I originally started this post with some tripe about how everyone believes themselves talented in some extraordinary way, all because of the Internet. I am one of those people--not so much because of the Internet, but because I wish that I were truly special in some unique way. Reality bites.
But that's not what I really wanted to say.
I wanted to share some amazing photography from people who are undeniably, incredibly talented.
This is Rosie:
Autumn
This is Aaron:
Butterfly
I learned about them through an MSN article, and I quickly became obsessed. They are amazing. Before they met (Rosie is in England; Aaron in the US), they would photoshop themselves into one picture:
Photos
I believe I am becoming one of those sappy, hopeless romantics.
Ewww. (Updated to add: Now that I've thought about it for all of five seconds, I believe that perhaps I was always a hopeless romantic. Just one who never showcased this side of me because I am also a realist/pessimist/whatever, and romantic and realist do not mix. Have I just realized something about myself? I'm going to go think about it for another five seconds. No, really, blogging is like therapy for free.)
At any rate, I appreciate and adore their story and their photos because it means that magic does exist.
Even if I continue to stick my foot in my mouth daily.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Why I'm a bad Penelope
My left ring finger started to hurt and then swell yesterday. I wonder if it is some sort of sign from God. A judgment, perhaps? Am I being punished for being picky? For being clumsy? Did I knock my finger against something hard enough to jam it, but not hard enough for me to feel it happen?
It still hurts for me to try to bend it, and the swelling increased slightly today. I bore my wound proudly all day, randomly flexing my fingers. Ow, ow. I am not brave enough to do things that would injure me on a daily basis, and I spend the time to honor each bruise and sore muscle. (I'm pathetic; I knew this already. Shut up.)
My desire to show off my wound led me, this morning, to try to cheer up a Spanish II classmate while we waited outside a locked classroom for a professor we both weren't fond of.
I whipped out my bruised and swollen finger.
She gazed upon it, with slack-jawed awe.
"It distracted you, didn't it?" I smugly asked.
She laughed. "Yes, it did."
"But you're not impressed?" I guessed.
She hesitated. "Well ... I jammed my thumb ... " She trailed off as she pulled back her coat sleeve to reveal an over-sized red thumb that could possibly have been mistaken for a third arm.
Basketball players. Pshaw.
I quickly drew my sweater back over my own hand.
"Okay," I said. "You win!"
It still hurts for me to try to bend it, and the swelling increased slightly today. I bore my wound proudly all day, randomly flexing my fingers. Ow, ow. I am not brave enough to do things that would injure me on a daily basis, and I spend the time to honor each bruise and sore muscle. (I'm pathetic; I knew this already. Shut up.)
My desire to show off my wound led me, this morning, to try to cheer up a Spanish II classmate while we waited outside a locked classroom for a professor we both weren't fond of.
I whipped out my bruised and swollen finger.
She gazed upon it, with slack-jawed awe.
"It distracted you, didn't it?" I smugly asked.
She laughed. "Yes, it did."
"But you're not impressed?" I guessed.
She hesitated. "Well ... I jammed my thumb ... " She trailed off as she pulled back her coat sleeve to reveal an over-sized red thumb that could possibly have been mistaken for a third arm.
Basketball players. Pshaw.
I quickly drew my sweater back over my own hand.
"Okay," I said. "You win!"
Why New York City frustrates me
I ordered an adorable pair of red heels from Zappos last week. They're to match the champagne dress I will be wearing in roughly a month, as I walk down the aisle as a bridesmaid. My last time until one of my four sisters gets married. If one of my four sisters gets married.
Today, as I walked home from school, I thought about those red shoes, and decided how marvelous it would be if they arrived. Lo and behold, as I started to unlock the front door, I happened to glance down, and spot a piece of paper, lying on the floor. I nearly disregarded it. Brooklyn is not known for its cleanliness. But then, something urged me to look closer. I stooped; I picked it up. In the dim light offered by the street lights, I saw my name in the right hand corner and I could just make out the scribbled "Zappos."
Today was the first attempt of three, and then my shoes would be sent back to the store. I knew I wouldn't around for the second delivery, and chances were also slim for the third. I went to UPS.com and did some research. I spent 20 minutes of research, trying to figure out their site. Then I finally discovered that yes, I can indeed go pick my package up instead of risking the chance of missing the UPS guy again.
