Archive: Reflection

I don’t know if the girls at the weekend DC meet-up could tell, but I was very nervous about the whole thing. Oh, sure, I sent an e-mail with the dates of my visit months and months and advance, and I was genuinely excited, but mostly, I was scared. My biggest fear was that there would be a huge discrepancy between the online persona I’d built — and presumably, people liked, even just a little bit — and whatever I managed to project in person.

What if the witty, edited, concise person I tried to be in writing turned out to be blathering, insensitive, and opinionated without lag time to process my ramblings? What if I saved up all of my best qualities for virtual interactions at the cost of normal, everyday small talk? What if my predilection toward organization and geekdom, which I assume is ever so charming online, came off as obsessive and antagonistic in the flesh? What if they didn’t like me?

Specifically, I was concerned that:

• My ear-splitting laugh would clear the room.
• I would talk too fast for comprehension.
• My competitive nature would be over the top in a game situation.
• My nails would be the only neglected, unpainted ones.
• All my good stories would be old news.

As far as I can tell, my fears were unfounded, and I did not come off as a total phony. At least, no one has given me that impression, so I assume that was the case. Regardless, as soon as I was back in Gchatting action, I clicked on OPH:

RA: so, be honest
was I annoying in real life?

OPH: um, yeah. I kind of don’t want to be internet friends with you anymore.

RA: sob sob sob

OPH: also, your game kind of sucked

RA: nooooooooo

OPH: KIDDING

RA: phew.

It’s an odd transition, this moving from an online world to the big, bad real one. Too often, I feel more at ease in my keyboard-tapping posture than talking with a new acquaintance, as if this whole conversation thing is all right, but I’d really rather check my e-mail. There’s something off-balance and not right about that, because I need to remember that all of this posting, commenting, and chatting is not simply to indulge my inner writer-in-a-garret. I’m communicating with other people by sharing stories, and the connections therein are not any less valid than those created by meeting in college or a workplace. If I’m doing my best to be genuine in print, then that authenticity should hopefully come through in person.

Even so, a high-minded dose of perspective won’t stop me from worrying that my personal idiosyncrasies will bother those around me. I’m pretty sure I laughed really loudly that night.

This morning, I was filling out paperwork for tuition reimbursement for a class I would like to take in the fall. Professional Writing in the Sciences is the first course in an online master’s program in biomedical writing, and my modest workplace reimbursement would cover it. JG and I figured that I should just take the class, get it reimbursed with my 2008 funds, and then decide if I wanted to pursue the program. Feeling very competent with all of my ducks in a row, I downloaded the forms from the intranet and began the process.

Then I realized that I was not on top of things. Much to my chagrin, the tuition cost per credit had increased since I did my initial calculations, so this first trial class would not be fully covered. I had wrongly assumed that I only needed to complete twelve classes for this program instead of the sixteen that were required, which meant that I would be taking courses for an additional year. Furthermore, my boss informed me that, though not explicitly stated in the policy, the reimbursement amount was subject to taxes, so I would not receive the full amount.

When I plugged these new factors into my spreadsheet of costs, the effect was dizzying. I would have to pay that much to get a graduate degree for that long? Even with the tuition benefit from work, we would have to go much deeper into debt than I had originally thought, and I suddenly wondered if taking out a loan for sheer self-improvement was really wise. An advanced degree might render monetary returns, but there was no guarantee. Plus, we’ve been saving for various other things (a big vacation, a kitchen renovation), and the size of the necessary loan dwarfed these other expenses. Did I really want to commit myself to five years of part-time classes and a huge loan only to be back on the job market and uncertain? Call it sticker shock or reality, but it was hardly a fair trade. I e-mailed JG with my new information and misgivings about the plan, saying that I felt very defeated.

I had reached a level of panic of record intensity, at least in recent memory. Outwardly, one may not have observed much stress, but my breath quickened, and my hands were trembling. Anxious statements circled inside my brain, each egging the other on, and as much as I knew that I should get off that line of thinking, I could not dislodge myself. It was too important, too heavy, too immediate.

I was chatting with OPH at the time, and I instinctively started to spew my stress into the chat box. She talked me down from the ledge, and we commiserated over our respective struggles. Despite the cathartic venting, I still felt like there was a gray cloud of my head, and I typed resolutely, “This is a count your blessings day for me.”

And so, I did.

• I had a great lunch of leftover chicken cacciatore.
• Last night, I finished a really hard climb that has been taunting me for three months.
• I have a low-stress workload right now.
• Our evenings are empty for the rest of the week.
• I am taking Friday off.
• I visit my sister just ten days!
• So far, I’m enjoying the book I’m reading.
• Ted and I had a peaceful, uneventful walk this morning.
• At my request, JG agreed to make ribs for dinner, and we’re having them tomorrow night! My contribution is corn bread.

This type of exercise is very unnatural to me; one of my greatest character flaws is that I automatically seek out the negative in order to fix it. It’s also one of the things that makes me good at my job, but what do you know? Cheesy platitudes about positive thinking aside, I felt better in spite of myself.

Later, JG and I talked about my e-mail, and his suggestions were simple: try out the first class to see if I like it; wait until halfway through to decide about the program as a whole; and investigate financial aid. If nothing else, I still had reimbursement money for the 2008 calendar year, so it would be better to use it rather than postponing the course indefinitely. Maybe talking to a financial advisor would help to quell my anxiety. Yes, that all made sense. Forming a plan of action made the situation seem much less desperate. Deep breath. Carry on.

