What if I chose that adventure instead?

It’s always funny to go back in time and read my previous blog entries. I like to rewind to my old thoughts and see how they compare to those of the present. About 4 months ago I wrote about choosing my own adventure. I guess I was feeling strangely empowered that particular day. Either that or I was just fed up and annoyed with myself. On second thought, it was most likely a result of the later.

These days I try to act empowered, I try to appear in control. And some days I actually do a pretty good job pretending, some days I even fool myself. But it doesn’t typically last for long. My thoughts tend to take on a life of their own and I can only navigate them in the direction I want for a couple days – sometimes only a couple hours.

As I continue the seemingly never-ending job search, I find that my thoughts often drift elsewhere. I try to keep them on track. I try to follow the plan. But I can’t help but think what if…

What if I chose that adventure instead?

Unfortunately, the “that” to which I’m referring changes just as regularly as the digression of my thoughts. I suppose it’s a curse of the whole “choose your own adventure” concept.

What if I had chosen to be a teacher? I’ve always loved children. And they’ve always seemed to love me. Ooohhh and wouldn’t it be amazing to have summers off?

What if I had chosen to be a personal trainer? Or a yoga instructor? I’ve always loved working out. Some of my happiest moments are at the gym – the one place where everything seems clear. And I’ve always been interested in helping other people live healthier and happier lives. I can’t even keep track of how many people have told me that I would be the perfect personal trainer.

What if I had chosen to be a photographer? I’ve always loved photography. I’ve always loved transforming random, unspectacular moments into extraordinary, breathtaking moments. It would be a continuous creative challenge.

And that’s just the beginning. The what ifs are as never-ending as my job search seems to be…

Truth be told, I guess it doesn’t so much matter. I made my choice. I chose my adventure. And now I have to commit to it. At least for a while. I just don’t think I can allow myself to give up on it quite yet. At least not until I gave it a fair chance. But, I wonder, how much of a chance is fair? At what point is it okay to open up that choose your own adventure book and pick a new chapter, a different path?

“Were you raped?”

“Since I probably won’t see you again can you tell me why we never had sex. Please don’t think I’m rude. It’s bothered me.”

This past Saturday I was having a truly delightful time dancing the night away at a beautiful outdoor wedding reception in the outskirts of Cleveland, Ohio…well, I was having a delightful time…that is until I decided to check my phone for updates on the football games and was greeted with the not-so-delightful text above.

I was mad, annoyed and totally flabbergasted. How can he have the audacity to ask such a thing? Again.

Let’s rewind time a bit, shall we? Say, about 9 months…

It was a typical December day in Boston. I had just boarded the T after a long day at work. Like everyone else, I was bundled up in a winter jacket and scarf and not particularly looking forward to the hot rush hour ride home on the crowded T.

I noticed him standing beside me as I danced around in my head to the shuffled songs on my iPhone. I was not planning on talking to him, but then fate intervened and brought the T to an abrupt and unexpected stop, causing me lose my balance and my feigned focus on the music.

Our first date was amazing. It was one of the best first dates I have ever been on…if not the best. Everything about him was great – he was cute, funny, smart, friendly and fun. We had so much to talk about. I felt completely at ease.

My friends and co-workers made fun of me. I can’t believe you met him on the T, they’d say, that’s so weird. But I was happy. I really liked Bob* from the T, as we had dubbed him. We really had a connection. I could even imagine him in my future, which, for me, was a huge deal.

Fast forward about 3 weeks or so (give or take a little due to the holidays)…

I went to his place one night, shortly after I returned to Boston after being down in Virginia for Christmas and New Years. It was good to see him. We watched some football and then things started to get hot and heavy. I’m sure you can guess where this is going…

Yes, things started to get hot and heavy, but I wasn’t ready.

“Oh, okay. Are you a virgin or something?”

No, I slowly responded. I’m just not ready.

“Why? Were you raped or something?”

I didn’t register the question right away. I was shocked. I was offended. I was hurt. Did he really just ask me that? I remained frozen for a few minutes. And then, in my strange and altered state of mind, I tried to come up with a reason for why I wasn’t ready. But nothing I said made sense to him. If I wasn’t a virgin and I hadn’t been raped, what could possibly be the problem?

Needless to say, that was the last night I saw Bob from the T. But it wasn’t the last time I thought of him. I continued to replay our last destructive encounter in my mind for several weeks. I continued to feel extremely hurt. But most of all, I felt positively perplexed. How could he have been so insensitive? How could he have been so outright stupid? And how could he not have realized how his behavior made me feel? Not only were his questions completely outlandish and uncalled for, but he also made me feel as if I had no right to simply “not be ready.”

