We used to be a team, you and I.
We went everywhere together.
We got hungry at the same time.
We went to sleep at the same time, and we dreamt together, of each other.
You affected me deeply,
and you were completely dependent on me.
I just want you to remember this when you think that I don't understand you,
when you feel like we're distant,
when spending time with me is the last thing that you want to do.
We have a connection, and it's deeper than your friendships,
more profound than your music or books.
We used to be one. We are a team.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Fly
I've been stuck inside the house with this fly for two days now.
It entered--intruded--through the back door, and immediately we both regretted it.
And then, for the next 48 hours, where ever I went, so went the fly.
To the bread box.
To the bathrobe.
To the vanity.
It followed me into every room, every activity.
It watched me sleep.
And then, at the end of the second day, as I watched it slowly give way to lethargy,
its movements more and more delayed, its flight paths progressively more clumsy,
it followed me to the screen door, and together we went outside.
It entered--intruded--through the back door, and immediately we both regretted it.
And then, for the next 48 hours, where ever I went, so went the fly.
To the bread box.
To the bathrobe.
To the vanity.
It followed me into every room, every activity.
It watched me sleep.
And then, at the end of the second day, as I watched it slowly give way to lethargy,
its movements more and more delayed, its flight paths progressively more clumsy,
it followed me to the screen door, and together we went outside.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Morning
Hardwood underfoot
the east windows of the small house exude dim light.
the night is retreating slowly, sleep its faithful companion.
The kettle waits on the stove, and the mixture of tea, milk, and sugar greet me warmly.
Cool air streams through the window; moisture hovers in the yard.
It is time to turn off the porch light, the faithful night watch security guard.
It is time to peek out the window, to see if anything on the street has changed.
And when it hasn't, when everything is the same today as it was yesterday,
I turn on the radio, make a nice breakfast, and think about the world.
the east windows of the small house exude dim light.
the night is retreating slowly, sleep its faithful companion.
The kettle waits on the stove, and the mixture of tea, milk, and sugar greet me warmly.
Cool air streams through the window; moisture hovers in the yard.
It is time to turn off the porch light, the faithful night watch security guard.
It is time to peek out the window, to see if anything on the street has changed.
And when it hasn't, when everything is the same today as it was yesterday,
I turn on the radio, make a nice breakfast, and think about the world.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
What A Difference A Day Makes
I'm a runner. That statement tends to carry immediate connotations spanning the spectrum from dedication and endurance to stubbornness and arrogance. Most runners, once they've adopted the label, will run through anything: injury, rain, snow, sickness. Running makes everything feel better, and once you're a runner, no other form of workout can satisfy.
Well, I found one thing that I can't run through: pregnancy. Within the first few weeks of growing this adorable parasite, I noticed that running takes too much out of me. Recovery from a simple six mile run took a day or two, and it just didn't feel good. Coincidently, about the same time I accidentally got pregnant, I also got a gym membership. At first I did the elliptical machine while listening to Pregtastic, the informative pregnancy podcast, but eventually the bonding hormones that are heightened during pregnancy led me over to the group classes. The variety of classes, and the chance to dance around for an hour somewhere else besides my living room and the Blues bar kept me coming back on a regular basis. The downside: one of the reasons that I like running so much is that it's on my own schedule, so, naturally, I find it quite challenging to make it through the door on time. (Add to this the fact that these classes start as much as 10-15 minutes late or early--gym clock, not mine.)
Yesterday I thought I was going to my first Zumba class, a cardio workout set to Latin beats. I rushed over to the gym and walked into the group workout room at 9:01 to find that Step class was already well underway, and it was packed. There was one spot left, in the front, right under the speaker. Trying to be flexible and up for anything, I set up my step and joined the workout. Everything went well for the first half of class. The moves that I had learned fifteen years prior while a teenage aerobics junkie paid off. But the steps got increasingly more complicated, the commands more vague, and under the blaring speaker, trying to distinguish what the instructor was saying and what that meant, I stumbled through the second half. It is important to note that I was indeed not the only one who was lost. About 80 percent of the crowded class of gym members were lost as well, and that made Doreen mad. It started with little comments about charging people extra for individual lessons, and progressed until, during a water break, I asked her apologetically if she would mind turning the music down a notch. She told me not to work out under the speaker. I apologized again, told her not to worry about it, and explained that since I was late, that was the only spot available. During the next sequence, she forgot to say a command and explained away her error saying that her mind was wandering, she was thinking about how "if you don't like the volume level, you shouldn't pick a spot under the speaker." She continued with comments about how she didn't understand how people couldn't keep up with her choreography, how she had kept it "simple" for the new people, and how the most important thing is "to have fun," and she should know because she "does this ten times a week." Many of us were trying our hardest, but from the vibe in the room, people were not having the fun she spoke of. I cried in my car.