Only, I found that the place I need to go is in Canarsie somewhere. Canarsie is not easy to reach by public transportation, I hear. *Lame stereotypical joke that I deleted because it offended my sensibilities* I did a little bit more research through HopStop, and, as the French say, WALA! I CAN take trains to the UPS location.
In summary, see below:
TOTAL TRAVEL
4.78 miles
1 hour 40 mins
Aaaand that is why I am frustrated. I cannot help but compare it to Pennsylvania, where traveling 15 miles is something like 20 minutes or less by car, depending on who is behind the wheel. And how bad tourist traffic happens to be that day. Additionally, you're not sitting next to a complete stranger who coughs into your air space every two minutes.
These shoes better be awesome. I go Friday. Which was also supposed to be my day to drop my dress off to be hemmed, because right now the length makes me look like I'm playing dress up with my mother's clothes. I'll do that next week instead.
Today, as I walked home from school, I thought about those red shoes, and decided how marvelous it would be if they arrived. Lo and behold, as I started to unlock the front door, I happened to glance down, and spot a piece of paper, lying on the floor. I nearly disregarded it. Brooklyn is not known for its cleanliness. But then, something urged me to look closer. I stooped; I picked it up. In the dim light offered by the street lights, I saw my name in the right hand corner and I could just make out the scribbled "Zappos."
Today was the first attempt of three, and then my shoes would be sent back to the store. I knew I wouldn't around for the second delivery, and chances were also slim for the third. I went to UPS.com and did some research. I spent 20 minutes of research, trying to figure out their site. Then I finally discovered that yes, I can indeed go pick my package up instead of risking the chance of missing the UPS guy again.
Only, I found that the place I need to go is in Canarsie somewhere. Canarsie is not easy to reach by public transportation, I hear. *Lame stereotypical joke that I deleted because it offended my sensibilities* I did a little bit more research through HopStop, and, as the French say, WALA! I CAN take trains to the UPS location.
In summary, see below:
TOTAL TRAVEL
4.78 miles
1 hour 40 mins
Aaaand that is why I am frustrated. I cannot help but compare it to Pennsylvania, where traveling 15 miles is something like 20 minutes or less by car, depending on who is behind the wheel. And how bad tourist traffic happens to be that day. Additionally, you're not sitting next to a complete stranger who coughs into your air space every two minutes.
These shoes better be awesome. I go Friday. Which was also supposed to be my day to drop my dress off to be hemmed, because right now the length makes me look like I'm playing dress up with my mother's clothes. I'll do that next week instead.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Why I don't plan parties II
I've always had a fear that if I tried to plan a party, no one would come.
Deep-rooted insecurity issues, I suppose. I also have fears about losing my teeth, and, when I was a child, I had an overwhelming fear of puppets.
I would consider my fear of parties an irrational fear. Perhaps I watched too many coming-of-age movies where the girl, in braces, bad hair and a puffy-sleeved dress, sat at home surrounded by balloons, waiting for the popular kids, who were at someone else's house partying the night away.
I hate puffy sleeves, and I never understood why AnnWithAn'e' of Green Gables wanted them so. And I only ever had eight braces on my teeth -- four top and four bottom. Maybe I had bad hair, then. I don't know; I just know that I believe no one will come if I'm the central driving force behind a party.
Except, Saturday's party went quite well. We had a great turnout, and it seems as though everyone had fun. I almost didn't make it-- the train I was waiting for had a 'medical emergency,' and firefighters, cops and paramedics swarmed the station before everything calmed down and the train started running again. That all only took about 10 minutes, and I even saw a friend, who chatted with me until we had to transfer trains. Despite that mishap, and the inability to figure how to get the bride-to-be to her own shower without ruining the surprise, things went quite well.
Until the next day.
The next day I learned that the bride-to-be had hated it, and the bridesmaids were never, ever to surprise her again. *Gulp!*
Perhaps I wasn’t so far off with my assumptions in the first place. But whether or not everyone enjoyed it, it WAS a fabulous party-—with no lonely, puffy-sleeved girls in sight.
Deep-rooted insecurity issues, I suppose. I also have fears about losing my teeth, and, when I was a child, I had an overwhelming fear of puppets.
I would consider my fear of parties an irrational fear. Perhaps I watched too many coming-of-age movies where the girl, in braces, bad hair and a puffy-sleeved dress, sat at home surrounded by balloons, waiting for the popular kids, who were at someone else's house partying the night away.
