Learned Helplessness; Natural Femininity

In education we have a term for kids who have learned that if they sit there staring at the paper long enough professing not to know how to do something, the teacher will come along and "prompt" them until most of the work is done for them. This teaches them two things: first that they don't need to do the work, and second, they can't do it by themselves.

I have a similar attitude toward car repairs and maintenance. I have no idea where to begin, despite the highly educational experience of having once dated a mechanic. So yesterday I went with a friend to put air in his tires. This made me think, how long has it been since I put air in my tires? The last time was a year and a half ago when a customer at the restaurant I was working at told me my tires were low. That was the first time I had ever heard of tires getting low. But my friend reminded me that, perhaps, I should check them again, in case they had changed somehow in the last 18 months.

Sure enough, the back left tire was disgraceful. I held a council with my roommates to determine if the tire was just really really really low or flat. We decided it was really low (which was a relief since I don't know how to change a tire), and I anxiously drove to the gas station. There I confidently pulled up next to the air pump. After all, I'd done this once before, and I'd seen it done earlier that day. I grabbed the tire/pressure gauge-thingie from the glove compartment (thank you, Dad) (it was right next to the spare tail light bulb--thank you x-boyfriend) and unscrewed the cap on my tire.

This is where my problems began in earnest. The pin on the air pump was bent, and it was spewing air nearly full force constantly. I managed to manhandle it onto my tire anyway, and was rewarded by watching my tire begin to swell reassuringly. Paranoid of over filling it, I stopped and tried to measure the pressure so far. I couldn't get the gauge to work. At this point I noticed that someone was parked in line behind me for the air pump. Cute Boy In Nice Car gave me a friendly wave, and I returned to my tire perplexed. I manhandled the air hose to my tire once again, tried to measure the pressure again, failed. I didn't even know how much to fill it up to anyway, since I couldn't find it written on the tire anywhere.

At this point I did some quick weighing of options. I could continue to fumble on my own with no idea of what to do--a pressure gauge I couldn't work, a half-broken hose, and zero knowledge--while Cute Boy In Nice Car continued to wait, or I could take shameless action. I have no shame--just pride. So I walked back to his window, smiled sweetly and said, "Are you waiting for this? 'Cause it will probably go faster if you help." Humiliating? definitly. Worth it? yes. Especially because even he had trouble getting the hose to work since our next attempt bent the pin in my tire, so he had to pry it back into position repeatedly with a pocket knife, stopping to fix the hose with the same knife. Finally, about fifteen minutes later, Cute Boy In Nice Car, after checking all of my tires (two were actually over-inflated), sent me smilingly on my way and wished me a good Friday night. I am extremely grateful to Cute Boy In Nice Car, and for all the Nice Boys who have helped me keep my car running when I helplessly survey the engine.

I swear, I don't do this sort of thing for my own amusement, or because of some case of exaggerated femininity (pink blog not withstanding)! I do try to be somewhat independent. But there are few times I feel so helpless as when my car develops problems. Is there a class of basic mechanics for helpless, over-educated dummies? Maybe I should just move to Oregon where they'll pump my gas for me, since I apparently am hopeless, helpless, and stereotypically girlish when it comes to my car.

Single only wish

          Yesterday was my one month anniversary of being single, again. After a relationship that spanned seven months of dating and a year of being friends. *sigh* Guess what? A month doesn't actually go all that far toward getting you over someone like that. I think this month has mainly served to make me get used to the idea of being single again.
       You know something? I have a really bad attitude toward being single. This is my second time being dumped in a relationship I had given myself to completely and had set most of my hope on. Maybe it's just BYU, but I begin to feel like I'm no longer the shiny and new girl gleaming from the single-shelf. I feel like I'm in the back store of the single-thrift store, an already used, slightly worn product with threadbare edges. I won't be able to whisper "that's the first time I've ever said that to anyone" to the next person to whom I say "I love you." I could be on the brink of committing to marriage and not be able to smile with clear eyes and say, "I've never felt like this about anyone." "No one's ever known me/understood me as well as you do" is another phrase I've lost my verbal-virginity for. I can't even say, "nothing has ever hurt this badly" as I try to get over this, because it's the second time for even this. Not that that makes it easier, it just means I'm already familiar with and sick of the feeling.  I know that my experiences actually make me more aware of what I want and 
a better partner in a relationship.  But they've also given me some pretty sweet 
trust issues. 
     Additionally, I'm beginning to wonder about my odds--many people go their lifetimes and only find one person--if that--who understands them to the core and with whom they could happily spend every day. I've found two. So what are my odds of finding a third? What are my odds of finding a third anytime soon?  
    But anyway, besides feeling slightly like second-hand goods, my attitude toward being single is made even worse by the fact that I know how
 good it feels to be with someone.  I know what it feels like to have yourself come 
alive through a relationship, until it feels like life is so much more worthwhile, so
 much more vivd, so much better lived with someone.   And so learning to be single again is like feeling my heart shrink four sizes and slough off skin.  It's like a green tree that suddenly starts losing leaves.  

