Several people have told me that I am a Baldwin through and through, despite my olive skin and tendency to talk with my hands. It has only been in recent years that I realized I have “Harvey-isms” – quick wit, clever responses, an offbeat sense of humor. But I have always known I’m like my grandmother. I have been writing, writing and writing since I could hold a pen, and every time I had a new story to tell anyone, I’d hear, “Oh, she gets that from her grandmother.”
Anyone who knows her knows she was a storyteller. She still remembers her father as "a giant of a man, six foot three, with the broadest shoulders you've seen." And she can still tell you about the time she was attending Catholic school at age 6, and how her mother yelled at the wretched nun who hit my grandmother with a ruler. Age 6? I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday and she remembers 86 years ago.
People joked that Grandma and I were a perfect match because I listened to her stories in total awe every single time, no matter how often she repeated them. But I think I speak for everyone here when I say we will miss the stories. The silence that replaces them now is heart wrenching. The ending to her story was a sad one – but rarely did Grandma end her stories with “happily ever after.” That wasn’t her style.
But the silence does not stand a chance against the most powerful weapons against death and loss: Legacy. She has left us a legacy of memory, of human experience, of all the little anecdotes that make our lives complicated and beautiful. You will be in your kitchen one holiday, frantically trying to prepare dinner, and you’ll remember the story Anne told you about the time that she had to pluck, clean and cook a turkey in the late hours of Christmas Eve. You will always laugh when you reach a Certain Age and think of Anne, who used the line “It’s not like I’m 90!” until it could no longer apply.
And her legacy goes beyond the written word. It was in her patience (take one look at her grandchildren and you’ll get it), her warmth and her almost-famous sense of decorum. She would probably take offense to the word “Old,” but to me, she embodied old-world charm. She was always impeccably and stylishly dressed and always offered a place to sit and something to eat when you came to call, even when only rice cakes were on the menu. And, of course, she always had a story to share.
To this day I sometimes still cannot believe I inherited a talent that became the very core of who I am – a writer. My grandmother was the woman who taught me how to tell a story. I cannot thank her enough for that. There is a part of me who feels as though I’ve lost my biggest inspiration, but I still have her legacy.
Whether we're writers or not, we can all learn from her example: never be afraid to express yourself. I believe she would want us to speak from that place in your heart where you are most yourself. Speak directly, simply, honestly. Don’t be afraid to speak with a little sass and without any apologies. Tell us what you see and want us to see; tell us what you hear and want us to hear. Trust your own heart. The words will come.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
That's the way we get by
Illness, death, loss. They get inside of your head and seep into your soul. They bring out levels of raw emotions – anger, sadness, despair, denial – that you didn't think you were capable of feeling. Death shakes you; it turns you inside out. It is ruthless, it is merciless and it wants to wreck you, and rarely do we know exactly when and how.
For those of us living and breathing who experience the death of a loved one, the opposite of loss becomes cope. The way we get by.
I've learned more about cope in the last 48 hours than I thought was possible to know. I've learned it can be synonymous with strength and desperation all in the same day.
Coping...the way we get by. It can be simple: Some people cry too much. Others don't at all. There are those who use humor as a weapon against sadness, and some who use the contents of a bottle of wine.
Sometimes coping goes far deeper. Some of us watch helplessly as everything shatters or begin to self-destruct, putting everything that is good in their life in harm's way.
I used most, if not all, of those coping mechanisms this weekend, but I am not here to blog about my indiscretions right now. Maybe one day I'll come to terms with the way I cope. What happened in the last 48 hours is a story too raw and too real to be ignored. I'll do my best to edit myself out.
With my grandmother's condition rapidly worsening – she had been moved to hospice - our parents, mid-family-barbecue, calmly let my sister and I know they'd be going up to Boston early the following morning. Lauren instantly jumped aboard. It took about an hour for me to realize what Lauren already knew: Mom needed her wolfpack. It wasn't going to be a fun trip, but we could sure as hell make an attempt for it.
Trying to have a last bit of fun, I stayed out far too late, drowned my sorrows in gin, overslept and finally hurried to the house, bewildered, half an hour late. In four hours, thanks to Lauren's superb driving, we arrived. There was no time to wrap my head around how quickly we made it; there was too much to be done.
