Outside the Comfort Zone

There is something to be said for keeping a gratitude journal. Since I started this exercise in May, I have found that I take the hurdles that life throws at me much more in stride; I don’t get as worked up when things go awry. I am able to flip a bad situation around to acknowledge that there may be a positive spin, an attribute that makes me seem a little too much like Pollyanna, I confess, but this helps me feel more lighthearted. And, as an added bonus, I feel much more ambitious to try new things when they come my way.

August has been a month of experimentation, trying new things, and forcing myself to say “yes” to those things that place themselves in my path.

Recently, I went to dinner with Nancy and Criostoir to a tiny Korean restaurant in Hudson, NH, a place which was Criostoir’s choice. From the outside it didn’t look like much at all. In fact, Nancy suggested that at one point it may have been a gas station. Inside, the seating area was one small room, probably no more than 500 square feet. Although the service bordered on slow, the waitress Jeannie was cheeky and entertaining. And the food was surprisingly excellent. I found myself eating Jam Bong, a seafood soup that includes mussels, scallops, shrimp, octopus, and squid. Let me tell you that apart from the scallops, none of those things would have ever made a regular appearance on my dinner plate before, but on this night I weighed the options and decided that I could have Pad Thai anywhere. And, lordy, am I glad I did.

This month, I also filed away my pre-conceived notions of an activity known as “tubing” and gave it a try. For those of you not familiar with tubing, the event takes place on a river where you sit in an innertube, drink beer, and float downstream. White trash city, right? That is absolutely what I thought, but from the riverbank I saw a different side, how being lazy in a tube puts you up close to nature and you see things as you float by that you wouldn’t notice speeding along in a car.

I put myself on an airplane and went to visit my friend Park in Virginia. While this probably sounds like an everyday occurrence, I assure you it took a significant amount of willpower to step onto that plane. Of all the things I am scared of (snakes, spiders, zombies), I’d rather face a room full of one or all of them than to fly. It’s an activity I do only when necessary. In fact, in the last 10 years, I have flown only twice before this trip and each time, I had an emotional breakdown, complete with tears, hysterics, and panicky paper bag breathing. This trip, I had none of that. I cannot admit that I was calm… In the hours leading up to my departure, I paced the floor. Once I got to the airport, my hands were clammy. Waiting at the gate to board, I was texting with Jude and my brain was so ill at ease that I have no memory of what I wrote. But I can admit that I sensibly told myself that if I wanted to get anywhere, if I ever wanted to see anything in this world, I would have to suck it up. So I did.

And what a magnificent trip it was! We spent three days around the Williamsburg area, where Park lives, and four days on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I tried everything. I pulled apart crabs with my bare hands. I showered outside. I ate foods I can’t get easily in New England: fried green tomatoes, peanut soup, venison/duck/rabbit pie, shrimp and grits. I climbed to the top of the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. I got an amazing pedicure, the massage from which I am still feeling.



I pulled the crabs apart, but I wasn't happy about it.



The fantastic, relaxing outdoor shower.



Cape Hatteras Lighthouse



Game Pye, made with Rabbit, Duck and Venison and covered in Currant Jelly

But the biggest surprise of the last month has been Jude. Talk about something putting itself smack in the middle of my path. After some initial fumbling, we started to communicate, first on Facebook, then by text, and now by phone. I have learned from him that he had tried on several occasions to hook up with me in high school, but he always felt rebuffed. My recollection of Jude is that he was quite the flirt, and popular enough in his own way. I doubt I ever took him seriously. But talking to him now, part of me wishes I had. Each day, I find that we have more in common than I ever would have thought possible. My rational side reminds me that in high school, I was particularly self-absorbed; I couldn’t wait to get away from the small town politics and the shallow, small-minded people in my hometown. That rational side makes a pretty convincing argument that I was shallow and small-minded in my own way, and that it may have taken me 20 years to be ready to accept a boy from my own back yard.

So here’s where things get interesting. Jude is 3,000 miles away until mid-December. I haven’t seen him in the flesh since we graduated almost two decades ago. We have never in our lives gone on a date. But we have an undeniable mental connection and I am admittedly attracted to him.

And I’m going to fly, yes FLY, all the way across the country to see him in October.

Is there a problem? I don’t know. Today, I feel incredibly optimistic. But other days, I worry that it’s absurd to feel this way about a man that I haven’t seen in a lifetime. I worry that if I go out there and he hates me, it’s not as easy as taking me home, saying good-night, dropping me at the door and driving away. I worry about how my mother would weather finding out that I’m going to California to see him. I worry that this is jumping headlong into something that neither of us is ready for. And I keep thinking about that old adage, “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

Except that right now, I don’t have any bird in my hand, I only have the bird in the bush. And the image of the Leap of Faith in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade makes me feel very powerful. And I have to remind myself that I am a 36-year old adult, and if there is something that could lead to my ultimate happiness, would I care what anyone thinks, whether it’s my mother or our old classmates? And although I have asked for guidance and clarity of mind, this thing still feels like it is being propelled along by its own force.

