Life in the Middle Lane

When I started my coming out process, I was going through huge life transitions and I was hoping to use some of those transitions to re-invent myself. Finding a woman with whom I wanted to start a relationship with complicated and kick-started my reinvention process. Over the course of 6 months, I quit a job I loved to take a part-time gig, I started graduate school, moved out of my mother’s house (again) and moved into my first apartment with no roommates, started graduate school and fell in love with a woman.

Telling, or deciding who and when to tell has been one of the most anxiety-ridden thing I’ve had to do in regards to my lesbian identity. I had to make decisions about my mom, my siblings, other family members, my friends, acquaintances, church members, co-workers, everyone.  Even the strangers we meet in the streets automatically make judgments or assumptions about our (homo and hetero) relationships, gender and sexuality. I had to decide how I wanted to deal with it all.

In graduate school, I was neither in nor out. I was the queen of DADT.

Of course, there was that one favorite classmate of mine who figured it out almost immediately. I would neither confirm or deny, but for him, the cat was out of the bag.  We shared a wink and a smile, and both went back to whatever conversation we were originally having. I will always love him for that. And it felt good to know that if wasn’t that big of a deal.

In talking about the GF, I simply said my significant other, my partner or the asexual “them”.  However, it didn’t take my closest classmates very long to realize that the only reason a person would use those particular words was if they had something to hide. And I am reminded of a particular raucous, tequila filled night where I slipped up and said her. I hoped that no one noticed.

On Diversity Day we watched a series of skits designed to inform us of all the ways we could look like racist, prejudiced a-holes, even when we don’t mean to be. While I was visibly awkward and disturbed by the display of We Love Everyone –even the Blacks, the Jews, the Homos and Women– propaganda, I was NOT going to use that moment to tell my professors and classmates of my super minority status.

It wasn’t until our second year when a group of us were thinking of renting a house together that I thought, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should come clean.  And with the eight of us standing in a Kroger parking lot discussing the pros and cons of a communal living arrangement, I in full dramatic fashion, proclaimed myself a lesbian. My friends just looked at me with silly grins, as if they A. Needed a warning and B. Didn’t already know.

Even if they didn’t care, I felt good about it.  And I felt good about waiting to share. In entering graduate school, I made a conscious decision not to be the token lesbian. I wanted to be liked and judged on the merits of my character, wittiness, drinking ability, and intellectual prowess, not on the sex of the person with whom that I share my life.

And waiting helped me accomplish that.

Alternatively titled: Why I prefer nudity

I have to start this post by telling everyone that I’m not just getting fatter. I hope to GOD that I’m not getting fatter, since I pay 50 bucks a month for a gym membership and I spend 3+ hours several days a week working out and dealing with all the stuff that goes along with working out (travel, showering, etc)

Since starting to work out last year, I’ve toned up tremendously (I have thighs and buns of steel) but I haven’t seen the scale budge.  Honestly, I haven’t seen a difference in (most) of my clothes. It takes a huge weight gain before my clothes let me know that I’ve started gaining.  The latest weight gain took place during the two years that I was in MPA School drinking beer and exercising little (none in the first year, sporadically in the second year).  I’m just (in the past 6-8 months) starting to notice and, only recently, try to do something about it.

Because I’m something of a yo-yo weight loser I have about 3 different sizes of clothes.  The first (lowest sized) clothes are tight now, and I’ve moved on to the next largest size.  These clothes are supposed to fit.

So I was surprised last week, when, after only a few hours at work I realize how uncomfortable I am. I realize that my clothes are tight. And of course, as soon as I START to think about how the waistband of my pants is digging into my stomach, I can’t think of anything but my bloated stomach.

So after a couple more hours of labored breathing and hurting stomach, I vow that as soon as I get these clothes home, they are going into my “goodwill” pile.

Later, I get home; chuck the pants and the shirt (good riddance!) away, put on my favorite sweat pants and finally starts to breath normally.  When the GF get’s home, I, still sore from the day of poor circulation around my middle, tell her about giving the pants away.