The visit was harder than I had anticipated. She was waking up from the cocktail of painkillers, so she was completely disoriented. She had wasted away – a plump middle replaced with chicken legs and a wedding ring rattling around her bony finger. A vast departure from our visit in February.
She managed to speak, but it's barely understandable anymore, thanks to the tumor that chokes her voice. Because being in a hospice is apparently not enough of a punishment. All she said was “I don't understand how this could happen to me.”
I have never been filled with more anger and sadness in that moment. I could not give her the answer she deserved. The terminally ill are the terminally condemned. I do not care how often someone tells me that my grandmother wasn't in pain that day. Pain is deeper than the physical hurt. My grandmother, who could hardly move, could hardly speak and barely knew where she was, was in mental agony.
In a not so brilliant move, my sister and I later took our frustration out on gigantic dishes of ice cream at Cabot's. Knock, knock; who's there? Emotional eating, that's who! Coping tastes especially good with peanut butter candy crumbled on top. Still, no amount of dairy could prepare us for the task of emptying out grandma's apartment.
I'd like to think we coped with this task far better than anything else. It became a fun treasure hunt. My mother discovered a thought-to-be-lost wedding ring; I took home a ledger that's filled with grandma's one big legacy - her stories. There was one person who did not take this well: my aunt.
It would later prove to be a hilarious moment on her 4th phone call to my mom. As Leslie, in a total state of denial, begged my mother not to throw anything away, claiming Grandma would come back from this, my father, sister and I had already bagged up 80% of the room. “Maybe I should take pictures before you start,” Leslie offered, and Mom could only awkwardly survey our progress and respond with “Uhhh... well.....”
The rest of the weekend was a strange, surreal blur of laughter, tears, hilarity, drunkenness and angst, all held together by strength. I may not be proud of how I cope, but I am proud of my ability to rise to the occasion and step up to the plate. I learned it from my parents' example. Sometimes, you gotta do what you've gotta do.
And that's the way I get by.
For those of us living and breathing who experience the death of a loved one, the opposite of loss becomes cope. The way we get by.
I've learned more about cope in the last 48 hours than I thought was possible to know. I've learned it can be synonymous with strength and desperation all in the same day.
Coping...the way we get by. It can be simple: Some people cry too much. Others don't at all. There are those who use humor as a weapon against sadness, and some who use the contents of a bottle of wine.
Sometimes coping goes far deeper. Some of us watch helplessly as everything shatters or begin to self-destruct, putting everything that is good in their life in harm's way.
I used most, if not all, of those coping mechanisms this weekend, but I am not here to blog about my indiscretions right now. Maybe one day I'll come to terms with the way I cope. What happened in the last 48 hours is a story too raw and too real to be ignored. I'll do my best to edit myself out.
With my grandmother's condition rapidly worsening – she had been moved to hospice - our parents, mid-family-barbecue, calmly let my sister and I know they'd be going up to Boston early the following morning. Lauren instantly jumped aboard. It took about an hour for me to realize what Lauren already knew: Mom needed her wolfpack. It wasn't going to be a fun trip, but we could sure as hell make an attempt for it.
Trying to have a last bit of fun, I stayed out far too late, drowned my sorrows in gin, overslept and finally hurried to the house, bewildered, half an hour late. In four hours, thanks to Lauren's superb driving, we arrived. There was no time to wrap my head around how quickly we made it; there was too much to be done.
The visit was harder than I had anticipated. She was waking up from the cocktail of painkillers, so she was completely disoriented. She had wasted away – a plump middle replaced with chicken legs and a wedding ring rattling around her bony finger. A vast departure from our visit in February.
She managed to speak, but it's barely understandable anymore, thanks to the tumor that chokes her voice. Because being in a hospice is apparently not enough of a punishment. All she said was “I don't understand how this could happen to me.”
I have never been filled with more anger and sadness in that moment. I could not give her the answer she deserved. The terminally ill are the terminally condemned. I do not care how often someone tells me that my grandmother wasn't in pain that day. Pain is deeper than the physical hurt. My grandmother, who could hardly move, could hardly speak and barely knew where she was, was in mental agony.