So I see no other choice but to address this Colossus that has heaved itself directly in my path, “Yes.”

Act III, In Which the Players Weigh the Consequence of Performing Good or Ill

I never suspected that I would struggle so regularly with ethics, morals, and the question of following or departing from social mores. Had I known that so much of my life would seem like my character was being tested at every turn, I probably would have majored in Philosophy. Or Government.

Why is it that doing the right thing is far from easy? And why does doing the wrong thing come so naturally – and feel so good? Well, I should clarify that it usually feels good for a moment. Unfortunately, I have had more than my fair share of heartbreak and I have carried around a lifetime of guilt because I didn’t do what I knew was right at the time.

Once upon a time, I accepted a date with an older coworker. I was fresh out of college, coming off my breakup with Buck. I was socially idealistic, emotionally damaged, and universally courting trouble. He was a recently divorced man in his early 40s with a grade-school aged son. He was artistically idealistic, financially damaged, and universally courting pussy.

Many of the months in the year following Buck are like a blank appointment book. I know that they happened, that I survived them, but there was hardly any life in my living. I remember the stupid, destructive things that I took part in, but most of the faces and places and names specific to my daily existence don’t feel like they could possibly have belonged to me. In the case of Peter, I have a vague recollection of going to dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant that was at standing room only capacity, and then going to a local theater to see Evita. After the movie, we may have gone for drinks, but I can only remember finding myself following Peter back to his place.

He lived in a second story apartment in a rust-colored triple-decker that was located in a suburb just outside the city. Despite being the apartment he had taken after his divorce, it had a restfulness and a hominess to it. Peter was a photographer and although his full time job was in a call center, he had big dreams of owning his own studio. I have a recollection of listening to an 80s show on the local college radio station and looking through portfolios of Peter’s work in dim amber light. Predictably, he tried to persuade me to have sex with him and I have an indistinct memory of nearly going through with it. In the end, I thought better of sleeping with him. For the life of me, I cannot remember what convinced me not to or what excuse I cooked up to avoid following through, but I doubt I was very firm in my resolve, and to Peter’s credit, he didn’t push his agenda, although I would have been an easy and captive target.

The reason I bring up this story is because of all the murky memories of this evening (including whether or not Peter and I even kissed), one thing stands out as clear as a saxophone in a woodwind ensemble. In making the case why we should top off the evening with a visit to his bedroom, Peter said, “It’s all practice.” For all I know, this could have been the reason I decided to decline his kind offer. At the time, I had the feeling that this was a fairly sleazy thing to say. Now, after fifteen years of my own experiences, I think Peter was onto something. 

When I consider some of the things I have encountered and undergone, particularly those things that were very poor decisions, I can see the wisdom in Peter’s statement. I’d like to think that I’ve been able to log my mistakes and learn from them. I’d like to think that I am a better person, not because I ever did those things in the first place, but because each experience gave me a basis for knowing how to handle what came next.

After having the joke I made to a lonely middle aged man turned around on me with complete sincerity, I realized that he couldn’t distinguish between jesting and reality. Now when I need to interact with him, I am all business.

After a few episodes of foolishly drinking one beer after the other on an empty stomach, only to discover after it’s too late that I am in a vulnerable and unsafe situation, I finally learned how to supervisee my alcohol intake.

After allowing myself to be seduced by a married man, seeing how friends responded to his overt cavorting, and dealing with my own guilt at transgressing the boundaries of his marriage vow (because I know how it feels thanks to my father’s unfaithfulness), I am more wary of my familiarity with married men. Now, when I come across one that outright solicits me, I urge him to go make things right with his wife.

If you are lucky enough to have never struggled with anything like this, let me tell you, it’s damn hard. Sometimes a single person is lacking for attention, affection, appreciation, or a combination of all three. Sometimes you just want to sow some wild oats, and doing a dangerous thing seems exciting. And sometimes whatever reasons the married man throws out sound so plausible that you trick yourself into thinking that no harm will come of it.  

It takes an unimaginable amount of willpower to say no when he’s absolutely gorgeous and captivating and you’d venture to guess that he’s an expert at the indecent things he’s suggested to you and you really just want to accept his proposition since it’s all practice, anyway, right?

And that’s where making informed decisions based on experience comes into play. Or if you don’t have the depth of experience yourself, to learn from the gaffes of your elders and wisers. Some days you’ve got it. And I seem to be having one of those weeks.