I almost didn't go to a class the next day. It didn't seem worth the emotional turmoil. But, I wanted to try Zumba, so I drove to class 20 minutes early and waited for it to start (surprisingly on time). I introduced myself to the instructor, Glo, after she greeted me with with a hearty "Beunos dias! How are you doing this morning!? I just woke up and now I'm here and it's going to be a great day!" and asked her to include modifications for pregnancy. She warmly explained how she gave commands in the class, and a diverse mix of young and old gym members filed in. That's when the party started. Glo didn't do much talking during the songs, and when she did talk, she did so both in Spanish and English. Mostly she instructed through hand motions, then threw in extra spins and hip movements, waving her head around capriciously with a huge Latina smile. Everyone was into it: the old Chinese lady that I recognized from hip-hop class, the 12 year-old Hispanic girl and her mother, the intense workout divas, and the one other white girl. We were having the time of our lives, and Glo was our convivial, fearless leader. At the end of class, after we all cheered, she turned out the lights, put on "Boom-boom Pow," and told us that this was our personal dance party. She wasn't kidding. We stood in a circle and let loose, moving in whatever way we felt. She started a party line through the middle of the circle, and, one by one, each of us sported our dance moves in the dim light of the workout room, shouting and clapping, spinning and stomping, getting that boom-boom-boom. Afterward, when I was grabbing my purse, Glo came over to me and asked, "how did you do, mamcita?" I suppressed the urge to hug her as I thanked her for the workout.
Well, I found one thing that I can't run through: pregnancy. Within the first few weeks of growing this adorable parasite, I noticed that running takes too much out of me. Recovery from a simple six mile run took a day or two, and it just didn't feel good. Coincidently, about the same time I accidentally got pregnant, I also got a gym membership. At first I did the elliptical machine while listening to Pregtastic, the informative pregnancy podcast, but eventually the bonding hormones that are heightened during pregnancy led me over to the group classes. The variety of classes, and the chance to dance around for an hour somewhere else besides my living room and the Blues bar kept me coming back on a regular basis. The downside: one of the reasons that I like running so much is that it's on my own schedule, so, naturally, I find it quite challenging to make it through the door on time. (Add to this the fact that these classes start as much as 10-15 minutes late or early--gym clock, not mine.)
Yesterday I thought I was going to my first Zumba class, a cardio workout set to Latin beats. I rushed over to the gym and walked into the group workout room at 9:01 to find that Step class was already well underway, and it was packed. There was one spot left, in the front, right under the speaker. Trying to be flexible and up for anything, I set up my step and joined the workout. Everything went well for the first half of class. The moves that I had learned fifteen years prior while a teenage aerobics junkie paid off. But the steps got increasingly more complicated, the commands more vague, and under the blaring speaker, trying to distinguish what the instructor was saying and what that meant, I stumbled through the second half. It is important to note that I was indeed not the only one who was lost. About 80 percent of the crowded class of gym members were lost as well, and that made Doreen mad. It started with little comments about charging people extra for individual lessons, and progressed until, during a water break, I asked her apologetically if she would mind turning the music down a notch. She told me not to work out under the speaker. I apologized again, told her not to worry about it, and explained that since I was late, that was the only spot available. During the next sequence, she forgot to say a command and explained away her error saying that her mind was wandering, she was thinking about how "if you don't like the volume level, you shouldn't pick a spot under the speaker." She continued with comments about how she didn't understand how people couldn't keep up with her choreography, how she had kept it "simple" for the new people, and how the most important thing is "to have fun," and she should know because she "does this ten times a week." Many of us were trying our hardest, but from the vibe in the room, people were not having the fun she spoke of. I cried in my car.
