I washed and rinsed my bowl in the hot, sudsy water and then put it in the rack to dry before moving on to the spoons. I idly began to wonder why I have more than one bowl. More than one spoon. More than one plate.
I have lived alone for the better part of eight years now. I moved out of Ohio in 2004 and into a new life in New Mexico. Yes, there were a few months in 2005 where I lived with someone else, but for the most part, I have been living alone. Moving to my current position in the Chicago suburbs has not changed my roommate status. But that is not a reason to consider cutting down the number of plates, bowls, cutlery, and the like.
No, the fact that I never have guests is the reason.
What are my plates, but a vain hope that someone will spend the night? What are my glasses but a reminder that I drink alone?
I sometimes say that I do not date because of my schedule. And there is some truth in that. Rotating shifts take a lot out of me. I do not always have the energy to go out and meet people. And the women that I meet are not always into the idea that during evening shift week, I am completely out of phase with a normal 9-5 schedule and during owl & transition weeks, I am somewhat zombified. Not to mention the fact that there are two weekends every five week rotation where I am working 25 hours out of 48.
But again, that is not the whole reason. After all, I could probably find someone if I tried.
No, it comes down to this. I have grown accustomed to solitude in my apartment. The idea that someone might come over actually fills me with anxiety. Excitement, certainly. But anxiety nonetheless.
My living room is cluttered and my bedroom looks like a cyclone hit it. The way to my bed is less a path than an obstacle course. Yet, I have memorized it and can maneuver it in pitch darkness. My apartment is small and cramped and I do not have places for all of my stuff. To make it presentable, I need to buy so many things. But since I have no plans of inviting anyone over, there is no reason to buy them. It is a cycle and I do not know if I can break it. I do not know if I want to break it.
I used to think that I would have guests. Friends. Dates. Colleagues. That was long ago. I like people. I truly do. That is why I go out dancing. Why I cook for my coworkers. Why I juggle in public and ride my unicycle. Why I occasionally go out and play games with coworkers. I like to make people smile. I like to make them laugh. I like life. I do not always like to be alone, but it has been so long ... I am no longer certain that I can be a good host.
30 January 2012
29 January 2012
Tall Tale
If I were going to write the story of my birth, I would probably put in something momentous and poetic. Something like the following scene.
"Did you see that," she asked my father.
"See what."
"That star. Sirius. It flashed for a second."
"Right, Nancie. Whatever you say." Dad was humoring her. They had already lost a child in a premature birth. And though everything seemed to be fine this time, he was naturally cautious and far more concerned with loading everything into the car to take to the hospital than with his wife's imagination.
"No, really Nelson," she insisted! "I think that the Dog Star winked at me!"
On the drive to to hospital, she talked about dogs. She talked about the dog and cat that she and her brothers had owned as a child and how the cat had defended the dog from another dog. She talked about the fact that the Chinese New Year was coming soon and that it was going to be the Year of the Dog. She talked about loyalty and friendship and that she hoped their child would be like a dog in those ways.
During the labor, she had the doctor open the drapes of the hospital window. She hoped to see Sirius. Light pollution and an overcast sky made that unlikely, but she remained hopeful.
I have been told that the labor was relatively short, but intense. I do not know. I was not exactly the best witness to the event and I certainly have no memory of that. I know that these were the days before fathers were in the room for the birth, so he waited outside in the Waiting Room. So I have no one to confirm or deny what Mom has told me. She says that as the doctors pulled me out, the clouds parted. Orion, Canis Major, and Canis Minor all shone through the window. She says that Sirius seemed alive that night, and that it's light shone right on me. She says that I opened my eyes, and reached for that star ... until the doctor smacked my bum and made me scream.
To my knowledge, none of those things are true. Let me re-phrase that. This story was never told to me. My mother does love astronomy and would recognize the above constellations and stars. They are all visible in early January. My father would react like that to Mom's silliness. I was born in Dayton, OH. Light pollution could have made viewing those stars difficult. I was born at the end of the Chinese year of the rooster and just before the year of the dog.
So, this story contains many facts, but to my knowledge, the actual events did not happen. But the personalities are correct. And I can easily imagine it happening.
I have been told that I am very nearly a tall tale, like Davy Crockett, Johnny Appleseed, Mike Fink, or John Henry. Things like that would fit in quite well with the weird stuff that really happened to me. Like being mugged by mimes. Or meeting Elvis in a blizzard outside of Memphis. So I think that I shall choose to believe that it is true, although not factual.
"Did you see that," she asked my father.
"See what."
"That star. Sirius. It flashed for a second."
"Right, Nancie. Whatever you say." Dad was humoring her. They had already lost a child in a premature birth. And though everything seemed to be fine this time, he was naturally cautious and far more concerned with loading everything into the car to take to the hospital than with his wife's imagination.
"No, really Nelson," she insisted! "I think that the Dog Star winked at me!"
On the drive to to hospital, she talked about dogs. She talked about the dog and cat that she and her brothers had owned as a child and how the cat had defended the dog from another dog. She talked about the fact that the Chinese New Year was coming soon and that it was going to be the Year of the Dog. She talked about loyalty and friendship and that she hoped their child would be like a dog in those ways.
During the labor, she had the doctor open the drapes of the hospital window. She hoped to see Sirius. Light pollution and an overcast sky made that unlikely, but she remained hopeful.
I have been told that the labor was relatively short, but intense. I do not know. I was not exactly the best witness to the event and I certainly have no memory of that. I know that these were the days before fathers were in the room for the birth, so he waited outside in the Waiting Room. So I have no one to confirm or deny what Mom has told me. She says that as the doctors pulled me out, the clouds parted. Orion, Canis Major, and Canis Minor all shone through the window. She says that Sirius seemed alive that night, and that it's light shone right on me. She says that I opened my eyes, and reached for that star ... until the doctor smacked my bum and made me scream.
To my knowledge, none of those things are true. Let me re-phrase that. This story was never told to me. My mother does love astronomy and would recognize the above constellations and stars. They are all visible in early January. My father would react like that to Mom's silliness. I was born in Dayton, OH. Light pollution could have made viewing those stars difficult. I was born at the end of the Chinese year of the rooster and just before the year of the dog.
So, this story contains many facts, but to my knowledge, the actual events did not happen. But the personalities are correct. And I can easily imagine it happening.
I have been told that I am very nearly a tall tale, like Davy Crockett, Johnny Appleseed, Mike Fink, or John Henry. Things like that would fit in quite well with the weird stuff that really happened to me. Like being mugged by mimes. Or meeting Elvis in a blizzard outside of Memphis. So I think that I shall choose to believe that it is true, although not factual.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)