I hate puffy sleeves, and I never understood why AnnWithAn'e' of Green Gables wanted them so. And I only ever had eight braces on my teeth -- four top and four bottom. Maybe I had bad hair, then. I don't know; I just know that I believe no one will come if I'm the central driving force behind a party.
Except, Saturday's party went quite well. We had a great turnout, and it seems as though everyone had fun. I almost didn't make it-- the train I was waiting for had a 'medical emergency,' and firefighters, cops and paramedics swarmed the station before everything calmed down and the train started running again. That all only took about 10 minutes, and I even saw a friend, who chatted with me until we had to transfer trains. Despite that mishap, and the inability to figure how to get the bride-to-be to her own shower without ruining the surprise, things went quite well.
Until the next day.
The next day I learned that the bride-to-be had hated it, and the bridesmaids were never, ever to surprise her again. *Gulp!*
Perhaps I wasn’t so far off with my assumptions in the first place. But whether or not everyone enjoyed it, it WAS a fabulous party-—with no lonely, puffy-sleeved girls in sight.
Why my computer is as slow as molasses
“Mother!”
I think I whined it. No, I’m fairly certain I whined. I whined out of impatience and exasperation. She was still on the computer, hours later, uploading pictures and chatting with strangers.
“You’re giving me viruses,” I told her, plopping down next to her on my sister’s bed.
“I’m not giving you viruses,” she responded, her eyes remaining glued to the computer screen. An error box suddenly popped up—for Internet Explorer, a browser I had uninstalled weeks ago.
“See?!” I said, pointing to the screen. “That’s a virus, and all the strange sites you visit are giving me more viruses.”
She pooh-pooh’d me, and went back to her web browsing. Only, my computer had mysteriously slowed down within minutes, and I watched her jab mercilessly at the built-in mouse (which was broken, I would later learn).
“You’re going to break my computer,” I said, my heart aching for the aging machinery (it’s only three years old, but Dell computers age at seven times dog years). My frustration frustrated her, and she surrendered the laptop, suggesting that I give it to my dad to fix.
My dad is something of a computer guru, or so I’ve been led to believe all my life. He even attended my current college years ago, taking programming classes. Yet, I hesitated. Not only did my computer contain sensitive material about my THOUGHTS and FEELINGS (about EVERYTHING), I wasn’t even sure if he could fix it, or if he’d ever give it back to me, unscathed.
Familial pressure got to me, and the next day, I shoved the computer into my ancient computer bag (okay, it’s also three years old) and handed it to my little sisters as they ran out the door to spend the weekend with dad. I had to resort to reading books and watching movies, like “Meet the Robinsons”, that I’ve already seen 15 times. Not having the Internet or even a word processing program made my brain work harder. I know, I know. Poor me! Ha.
With the weekend over, my sisters returned, sans computer.
“I’m still working on it,” said my father.
“It never left the car,” said my sisters.
“AGH!” said I.
Several days passed, and then, somehow, it was decided that I would go home Tuesday night, and my mother would drive me because she didn’t have work the next day. I called my father to find out where he was with the computer.
“Important clients … blah, blah … another computer with the same problem … blah … blah … still working on it.”
“Can you mail it to me?” I asked, not about to wait a few more days just to see if he could fix it.
He agreed, and I returned to Brooklyn. I used my roommate’s computer, and I ached for the people I’d left behind in Pennsylvania. Then, even more days later, he called me. “What’s your password?”
My mouth literally dropped open; I felt it. I password protected my laptop my sophomore year of college, when I had a psycho, unpredictable roommate. It was a simple password, and he should have been able to guess it from the hint.
I said, after a heavy moment of silence passed (a "pregnant pause"), “You didn’t even start?!”
“Important clients … blah, blah,” he said. “Blah, blah. What’s your password?”
I told him, my brain still stunned, for some reason. School was about to start, and I really, really needed my lap top back. Plus, I needed to start applying for real jobs, using limitless online resources.
I don’t think I said good bye at the end of that conversation. My computer had sat in his car or house for about a week and a half, and he hadn’t even turned it on. I was confused about why I’d even given it to him.
The weekend before school started, I escaped Brooklyn to visit my aunt and uncle in Jersey. On the way to the train, I stopped by the post office – I had a package slip; my computer had arrived.
My father packed it in a humungous box, and I carried that box, along with a duffel bag and a purse, all the way into the city and then onto the NJ transit train. People stared at me.