Last night, I was on edge from the severe thunderstorms in our area. Rain held back as the sky lit up with lightning, followed ominously by rolls of thunder. I do not deal gracefully with thunder. The worst of my high-strung tendencies come out when bands of storms show up on the radar, and I can only curl into a ball and wait for them to pass. I’ve asked JG, only half jokingly, when he’ll build me that soundproof room — “It can double as a recording studio!” — where I imagine that I can happily weather the storm without the knowledge of its violence. Until then, every muscle fiber in my body tenses up at that first flash of lightning, a sharp harbinger of the impending thunder that could be anything from a gentle roll eight miles away to an ear-splitting clap right over our heads. Thank goodness that Ted is not fazed by the noise; dealing with the two of us would be too much to ask of JG. Instead, Ted sits quietly in my arms, even as they tighten around him with every bolt of lightning.

We headed to bed as the storms started to recede, and we turned on reruns of The Office. JG fell asleep fairly quickly, and I shifted uncomfortably. The humidity sat on my skin, despite the whir of the oscillating fan in the corner. I was not anywhere near falling asleep. Between the rumbles of thunder in the distance, the heavy moisture in the air, and the tension in my body from the knowledge that the severe thunderstorm watch was in effect until 1am, I was not in a restful place. Resigned, I kept watching television instead of reading, because holding a book would get in the way of clapping my hands over my ears in case of a sudden upswing in the storm front.

The jazzy introduction of Sex and the City rang in my ears, and I perked up slightly. I never understood the appeal of the show, not really. I never had HBO, so the only snippets of the show I put together from reading magazines in waiting rooms painted a picture of sheer, glossy escapism with a side of tulle skirts, nameplate necklaces, and cosmopolitans. I could appreciate it, but it wasn’t available to me, and that was fine. I gathered that viewers enjoyed the female camaraderie and bawdy conversation, and that most women identified with one specific character out of the four. From my gleanings, I surmised that I was probably Charlotte. I have no plans to see the movie. The fashion doesn’t interest me, and I couldn’t imagine that if I had not “gotten it” up until this point, spending twelve dollars to sit in a theater full of women probably wasn’t going to do the trick. Shrug. No great loss, I figured.

But I found myself watching the two episodes that were scrubbed clean for general consumption. I didn’t know any differently, so all I could see was Sarah Jessica Parker’s affair with Chris Noth, who I will always associate with Law and Order. And then, oh, SJP had on a champagne bridesmaid dress for Kristen Davis’s wedding, and she was telling John Corbett about the affair, and he was pressed against her hair, and SJP was crying, and — what was this? I was teary-eyed? Over SJP and John Corbett? I had always seen this Carrie character as poised and flip, with her laptop and her cigarette, so seeing her reduced to sobs with the backdrop of a wedding was almost too much for me. And I never cry! Well, I didn’t actually cry. Let’s get that straight. But I felt that tug of the heart, the welling of tears, the pull of empathy. So maybe, for just a few minutes in that hot, humid, tense night, I came a little bit closer to understanding why so many women love this show and its characters.

I know I can’t judge off of two episodes viewed under less-than-relaxing circumstances. Maybe I’m the only one who gulped down tears at that scene. Ah, well. Today, I am no longer broken up about SJP and John Corbett, and the humidity has dissipated. Maybe I’ll rent the SATC movie someday, when thunder is in the forecast, and JG has finally built me that soundproof room.

I would never call myself a photographer. My camera fits comfortably in my hand, and I always have it during vacations or special events. I think about whether I would want the picture I see framed in the viewfinder before I press the button. Sometimes, I change my viewpoint or refocus if I think I’ll like it better. I do my best to count to three so people aren’t caught off guard. I make prints for others and send out links online albums when it makes sense. But I just like to take pictures. I’m not a photographer.

I feel much more comfortable with words. Plain, black characters on a white background suit me much more than the world of color, focus, aperture, and light. I can tweak my writing so that it comes close to what I’m thinking, but with pictures, the moment is fleeting, and then gone. I suppose that’s what’s so mysterious and elusive about it. You have to be quick, anticipate the shot, and take it while you can. There’s less calculation, planning, and editing. I’m sure that others thrive in this spontaneity, but I am plagued by the knowledge that that perfect shot is just beyond my grasp. To make up for it, I take many pictures with the hope that a few good ones are buried somewhere within. I enjoy the challenge of pursuing those good shots, but I ultimately retreat to the comfort of a notebook or keyboard.

In rare, brief occasions, I get a flash of what it must be like to have that shock of knowing that a certain picture-making moment is at hand. I was preparing to roll Russian tea cakes recently, and I carelessly tossed my wedding rings onto the counter, like I do when I work with raw meat or wash dishes. It was a commonplace gesture for me, and the rings glanced harmlessly and settled on the fake butcher block counter. I had my camera nearby for the purpose of documenting the baking process, but I cocked my head to the side. The rings that I wear every day seemed at home on the counter, with that foreground of crinkled plastic wrap. I picked up the camera and tentatively snapped a couple of shots, and then I rolled my eyes at my feeble attempts to be artistic.

Yet, when I uploaded the batch of shots from the Russian tea cakes, I found that I loved the picture. Maybe it was the strange juxtaposition of the rings, weighty with significance, and the humble kitchen surroundings, and how it all seemed to be just right to me. Perhaps no one else sees that strange relationship of the life-changing and the mundane caught between silver rings and a sheet of plastic wrap, but I do. Perhaps no one else understands that, in the midst of rolling cookies, I was reminded of the quiet strength of my marriage within the context of the everyday routine, but I do. Perhaps no one else loves the picture, but I do.

But, no, I’m not a photographer. I just like to take pictures.

Sunday Scribblings #105: The Photograph