Night and Day

So, there I was – at the Philadelphia airport with a first class ticket on a flight to Minneapolis, Minnesota.  The next morning.

You didn’t expect me to spend the night at the airport did you? 

Brother to the rescue.

Now, don’t get to thinking that he’s a prince among men and all that stuff.  In fact, through my whole travel ordeal, he was sending me texts and calling me saying such supportive things like – “You’ve been to London, you should be able to handle this.”  “You’re a world traveler!”  “Are you hangry?  I bet you’re hangry!”  “I’m trying to be supportive…like a jock strap!”  “Still hangry?” 

Granted, he did play a crucial part in translating for my parents who don’t do very well in the communication department in times of crisis. 

I think my brother realized that I was at the end of the rope when I was trying to make sense of the SEPTA train timetable and was crying again realized I had justmissed a train and would have to wait another god knows how long for the next one.  So, he said the magic word:  “I’ll come pick you up and we’ll go get dinner.”  Dinner being the magic word, of course.

My tears dissipated, everything became right in the world again, and I remembered that heroes do walk among us. 

And that’s the story of how I flew to Philadelphia to have dinner with my brother. 

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When we were kids my mom used to tell people that my brother and I were as different as night and day. 

He was artistic. I was not. 

I was a reader.  He was not.

He was athletic.  I was not.

I was a good student.  He was not.

He was intellectually gifted.  I was not. 

I was a morning person.  He most definitely was not. 

Things haven’t really changed in 30 odd years.    

We’re still pretty different. 

I believe strongly in punctuality.  My brother lives life according to his own clock which seems to be in a time zone that no one has quite discovered except for him. 

My brother’s house is decorated with a discerning eye towards detail.  The fact that the screws in my light switch plates aren’t aligned the same way makes him bonkers. 

I can’t smell an ashtray on fire right next to me (yes, it really happened).  My brother can walk into a room and get sick from the smell of cigarette smoke.   

My brother whips up amazing meals for family and friends.  I offer family and friends the bounty of my take-out menu drawer. 

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As we ate dinner that night and he told me a story about work, I realized that, in some respects, we’re not so different after all. 

My brother is an HVAC guy…he installs heaters and boilers and big stuff like that and he’s very serious and very meticulous about it.  Sometimes, I get the sense that his tendency towards perfectionism might drive his coworkers crazy.  I wondered aloud if he was being a bit tough on them.  He got very agitated and said things had to be done a certain way – his way – so that it was done right.  I thought he was on a very high horse, indeed.

And then I chuckled because really, when it comes to work, I’m the same way.  My brother flips out about ductwork.  I flip out about improper records arrangement, crooked labels, and people not spell-checking their work.  Sometimes, I ride a pretty high horse myself.     

Yeah, we’re still as different as night and day. 

But every night has some light and every day has its darkness. 

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(This morning person is eternally grateful that her not-a-morning-person brother got up at 4:30 to take her to the airport the next morning!)

The Crush Factor

Since most days I act a sixth grader, it’s probably not a huge shock to find out that I engage in that all too common middle school rite – the crush.  While most of my peers are busy meeting potential life mates and forming actual adult relationships, I’m still hanging on the monkey bars giggling about my crush o’ the moment.  I am so mature.

I had my very first crush in the second grade.  His name was Greg Tarlo and he was the cutest boy in Room 6.  It never went anywhere because, well, we were seven and do you honestly think I told him that I had a crush on him?! 

My next serious crush was, of course, Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love.  And we already know that 1) I was to shy to ask him to a dance and 2) I still giggle like a nervous schoolgirl around him. 

Then there were the crushes on all the guys I worked with at the supermarket, including Muffin Boy, the Utz guy, the meat guy, the bakery guy, the frozen food guy.  But I never, ever had a crush on any of the deli guys.  I mean, who wants to crush on a guy who cuts the cheese? 

(Seriously, if you did not laugh at that one, you have no soul.)

Ahh, let me tell you about Muffin Boy.  Tall, dark, and handsome, I saw him every morning when he helped deliver Thomas English muffins to our store.  That crush was borderline - actually, I guess technically not borderline – illegal.  I was the older woman, 21, to his 15 going on 16.  For the record, I did NOT know he was 15 going on 16.  He was very tall and mature for his age.  As soon as I found out he was 16 (um, on the day that I gave him a birthday card - can you say, Denise is a dork?  'cause I did.) and that he was helping his dad deliver muffins, I stopped my crushing.  I still can’t look at Thomas English muffins without blushing just a tad.    

There have been other crushes here and there over the years.  And there have been a few threats of bodily harm to friends if they, God forbid, actually reveal my crushes.  (Did the bell ring for fourth period, yet?) 

