In high school I had a teacher who thought it was hilarious to randomly yell in the middle of class, "Everybody, look at Zarah!"
When 30 some-odd pairs of eyes were fixed on me, the temperature in the room would explode to a million degrees and something would just . . . happen. I would turn pink. Not just pink, but full on fuchsia with red highlights. And not just my cheeks, but my full face -- apart from a white line around my mouth and eyes . . . and I guess my forehead never really changes from stark white. . .
In any case, this little "joke" was not my favorite. I blush easily and hold color well.
People notice.
A few days ago during a lull at work I entertained two men who kept making me blush just by talking about how easily I blush. The fellow who led the conversation is quite creative. He spent some time telling me that he was a friendly mutant from a planet where everything is perfect and people live the law of "Do What You Do," which involves having resources at the ready to do anything you need/want to do when you need/want it (sounds like the law of consecration to me). He was willing to take me there if I wanted to go, but I couldn't change my mind. After much debate I decided against it and chose to stay in this less-than-perfect world. Sad day.
I'm not sure if he forgot the word "blush," or what, but he made up a word for what my face does when people stare intently at it for no particular reason: pinkenism. As in, "Girl, you got some pinkenism going on in your cheeks! Hoo-whee! Not just the round part but all up in your face and ever'thang!"
So, there you have it, folks. I've got a bad case of pinkenism and I am not ashamed!
This gentleman also thought that I couldn't be a day older than 19. And he told me that he'd met my husband. Thinking that he was going to offer up himself for the duty, I allowed my voice to drip with skepticism as I inquired after how he could have met my husband before I had.
His response was sweet.
"You wanna know how I know your husband? I know that you're a good person, so you're going to get good guy to be your husband. That's how I know. You're a good person and good people find good people."
My feelings about dating, love, marriage, and relationships in general seem to change wildly from one day to the next. Just today I was talking to a man at work who did offer himself as my groom in 10 years when I've finished med school so I can be his sugar mama. I declined the generous offer. I went on to declare that I wasn't on the market and wouldn't be for some time because my goals are too important to me. Citing statistics that a significant percentage of med school students who enter their studies with a spouse end up divorced I denounced relationships as a non-priority for me.
I use this excuse a lot.
It's handy to have a well-accepted screen to hide behind when people begin throwing around uncomfortable topics. If I can tell people that I don't date because I have big plans and man would throw off my groove, they generally leave with visions of feminist bra burners dancing in their minds -- which happens to be in vogue in some circles. If I tell people that I don't date because I don't go out and meet guys they ask why I don't just date the guys in my area. When I tell them that I grew up with the guys in my area and have no interest in them because they lack ambition they walk away with the impression that I am too choosy and have made up my mind to be unimpressed. If I tell people that I'd like to date but happen to be scared of actually finding someone I like because I've only had intensely negative experiences with that sort of thing they walk away feeling sorry for me -- this is not something I'm fond of cultivating.
It leaves me in a bind, actually.
I can't say what I really think about the matter because I don't really know what to think on the matter.
The following is an excerpt from my journal. Savor it, I doubt that I'll be posting anything like it ever again.
12 May 2011
For the past several months I have been questioning myself daily. "What do you want? What do you really want?"
The response that inevitably came to mind was, "I want what everyone wants -- to be loved."
But it has always sounded off to me -- as though it's only partially correct. Like the class of notes in a dissonant chord, my very being collided with this one idea to make something lovely but...wrong.
Why do I need to be loved?
I am already loved dearly by so many.
I am quite happy with those I call dear.
Tonight, in a moment of quiet meditation over the events of the day I repeated my well-worn self query.
"What do you really want?"
And tonight my soul answered, "I want to be understood."
This thought sang with Truth -- with a capitol T!
This is what I want! Love with come with understanding, but sharing one's self requires more than love alone.
I thought about boys I had dismissed as possible companions. The biggest fault I found in each was perceived inability to understand me -- to appreciate the crazy complexity of emotion and logic that makes me tick. If I can find someone to really understand me, I will never let him go. And he won't want to leave because he will know how earnest and faithful I am.
Maybe it's just my crazy talking, but this has become something of a priority for me: to find and understanding soul with whom I can share my whole self. Is that too much to ask for?
I have no idea where to start looking for such a person -- if indeed someone like that can actually exist -- so I just wait. Hopefully I haven't burned too many bridges to explore past options. And hopefully I will be given new opportunities.
In the mean time, I really do have things to occupy my mind. . . and hands. . . and heart. But I'll keep the light on.
One thing I do know: if he happens to like pinkenism, he'll just be one lucky guy because I've got a whole lot of that going on!
When 30 some-odd pairs of eyes were fixed on me, the temperature in the room would explode to a million degrees and something would just . . . happen. I would turn pink. Not just pink, but full on fuchsia with red highlights. And not just my cheeks, but my full face -- apart from a white line around my mouth and eyes . . . and I guess my forehead never really changes from stark white. . .
