The Thinker

I'm sure you all are dying to know the details about my weekend in Philly. Well, all I will say here is that it was good. Any more information than that will cost you lunch and 2 martinis. Here are some photos:

Tut on the steps outside the Franklin Institute.

The Thinker by Rodin

I'm going to stray a bit and vent rather than try to analyze or entertain . . . these are the bad things I'm thinking about tonight:

1) It sucks to work lots of overtime only to need the money for immediate, necessary car repairs (work with me, people, it was a broken AC in NoVA in August!!).

2) It sucks when the friend for whom you drove out of your way, on your only night off, to pick up from the airport, says it's out of her way to drive you to work (half the distance to the airport!) one time when you don't have your car.

3) It sucks to watch Chapelle's Show alone and remember the last time you watched it was with someone really special. And you laughed. And he laughed. And you miss his laugh because you haven't heard it in so long.

I may sound down, but I'm not. I'm accepting, I'm forgiving, and I'm patient. Here are the good things I'm thinking about tonight:

1) Today is my best friend's birthday, and I celebrated it in my head all day because his presence in my life is such a gift to me.

2) Prospective lunch with a fine gentleman prospect.

3) Mom & Dad are coming to visit in a few days.

What I've been up to lately:

1) Work.

2) The Magic Flute opera at Wolf Trap.

3) Bodies exhibit.

4) Weird Al concert!


And there it is. Your little voyeristic fetish satisfied by a fleeting glimpse into my wacky-ass world. Is it really so crazy?

Risk

This weekend, a Pittsburgh girl will venture somewhere a little risky . . .

Philadelphia.

Growing up in western Pennsylvania, only minutes from Ohio (the midwest!), you kind of see anything east of State College as a foreign country. They talk differently, seem awfully scary-tough, and have never heard of a perogie. I think it's possible that Pennsylvania is really two states: Close to Pittsburgh and Close to Philadelphia. And there is plenty of buffer. The last time I was near Philadelphia as a destination, we had driven for 7 hours and never left ol' PA. It goes on forever.

A fond memory of that trip: we got lost between the church and reception, and ended up in Delaware, and were thrilled to finally cross a state border. Unfortunately it was scary-as-hell-Delaware, and we were just as thrilled to figure out how to turn around and get the hell back into PA, despite our dread of the "east side."

But I digress . . .

What, you ask, could lure a "western" girl like myself to this foreign land of the "east side?" It started innocently enough: the exhibit of articles from King Tut's tomb, on tour from its permanent spot in Egypt. Philadelphia is the closest it will get to me after stops all over the world. I love ancient Egypt, so I couldn't pass that opportunity up. The exhibit opened last fall and I've kept a post-it of the info in my day planner since about January. It closes in September so I knew the time was near.

Then early this summer, I learned that a dear, awesome friend from grad school and her equally awesome husband had a little girl, born on my mother's birthday. And the pieces started falling into place . . .

But the final push was my chance meeting of a man who, after one group dinner, stayed in my thoughts for days, to my surprise. To much more of my surprise, he was interested in me. And he has a place in Philadelphia.

We had a typical (yet surreal) first date: out on a work night, outdoor Italian with a bottle of red, ice cream parlor after, then Goodfellas back at his place. That night, when he drove me home, we knew we had to say goodbye for a while: life, plans, obligations, vacations. That was 6 weeks ago.

And here I am packing for Philadelphia. I don't know what I'm in for. It's a risk . . . but I have to try.

The last time a guy broke my heart (4 months ago), I briefly considered shutting everything down, giving up, never letting anyone in again and never caring about being alone. But then I realized that that state is true misery. That's the state he was in, and likely still is. I would rather put myself out there, at risk of being hurt, and really give another person everything I've got. Because there is nothing that makes me feel more alive than knowing I'm doing something to the extent of my soul's allowance. It's powerful, it's invigorating, it's a high that can't be found anywhere else. It's worth the risk. Life is meant to be felt, pushed, and lived . . . not locked away playing Wii with every wall up and every door locked and every crack sealed to keep out the light of real love, real caring, real feeling.

As I said before, I have no idea what I'm in for. But I refuse to live afraid. I will not fear feelings, I will not fear love, and I will not fear being hurt.

And will certainly not fear Philadelphia. We Pittsburghers are tougher than that!

Control

One thing I will never, ever understand is why almost every person in the world will approach an already-pressed, already-lighted elevator button . . . and press it again, often repeatedly. It doesn't matter if it's the up/down panel outside the doors, or the select-your-floor panel inside. A stunningly high number of people take that extra step when someone else has already completed the task.

Why? Why, why, WHY???

When you think of it, it's kind of insulting to the initial button-presser, who is usually present. The second person to press the button is expressing to the initial button-presser that:

1. The elevator is not going to listen to Initial.
2. Initial somehow did not press the button well enough.
3. Second can press the button better than Initial.

Or maybe Second has a total inferiority complex, an exhausting paranoia of being ignored, and needs to feel important in any way he can . . . in other words, he presses the button again to assert control. As so many people do in so many ways: press the button to assert control.

Control is really an amazing concept. We fight for it every day, during every interaction. Example: your boss asserts control over you by assigning you a task. You, in turn, ask your boss for clarification, so you can assert control over the task itself by enhancing your understanding of the task, which in theory contributes to your confidence in completing it.

Control drives us. The human spirit is competitive, often self-serving, and always striving for more . . . and what is behind all these traits? A desire for power, domination, control. We live in an ever-rebalancing equilibrium between feeling like masters of our universes and feeling like peons. The old moth-windshield analogy, if you will. Obviously, we feel our best when we are the windshield, and I don't mean that in a pejorative way. We feel good when we get it right. When we get it right, we are in control. And if being in control, getting it right, feels good and makes you happy, then you should be able to enjoy it.

Of course, some people take it too far. They ruin it for everyone. So sometimes the Universe (God, if you will) has to knock you down a peg to remind you that you are a guest in this world, subject to its moods and fluctuations, and even if you are CEO, boss, head of household, or even in control of just one other person (partner or child) . . . you can still die behind the wheel of your car on an ordinary day. You can build dams, tall buildings, even supersafe bridges . . . and one earthquake, 19 fanatic terrorists, or the wrong combination of physics can destroy what you created in an attempt to control and dominate the Earth you live on.

The best things in life are the things we cannot control: beautiful sunsets, lightning bugs in the woods, mountains and trees and the ocean. And the endless amusement that humans provide. We are quirky, often downright funny, and our little nuances are truly a gift.

So if I cannot control my laughter the next time a Second starts frantically pressing a button that was already competently activated by an Initial, I will thank God for that quirkiness. And the Second will watch me laughing and either:

A. Smile and wonder at my own quirkiness, or
B. Realize what I'm laughing at and laugh at himself, or
C. Become enraged at his lack of control over both the elevator and my response to him and press the button again.

Because he cannot help it.