In a not so brilliant move, my sister and I later took our frustration out on gigantic dishes of ice cream at Cabot's. Knock, knock; who's there? Emotional eating, that's who! Coping tastes especially good with peanut butter candy crumbled on top. Still, no amount of dairy could prepare us for the task of emptying out grandma's apartment.
I'd like to think we coped with this task far better than anything else. It became a fun treasure hunt. My mother discovered a thought-to-be-lost wedding ring; I took home a ledger that's filled with grandma's one big legacy - her stories. There was one person who did not take this well: my aunt.
It would later prove to be a hilarious moment on her 4th phone call to my mom. As Leslie, in a total state of denial, begged my mother not to throw anything away, claiming Grandma would come back from this, my father, sister and I had already bagged up 80% of the room. “Maybe I should take pictures before you start,” Leslie offered, and Mom could only awkwardly survey our progress and respond with “Uhhh... well.....”
The rest of the weekend was a strange, surreal blur of laughter, tears, hilarity, drunkenness and angst, all held together by strength. I may not be proud of how I cope, but I am proud of my ability to rise to the occasion and step up to the plate. I learned it from my parents' example. Sometimes, you gotta do what you've gotta do.
And that's the way I get by.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Let's be real.
I do not want to talk about my weekend. It was horrible. Family problems are everywhere and mine aren't any different from yours or yours or yours.
That said, after feeling low, down on myself and lethargic for most of the day, I realized it was almost time to pick up my roommate from the airport, as I'd promised her. Before I left, I jazzed up the apartment with birthday things - she turned 24 yesterday - and ran out to put the finishing touches on her gift.
I got to ACY -- it was a sweet ride down, a perfect day to drive, really -- and went all-out when I saw her. We gave each other the lamest, silliest hug, I got her suitcase in the trunk, I had an apple and a Coke Zero waiting for her, along with a birthday crown.
A long talk and a short ride later, we rolled back into Point and went out to dinner. A little later, it came up that CK's boyfriend bailed out on picking her up from the airport, and it had kinda let her down. She turned to me and said "You showed up and had an apple, a Coke Zero and a birthday tiara. No one knows me better than you do."
I could have laughed til I cried. My biological family will always be my family. But on bad, bad days like this, I find peace and comfort in friends that are, to me, like family. I am lucky.
Two weeks until France. Making my packing list? Oh you bet. :D
That said, after feeling low, down on myself and lethargic for most of the day, I realized it was almost time to pick up my roommate from the airport, as I'd promised her. Before I left, I jazzed up the apartment with birthday things - she turned 24 yesterday - and ran out to put the finishing touches on her gift.
I got to ACY -- it was a sweet ride down, a perfect day to drive, really -- and went all-out when I saw her. We gave each other the lamest, silliest hug, I got her suitcase in the trunk, I had an apple and a Coke Zero waiting for her, along with a birthday crown.
A long talk and a short ride later, we rolled back into Point and went out to dinner. A little later, it came up that CK's boyfriend bailed out on picking her up from the airport, and it had kinda let her down. She turned to me and said "You showed up and had an apple, a Coke Zero and a birthday tiara. No one knows me better than you do."
I could have laughed til I cried. My biological family will always be my family. But on bad, bad days like this, I find peace and comfort in friends that are, to me, like family. I am lucky.
Two weeks until France. Making my packing list? Oh you bet. :D
Monday, April 5, 2010
Financial Rant
I’m a bad blogger who doesn’t write nearly as often as I should.
Wow, April. 21 days until Paris, and 25 until my 2th birthday. I’m getting “old” or something.
So I wanted to share some thoughts concerning debt, the economy and all that other family dinnertime talk. I got into somewhat of an argument with my dad and cousin last night about the current state of things. I was explaining to him that the bracket of people that are myself and my sister’s age are way worse off than people his age.
My dad and cousin graduated college without nearly the costs and debt that Lauren and I got into. Everything was cheaper - even taking inflation into account. Even a 5-year difference is staggering: my sister made roughly my salary now upon graduation and was able to live in PA in a real apartment. With her salary in NJ, I live in someone's basement.