I almost didn't go to a class the next day. It didn't seem worth the emotional turmoil. But, I wanted to try Zumba, so I drove to class 20 minutes early and waited for it to start (surprisingly on time). I introduced myself to the instructor, Glo, after she greeted me with with a hearty "Beunos dias! How are you doing this morning!? I just woke up and now I'm here and it's going to be a great day!" and asked her to include modifications for pregnancy. She warmly explained how she gave commands in the class, and a diverse mix of young and old gym members filed in. That's when the party started. Glo didn't do much talking during the songs, and when she did talk, she did so both in Spanish and English. Mostly she instructed through hand motions, then threw in extra spins and hip movements, waving her head around capriciously with a huge Latina smile. Everyone was into it: the old Chinese lady that I recognized from hip-hop class, the 12 year-old Hispanic girl and her mother, the intense workout divas, and the one other white girl. We were having the time of our lives, and Glo was our convivial, fearless leader. At the end of class, after we all cheered, she turned out the lights, put on "Boom-boom Pow," and told us that this was our personal dance party. She wasn't kidding. We stood in a circle and let loose, moving in whatever way we felt. She started a party line through the middle of the circle, and, one by one, each of us sported our dance moves in the dim light of the workout room, shouting and clapping, spinning and stomping, getting that boom-boom-boom. Afterward, when I was grabbing my purse, Glo came over to me and asked, "how did you do, mamcita?" I suppressed the urge to hug her as I thanked her for the workout.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Facebook Status
Rachel Schultz wishes husbands didn't have ex-girlfriends.
Rachel Schultz wishes husband(s) didn't have ex-girlfriend(s).
Rachel Schultz wishes her husband didn't have that ex-girlfriend.
If I sat down and made a list of my flaws, lack of follow through in relationships--I'll admit it, lack of loyalty--would be on it. I've half-attempted to analyze this in the past. Do I just not care? Am I really too busy? Do I have an out of sight, out of mind mentality? Is this the one area in my life that I've designated to laziness? In the end, I like to think that it comes down to this: I don't like to force things. If someone ignores me, I go away. Enter my husband's most recent ex-girlfriend, "What's Her Face" (I'm not being either mean or respectful by refusing to acknowledge that she has a name; her current title was recommended by my counselor).
Granted, the transition faze between their relationship and ours was quite short. They had just broken up a month or two before I moved in to the apartment complex where they had lived...together. Having met while she was on a two month trip, he returned to the complex a month later to ask me out. I understand that the breakup process can be long and emotional, but their rocky relationship had lasted less than two years. Regardless, I was more than hesitant to start dating him in the first place because of the sensitive geography and emotional baggage. I broke up with him a few months into our relationship when I found out that she had called wanting to know if there was even a glimmer of hope for them, and again a few months later because it seemed she was never going to leave the complex that he had left when they broke up. In weighing the issue, however, it never seemed best to write him off for good, and, in less than two years, we were married. Take that, bitch.
Blame my upbringing or history of acceptance issues: I've always struggled with the idea of What's Her Face. And it didn't help that she popped up every now and then, calling him to ask why he picked me over her, what's wrong with her, why did she waste her time on him. Being a loyal, perhaps overly nurturing, and sensitive guy, my husband accepted her calls and tried to make her feel better about their breakup. The climax came when she called him sobbing (from Vietnam) the day after we got engaged. Wasn't he ever attracted to her? He sent her an email to make her feel better, being at the time a stupid man panicking over causing heartbreak. When I found it ten months later, I nearly left him. Knowing that he was on incredibly thin ice, he sent her an email requesting to "cut off all ties" and assured me that he'd never hear from her again.
If you so much as look at me the wrong way, odds are I won't come around again. This girl seemed to be my polar opposite, and I couldn't trust her any more than I could forget my husband's simple email password. I don't consider myself much of a meddler, but at this point in the saga, I figure I have full rights to all incoming information. So I checked his inbox from time to time. I know, this is petty and pestilent, but it felt in some ways like my right--my duty--to protect what's mine.
And sure enough, six months after the "break the ties" email was sent, she dropped a note to say hello. "It's weird we're not friends anymore...with all the promises to 'always be there for each other.'" It was reminiscent of a high school yearbook. The manipulative comments made my heart pound and stomach drop for about nine seconds, and then I got over it. (OK, OK, so the fact that I'm blogging passionately about it shows that I'm not, but...) In a way, seeing that this girl just doesn't know when to take a hint (or a blatant request to never hear from her again) restored some of my trust in my husband. If a guy that dumped you over three years ago never initiated contact with you, got married, and asked (nicely) to never hear from you again, what would you do? I'd take my cue at the break-up, no matter how consoling and encouraging his words were. Perhaps his recent appearance on Facebook sparked her insatiable need to annoy people who are ignoring her. "We want to make sure that you are, in fact, friends." Indeed, we're not.
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