Fast forward back 9 months to the text I received a few nights ago. I am once again saddened and confused. It’s as if he waited for my wound to heal and then decided to stab me all over again, while vigorously rubbing in a little salt.

* names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Almost officially over.

The very thought sends a sharp stab throughout my stomach, throughout my head, throughout my entire body, actually.

The paper sits lifelessly at the corner of my desk. It isn’t really asking me to sign that line which represents the end. But just it’s very presence makes me nervous. I am aware of it lingering. Not just the piece of paper. But everything the paper symbolizes as well.

Now it’s all different. It isn’t just in my head. The paper represents the reality. Is it best to just do it quickly? Fast and in one motion so it’s less painful? Like pulling off a band-aid.

Is this what it feels like to get a divorce? It must be similar. So much meaning in just a quick signature. It doesn’t really seem fair, does it? How can a signature – or a pair of signatures – possibly tell the whole story? How can it possibly be that simple?

The paper remains. Waiting? Waiting for me to massage gently it with the tip of my pen. So easy. In theory. But I can’t quite bring myself to face it yet. I know the end is just around the corner, but I can’t quite bring myself to admit that wholeheartedly. I can’t acknowledge it. Not yet. Soon. But not yet.

Directionlessness.

I thought I was having a Quarterlife Crisis last year. I thought I was having a Quarterlife Crisis last month. I thought I was having a Quarterlife Crisis last week. Now I am starting to realize that I’ve been having a Quarterlife Crisis since before I even graduated from college three years ago. Wow, it was just three years ago? It feels like it was three lifetimes ago… And I digress…back to this story.

As the best four years of my life rapidly came to a close, I started to think…

What next? What now? What do I want to do with the rest of my life?

I didn’t have any answers. Or maybe I had too many answers… Yes, I had too many answers. Too many answers to too many questions. I had too many options. I had too many choices. And I couldn’t make a decision.

So I went to grad school. Why not, I thought? I don’t really know what I want to do, but this will buy me a little time and help me figure it out.

And so I did the grad school thing. It was a good experience and I don’t regret my decision to continue my education in the least. But the time went by too quickly. And all of a sudden I was exactly where I had been the year before.

What next? What now? What do I want to do with the rest of my life?

So I fell into a job. Literally. That’s really the best way to describe how it happened. I just slid right into it. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but I thought it would help lead me from a confusing and anxious Point A to a structured and purposeful Point B. Plus, I had to start somewhere, right?

Two years later…

I’m still at that job I fell into. And I’m stuck. I’m stuck between Point A and Point B. And so once again I’m thinking…

What next? What now? What do I want to do with the rest of my life?

Only now those thoughts carry a lot more weight than they did three (and two) years ago. I still have too many questions. I still have too many (possible) answers. I still have too many options. I still have too many choices. Only now…I have to make a decision. I can’t just go back to school again. I can’t just fall into something else. And I certainly can’t just sit around and wait to find a sense of purpose.

I have to hook my continuing Quarterlife Crisis to a plan and GO!

Okay, good. Step 1: complete. But where should I go? In what direction should I go? What plan should I go towards?

I want anything but this.

I want anything but this. I want everything but this.

I find myself jealous of practically everyone I cross paths with, practically everyone I encounter. Even if I see someone for only a handful of seconds, I find that my head is instantly filled with thoughts of intense jealousy.

Look at that happy dad playing with his young son in their bay window…they are both completely engaged in the moment. Nothing else seems to matter.

I want that. I want that special bond.

Look at that old man on his morning stroll. He is simply happy to be alive, happy to have another day on this earth. He is walking along with so much wisdom and so many wonderful memories from his long, rich and fullfiling life.

I want that. I want to wake up happy to live.

Look over there at that strapping young professional reading the Financial Times…and…actually enjoying it?

I want that. I want to enjoy professional publications that complement my career of choice.

Choice.

I forget I have a choice sometimes.

And I digress, that’s another topic all together…

Back to the issue of the moment (moment being the key word) - do I really want all these things?

No. Of course not. Not seriously. At least not right now. I’m not ready for children. And I’m certainly not ready to be old.

But right now, at this very moment, I want it – any of it, all of it – because it isn’t this.

Is variety the spice of life?

I’ve always believed it to be, yes.

But recently an ex-”boyfriend” of mine used that phrase and now I’m starting to question how I feel about that mentality.