While it’s depressing and upsetting to see that my dad’s salary was chopped in half in 24 hours, to know that he had the rug pulled out from under him, at least he was working toward the light at the end of the tunnel. This generation never saw the light. Someone pulled the plug, and now we’re working toward a lot of nothing. Here’s no telling how retirement options, interest rates, and 401Ks will change. I don’t think we’re out of the woods, and I don’t see the light getting plugged back in. I envision myself always being poor, always strugging with debt. What if I choose to get married and have kids? What if I want to buy a house one day? None of this seems even fathomable, not in 5 years not in 10. It angers me.
Well, other than that, the Easter holiday was chaos as usual, but I baked a cake and topped it with fresh strawberries and home-made whip cream, thank you Olivia for the inspiration! Was going to originally do ladyfingers, but couldn't find a suitable kind. Here's the finished product:
Yum. OK, back to work, but more omorrow or tonight!
Wow, April. 21 days until Paris, and 25 until my 2th birthday. I’m getting “old” or something.
So I wanted to share some thoughts concerning debt, the economy and all that other family dinnertime talk. I got into somewhat of an argument with my dad and cousin last night about the current state of things. I was explaining to him that the bracket of people that are myself and my sister’s age are way worse off than people his age.
My dad and cousin graduated college without nearly the costs and debt that Lauren and I got into. Everything was cheaper - even taking inflation into account. Even a 5-year difference is staggering: my sister made roughly my salary now upon graduation and was able to live in PA in a real apartment. With her salary in NJ, I live in someone's basement.
While it’s depressing and upsetting to see that my dad’s salary was chopped in half in 24 hours, to know that he had the rug pulled out from under him, at least he was working toward the light at the end of the tunnel. This generation never saw the light. Someone pulled the plug, and now we’re working toward a lot of nothing. Here’s no telling how retirement options, interest rates, and 401Ks will change. I don’t think we’re out of the woods, and I don’t see the light getting plugged back in. I envision myself always being poor, always strugging with debt. What if I choose to get married and have kids? What if I want to buy a house one day? None of this seems even fathomable, not in 5 years not in 10. It angers me.
Well, other than that, the Easter holiday was chaos as usual, but I baked a cake and topped it with fresh strawberries and home-made whip cream, thank you Olivia for the inspiration! Was going to originally do ladyfingers, but couldn't find a suitable kind. Here's the finished product:
Yum. OK, back to work, but more omorrow or tonight!
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The 5K!!
Whoa.
So, yesterday.
Wow. I wish I had written this post yesterday to better capture the exhilaration of the experience. Today, I am tired. It's a deep kind of exhaustion; my muscles ache, my feet are swollen, I just want to sleep, and ohhh do I have blisters.
But yesterday morning was the best ever. It started out a little dubious. I got there entirely too early, after skype-ing with Chris and stretching out/warming up with Billy Blank's 8-minute tae bo workout. After 5 minutes at St. Peter's, I had finished registering, annnnd had an hour to kill. My sister called before 9 to talk and wish me luck, my dad sent me a text telling me he'd be on the boardwalk part of the course.
9:30 eventually arrived, and, bundled in my layers, which included my awesome free commemorative t-shirt, plus a hat and gloves, we all gathered at the start.
3...2...1!
Mile 1. Welcome to hell, Mother Nature cackled at me. Hardest mile: I struggled against a horrifyingly cold wind as we ran north along St. Louis Ave (which is about halfway between my apartment and the beach), eventually heading right and down another neighborhood street, then down Ocean Ave (which runs parallel to the boardwalk. Not easy - I slowed down to a slow jog twice, then saw we were approaching Mile 2 and the boardwalk. That was when everything got a little easier:my body was warming up, I was no longer snotting all over the place in the bitter wind, my breathing was normal. I passed my dad on the boardwalk and only had enough time to yell where he could meet me at the end. "It's freezing!!!!" he said as I passed. The end of that mile was slow again for me, and I really began underestimating myself. Yes, the fact that I showed up and ran at all was enough to be proud of, but I was fearing a really poor time at this point. I walked twice, but realized that it was pointless because it didn't make me feel warmer, less achy and it certainly didn't get me there any faster.
We exited the boardwalk and ran up NJ Ave. People in my group were beginning to slow down and walk at this point. We turned down a street and I realized I was only another few blocks away from the finish. Already?? Really?