(That was new, because I’m usually invisible. Which would totally be my super power – real invisibility, not just the kind where people forget you’re there, trying to join the conversation. Would make a brilliant CIA agent, I think. ... moving on ...)
At my uncle’s house, I unpacked my computer and tried turning it on. That’s when I found that my computer, which had previously been able to pass as a spry 50 year old, was now 80 years old.
But, my dad had worked his magic. My computer was virus free, and now sporting a new software program that detected and deleted viruses. Every other day, it deletes at least seven more infections.
Some things just need time.
I think I whined it. No, I’m fairly certain I whined. I whined out of impatience and exasperation. She was still on the computer, hours later, uploading pictures and chatting with strangers.
“You’re giving me viruses,” I told her, plopping down next to her on my sister’s bed.
“I’m not giving you viruses,” she responded, her eyes remaining glued to the computer screen. An error box suddenly popped up—for Internet Explorer, a browser I had uninstalled weeks ago.
“See?!” I said, pointing to the screen. “That’s a virus, and all the strange sites you visit are giving me more viruses.”
She pooh-pooh’d me, and went back to her web browsing. Only, my computer had mysteriously slowed down within minutes, and I watched her jab mercilessly at the built-in mouse (which was broken, I would later learn).
“You’re going to break my computer,” I said, my heart aching for the aging machinery (it’s only three years old, but Dell computers age at seven times dog years). My frustration frustrated her, and she surrendered the laptop, suggesting that I give it to my dad to fix.
My dad is something of a computer guru, or so I’ve been led to believe all my life. He even attended my current college years ago, taking programming classes. Yet, I hesitated. Not only did my computer contain sensitive material about my THOUGHTS and FEELINGS (about EVERYTHING), I wasn’t even sure if he could fix it, or if he’d ever give it back to me, unscathed.
Familial pressure got to me, and the next day, I shoved the computer into my ancient computer bag (okay, it’s also three years old) and handed it to my little sisters as they ran out the door to spend the weekend with dad. I had to resort to reading books and watching movies, like “Meet the Robinsons”, that I’ve already seen 15 times. Not having the Internet or even a word processing program made my brain work harder. I know, I know. Poor me! Ha.
With the weekend over, my sisters returned, sans computer.
“I’m still working on it,” said my father.
“It never left the car,” said my sisters.
“AGH!” said I.
Several days passed, and then, somehow, it was decided that I would go home Tuesday night, and my mother would drive me because she didn’t have work the next day. I called my father to find out where he was with the computer.
“Important clients … blah, blah … another computer with the same problem … blah … blah … still working on it.”
“Can you mail it to me?” I asked, not about to wait a few more days just to see if he could fix it.
He agreed, and I returned to Brooklyn. I used my roommate’s computer, and I ached for the people I’d left behind in Pennsylvania. Then, even more days later, he called me. “What’s your password?”
My mouth literally dropped open; I felt it. I password protected my laptop my sophomore year of college, when I had a psycho, unpredictable roommate. It was a simple password, and he should have been able to guess it from the hint.
I said, after a heavy moment of silence passed (a "pregnant pause"), “You didn’t even start?!”
“Important clients … blah, blah,” he said. “Blah, blah. What’s your password?”
I told him, my brain still stunned, for some reason. School was about to start, and I really, really needed my lap top back. Plus, I needed to start applying for real jobs, using limitless online resources.
I don’t think I said good bye at the end of that conversation. My computer had sat in his car or house for about a week and a half, and he hadn’t even turned it on. I was confused about why I’d even given it to him.
The weekend before school started, I escaped Brooklyn to visit my aunt and uncle in Jersey. On the way to the train, I stopped by the post office – I had a package slip; my computer had arrived.
My father packed it in a humungous box, and I carried that box, along with a duffel bag and a purse, all the way into the city and then onto the NJ transit train. People stared at me.
(That was new, because I’m usually invisible. Which would totally be my super power – real invisibility, not just the kind where people forget you’re there, trying to join the conversation. Would make a brilliant CIA agent, I think. ... moving on ...)
At my uncle’s house, I unpacked my computer and tried turning it on. That’s when I found that my computer, which had previously been able to pass as a spry 50 year old, was now 80 years old.
But, my dad had worked his magic. My computer was virus free, and now sporting a new software program that detected and deleted viruses. Every other day, it deletes at least seven more infections.
