Parallel Lives

Rush hour on public transportation is sort of a democratization of human closeness. A stranger does not have to know me to sit so near that our thighs have practically melded together. This isn't a story about the posters that read: "A Crowded Subway is No Excuse for an Inappropriate Touch." Rather, this post is a simple observation of two gentlemen who stood back to back for 50 blocks.

They were so close that they we touching, but they never made eye contact. I was close enough that I was basically breathing down both of their necks, and could closely observe them both.

They seemed to be from different walks of life. One was wearing a well-cut suit and tie and reading The Economist; the other was in a yellow hooded sweatshirt and a trucker hat reading a religious magazine in Spanish. By my estimates, they were approximately the same age--late forties, early fifties. They seemed so different, and I naturally made assumptions that could be totally wrong (because you know that saying "when we assume we make an ass of u and me.") But it got me thinking about an assertion Joan Didion makes in an essay about New York. She says that it is a town for the "very rich and the very poor." I may pose the addendum and the young (who are sometimes also poor-ish). These two men and I may have been that trio.

The men were standing so close that they probably would have been able to feel each other's back sweat if they hadn't been wearing a sports jacket and a hoodie, but they actually never talked or saw the other's face. As I let my contemplation of them consume my mind for the better part of my commute, I found myself wishing I could follow them both home and see how they lived.

Or better yet, I wanted a Freaky Friday scenario and to have these two men switch lives.

But the thing is, besides being crammed tightly together in the subway, their lives will never touch.

Kurt Vonnegut

I really like that guy. I wish he was still alive.

Here's one of my favorite quotes from the above novel:

There is love enough in this world for everybody, if people will just look. I am proof of that.

Actually, that phrase develops a hint of sadness a couple chapters later, but honestly, the character who said it probably wouldn't take it back.

 

Hey, Fall. You Beautiful Season, You.

Today felt legitimately autumnal. I woke up and was actually cold as I wandered about the apartment in the morning. However, despite the morning temperatures, it was one of those perfect autumn Sundays. It seriously felt like all of New York City was out on the streets, but it was such a divine day that the crowds made me want to embrace greater humanity rather than hide in an underground bunker.

I decided to hit up Washington Square Park, since that would have likely been a regular haunt of mine if I ever attended college at the New York University home campus.

I felt irresistibly drawn to this cupcake and made it mine. It was good, but my official cupcake critique would be that the cake itself was dense rather than fluffy and was rather bland.

 These guys were great. The trio consisted of a saxophone, double bass and drum kit and their seemingly imporvised jazz provided the perfect ambiance in Washington Square.

When I came home, I fully embraced the autumnal chill by digging my flannel pajamas from the depths of my dresser. I'm sure the cold will rattle my bones and earn some scorn eventually, but right now I am absolutely loving donning warm socks and my favorite pajamas.

I Made a Hat with My Hands

I've had a two year hat-making hiatus. However, during autumn of 2011, I spent many hours in front of the warm glow of the television with a crochet hook in my hand. That Christmas family members got crudely made beanies. Some of those hats turned out better than others. The one I made for my father was more suited to sheath a prize-winning watermelon than a human head. Hopefully, he just took it as an indication of how I perceive his cranial abilities. In Revolution-era America, they painted men of high esteem with ridiculously massive foreheads because having a large "brain-space" was suppose to be a sign of intellect.

Anyway, this morning I made myself remember how to crochet a hat. I told myself I wasn't allowed to shower or leave the apartment until I made a presentable product.

My first attempt was a mess of yarn. I kept thinking, "Maybe this will eventually mold into a hat shape."

 Then, I had an epiphany.

Gray blob is attempt #1

The epiphany was that I was basically doing everything wrong. And I can't even semantically explain was I was doing wrong because I know zero crocheting terminology.

In the end, I created something resembling a cap, and although it is definitely not the finest piece of hand-craftiness, I donned it to go into the city--after I took the shower I'd been withholding from myself.

Trivia: Beanies were originally called "watch caps" because they were worn by sailors during their "watch." Then those skateboarder types took to wearing them as a sartorial symbol of their subculture and started calling them beanies. According to the Oxford Dictionary, the etymology of the term beanie is uncertain, but they thing it could be a called that because apparently somewhere in the world "bean" is a slang term for head. And actually, the very first beanies originated in a village in Wales in the 12th century. I could actually tell you even more because I just spent an inordinate amount of time researching the history of the knit stocking cap.

The Best Flashback Post Ever: College Crushes

I was exuberant to find a cache of photos from an afternoon Amanda and I passed in a library study room during our Junior year (I think) at BYU.

I lived off-campus and between our work schedules (I was dishing out burritos and delivering pizzas, and Amanda was educating beginners on the finer points of film and staffing the grounds office) and earning ourselves college degrees, dedicated friend time was hard to come by. One fine day we orchestrated an hour or so to hang out, and to be able to discuss our many flights of fancy and girlish whims, we reserved a library study room so we could divulge secrets and analyze the desires of our hearts in privacy. 

Reserving library study rooms became a pleasure of mine; once I realized they didn't police them to ensure you were engaged in scholarly pursuits, they became private oases (that's the plural of oasis, I just learned) in a school teeming with tens of thousands of people. 

Later on, I reserved a room so I could interview Amanda's then-fiancee, now-husband before her bridal shower.

Amanda and I were varsity-level M.A.S.H. players. For those not familiar with M.A.S.H., you have missed out on a vital ritual of American girlhood (and apparently for Amanda and I, American young adulthood--as we are at least 20 here...) You make lists of potential husbands, potential careers, the number of children one may potentially have, the age at which one may be wed, and the acronym M.A.S.H. refers to the type of dwelling you will occupy (Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House). Then you choose a random number, and begin counting and crossing out names when they land on the number until you have only one option in each category, and--BAM--your future is made clear. 