Now, I had taken a lot of time to prep my playlist, and wanted the music to play in a certain order. Well, after the race began, I realized the good old iPod was on shuffle...so now, I didn't know what song was next. Still, I couldn't have planned this moment better: as I rounded the 2nd to last bend, the Foo Fighters came on. Everlong.
I admit I put far too much emotional stock in song, but Everlong's one of my favorite running songs as well as one that reminds me of Chris. I knew it was going to help me through. So I lept going. As I reached the last minute, the song changed again, to "Generator" (also by Foo Fighters). It seemed so right to see the finish line as the lyrics played: "I'm the generator, firing whenever you quit. Whatever it is, you go out and it's on."
The music, my mindset and my adrenaline took over completely. I forgot that I was tired, cold and achy. I sprinted to the end, pushing as hard as I could, crossed the line, got my finisher card. And then I started crying.
I don't know what came over me. The past few weeks have been a mix of busy and trying. I never thought this simple little run could give me the freedom I felt yesterday. I feel like I've left negativity behind. Because if I can do this, then I can hurdle anything.
I was a little disoriented, and thankfully got my bearings with the plethora of free food and water they offered inside. I went back to the finish line to find out my time.... 32:47.
And that's when I had my Joe Biden gaff: "HOLY SHIT!" flew out of my mouth in the presence of a priest and like 4 kids. I admit I need to work on that.
So there you have it: One of my goals for March is gleefully checked off. not only did I handle the 5K, but I finished it in under 33, just as I promised. I'm a mix of tired, peaceful and calm. Then again, I haven't really done much and it's already 1:00 on Sunday. Until next time...
So, yesterday.
Wow. I wish I had written this post yesterday to better capture the exhilaration of the experience. Today, I am tired. It's a deep kind of exhaustion; my muscles ache, my feet are swollen, I just want to sleep, and ohhh do I have blisters.
But yesterday morning was the best ever. It started out a little dubious. I got there entirely too early, after skype-ing with Chris and stretching out/warming up with Billy Blank's 8-minute tae bo workout. After 5 minutes at St. Peter's, I had finished registering, annnnd had an hour to kill. My sister called before 9 to talk and wish me luck, my dad sent me a text telling me he'd be on the boardwalk part of the course.
9:30 eventually arrived, and, bundled in my layers, which included my awesome free commemorative t-shirt, plus a hat and gloves, we all gathered at the start.
3...2...1!
Mile 1. Welcome to hell, Mother Nature cackled at me. Hardest mile: I struggled against a horrifyingly cold wind as we ran north along St. Louis Ave (which is about halfway between my apartment and the beach), eventually heading right and down another neighborhood street, then down Ocean Ave (which runs parallel to the boardwalk. Not easy - I slowed down to a slow jog twice, then saw we were approaching Mile 2 and the boardwalk. That was when everything got a little easier:my body was warming up, I was no longer snotting all over the place in the bitter wind, my breathing was normal. I passed my dad on the boardwalk and only had enough time to yell where he could meet me at the end. "It's freezing!!!!" he said as I passed. The end of that mile was slow again for me, and I really began underestimating myself. Yes, the fact that I showed up and ran at all was enough to be proud of, but I was fearing a really poor time at this point. I walked twice, but realized that it was pointless because it didn't make me feel warmer, less achy and it certainly didn't get me there any faster.
We exited the boardwalk and ran up NJ Ave. People in my group were beginning to slow down and walk at this point. We turned down a street and I realized I was only another few blocks away from the finish. Already?? Really?
Now, I had taken a lot of time to prep my playlist, and wanted the music to play in a certain order. Well, after the race began, I realized the good old iPod was on shuffle...so now, I didn't know what song was next. Still, I couldn't have planned this moment better: as I rounded the 2nd to last bend, the Foo Fighters came on. Everlong.
I admit I put far too much emotional stock in song, but Everlong's one of my favorite running songs as well as one that reminds me of Chris. I knew it was going to help me through. So I lept going. As I reached the last minute, the song changed again, to "Generator" (also by Foo Fighters). It seemed so right to see the finish line as the lyrics played: "I'm the generator, firing whenever you quit. Whatever it is, you go out and it's on."
The music, my mindset and my adrenaline took over completely. I forgot that I was tired, cold and achy. I sprinted to the end, pushing as hard as I could, crossed the line, got my finisher card. And then I started crying.