Some things just need time.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Why I enjoyed rock climbing
I wasn’t supposed to go. She’d asked me on a whim, inviting me to go to dim sum, and then explaining that everyone else would go rock climbing afterwards. The two of us would go somewhere else—Borders, perhaps. She wasn’t allowing herself to think about rock climbing, and it was my responsibility to make sure she didn’t talk herself into it.
We decided to accompany the group to the health club. We’d stay with them until the rest of the people coming trickled in, and then we’d leave. I sensed the danger as soon as we found the building. There were amazing pictures posted on the walls of daredevil climbers, and a video of professional rock climbers played in a loop on the TV. The danger I felt wasn’t the danger of falling—it was the danger of being coerced into doing.
There were two rooms – a big one with ropes and about 30 people already scaling the walls, and a smaller room with fewer people. We’d find out that the smaller room was called the boulder room, the kiddie version, where people would attempt various levels of walls without ropes. In there, we would see a pint-sized girl swinging on the wall at an astonishing height, her hands chalky and her feet sure. Her calm demeanor amazed everyone.
My friend grew quiet as the rest of the group put away their things and started stepping into gear – climbing shoes and a ridiculous harness that made me think of cowboys. Then the employees started baiting us. “Scared?” they’d ask, daring us with their eyes. I shrugged it off, prepared to walk away, but I watched my friend’s forehead knot up more and more by the second.
“There’s a smaller room,” the employees added, “if you don’t want to climb the bigger walls.”
She finally came over to me and asked me if I wanted to climb. “Not really,” I said, although I wanted to say I wasn’t scared. I wanted to prove those guys with smug smiles and long hair that I totally wasn’t scared, but I couldn’t do that without actually climbing a wall. “I can’t afford it,” I added, as an excuse, which was true. Her eyes lit up; she’d found a way. “I’ll pay for you,” she said.
“But you need that money for books,” I pointed out. She shrugged that off. Somehow, we managed to work out a plan – I’d pay her a quarter per week for the next ten years. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
I was definitely not dressed for climbing, wearing jeans and a tight tank top underneath a sweater. That tank top would get me into trouble later, revealing too much skin at awkward times and resulting in one of the guys in our group asking for my phone number (he never did call, thankfully).
The first wall defeated my friend. She got about a third of the way up, but it was just a difficult wall. After texting someone, our guide finally decided to find us a different wall. Once he did, it was my turn to climb. The first thing I realized was that jeans are not suitable for climbing walls. The second was that next time I go rock climbing, I’m wearing a leotard. I made it to the top, fairly easily, touching, with trembling hands, the bar that held my rope, wrapped around it twice.
“What do I do now?” I called, looking down to see the skin exposure, and hurrying to rectify the situation. They got me down, and I remained embarrassed for the rest of the night: all four hours worth. My friends made it up the wall easily, as well, and then our guide pronounced some sort of mutter over us, probably thinking that we were going to kill each other since we couldn’t remember the terms, and then he left. We were belay certified. He’d texted the entire time, pulling out his phone when he thought we weren’t looking. He was quick to show impatience when we slipped up, but even more obvious was his complete disinterest in being there. I made fun of him later, when we were in the boulder room, pulling out my imaginary phone to send a text: “Sorry we’re that boring.”
Of course, I hadn’t helped matters much by saying “ondalay” instead of “on belay,” but the guy had no sense of humor.
We fooled around in the boulder room for a bit—well, the guys in the group fooled around. My friend and I stood around for most of it, trying to garner the courage to climb a wall without the security of a rope. We found an easier trail, and she went first. Then it was my turn. It wasn’t that high, and when I made it to the top, I decided to jump. In this room, softer mats were set up all along the walls, to make up for the lack of ropes. The instant I let go of the wall I regretted it. I smacked into the mat with a thud, and it scared the bajeeves out of me. I was surprised to learn that I wasn’t hurt after the initial shock wore off. It appears that fear is more of a disabler than actual pain.
Shaken, I declined to try any other small wall seriously. We managed to start some other trails, but didn’t get much farther. “Wanna try the big room again?” I asked, enviously watching the naturals scale walls with Spider-man-like skills. She agreed, and we went back into the other room to face our deaths.
We picked the wrong wall. It was her turn first, and without the guide there to make sure I didn’t mess up, I felt much less confidence in my abilities to keep the rope secured. She made it about half way up the wall, but then wanted down. She’d gotten scared.