But today, an idea – so far-fetched, so ludicrous, so ridiculous – was suggested to me that made me laugh in disbelief before I quickly disagreed.  What if, what if rather than being the crusher, I was the crushee?  Well, doesn’t that just spin the Earth off its axis?  I don’t think I’ve ever conceived the notion of someone actually having a crush on me, of all people!  Is it possible that I have a crushability quotient?

Not that I’m going to find out…because, OMG, that would be sooo mature embarrassing!  {giggle, giggle}   

Reach Out and Touch Someone. Just Not Me.

TopChef, who is really noteverstill and is my Fairy Blogmother (since I still believe in the magic of fairies) wrote a really great post about massages at The DC Moms.  An email chain that began with a compliment about her post evolved into a discussion about pedicures and being touched.  Coming on the heels of a conversation with someone else about why a high-five is not an appropriate ending to a first date – and doesn’t bode well for a second – I figured that I’d better take a long, hard look at my feelings towards touch and intimacy.      

I don’t like people touching me.  I’ve never been one of those happy huggers who greets family and friends with big cheerful hugs…and when I’ve been enveloped by big cheerful hugs, I’ve wished that I could be anywhere else other than that tight embrace where you'rethisclosetoanotherperson.  Now, I’m not completely anti-touching.  I’m affectionate with my parents and is it too weird to tell you that I still sit on my mom’s lap?  You think that’s bad?  Imagine how my mom feels.  (I only do it occasionally…not like all the time, geez!)  You know that personal space thing?  My brother jokes that I like to have a good five feet of personal space around me at all times.  He’s exaggerating just a little.  I’d be fine with four.

So, how’d I get to be this way?  I’ve always attributed it to one event in my life.  While I can’t remember if it was after my first or second surgery, I can still see and hear what happened in my mind like it was yesterday.

If you manage to break through the four feet of personal space around me and look at my face really closely, you’ll see two very faint scars under my eyes.  They’re from my first cheekbone surgery.  Do me a favor and look at the hem on your skirt or the stitching on your shirt sleeve.  Now image those tiny stitches under your eyes.  Now image that you’re seven or nine years old and you have to get those stitches removed.  Snip.  Snip.  Snip.    

Let’s just say, I didn’t it handle it very well.  I made the scene from The Exorcist look like a heartwarming holiday tale.  I freaked out.  It was an absolute primal protect myself at all costs freak out.  I cried, I begged, I used words that would make truck drivers and sailors blush.  I was a little girl and I was scared petrified.  I didn’t know why my doctor was doing what he was doing, why my mom was letting him do what he was doing, why God was letting them do what they were doing.  All I knew was that I was going to do whatever it took so that no one touched hurt me.  Ultimately, after my mother managed to calm me down, the stitches were removed – with the gentlest of hands – and I apologized for my bad behavior and all the curse words.

So.  You know.  I don’t like being touched.  That horrible experience scarred me for life.  Or did it?  Am I just using this episode as protection against the unknown?  A defense mechanism?  An easy excuse to avoid this whole touchy subject?      

This is what TopChef wrote to me last week that made me think:

       You don't like people touching you because you fear intimacy? So really you're nervous about people touching you so you've convinced yourself that you dislike it? Nervous is not the same as averse…

Said with love, of course.

And with that my friends, my friend hit the (embedded pedicure joke alert) nail on the head.  It’s a habit I have – saying I don’t like something without giving it a chance (hello, food!) or because I’m plain old scared.  I used to say that I didn’t like driving on highways but really, I was just terrified of being killed by a tractor trailer.  I got over the fear and now I love driving on highways.  It’s super easy for me to say that I don’t like to be touched – I’ve got a whooper of a traumatic life experience to use as an excuse – but really, it’s because I’m scared.  It's time to stop making excuses. 

But until I work through some more of my issues, a high five is gonna have to do at the end of the first date (when I actually go on a first date).  But if Mark, Steve, or Tom’s patient, he’ll get lucky…and I’ll give him a handshake on the second date. 

Connections

On Wednesday, I headed to BlogHer'11.  My friends and I flew into Nashville where we had a connecting flight to San Diego.  Luckily, there was plenty of time to spare between the flights and we didn't have any problems making our connection...because missing it would've been annoying.
  
On the flight to San Diego, I sat next to a nice young girl named Brielle.  We started talking and I found out all sorts of things about her.  She's 17 and lives in Nashville with her mom and grandparents.  She has two little half-siblings who call her Big Sissy.  She starts her senior year on Tuesday but she's going in on Monday to help the underclassmen.  She took in a stray cat a few years ago, she has five house plants, and she reads the Bible.  She was flying to San Diego to catch a connecting flight to Sacramento.  I'll never know how Brielle's trip to Sacramento was and I'll never find out what college she picks or anything else about her because our paths will surely never cross again...but for a few hours last Wednesday, we made a connection, fleeting as it was.