I put the word “boyfriend” in quotes because I’m using that term very, very loosely – mainly for lack of a better word. Perhaps I should refer to him as an ex-hook up or an ex-summer fling. Those terms would be far more appropriate, but they just don’t seem quite as classy. Ha. Who am I kidding here? My involvement with this particular ex (let’s just leave it at that, no need to complicate the issue by adding unnecessary words that don’t even begin to describe the situation) was anything but classy.

Where am I going with this, you ask. Let me give you the back story first and then I’ll eventually get around to making my point.

Many, many years ago (or so it seems) I was working a fabulous summer job and living an outrageous “Real World” type life. Seriously. Imagine the MTV show. The set: Virginia Beach. There’s your back drop. So naturally, I started dating (again, I’m using this term loosely) a guy I worked with and lived with. He was great. Fun, good looking, relatively interesting. The problem? He had a girlfriend. Of course. But it didn’t really bother me that much. She wasn’t there. And I was having far too good of a time to worry about it. Plus, he told me he was going to break up with her for me. I’ll stop there. You can guess how this story ends.

So here I am today. Six+ years later. My “relationship” with this ex-”boyfriend” couldn’t be further from my mind. But then he contacted me. Out of the blue. Via Facebook. Damn social networking.

He’s still with her. Crazy, right? I shouldn’t have been shocked. But I was.

But that’s not the point. Let’s fast forward to the so-called “point” of this entry.

After the unexpected blast from the past, we exchanged a few “how are you doing” and “what are you up to” type messages, which leads me to mention that I’m living in Boston, loving Boston, but might soon be leaving Boston to try something new. Why I felt the need to share this with him when I have yet to reveal it to many of my closest friends, is beyond me. But I did. And so he responds with, “variety is the spice of life.”

And then I started thinking…

Variety is the spice of life.

Sure, it sounds simple enough. Just a nice cliché with a good, well-meaning message. So why does the phrase all of a sudden send a shutter through my body?

I was my ex’s variety. And he was mine. The variety sure did add a dash of spice to that brief moment in my life. But it certainly didn’t complement the other flavors in the dish. Excuse me as I get literal with my analogies.

I’ve always been a “variety is the spice of life” kind of girl. But all of a sudden, I’m wondering and questioning if that’s really the kind of person I want to be. Yes, I realize “variety” doesn’t always mean “cheating on your girlfriend and leading the girl you are cheating on her with to believe she actually matters.”

But what happens when the quest for variety and spice gets to be just a bit too much? I’ve always been determined to try new things, experience new places, get to know new people and most of all – avoid boredom, avoid settling and avoid getting too comfortable. But why? Why should I force myself to seek variety just for the sake of a little extra spice? What’s wrong with allowing myself to be comfortable in something that makes me happy? I think I have a tendency to try to be the person I think I want to be and therefore I sometimes neglect or overlook the person I already am – a person who is actually quite spectacular already (if I do say so myself).

My point after this lengthy, disjointed and slightly nonsensical rambling? I no longer think that variety is the spice of life. It may be a spice in life, but there are a lot of other spices that are – or could be – far more important. I just have to allow myself to discover and acknowledge what they are – because sometimes the seemingly bland and boring ingredients are infinitely more valuable of that sexy dash of “spice.”

I don’t like feeling helpless.

“I don’t like feeling helpless.”

I guess that’s a pretty silly thing to say. Who actually likes to feel helpless? It isn’t a particularly good feeling at all.

help-less

1: lacking protection or support 2: marked by an inability to act or react

Yes, today I feel helpless. I am very much marked by an inability to act or react.

And while such a feeling is inevitably hard on anyone, I feel like it is especially difficult for me. Please excuse me as I act completely self-absorbed right now. It’s just that I have always been in control. Okay, maybe not entirely in control. But I’ve always felt as I’ve had some degree of control. A pretty large degree at that. Now I feel nothing of the sort. In fact, I feel the complete opposite. I feel as if I have relinquished all control – except it wasn’t my choice to do so. On second thought, I guess “relinquished” isn’t the right word to use as it denotes an element of choice. I have no choice.

But I guess I’m not really entitled to make any choices when it comes to how other people live their lives. Another hard reality to swallow. Everyone has to make their own mistakes. And learn – hopefully learn – from those mistakes.

But what about love? Everything changes when you mix love into the equation.

How can I possibly sit back and watch someone I love make mistakes? Mistakes that cause so much pain. Mistakes that change lives. Mistakes that can’t be undone. Over and over again.

I think I’d rather be helpless with my own life than with the lives of people I love. If only I had a choice…

I don’t like feeling helpless.