It was my turn, then, and I started up the wall. I got stuck, and dropped into the harness. My weight held as I dangled off the wall. I wanted her to let me down, let me go, but the extremely uncomfortable harness, digging into my legs, had the reverse effect. I can beat the pain, I decided, and I grabbed for the wall again. What followed was the longest moment of my life. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get past that point on the wall. My hands were too slippery. I was too weak. My feet weren’t staying where I wanted them to stay. Then I started hearing snide comments. Whether they were about me or not, I had no way of knowing. My face was in the plastic hand holds, and I couldn’t see anything. But the comments were mocking – some saying that I—or someone else—couldn’t do it. Others were more encouraging, but the mocking comments stuck in my head. I wanted to prove them wrong. I flung back my hair – which was loose, because of course I didn’t have a hair band – and I tried again. And again. And again. And somehow, I managed to break through, and get the next hand hold, and the next, and soon, I was reaching for that metal bar again, grazing it with just the tips of my fingers.
The air gushed out of my lungs in a huge sigh as I sat back into the harness, and then I turned to look down and ask her to let me descend. I’d done it—I’d finished—and somehow, it was suddenly and singularly one of the most difficult and gratifying things I’d ever accomplished.
The next day, I had the bruises and the aches to prove it.
We decided to accompany the group to the health club. We’d stay with them until the rest of the people coming trickled in, and then we’d leave. I sensed the danger as soon as we found the building. There were amazing pictures posted on the walls of daredevil climbers, and a video of professional rock climbers played in a loop on the TV. The danger I felt wasn’t the danger of falling—it was the danger of being coerced into doing.
There were two rooms – a big one with ropes and about 30 people already scaling the walls, and a smaller room with fewer people. We’d find out that the smaller room was called the boulder room, the kiddie version, where people would attempt various levels of walls without ropes. In there, we would see a pint-sized girl swinging on the wall at an astonishing height, her hands chalky and her feet sure. Her calm demeanor amazed everyone.
My friend grew quiet as the rest of the group put away their things and started stepping into gear – climbing shoes and a ridiculous harness that made me think of cowboys. Then the employees started baiting us. “Scared?” they’d ask, daring us with their eyes. I shrugged it off, prepared to walk away, but I watched my friend’s forehead knot up more and more by the second.
“There’s a smaller room,” the employees added, “if you don’t want to climb the bigger walls.”
She finally came over to me and asked me if I wanted to climb. “Not really,” I said, although I wanted to say I wasn’t scared. I wanted to prove those guys with smug smiles and long hair that I totally wasn’t scared, but I couldn’t do that without actually climbing a wall. “I can’t afford it,” I added, as an excuse, which was true. Her eyes lit up; she’d found a way. “I’ll pay for you,” she said.
“But you need that money for books,” I pointed out. She shrugged that off. Somehow, we managed to work out a plan – I’d pay her a quarter per week for the next ten years. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
I was definitely not dressed for climbing, wearing jeans and a tight tank top underneath a sweater. That tank top would get me into trouble later, revealing too much skin at awkward times and resulting in one of the guys in our group asking for my phone number (he never did call, thankfully).
The first wall defeated my friend. She got about a third of the way up, but it was just a difficult wall. After texting someone, our guide finally decided to find us a different wall. Once he did, it was my turn to climb. The first thing I realized was that jeans are not suitable for climbing walls. The second was that next time I go rock climbing, I’m wearing a leotard. I made it to the top, fairly easily, touching, with trembling hands, the bar that held my rope, wrapped around it twice.
“What do I do now?” I called, looking down to see the skin exposure, and hurrying to rectify the situation. They got me down, and I remained embarrassed for the rest of the night: all four hours worth. My friends made it up the wall easily, as well, and then our guide pronounced some sort of mutter over us, probably thinking that we were going to kill each other since we couldn’t remember the terms, and then he left. We were belay certified. He’d texted the entire time, pulling out his phone when he thought we weren’t looking. He was quick to show impatience when we slipped up, but even more obvious was his complete disinterest in being there. I made fun of him later, when we were in the boulder room, pulling out my imaginary phone to send a text: “Sorry we’re that boring.”
Of course, I hadn’t helped matters much by saying “ondalay” instead of “on belay,” but the guy had no sense of humor.
