Lilac Colored Glasses

If you ask me when I’m awake, I’ll tell you that I’m totally unstressed.

I have a wonderful boyfriend who loves me and two sweet cats who cuddle up to sleep with us on most nights. I have a job that seems relatively secure, pays a decent wage, and is not too much of a drag. I’m getting married in less than 4 months and I’m totally excited for it.

All the plans have basically been made. Now it’s just a matter of hammering out small details with the photographer and DJ. So really, I have no real reasons to be stressed.

Which is why I can’t really figure out why I have only slept through one night in the past two weeks.
And why my tri-yearly migraines have suddenly become almost a daily thing.
And why my stomach constantly aches or feels too full when I don’t usually find myself eating very much on a daily basis.

Why am I having nightmares so frequently? And why has the recurring nightmare of being attacked/bitten by large, hairy spiders suddenly been replaced by humiliating scenarios in which I am back in high school and basically told by my entire soccer team that I’m not good enough to play and that I’ll be the only person riding the bench the whole game?

I really love my wedding dress.
Why did seeing a picture of myself wearing it fill me with disgust?
I’ve lost almost 20 pounds since that picture was taken. Why do I still want to gag when I look at myself in the mirror?

I keep seeing old friends on Facebook and it really looks like most of them have gotten nothing but thinner and healthier, while I still have about 30 pounds to lose just to be in a normal weight range. I hate it. I feel like I’ll never ever ever look how I wish I looked.
I keep seeing old friends who have careers and post grad degrees and families of three or four, while I’m working as a barista in a train station with a useless bachelors and pretty much no hope of anything higher unless we move back to the US.
There are a few job opportunities in Gent to work with children right now that don’t require a language test, but I’m afraid to apply. I don’t want to apply. I’ve never been a job hopper. I prefer to settle in, get comfortable, feel useful. And even if I did apply and get the job, with the experiences I’ve had so far in Belgium with childcare, I don’t trust that I won’t be abused for my labor somehow.

And all in all, my “step up” from coffee maker would be to “glorified babysitter.”

Yes, I know that I, of all people, should not think of things that way. I know that childcare workers are important and that caring for a classroom of 20 two year old children is a lot harder and more involved than babysitting for one or two children. I know that most parents truly and sincerely appreciate the people that care for their child(ren) on a daily basis. I know I would play an important role in a little person’s life.

But the salary and the social status pretty much says it all: glorified babysitter.

A big part of me wants that masters, or even that doctorate; wants that ability to choose between hands on or academia; wants to take my visions of early childhood education to another level.

But another big part of me just wants the first part to shut up and be happy with what I have: the amazing boyfriend, the sweet cats, the stable job, a roof over my head.

Because really, I have no reason to be stressed.

This idea occurred to me at some point in the last three months or so, that in many employment situations, employers and employees both are guilty of regarding each other as something akin to, but not quite on the same level as human. To clarify, during a very brief interaction with the owner of the daycare chain I worked for, we both found out that the other wakes up every morning at 5 am. He seemed surprised that I woke up so early, as it probably never occurred to him that I have to get up that early to be able to make it to work on time in Brussels. I, on the other hand, was not surprised that he got up so early, as it just added to my impression that my boss is sort of the francophone Belgian version of American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman. Of course he got up that early. That would give him plenty of time to go to the gym, hit the tanning bed, get a manicure, meticulously trim his hair and retrieve one of his spotless tailored suits from the cleaners before arriving at work.

So this got me to thinking that all job applications/interviews should include a section for people to list some of their endearing traits. You know, little things about themselves to remind their employer that that they are, indeed, human; as opposed to mindless, lifeless automatons that serve only to further your mission of lining your pockets as thickly as possible. And vice versa.
If I had known something small about my employer, like that he collects seashells or secretly wanted a puppy, perhaps that would have softened the “highly polished, manipulative bastard” vibe I got from him during most of our interactions (which weren’t that many). Perhaps not, since I’m pretty sure those vibes were basically who he was, but even highly polished manipulative bastards once dreamed of becoming an astronaut or harbors a secret love of gummy bears. Everyone has at least one endearing trait.

So I’ve decided to list some of mine and I invite you to do the same, either here in the comments, or maybe in your own blog.

1. I love the smell and feel of laundry right out of the dryer. Sometimes if no one else is around, I take a big armful out of the dryer and bury my face in it.

2. I love stuffed animals, especially teddy bears.

3. I can’t grow them and I’m usually allergic to them, but I really love flowers.

4. A tiny little part of me will always believe that fairytale and mythical creatures are real.

Music.

Music has always been one of the strongest memory triggers for me. The Little Nash Rambler makes me think of my late aunt Ronnie, sitting in her car while she sang to me in an Elmer Fudd voice to make a pint sized me giggle.

How You Remind Me by Nickelback takes me back to a gravel parking lot after dark my junior year of college where my roommate Peep and I sat, belting the song in my green Pontiac, both of us trying to plug up the void of a broken heart.