I don't know what came over me. The past few weeks have been a mix of busy and trying. I never thought this simple little run could give me the freedom I felt yesterday. I feel like I've left negativity behind. Because if I can do this, then I can hurdle anything.
I was a little disoriented, and thankfully got my bearings with the plethora of free food and water they offered inside. I went back to the finish line to find out my time.... 32:47.
And that's when I had my Joe Biden gaff: "HOLY SHIT!" flew out of my mouth in the presence of a priest and like 4 kids. I admit I need to work on that.
So there you have it: One of my goals for March is gleefully checked off. not only did I handle the 5K, but I finished it in under 33, just as I promised. I'm a mix of tired, peaceful and calm. Then again, I haven't really done much and it's already 1:00 on Sunday. Until next time...
Friday, March 26, 2010
Born to run!
I neeeeeeeed to go to bed, but, I figured I'd write a brief post.
The day is finally here! Tomorrow is the Fisherman's 5K. I am one nervous Nelly. I'm a little concerned about this race. I feel like it's a great way to "break into" running if I plan on doing more of these, because a) this race is only in its 2nd year and b) it's very small. But, the perks of being new and local also comes with major disorganization. It was my mom, who dug out what looked like a basic route for the race, but it was buried under pages of shit. And the date said 2009. I'm concerned.
I finally spoke to someone who told me all I had to do was show up at St. Peter's. I think I can handle that. I just wish it were a bit more organized. I want maps, dammit!
And, unfortunately, I'll have the weather playing against me tomorrow. 45 degrees; thankfully it'll be sunny. I've heard you ought to dress like it's ten degrees warmer out. My layers include: long pants, a tank, a tshirt,a long-sleeve shirt and two hoodies (both on the light side). Am I overdoing it? Meh. Probably yes. OH, and add a hat to that too.
After the race I'm seriously considering chopping my hair off. I need a clean slate in the worst of ways for many, many reasons. Short hair won't fix my issues, but there's nothing like the redemption of being able to start over.
Well, that's all for now. I'll be back on Sunday, I'm sure, with plenty to say!
The day is finally here! Tomorrow is the Fisherman's 5K. I am one nervous Nelly. I'm a little concerned about this race. I feel like it's a great way to "break into" running if I plan on doing more of these, because a) this race is only in its 2nd year and b) it's very small. But, the perks of being new and local also comes with major disorganization. It was my mom, who dug out what looked like a basic route for the race, but it was buried under pages of shit. And the date said 2009. I'm concerned.
I finally spoke to someone who told me all I had to do was show up at St. Peter's. I think I can handle that. I just wish it were a bit more organized. I want maps, dammit!
And, unfortunately, I'll have the weather playing against me tomorrow. 45 degrees; thankfully it'll be sunny. I've heard you ought to dress like it's ten degrees warmer out. My layers include: long pants, a tank, a tshirt,a long-sleeve shirt and two hoodies (both on the light side). Am I overdoing it? Meh. Probably yes. OH, and add a hat to that too.
After the race I'm seriously considering chopping my hair off. I need a clean slate in the worst of ways for many, many reasons. Short hair won't fix my issues, but there's nothing like the redemption of being able to start over.
Well, that's all for now. I'll be back on Sunday, I'm sure, with plenty to say!
Friday, March 19, 2010
DIY gone bad + Shamrock Shenanigans
This week flew by, but I wish I were happy about it.
It’s not that I didn’t have a blast this week – I did, actually. My friend Bri came and stayed over for two days, and a few of us went out for St. Patty’s armed with ridiculous hats and shamrock tattoos. We went to Toms River, two towns over, and had a rowdy ol’ time at a normally calm and quiet sports bar. Who knew?
Last night I spent my evening outside. God, I love the arrival of spring. Everything about my life gets a little better: the frequency of which I wear sunglasses, the drive home stuck on 206 – with the windows down and some good tunes going, the free time I have on weekends. It seems so much sweeter with the sunshine and warmth.
So, I set out to fix my bike, which has been long overdue for a seat adjustment. I even wound up calling my favorite handyman, the future brother-in-law Mike, for some advice. Unfortunately, by the time he returned my call, my bike seat’s hinge was in 5 pieces and I was running out of sunlight. I can’t reassemble it, so it’s off to the bike shop.