And she asked me which pants I’m giving away because I’m not allowed to give any away until she made sure that they aren’t the pants she liked to see me in.

*Shrugging*.  What am I going to do with her?

The story continues….

It has been unseasonably cold in Atlanta this winter, so I’m learning how to layer (Don’t judge me, I’m southern.  I shouldn’t have to layer).  I was wearing a button-down shirt under a sweater.   Somehow two of the shirt’s buttons have come undone, it’s tight around the shoulders and the sweater is itchy on my skin.  And I think I shrunk this sweater last time I washed it because it is RIDING UP along my stomach.

Not happy times.

Guess what?  I have more items for my “goodwill” bag.  (Yay for somebody.)

I think I need to go on a diet.

I’m also going to think about fundamentally changing the way that I dress.  Three out of five days a week something I wear to work makes me uncomfortable. I hate pants, shirts, and boots. I can’t wait until summer when I can wear skirts, dresses and flip flops. I NEVER feel this uncomfortable in a skirt (unless I’m cold).  I felt more uncomfortable yesterday than I did in 4^th grade gym class when I had to turn flips in a shirt without showing my ass. I need flowy pieces, tunics, elastic, cotton, things that breathe (so that I can breathe).

I need to go shopping.

And on a semi-related note…

Dear Mother Nature, Can I get some sunshine and 78 degree weather so that I don’t have to wear all these clothes? Puh -Puh -Please?

For years in North Carolina and in Georgia, the background on my computers at work have been some oceanscape.  Waves lapping on a beach, the view from a sail boat, or small island.  Without fail, the first thing I do when I get a new computer at work is change the background from whatever the default it, to something ocean or island related.

I’m a little obsessed with water; ocean, river and lake front properties make me drool. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that some of my favorite cities, San Francisco, Boston, Madison, and Miami are, in one way or another, on the water.  I blame my parents for this.

The nearest beach was about a three hour drive from where I grew up in  North Carolina and we would often head to the beach spontaneously for the day, an overnight or a long luxurious weekend. Driving to the beach and letting us kids splash around for a few hours, getting a great seafood meal, and driving home the same night was an easy and inexpensive way to trick us kids into behaving and to stop us from complaining that we never went anywhere. Dad (when he was there) or mom would load us into the station wagon and head for one or the other of our favorite beach spots.

I thought about this today. I’m at work wishing to high heaven that I was somewhere else.  I looked at the background of my island paradise on my computer, tried to go to my happy place, couldn’t and got a little angry.  I got so frustrated suddenly that I HAD to; ABSOLUTELY had to, change the picture.

So I did a google search on ocean pictures and found this one and I liked it. I could feel a headache coming on, so I took some deep breaths and stared at my new backdrop.

I can almost feel the heat and the dampness of the air.  I, just when I close my eyes, can smell the salt and sand coming off the water.  If I concentrate just a little bit, I can feel the lushness of the flowers. I run my fingers through the soft grittiness and smell the heady aroma of the dirt that produces such beautiful plant life. I relax just a little as I imagine myself in one of those corona commercials.  Beer in one hand, book in the other. No need for ipods, the world is my soundtrack. Ah, the life.

Don’t think that I’m just here getting my tan on at the beach.  After a morning swim, and a short “meditation” from my beach chair; I shower, dress (in something small and flowy, because it’s hot and I’m at home) and settle in my office for the day.

Where is my office, you ask? A screened-in porch at the back of my “house” where I can see and smell the ocean and hear the sounds of the birds and the waves.

In my office, I go to my computer and I write. I’m not sure yet what I’m writing. But I am. And, somehow, I know that I’m making people happy. And I’m making me happy.

And this is my life. Someone pays me to do this.

Suddenly, I am snapped out of my reverie by a ringing phone or a irritating laugh of a co-worker in a nearby cube. I shake my head and go back to reading the 50 page bill on my desk.  The one for which I’ve been asked to prepare a fiscal analysis. This analysis, like the other analyses I’ve done over the past six months, won’t make a huge difference in the world.