Lemon Parade by Tonic puts me in my car at the age of sixteen, driving home from a night working at Long John Silvers, after my second “real” kiss with a guy.

So music seemed the obvious path to choose this weekend when a surprise visit to my blog by an ex inspired me to do a short series discussing my exes and what I learned from those relationships.
But after I made that decision, something strange happened. Or perhaps it is always happening, I just rarely notice it anymore.
Every time I started formulating a post in my head, I would look at CB, or he would say something to me and I was overcome by how very much I am in love with him. I was actually choked up a few times, the feeling of utter completeness was so strong. I don’t think I’ve ever looked into the eyes of a man so confident in his love for mz, so happy when I’m happy…until now. I rarely, if ever, think much about my exes since I met CB and while I do maintain that I learned something from every relationship I’ve had, it all seems to pale in comparison with the feeling of “right” I have with CB.

However, that doesn’t diminish the men from my past or what they’ve taught me. I even occasionally exchange an e-mail with a couple of them. But rather than go into a detailed analysis of each (I lose the desire to do that pretty much any time I’m with CB), I’m going to put up the song that reminds me the most of each one, along with a thank you. Because without lessons learned from the past, we as people wouldn’t be able to build better futures.

Pie Jesu

Bub – Thank you for teaching me that there are people out there who can love me unconditionally.

Miss America

Asshat – Thank you for teaching me not to lie to myself about my emotions just to make asshats people happy.

It Ain’t Me Babe

M. – Thank you for teaching me how to be more independent in a relationship.

My Immortal

Chinchilla – Thanks for teaching me that chemistry, while important, is not the basis for a good relationship.

Long December

Cabana Boy – Thank you for all the lessons you’ve taught me and for all the lessons yet to come in our life together. Thank you for making me believe in the impossible. Thank you for loving me.

Ah, the first snowfall of the year! I love it! Last year the first snow was in November while my parents and brother were visiting but this year it held off until today. And what a great snow!! Perfect, huge fluffy flakes that ended up accumulating to a few inches or so. I took a quick walk to the corner store on my break just to hear the squeaking crunch under my feet and to feel the soft feathery chill on my cheeks.

Three of the children (Peanut, Drama Queen and Spazz) were old enough to be totally amazed by the layer of white that was quickly piling up on our back terrace. They even got an afternoon cookie from us kindly grownups to celebrate their first snowfall. It’s funny that I hate the cold but love snow so much. Somehow, snow seems to take the edge of the bitterness of a cold winter. It turns even the most mundane things into something beautiful and special.

It even has the power to totally diffuse my would-be angry reaction to the total ineptitude with which Belgium handles their 2-3 snowfalls per year. Cause this few inches of snow caused amazing traffic, the cancellation of all inter-city trains and the sidewalk to become a veritable ice skating rink. I got home about 2 hours later than usual. But the most acidic thing I could think of to say to CB about it was that I couldn’t understand why no one ever thought to invest in a bag of rock salt. I was really too busy walking around in a winter wonderland (and trying to stay on my feet and not break my face on the ice) to care much about the delays. It just gave me more time to be happy about the first snow.

A long time ago, a much younger me told my father that he was something beyond my father. He was an enigma.
Yes, I told my father that he was an enigma.
And to me he was.

He wasn’t like the other fathers I knew. He didn’t wear a suit and tie to work, he never went fishing or golfing, he never drank a beer during the Steelers game or got together with “the guys” for a poker night or anything like that.
He worked as an under appreciated furniture warehouse manager in the Hill District for most of my youth. He woke up at 4:30 am, had his coffee, put on one of his Wear Guard button down work shirts with his name embroidered on the chest, a apir of blue jeans and canvas sneakers and headed off to work before sunrise.
In the winter he’d often have cracks and slices in his weathered hands from breaking down cardboard boxes or unloading trucks but he never complained or went to the doctor. He never called off sick, even the time he accidentally stepped barefoot on a nail sticking up from the floor when our townhouse was being recarpeted. He just bandaged it up and went to work.
And as much as I loved my father, I guess I never felt like I fully understood him. When I was younger I worshiped him and admired his strange habits. I feared his temper and craved his approval.
When I grew older and started working and getting up earlier, I thought my father was a glutton for punishment, though I still harbored some admiration for his ethics and quirks. I avoided his temper and convinced myself I didn’t need his approval.

I am 28 years old.
Last Thursday I woke up at 5 am and as I was getting dressed for work, I stepped on a piece of broken ceramic tile on the bathroom floor and it punctured my foot. I ignored the pain, put on my polo shirt with the company name printed on the back, my black yoga pants and my old Sketchers, and was on my way to work before sunrise to my job as an under appreciated crèche demi-manager.

I enjoy waking up early and being alone with my thoughts in the darkness before most of the world wakes up. I like the fact that the people at the AMT Coffee kiosk in Saint Peters Station know how I like my latte now. I cringe sometimes because I recognize my temper and I require no one’s approval but my own.

And some days the understanding of my father’s ways is very clear to me. As clear as looking into a mirror.

Only without the mustache.