In any case, this little "joke" was not my favorite. I blush easily and hold color well.
People notice.
A few days ago during a lull at work I entertained two men who kept making me blush just by talking about how easily I blush. The fellow who led the conversation is quite creative. He spent some time telling me that he was a friendly mutant from a planet where everything is perfect and people live the law of "Do What You Do," which involves having resources at the ready to do anything you need/want to do when you need/want it (sounds like the law of consecration to me). He was willing to take me there if I wanted to go, but I couldn't change my mind. After much debate I decided against it and chose to stay in this less-than-perfect world. Sad day.
I'm not sure if he forgot the word "blush," or what, but he made up a word for what my face does when people stare intently at it for no particular reason: pinkenism. As in, "Girl, you got some pinkenism going on in your cheeks! Hoo-whee! Not just the round part but all up in your face and ever'thang!"
So, there you have it, folks. I've got a bad case of pinkenism and I am not ashamed!
This gentleman also thought that I couldn't be a day older than 19. And he told me that he'd met my husband. Thinking that he was going to offer up himself for the duty, I allowed my voice to drip with skepticism as I inquired after how he could have met my husband before I had.
His response was sweet.
"You wanna know how I know your husband? I know that you're a good person, so you're going to get good guy to be your husband. That's how I know. You're a good person and good people find good people."
My feelings about dating, love, marriage, and relationships in general seem to change wildly from one day to the next. Just today I was talking to a man at work who did offer himself as my groom in 10 years when I've finished med school so I can be his sugar mama. I declined the generous offer. I went on to declare that I wasn't on the market and wouldn't be for some time because my goals are too important to me. Citing statistics that a significant percentage of med school students who enter their studies with a spouse end up divorced I denounced relationships as a non-priority for me.
I use this excuse a lot.
It's handy to have a well-accepted screen to hide behind when people begin throwing around uncomfortable topics. If I can tell people that I don't date because I have big plans and man would throw off my groove, they generally leave with visions of feminist bra burners dancing in their minds -- which happens to be in vogue in some circles. If I tell people that I don't date because I don't go out and meet guys they ask why I don't just date the guys in my area. When I tell them that I grew up with the guys in my area and have no interest in them because they lack ambition they walk away with the impression that I am too choosy and have made up my mind to be unimpressed. If I tell people that I'd like to date but happen to be scared of actually finding someone I like because I've only had intensely negative experiences with that sort of thing they walk away feeling sorry for me -- this is not something I'm fond of cultivating.
It leaves me in a bind, actually.
I can't say what I really think about the matter because I don't really know what to think on the matter.
The following is an excerpt from my journal. Savor it, I doubt that I'll be posting anything like it ever again.
12 May 2011
For the past several months I have been questioning myself daily. "What do you want? What do you really want?"
The response that inevitably came to mind was, "I want what everyone wants -- to be loved."
But it has always sounded off to me -- as though it's only partially correct. Like the class of notes in a dissonant chord, my very being collided with this one idea to make something lovely but...wrong.
Why do I need to be loved?
I am already loved dearly by so many.
I am quite happy with those I call dear.
Tonight, in a moment of quiet meditation over the events of the day I repeated my well-worn self query.
"What do you really want?"
And tonight my soul answered, "I want to be understood."
This thought sang with Truth -- with a capitol T!
This is what I want! Love with come with understanding, but sharing one's self requires more than love alone.
I thought about boys I had dismissed as possible companions. The biggest fault I found in each was perceived inability to understand me -- to appreciate the crazy complexity of emotion and logic that makes me tick. If I can find someone to really understand me, I will never let him go. And he won't want to leave because he will know how earnest and faithful I am.
Maybe it's just my crazy talking, but this has become something of a priority for me: to find and understanding soul with whom I can share my whole self. Is that too much to ask for?
I have no idea where to start looking for such a person -- if indeed someone like that can actually exist -- so I just wait. Hopefully I haven't burned too many bridges to explore past options. And hopefully I will be given new opportunities.
In the mean time, I really do have things to occupy my mind. . . and hands. . . and heart. But I'll keep the light on.
One thing I do know: if he happens to like pinkenism, he'll just be one lucky guy because I've got a whole lot of that going on!
 |
| Oh, look, my mouth has some pinkenism too! |
To understand and be understood. It's what the whole world needs and generally lacks.
ReplyDeleteAs for finding someone of your own for that? I know I've found mine. Not that we never misunderstand each other. But it's having the sense and dedication to come back time and again to butt heads until we do understand. So, to me, understanding came - and comes - with patience, love, and a whole lot of keeping at it. Love you girl =) And he's out there somewhere - just you wait.