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.
Friday, February 6, 2009
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.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Looking for perfection
I'm back in Brooklyn. My computer, however, is still in Pennsylvania, with my errant father, who called me this morning to ask for the password to log on to the computer. Which means, for the past week and a half, my father has been in possession of my computer and not looked at it once. On the silver lining side: I find myself fortunate to have a roommate with a fairly nice mac laptop, and she lets me use it.
Unfortunately, my roommate is getting married. Hopefully, by the time she does, I'll have my laptop back. With my father, who knows. Since my roommate is leaving me and I'm still a full-time student who barely makes enough to eat and take public transportation, I need to find a new roommate. I have specific qualifications, and believe me, you don't qualify. I'm hoping that the snooty girl who just called me fifteen minutes ago and who is coming on Thursday to look at the apartment doesn't qualify either. I'm looking for the perfect roommate. As more and more people contact me about the room, time restrictions aside, I'm fairly certain she doesn't exist. Sigh. Looking for a roommate is sort of like shopping for Mr. or Miss Right. One creates this image in one's head that is totally smashed by the real-life options.
Coming up -- when my computer is delivered safely back into my hands -- more updates! Photos! Pretty illustrations created in Adobe Illustrator! I took a picture of this amazing bruise on my knee, the residue of rock climbing on Saturday, but I can't post it yet. When I can, I'll give you the full story as well. A little teaser -- it was GREAT. I am so sore. I can't wait to go again.
Unfortunately, my roommate is getting married. Hopefully, by the time she does, I'll have my laptop back. With my father, who knows. Since my roommate is leaving me and I'm still a full-time student who barely makes enough to eat and take public transportation, I need to find a new roommate. I have specific qualifications, and believe me, you don't qualify. I'm hoping that the snooty girl who just called me fifteen minutes ago and who is coming on Thursday to look at the apartment doesn't qualify either. I'm looking for the perfect roommate. As more and more people contact me about the room, time restrictions aside, I'm fairly certain she doesn't exist. Sigh. Looking for a roommate is sort of like shopping for Mr. or Miss Right. One creates this image in one's head that is totally smashed by the real-life options.
Coming up -- when my computer is delivered safely back into my hands -- more updates! Photos! Pretty illustrations created in Adobe Illustrator! I took a picture of this amazing bruise on my knee, the residue of rock climbing on Saturday, but I can't post it yet. When I can, I'll give you the full story as well. A little teaser -- it was GREAT. I am so sore. I can't wait to go again.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Fixing mistakes
The house has been a bit more tension-filled lately than usual. It's possible that there's more tension because school was canceled on Wednesday, and no one was able to escape the stifling confines of the house except my older sister.
Another possibility is that everyone has been more on edge because the baby Greg has refused to sleep through the night. Three nights of little sleep + seven grumpy people = Recipe for Lots of Tension. The baby Greg is one of the few infants who does not succumb to my ability to soothe. The baby Greg hates everything, and protests by crying. The latest thing the baby Greg hates? Falling asleep, apparently.
With everyone ready to punch through walls, the house has been interesting. This includes my brother sitting on my littlest sister today. We were about to play a round of minigolf on the gamecube. She accidentally selected a different character than the one he wanted. He sat on her, she ran off crying to Mother, and I played all three characters myself until he was sent to his room and she composed herself. Somewhere in the middle of that particular incident, he proclaimed that he doesn't "freak out over little things." I said, "She gave you Maurice instead of Julian. Are you sure you don't freak out over little things?" He was suddenly very quiet.
Not too long after that, my older sister asked me if I'd been putting the antibiotic powder in the baby Greg's formula when making him bottles. "No," I said. "You didn't tell me to."
"I DID tell you," she insisted. "You don't listen to me!"
"I DO listen to you," I said, knocking the golf ball a little too hard and wincing as it bounded way past the spot I was aiming for. "You didn't mention it."
"I DID mention it," she said. "That's why he's been crying! You're the reason I haven't gotten sleep for the past three nights!"
Tonight, the house is utterly silent while the baby Greg sleeps peacefully.
Another possibility is that everyone has been more on edge because the baby Greg has refused to sleep through the night. Three nights of little sleep + seven grumpy people = Recipe for Lots of Tension. The baby Greg is one of the few infants who does not succumb to my ability to soothe. The baby Greg hates everything, and protests by crying. The latest thing the baby Greg hates? Falling asleep, apparently.
With everyone ready to punch through walls, the house has been interesting. This includes my brother sitting on my littlest sister today. We were about to play a round of minigolf on the gamecube. She accidentally selected a different character than the one he wanted. He sat on her, she ran off crying to Mother, and I played all three characters myself until he was sent to his room and she composed herself. Somewhere in the middle of that particular incident, he proclaimed that he doesn't "freak out over little things." I said, "She gave you Maurice instead of Julian. Are you sure you don't freak out over little things?" He was suddenly very quiet.