I glance back at my new happy place on my computer background.  One day.My

It seems like a lot of people lately are getting engaged or married. The overarching theme that I hear at engagement parties, and wedding showers and on invitations is the idea that marriage means getting to spend the rest of your life with your best friend.

What a wonderful idea.

Presumably, when two people decide to get married they have things in common. They know each other’s likes and dislikes, favorite foods, favorite movies, personal styles and so forth.  But more importantly, these two people are able to identify each other’s smells and the taste of one’s skin.  They know what they expect to feel when they touch a favorite body part.  If one were to hear the other’s voice at a distance, over the phone or across the way, they know unconsciously that it is them.

Countless times a day I think a thousand variations of “I have to share this with the GF!” when I read or see something that makes me laugh or cry. And I sometimes send her half a dozen emails when I read something that I know she will find interesting.

So when I hear about friends that have been in relationships as long or longer than myself going through the messiest of break-ups or even those that end because “We just aren’t right for each other anymore” I automatically put myself in their shoes and try to figure out what the GF and I can do to avoid their fates.

I understand what it feels like to want to spend the rest of your life with my best friend.  And it makes my stomach hurt to think about living my life without her in it.  I’ve lost best friends before, and it ain’t fun. I don’t want to go through that again.

When I see my newly single friends bouncing back from a break up, I marvel at how they do it.  How do you turn off the “I can’t wait to share this with them” button?  How do you forget about this person that meant so much to you? How does one go from sharing the most intimate details of life with a person to never speaking to them again?   Call me crazy, but I get attached.  Once I’ve shared myself with you, I find it difficult to just forget about all those details and go about my existence without at least wondering about the other person.

Unfortunately, the reality of life is that break-ups happen.  People, interests, desires all change. Sometimes we make stupid mistakes that change the course of our lives and relationships.  And while I know a break up would not literally kill me, that pain is not one that I relish having.  And maybe that’s why I try so hard to keep my relationship together.

My life is riddled with occasions that I did the “right” thing even though it may not have been what I really wanted to do.  These are occasions where I may not have really known what I wanted to do so I did what was suggested. Or times when I didn’t want to disappoint someone who was counting on me.  Or times when I did what I thought would give me the most flexible or practical outcome, even if something else would have been so much more fun or interesting.

If something goes wrong and outcomes are bad, I generally have someone else to blame for these decisions. And I often regret that I forfeited my own decision making power to someone else. At the very least, I kick myself in the ass for not being true to what I want.

Sometimes I just make impulsive, some would say rash, decisions. Those passionate, emotional, little-thought-required decisions are generally the ones that I am the happiest with. In those cases, even when/if I fall on my face, I get up and stand behind whatever decision I made. After all, I either got what I wanted or learned a huge lesson, right?

Some decisions, like my decision to go to Salem College, are a combination of both. My then-boyfriend was already in college in Winston Salem, so it made sense to me (in my 16 year old brain) that I should be looking at colleges in the same town so that we could be together forever. I scoped out the Winston Salem colleges and found two that looked good(Wake Forest University and Salem College).  I applied, was accepted and visited them both.

I visited WFU first and at best, I felt indifferent and at worst, I felt like my soul died a little on that campus.  But when I visited Salem, I felt immediately at home. The other colleges where I was accepted (and there were some good ones) didn’t stand a chance because I made an irrational, emotional decision. Salem was where I belonged, price, location, etc be damned! That decision changed the course of my life (for better and worse). But regardless of my mixed feelings about Salem, I never regretted my decision to attend that school. I went because there was an irrepressible calling here. It was like I was being tugged by something I couldn’t see.

I’m on the verge of making another illogical, emotional; some would probably say stupid, decision to try to be involved with something that I am extremely passionate about. (my true friends could probably guess it in 3 tries, it only took my mother 1) This decision (and what is likely to come out of it) won’t make me rich, likely won’t advance my career, is likely going to cost me money, and is going to make me do something that a few months ago I said I wouldn’t do.