We fooled around in the boulder room for a bit—well, the guys in the group fooled around. My friend and I stood around for most of it, trying to garner the courage to climb a wall without the security of a rope. We found an easier trail, and she went first. Then it was my turn. It wasn’t that high, and when I made it to the top, I decided to jump. In this room, softer mats were set up all along the walls, to make up for the lack of ropes. The instant I let go of the wall I regretted it. I smacked into the mat with a thud, and it scared the bajeeves out of me. I was surprised to learn that I wasn’t hurt after the initial shock wore off. It appears that fear is more of a disabler than actual pain.
Shaken, I declined to try any other small wall seriously. We managed to start some other trails, but didn’t get much farther. “Wanna try the big room again?” I asked, enviously watching the naturals scale walls with Spider-man-like skills. She agreed, and we went back into the other room to face our deaths.
We picked the wrong wall. It was her turn first, and without the guide there to make sure I didn’t mess up, I felt much less confidence in my abilities to keep the rope secured. She made it about half way up the wall, but then wanted down. She’d gotten scared.
It was my turn, then, and I started up the wall. I got stuck, and dropped into the harness. My weight held as I dangled off the wall. I wanted her to let me down, let me go, but the extremely uncomfortable harness, digging into my legs, had the reverse effect. I can beat the pain, I decided, and I grabbed for the wall again. What followed was the longest moment of my life. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get past that point on the wall. My hands were too slippery. I was too weak. My feet weren’t staying where I wanted them to stay. Then I started hearing snide comments. Whether they were about me or not, I had no way of knowing. My face was in the plastic hand holds, and I couldn’t see anything. But the comments were mocking – some saying that I—or someone else—couldn’t do it. Others were more encouraging, but the mocking comments stuck in my head. I wanted to prove them wrong. I flung back my hair – which was loose, because of course I didn’t have a hair band – and I tried again. And again. And again. And somehow, I managed to break through, and get the next hand hold, and the next, and soon, I was reaching for that metal bar again, grazing it with just the tips of my fingers.
The air gushed out of my lungs in a huge sigh as I sat back into the harness, and then I turned to look down and ask her to let me descend. I’d done it—I’d finished—and somehow, it was suddenly and singularly one of the most difficult and gratifying things I’d ever accomplished.
The next day, I had the bruises and the aches to prove it.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Why I procrastinate
These guys are awesome. I love his hair.
Penelope reminds me of someone I know.
I have some awesome friends. Written interaction isn't as good as spoken interaction over a cup of coffee, but I take what I can get.
I prefer fantasy to reality. More so if pictures are involved.
I have random tastes when it comes to music.
I love watching a good story unfold on screen, and I can't wait for this one.
Penelope reminds me of someone I know.
I have some awesome friends. Written interaction isn't as good as spoken interaction over a cup of coffee, but I take what I can get.
I prefer fantasy to reality. More so if pictures are involved.
I have random tastes when it comes to music.
I love watching a good story unfold on screen, and I can't wait for this one.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Why I hate public transportation
I tend to go somewhere else in my mind when I'm taking public transportation. If I have a fabulous fiction book, I'll escape entirely through reading. If I have to read for school, I'll usually zone out by looking out the window intermittently with trying to skim a few pages.
It's a lot of smelly people crammed into one little space on the bus or train, and I want to avoid eye contact in case a Crazy shows up, but I also want to make sure I'm not depriving the elderly, the pregnant, or the parent of a seat they need. Worse, I HAVE to take public transportation. I can't afford a car. I can barely afford MTA.
I usually watch the fortunate as they drive by in their minivans and beat-up sedans. At one bus stop, I saw one young man sitting in the front seat of a minivan, holding a shaking (from tininess and indignation, apparently) white dog on his lap. He laughed with the driver as the dog barked at something. The car sped off as the light turned green, while I sat in my seat, waiting for more people to get on the bus.
Despite the smells and possibly contagious diseases transferred by coughs or sneezes, MTA isn't too, too bad, especially when you manage to catch it during an off-hour, when everyone is already at work or school. I've never had a problem with completely careless driver, and cars usually respect the bus.
Or, cars did respect the bus.
This morning, I watched people through the window per usual. My brain was tired, and my anthology of plays lay open in my lap, unread. Jewish neighborhoods are always fun. I look to see what they are wearing, and try to guess if they're married or not. We were inching past the light near a synagogue. Having spied all the personalities I could catch, I then looked down, still through the window, eyeing a car that was trying to make a right turn. The car turned, ever so slowly, and I waited for the car to stop. The bus was clearly in the way -- half past the car. But the car didn't stop, in fact, the car continued to turn -- into the bus.
It wasn't a bang or a thump; it was a crackle. The car crackled into the bus.