Not too long after that, my older sister asked me if I'd been putting the antibiotic powder in the baby Greg's formula when making him bottles. "No," I said. "You didn't tell me to."
"I DID tell you," she insisted. "You don't listen to me!"
"I DO listen to you," I said, knocking the golf ball a little too hard and wincing as it bounded way past the spot I was aiming for. "You didn't mention it."
"I DID mention it," she said. "That's why he's been crying! You're the reason I haven't gotten sleep for the past three nights!"
Tonight, the house is utterly silent while the baby Greg sleeps peacefully.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Going back
I haven't seen my high school in four years. As I walked down the steps and into the cafeteria, my heart climbed into my throat and remained lodged there all evening.
I owe them $500 or so for tuition. They almost didn't let me graduate because of it. But there is a God, and for some reason, He cares about me, and through His grace, I graduated.
I am still embarrassed about that debt, however, and I had planned not to show up again until I had it. My plans changed with the re-introduction of a certain boy, and then the re-connection of a certain friend, who told me that she was starting a newspaper. Good-looking boys and newspapers, all in one night? I managed to bribe my brother into driving me. My brother brought his girlfriend and his best friend, and then my sister tagged along, and thus it was that the five us crammed into my brother's friend's mother's car.
All of them smoke, and during the ride home, they not only froze me to death with the windows hanging open, but they also nearly scalded my eyeballs out of my head because my sister was unable to get her cigarette ashes out the window. Today, nothing was more frightening than little bits of embers in the dark shooting towards my face. However, the screaming definitely released some tension, while simultaneously annoying everyone else, which was an added bonus.
We've always been outsiders at my high school. I was never sure why, but I do know it seems as though not much has changed. People were friendly, yes, but there was that nagging, underlying feeling that told me I didn't quite belong. I believe that's a reason why I value my family so much. No matter what happens or how they treat me, it is an undeniable fact that I belong. We're a broken, neurotic mess, but we care about each other; we'd give our lives for each other.
----
All of the above was written yesterday. Today is my birthday. (Edited after some more thought.) Suffice it to say that while I view my family as a neurotic mess, myself included, I love them to death.
And about that good-looking boy that I mentioned both above and in previous posts? I saw him when I visited the high school. He spent all his time ogling and not talking, and I have several Facebook messages that include the phrase "u look good," with nothing else of substance. Dud. Good-looking, but a dud.
----
I can't quite see the lesson here, in all of this. It's somewhere, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be learning, or what I'm supposed to be doing. I walk down the halls of my old high school, and aside from new paint and faces growing older, nothing's changed. What am I waiting for? What am I looking for? What do I want?
I haven't the slightest idea.
I owe them $500 or so for tuition. They almost didn't let me graduate because of it. But there is a God, and for some reason, He cares about me, and through His grace, I graduated.
I am still embarrassed about that debt, however, and I had planned not to show up again until I had it. My plans changed with the re-introduction of a certain boy, and then the re-connection of a certain friend, who told me that she was starting a newspaper. Good-looking boys and newspapers, all in one night? I managed to bribe my brother into driving me. My brother brought his girlfriend and his best friend, and then my sister tagged along, and thus it was that the five us crammed into my brother's friend's mother's car.
All of them smoke, and during the ride home, they not only froze me to death with the windows hanging open, but they also nearly scalded my eyeballs out of my head because my sister was unable to get her cigarette ashes out the window. Today, nothing was more frightening than little bits of embers in the dark shooting towards my face. However, the screaming definitely released some tension, while simultaneously annoying everyone else, which was an added bonus.
We've always been outsiders at my high school. I was never sure why, but I do know it seems as though not much has changed. People were friendly, yes, but there was that nagging, underlying feeling that told me I didn't quite belong. I believe that's a reason why I value my family so much. No matter what happens or how they treat me, it is an undeniable fact that I belong. We're a broken, neurotic mess, but we care about each other; we'd give our lives for each other.
----
All of the above was written yesterday. Today is my birthday. (Edited after some more thought.) Suffice it to say that while I view my family as a neurotic mess, myself included, I love them to death.
And about that good-looking boy that I mentioned both above and in previous posts? I saw him when I visited the high school. He spent all his time ogling and not talking, and I have several Facebook messages that include the phrase "u look good," with nothing else of substance. Dud. Good-looking, but a dud.
----
I can't quite see the lesson here, in all of this. It's somewhere, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be learning, or what I'm supposed to be doing. I walk down the halls of my old high school, and aside from new paint and faces growing older, nothing's changed. What am I waiting for? What am I looking for? What do I want?
I haven't the slightest idea.
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