Everyone plays this in elementary school, but Amanda and I resurrected the art of M.A.S.H. on our yellow legal pads as we waited in hallways and rode buses to debate tournaments as high school upperclassmen, and as evidenced by the above photographs continued our practice of the art of M.A.S.H. into our college years.

Apparently on this occasion, post-M.A.S.H. we graphically analyzed our affection for various men in our lives. This sort of calculation of seems sort of clinical and unfeeling, but I assure you, we were full of feeling. Hence, the need for the feeling to spill out into charts, so the data could be discussed among company well associated with the subject matter in a way that yielded clear-headed conclusions. (Okay, maybe just a little unfeeling.) 

Actually, I am kind of embarrassed by my chart. Obviously not embarrassed enough to keep it off the internet. But if you look closely the dotted line running parallel to the X axis is labelled "Nice Guy" and the Y axis is labelled "Scale of love (in degrees of hotness)". I'm sure even at the time I was being a little hokey, but it is now forever recorded on the internet.

Anyway, good friends are a wonderful thing to have. I think that's why I was so jubilant to find these pictures tucked away on a file in my external hard drive. 

***Okay, and can everyone please note how I so considerately obscured the names of the boys who made it onto our lists? Actually, I mostly did it for myself, since I am too private a person to ever so publicly declare the names of boys that have been objects of my infatuation. However, it took me like 30 minutes to figure out a way to edit them that I didn't think made the pictures look totally stupid.

Recurring Dreams

Last night, I dreamed that, for some reason that seemed perfectly logical in my dream, I had to go back to high school. I was expected to keep up with English reading and be sitting at a desk at 8am every morning and dream-Roni was exasperated by this and decided to sleep in and skive off classes. When dream-Roni reached her breaking point, she exclaimed, "This is completely illogical! I graduated from college! Twice! Why do I have to do high school again!"

I believe I could psychoanalyze this dream.You know, like maybe I make career choices that aren't commensurate with my experience? Or at least I feel that way subconsciously. 

Most of the time I don't place deep significance on my dreams. However, sometimes I do think they are a manifestation of stressors that I am not coping with. Like when I feel a lot of pressure and expectation, usually around the time that I am making some sort of "big decision," I dream that I am getting married. The dream typically opens on my wedding day, and I have no recollection of my courtship with the groom and do not want to get married but feel like I will disappoint everyone who has gathered for the ceremony (not to mention my betrothed) if I don't say "I do," and I feel compelled to go through with the vows despite a terrible sinking pit in my stomach.

Make of that what you will, Freudians.

Chinese Food Panacea

As I began my walk home from East Harlem, I felt a sudden, fierce craving for Chinese food. These cravings aren't rare occurrences, and I believe they are partially fueled by the cheap and easy availability of Chinese takeout in New York. However, lately I find the craving especially potent when I yearn for some kind of comfort food, and as I am not a native of the Orient (sorry, I know that term is politically incorrect) that feels sort of odd. Upon further contemplation, though, I realized it is perfectly logical that I should gravitate toward saucy rice dishes when I want something homey and familiar.

I'm sure the Chinese takeout I frequent most regularly (I think it is calling Jin Xiao) is far from authentic cuisine, but I don't think authentic cuisine would be as comforting.

When I was in grade school, my dad started work as a server at a restaurant called China Lily. Naturally, we used to go there ALL THE TIME. We got in the habit of calling Sweet & Sour Chicken "Chinese Chicken Nuggets." Later we would joke that my sister was weaned on egg drop soup. My dad worked there for 6 years. My mom also would pick up some weekend shifts. Often they both worked Fridays and Saturdays, and when we were too young to be trusted at home alone, our parents would tote my brother, sister and I, and we would stay in a small apartment above the restaurant where the cooks lived. I remember watching the Star Wars trilogy in that dank apartment. Eventually, my parents allowed me to be the steward of my siblings and left me alone to watch over them at home while they worked the weekend.

I remember on one occasion where I was allowed to look after my brother and sister, they tied me to a desk with tape.

But when my parents would return home after that weekend shift their uniforms (light blue button-up shirts and khaki pants) carried a strong stench of Chinese food.

After those six years, my dad decided to return to the profession he'd been trained for in college and became a middle school math teacher. There was a famine of Chinese food in my life until I was a high school student and my parents unpredictably enough decided to open up their own Chinese restaurant. (At this point one should note, that as far as we can trace, we carry no hint of Asian ancestry). We were reunited with an unlimited supply of Americanized Chinese food, and  you can bet that we consumed fried rice, chow mein, curried noodles, beef and broccoli, black pepper chicken, salt and pepper chicken, kung pao, and shanghai noodles like there was no tomorrow. But, the time of our Chinese restaurant was short-lived. Even though our Chinese dishes could be ordered with pizza and both would be delivered to your door in the Payson suburbs, business never took off. (Once one of my classmates mentioned how peculiar it was that the only Chinese restaurant in the town--at the time--was owned by white people).

As I reflect on all this, it doesn't seem peculiar that Chinese food should be what I crave after a long day when thoughts, questions and insecurities occupy my mind.

In reflecting on all of this, I also have immense respect for my parents and all that they've done in their lives. What sort of crazy people open a Chinese restaurant when they are not Chinese? My parents are bold and brave people, that is for sure.

For now, I will just shovel this food into my mouth and let it eradicate my hunger and all of my unanswered questions--just for a moment.