The bus driver pulled the bus over, and told us all to get off. She was clearly annoyed. We filtered off, some not even realizing what had happened, and crossed the street to head back to the bus stop. Pieces of the errant vehicle littered the road, cracking under passing cars.
Another bus came by five minutes later, which was rather anti-climatic, I thought. I had envisioned missing class, and having to send my professor an email explaining that I'd missed class because my bus had been hit by a car -- and worried that I wouldn't be able to prove it.
No need. I made it to class with three minutes to spare, ready to burst out to my friends that MY BUS HAD BEEN HIT. BY A CAR. But I knew they wouldn't have been impressed. After all, nothing had burst into flames and no blood has been spilled. Next time, I suppose.
It's a lot of smelly people crammed into one little space on the bus or train, and I want to avoid eye contact in case a Crazy shows up, but I also want to make sure I'm not depriving the elderly, the pregnant, or the parent of a seat they need. Worse, I HAVE to take public transportation. I can't afford a car. I can barely afford MTA.
I usually watch the fortunate as they drive by in their minivans and beat-up sedans. At one bus stop, I saw one young man sitting in the front seat of a minivan, holding a shaking (from tininess and indignation, apparently) white dog on his lap. He laughed with the driver as the dog barked at something. The car sped off as the light turned green, while I sat in my seat, waiting for more people to get on the bus.
Despite the smells and possibly contagious diseases transferred by coughs or sneezes, MTA isn't too, too bad, especially when you manage to catch it during an off-hour, when everyone is already at work or school. I've never had a problem with completely careless driver, and cars usually respect the bus.
Or, cars did respect the bus.
This morning, I watched people through the window per usual. My brain was tired, and my anthology of plays lay open in my lap, unread. Jewish neighborhoods are always fun. I look to see what they are wearing, and try to guess if they're married or not. We were inching past the light near a synagogue. Having spied all the personalities I could catch, I then looked down, still through the window, eyeing a car that was trying to make a right turn. The car turned, ever so slowly, and I waited for the car to stop. The bus was clearly in the way -- half past the car. But the car didn't stop, in fact, the car continued to turn -- into the bus.
It wasn't a bang or a thump; it was a crackle. The car crackled into the bus.
The bus driver pulled the bus over, and told us all to get off. She was clearly annoyed. We filtered off, some not even realizing what had happened, and crossed the street to head back to the bus stop. Pieces of the errant vehicle littered the road, cracking under passing cars.
Another bus came by five minutes later, which was rather anti-climatic, I thought. I had envisioned missing class, and having to send my professor an email explaining that I'd missed class because my bus had been hit by a car -- and worried that I wouldn't be able to prove it.
No need. I made it to class with three minutes to spare, ready to burst out to my friends that MY BUS HAD BEEN HIT. BY A CAR. But I knew they wouldn't have been impressed. After all, nothing had burst into flames and no blood has been spilled. Next time, I suppose.
Why I don't plan parties
My brain is about to explode. If you hear something that vaguely sounds like a potato exploding in the microwave, well, then, that means my brains are all over the walls, and there is no longer any hope for me.
I believe this is the semester that will kill me, and instead of calmly reciting all that I've taken on, I am going to sit here and feel my brain deaden, just a little bit more, in preparation for combustion.
All I can really count on, these days, is that I might get all my reading done, or I might get compliments on how pretty I look (thank you, you person at church you, who manages to make a comment that I think is supposed to sound like a compliment sound instead like a painful insult), or I just might end up with something in my teeth that no one bothers to tell me about.
I meant to write an explanation of why I don't plan parties, but I can't think too much right now. That will be coming up next, along with an explanation about the return of my computer, a detailed description of my rock climbing experience, and perhaps a piece mocking several of my professors.
I believe this is the semester that will kill me, and instead of calmly reciting all that I've taken on, I am going to sit here and feel my brain deaden, just a little bit more, in preparation for combustion.
All I can really count on, these days, is that I might get all my reading done, or I might get compliments on how pretty I look (thank you, you person at church you, who manages to make a comment that I think is supposed to sound like a compliment sound instead like a painful insult), or I just might end up with something in my teeth that no one bothers to tell me about.
I meant to write an explanation of why I don't plan parties, but I can't think too much right now. That will be coming up next, along with an explanation about the return of my computer, a detailed description of my rock climbing experience, and perhaps a piece mocking several of my professors.
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