When I arrived at BlogHer, I found out that this conference is all about connecting.  Connecting with brands to get swag (because yes, this borderline hoarder needs free crap like a hole in the head!); connecting with fellow bloggers as you lamely tell them that your blog is about your life (yep, because the other 3,599 write about the same thing!); connecting with strangers at lunch because they just had to sit at your table where all you wanted to do was eat in peace so you could pick all the lunchmeat off the roll without feeling like a freak or a four year old; connecting with bloggers in lectures in which you learned about connecting with readers.  It was  a heckuva lotta connecting.  It was so exhausting that by the end of the day, the only thing that I wanted to connect with was my bed.  Snoring be damned.  

I'm actually not the best at making connections with people.  On the surface, yeah, sure.  I'm  the gal everyone knows and waves to and who seems like a jolly good time.  But the honest to goodness, trust you enough to let you in, trust you enough to let you see me, the real Denise...that's been a work in progress.  This year has been a turning point for me.  Maybe it's the blog, maybe it's the quieting of all the voices in my head (except the ones who speak up on nights when I eat Oreos too late), maybe it's something that even I can't explain, but this year, I've started making those connections.  There are people in my life who I know I can count on, the ones who I trust enough to give my spare house key to, the ones who I can invite over without caring that I didn't clean up all the clutter, and the ones who I can call or text or Facebook about whatever crazy thought crosses my mind.  They're my connections;  they're my friends.  And boy, am I glad that I didn't miss out on them.           

So, go out and make connections.  Maybe even play Connect Four.  Whatever.  Just don't miss any more connections.

Ripples

I have that screen-saver thing on my phone that when you press it, it ripples out from the center of where you pressed, strong at first then weakening before the screen returns to normal.  As I fiddled around with it today after my nap, I got to thinking about the events in our lives that set off ripples that are felt in the days, months, years that follow.  Strong at first, those ripples weaken over time…but unlike my phone, life doesn’t ever really return to normal.  All you’re left with are tiny ripples and wonderings of what if? 

A lifetime ago - my brother’s, actually - a little over 35 years ago, one of those events happened in my family.  I don’t need to rehash the past so I won’t…but something happened and someone disappeared from the fabric of our family.  But people don’t really ever disappear…their importance, their significance lingers on…even if it’s only a memory, faded though it may be.

I don’t know if it was my passion for history or my constant search to find my place in a family in which I didn’t see myself in anyone else…but I’ve always felt a connection to this person whom I only knew from photographs and old family stories.  This man – whose name I have heard hundreds of times in my life from the mouths of cousins who remember him…who knew him – this good man raised my mother from the age of 11 until he walked her down the aisle.  I was born six years after that but by then…by then, everything was just a ripple. 

Half of my lifetime ago, when I was 16, I used that newfangled Internet technology thingie to find him.  I knew his name after all…even if I couldn’t spell his last name quite right.  Eventually, in my high school computer lab, I found his address on the World Wide Web.  And I wrote him a long, rambling letter.  And then I waited.  [Note – hormonal teenage girls should never try to write heartfelt letters to long-lost relatives.  I can’t remember exactly what I wrote but I’m pretty sure it didn’t make a lot of sense.  Actually, I could’ve been mistaken for a crackpot.]

One day there was an envelope addressed to me in our mailbox.  I opened it to find a note with a single sentence on it.  The past must stay in the past.  I was stunned…and scared.  I tore that note up into a million tiny pieces and threw it away.  And I never told anyone about what I had done.  The past would stay in the past.  But a couple of years later, while my mother and I were in the car and she started talking about trying to find him, my secret, the only secret I have ever kept from my mother, came out in choking sobs.  I had ruined her chance to find him…to connect with him again after so many years.  I told her about the note; she asked if I had saved it.  I told her no.  And she was quiet.  And oh how I wished I hadn’t torn up that note.  I wished I had saved it so I could give it to her.  So, she could have one last piece of him.  The past was in the past but the ripples were still rippling.

Around Christmas, three years ago – by now, I was living in Maryland – I got a phone call from my mother.  Her voice was…different.  Excited, nervous, surprised?  I didn’t know what it was but I knew something was up.  She told me…you got a card from him.  And my heart leapt.  And so we corresponded occasionally.  He has written to me about his childhood in Germany and his dreams of America as a boy and his own love of history.  But we don’t write of the past – that past.  But it’s there…rippling. 

I long to ask him all sorts of questions.  Questions about my mother before she became my mother.  What was she like as a little girl?  Does he remember the trip to the Indian reservation?  What did he really think about her following baseball players across the country?  Does he remember the blue jumpsuit he made for her?  What was he thinking as he walked her down the aisle?  Could he have possibly imagined how strong she would become?  Does he think about her?  Or is she just a lingering memory…a ripple in his own life?

When my inbox pings and I see that I’ve received an email from him, my heart leaps.  It is a little piece of the past that I wonder about and ask myself what if?  But the past is the past and we cannot change all that has happened even as it ripples still.     

But I wish I could tell him - oh, how you are missed.  And loved.