So what can I do?  Nothing.  There's nothing I can do.  Just lose my leaves, feel my sap retreat to my roots, wrap myself up in a cold blanket and wait for spring.  However it long it takes.  

favorite line I ever censored from an email before sending:

"I hope you have a great day, and do not, no matter what I may say to the contrary, go to Hell."

Lessons

 

It's funny, whenever I feel like seven months of strain were a waste, I suddenly realize that I'm different. I'm more responsible. I budget, I make small things happen, my room has been clean for almost a week. I eat more cheaply, more heathily. I'm better at living my life. I grew up some.

Now I'm learning to be carefree again. It feels almost weird not to have something to worry about constantly. But my carefree life will have a more stable foundation because of you. Thanks.

Games

They lean over their cards, heads close, setting up the game. She takes longer, glancing too often at his hands, his face, his eyes… Guiltily, she begins the game with energy. Double solitaire, the game where two people win and lose alone, together. Although he says nothing, she thrills to see him play, giggling when he blocks her, blushing when he helps, preening when she triumphs. Her game is going well, she flips out cards with an intent half-smile. His game slows—but that’s normal. A card will be played, he’ll get “unstuck.” His game stops, he flips through his cards, same cards, again. She plays quicker, barely seeing her cards, hoping each one will be the one he needs. Not that one. Not this one. She tosses them out with worried eyes, frowning at her cards; she’s winning. She reaches out cards, he seems to recede. She bows her head, too. Tears and cards from her, from him, silence. His hands slow, his face down, eyes hidden. Same cards, flip through, again. She plays, still hoping each card will be the one that frees him, he sets down his cards. Desperate, she faces him, clutching her thin stack of cards, he looks away. He unfolds his legs, walks away. Done. Daniel is not playing anymore.

Ooh! Shiny!!!

The other day I craved a ring. A shiny one with diamonds. I was looking at the sea of wedding rings that seems to surround me daily and thought "I want one!" The funny thing though, was that I don't think I wanted it because I'm marriage hungry. Oh no, I am much more shallow than that. I wanted one because they're pretty, and I like pretty things. That's right, pretty, sparkley things. I think the craving is worse because it seems that everyone has one except me these days. So it's like the ultimate fashion accessory--classy, gorgeous, lasts the rest of your life, and I'm the only one without one. It's like being the only one without your ears pierced, or without a perfect black dress. Or being the last little girl in your primary class to graduate from tights to grown-up woman nylons.

I had to laugh when I realized this. I really am fine not married, and I'm not really that jealous of those shiny rocks. I had never thought that of all the things I might envy when all my friends got married (being able to plan their future, starting their own family, their own kitchen, someone to hold them when they cry, someone to talk to every night, etc), it would be the most superficial that would bug me on a daily basis. But I think there's good (or at least justfiable) reason for it.

I'm in classes with almost all girls, almost all married girls. I never see them with their husbands, so I don't really envy them their husbands that much. I never see them in their kitchens, where the only dirty dishes are their own and everything is where they left it, so I don't often envy that. But everyday, as I glance side to side in my classes I see ringed hands resting on desks. I glance front, I see ringed hands. I look at the teacher, ringed. I walk in to class, and there are two different conversations going on: in one, three girls getting married over Christmas are comparing wedding plans; in the other, two already married girls are discussing going to their in-laws houses for the holidays. All around, girls are talking with their ringed hands. My bare little hand feel almost conspicuously naked in the crowd of glittering adornments.

Oh well, this doesn't mean much, but it made me laugh and think, and that's enough to write about any day.