But I’m going to do it anyway because if I woke up tomorrow and found that my uncle would give me money to quit my job, this one thing that I’m about to do- would be something on which I would dedicate large amounts of time and energy.

And damn it, it’s my life and I wanna do it.

But you know what, the longer I think about it (big mistake) the easier it becomes to try to talk myself out of it. Trust me, this decision isn’t practical, it’s a bit of a long shot, and I am nowhere close to having all the details all figured out.  But I’m like a cat, I *tend* to land on my feet. And details aren’t really my thing, they fall into place on their own.

And in this particular case, a wise person told me that they knew it was only a matter of time before I came around to this decision. She told me that my whole life has been in preparation for this moment.

And another wise person said that this particular thing is something that I’ve been talking about repeatedly for the whole time they’ve known me. This person damn near laid out a plan of attack based solely on all the random sh*t I’ve said over the years.

And I have another friend who told me that when I truly KNOW myself and allow me to be me, my purpose would reveal itself. (And I SWEAR she was talking about this.)

So anyway, I’ve been asking myself a lot lately, “What the hell do I want?” And my whole heart says, “This.”

And God help me, I’m going to listen.

I love McDonalds hot fudge sundaes. They’re cheap and they often hit the spot when I need a fix for my sweet tooth. The only problem is that McD’s only puts the chocolate sauce on top of the ice cream.  Sometimes without thinking, I eat ALL the chocolate in my first few bites and am left with a cup full of vanilla soft serve. I hate plain vanilla soft serve.  Since I’m a pro at eating these sundaes, I’ve learned to savor the chocolate to avoid the disappointment of “no chocolate” midway through my sundae.

Yesterday, I got a real sundae from a real ice cream store and I came upon a real conundrum. I was so busy savoring the chocolate at the top of the sundae that I didn’t notice all the chocolate (and CARAMEL!!!) at the bottom of the sundae. By the time I got to the end of the sundae, I had lots of fudgy yumminess and not enough ice cream. I had to go into my stash of frozen whipped cream to finish off my dessert.

As I enjoyed the final bites I was reminded—Life is all about balance. And the ice cream to fudge ratio. Too much (or too little) of either can ruin a sundae.

Lately, I had a lot of time to think about water.  Here in Atlanta, it has been raining almost non-stop for about 15 days.  Yesterday, I walked in the rain for a bit and watched the path of the water flowing down the street. I often left my cube, to see how the rain was affecting traffic patterns. I observed the splashes of water on the roads, I crossed a bridge over the Chattahoochee River, I watched new reports of people drowning.

I love the way the clouds sit between the buildings.

And I started thinking that there was a blog post somewhere in all this observation. I decided to start writing and see where it all lead.

1.  Water takes the path of least resistance, downward. I watched a stream of water flow down one street, hit the curb at corner, turn left and flow down another street.  I wanted to see where it was all going, so I followed it for a bit.  It flowed for a while until it came to another, lower street where it flowed until it found a drain.

2. Water has a one-track mind; when flowing, water goes in only one direction.  In every instance that I observed a flowing body of water, all of it was moving in the same direction.

3. Water is fickle. The least bit of disturbance would cause it to redirect its path.

I love to run around with my camera. I was hoping for a view of the interstate, but it was raining too hard.

4.  Water always finds a way to get where it wants to go. No matter what obstacles are in water’s way, it will go around, through or under them all to continue on it’s journey.

5.  Water has a “mind” of its own.  No matter how many time we whined that we wished it would stop raining, it didn’t stop. No matter how many people cried for their homes and families to be spared the destructive power of the flood, they weren’t. Poor neighborhoods and rich neighborhoods (and everyone in between) was affected by the storm.

I was going to go through and relate each of these water thoughts to life, the job search, being a twenty-something, learning, perseverance, crowd-sourcing or any number of things. Then I decided not to.

What do theye things mean to you? To flow or not.