Except getting things fixed costs money. And I’m out of it. Granted, I think I finally have a hang of why I’m running out of it so fast (unexpected expenses, not necessarily me being careless with money. I got billed for medication that I need, so…it is what it is). So now I’m faced with the strong possibility of picking up a weekend job. I’ve already applied to one or two places, but I don’t know what will come of it. I may even consider working weekends somewhere in Point, even if it’s the boardwalk, for just the month. I’m borderline desperate.
It’ll be OK. I have to keep telling myself that.
And perhaps that’s what worries me. This is not the life I imagined. Financially, I make just enough – and that’s really OK with me. But then when emergencies happen, or $100 of work on my car pops up, or Bank of America calls me about my credit card that I owe money on, I’m suddenly flat broke, and “making just enough” is not enough.
There are people out there who focused solely on their financial future and perhaps they’re smirking to themselves right now. I’d like to emphasize that I have never been happier where I am, but I am realizing the ugly necessity that money is becoming as I get older.
I worry about my future. I really worry. Everyone assumes a happily ever after when Chris comes back to France; that he’ll magically make a fortune coming out of school and we’ll buy a perfect place together. It seems to be implied that he’ll make bank and that I’ll just be able to be taken care of based on that. Well, I’ve got news for you: I never want to depend on anyone else. Ever. I have seen too much horror to believe that I’m safe from the ugly implications of when 'for as long as we both shall live' goes wrong.
And lately I question it. I do. It’s not just a long-distance thing, it’s a getting-to-know-someone thing. And I wake up from nightmares I’ve been having lately, and I wonder if this is “one of those days” or something much bigger than I can handle.
It’s not that I didn’t have a blast this week – I did, actually. My friend Bri came and stayed over for two days, and a few of us went out for St. Patty’s armed with ridiculous hats and shamrock tattoos. We went to Toms River, two towns over, and had a rowdy ol’ time at a normally calm and quiet sports bar. Who knew?
Last night I spent my evening outside. God, I love the arrival of spring. Everything about my life gets a little better: the frequency of which I wear sunglasses, the drive home stuck on 206 – with the windows down and some good tunes going, the free time I have on weekends. It seems so much sweeter with the sunshine and warmth.
So, I set out to fix my bike, which has been long overdue for a seat adjustment. I even wound up calling my favorite handyman, the future brother-in-law Mike, for some advice. Unfortunately, by the time he returned my call, my bike seat’s hinge was in 5 pieces and I was running out of sunlight. I can’t reassemble it, so it’s off to the bike shop.
Except getting things fixed costs money. And I’m out of it. Granted, I think I finally have a hang of why I’m running out of it so fast (unexpected expenses, not necessarily me being careless with money. I got billed for medication that I need, so…it is what it is). So now I’m faced with the strong possibility of picking up a weekend job. I’ve already applied to one or two places, but I don’t know what will come of it. I may even consider working weekends somewhere in Point, even if it’s the boardwalk, for just the month. I’m borderline desperate.
It’ll be OK. I have to keep telling myself that.
And perhaps that’s what worries me. This is not the life I imagined. Financially, I make just enough – and that’s really OK with me. But then when emergencies happen, or $100 of work on my car pops up, or Bank of America calls me about my credit card that I owe money on, I’m suddenly flat broke, and “making just enough” is not enough.
There are people out there who focused solely on their financial future and perhaps they’re smirking to themselves right now. I’d like to emphasize that I have never been happier where I am, but I am realizing the ugly necessity that money is becoming as I get older.
I worry about my future. I really worry. Everyone assumes a happily ever after when Chris comes back to France; that he’ll magically make a fortune coming out of school and we’ll buy a perfect place together. It seems to be implied that he’ll make bank and that I’ll just be able to be taken care of based on that. Well, I’ve got news for you: I never want to depend on anyone else. Ever. I have seen too much horror to believe that I’m safe from the ugly implications of when 'for as long as we both shall live' goes wrong.
And lately I question it. I do. It’s not just a long-distance thing, it’s a getting-to-know-someone thing. And I wake up from nightmares I’ve been having lately, and I wonder if this is “one of those days” or something much bigger than I can handle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
