Over-Easy

It’s a good thing I’m quitting my job this week, because my coworker is going to get me in trouble.

The conflict is this: I know he likes me – he’s none too subtle about it. I don’t mind that he’s ever so discreetly hitting on me. I enjoy flirting with him. He’s the only person I interact with at work and anyway, flirting is fun. Also, he’s remarkably (frighteningly) good at it. But he’s stepped up his game recently and suddenly what was harmless and fun is now a lesson in self-control. I have to keep myself constantly in check – make sure I don’t show too much attention or get a little too close to him.

This normally wouldn’t be an issue. But he’s a coworker, not a friend, and I don’t trust him. I don’t know what would happen if I led him on even a bit. It’s like he’s flirting with a mission, with a goal in mind.

Although I suppose that’s the actual point.

It came to my attention some years ago that my default way to interact with boys is to flirt with them. I don’t know how much of this is from my natural state of being open and friendly, how much is because I see nothing inherently sexual in, well, anything, and how much is a reaction to how so many boys try to interact with me.

I really, really want to respond to my coworker’s flirtations without any regard for consequences because it’s exciting and fun and – in my mind – completely meaningless. But my foresight kicked in pretty quickly after all of this started to remind me that not everyone feels the same way I do. I became well aware that whatever could happen between us – physically, emotionally, whatever – had a very good chance of ending very poorly.

In the course of flirting, we’ve been getting to know each other, talking about our lives outside of work. He’s asked about my relationship, of course. Do you guys eat lunch together everyday? Go home after work together? How long have you been dating? Is it serious?

That last question always throws me off. Semantically speaking, I still don’t know what it even means. Luckily, I haven’t had to struggle through an answer recently because it’s assumed that, after dating for nearly four years, I’m not just wasting my time.

I recently filled out the “religious views” section on my Facebook profile with the phrase Apathetic Nihilism. Written partly in jest, partly to settle the battle between my other choices (atheism and secular humanism), more and more I’ve seen my actions and thoughts actually reflect this philosophy.

But what exactly is the philosophy? A friend once asked me to define what I meant by the phrase. I said: Nothing means anything, and [here I shrugged] that’s just the way it is.

I don’t know when this philosophy exclusively started defining my viewpoints, but I know very well when it didn’t. Let’s take a trip down memory lane.

In 10th grade, I overanalyzed everything, scrawling down my ideas and theories in a small notebook. Personal, general, actions, words; I was certain there was meaning in even the smallest things if only I looked deep enough.

I kept this mentality through most of high school. At the end of 11th grade, I posed a simple question to my best friend/crush: What do I mean to you? He struggled for an answer and then explained – in much less eloquent words – that he held me in no high regard. Overlooking the fact that he did actually take me for granted as a friend, the whole idea that I didn’t “mean” anything to him was crushing.

That summer, while working at camp, I made the acquaintance of one boy right away. We started something but then got caught up in that something’s meaning. He was still in love with his ex and couldn’t see beyond that to focus on the present. What do I mean to you? I asked, but he couldn’t answer and our interaction fell apart.

I made the acquaintance of another boy that summer, but things were different. Right away I asked him, What does this mean? and without hesitating he said that he just wanted to have some fun before the summer ended.

My reaction: Shock (Oh!). Pause. Process (Hmm…). Accept (Ok!). At that moment, something clicked. Suddenly something as slight as “having fun” was an acceptable answer.

Well, that’s when kissing boys lost its meaning. Nudity followed, and then everything else tumbled down.

And now back to my coworker.

Was my relationship serious? I looked at him quizzically. I knew he was only asking so he could calculate his odds of getting what he wanted, but for my sake I wanted to answer as truthfully as I could.

What does my relationship mean? It isn’t that it has no purpose, but there just isn’t much to put into words. I’m happy. I’m safe. I have fun. I’m sharing my life with someone and that feels good.

To my coworker, I just shrugged and said, It is what it is.

January, 2000. I was in the middle of 9th grade. I had started writing by then – documenting angry feelings and miscellaneous observations in a basic black composition book – but I hadn’t started putting these words on the internet, so there’s no (legible) documentation anymore. At least no documentation of my prose: at this point I was still writing terrible poetry and utilizing one of the various kid-based publishing websites. I was not in a good place – physically speaking, I was in an all-girls prep school on the east coast. Mentally/emotionally speaking, well, I was 13.

I was traveling a well-paved road – high school, college, real life. The end was a bit fuzzy, but at that point it didn’t matter. This path wasn’t a choice I consciously made, nor was it forced upon me. It had just always been the plan, as though no other option existed. But I didn’t think too hard about it, or think about it at all. Again, I was 13, so my view of the world spanned less than 20 miles and less than a month into the future.

I didn’t like my school, my classmates. And at least for the first year, I didn’t try to like them. I was extremely introverted and mostly unsocial. I had made some potentially good friends at the end of 8th grade when I was still in public school, but lost them over time through lack of motivation. I certainly wasn’t depressed – the few cliched thoughts of suicide that I had were vague and unfathomable – but I was full of undirected angst. I wasn’t where I wanted to be, but there was nothing I could do about it. Welcome to the new decade!

January, 2010. I took the path as far as I could. Through high school, through college. Found myself an office job, found myself unsatisfied. So much for the “real world” I kept imagining. White collar happiness was not the goal I had in mind.

The next step wasn’t gradual. I didn’t eventually think about moving on from the office world and slowly begin to picture myself in other professions before planning and considering my options. Rather, it occurred as a reality-shattering epiphany. One minute, I looked around the room and decided that I didn’t want to know these business people standing around me; I didn’t want to be them. Less than two minutes later, I knew that I was going to become a massage therapist.

So here I am, a few weeks away from leaving the cubicle world behind and starting my own business as an LMT.

When I finished school in September, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do once I got my license. But not because I had no idea. Rather, I had too many ideas, and they all sounded good – working in a hospital, working for myself, chair massage, pediatric massage. Suddenly, anything was possible.

Most of my dreams and plans of the future grew from the path that, from an early age, I knew I would follow. But I’ve jumped off that path now, and I’m starting something new. Wherever I go from here is completely up to me. It’s a lot of responsibility, but it’s my responsibility.

There’s a story in the news about a 10 year old boy who has refused to stand for the pledge of allegiance. He thought about the meaning of the phrase “liberty and justice for all”, realized that this country doesn’t actually guarantee this, and acted on what he believed in.

Developmentally/psychologically speaking, he’s at the age when these sorts of situations happen. Kids start questioning the world around them, maybe taking a stand for a cause. As an example, this is around the time when many kids choose to become vegetarians.

I started refusing to stand for the pledge in 7th grade. The particular phrase that troubled me was “under God” – I was in the middle of, or maybe nearing the first of several conclusions of, my spiritual crisis. I didn’t know what God or religion meant to me personally, so I was concerned about what I was saying publicly. Was I pledging my belief in God? Was I supporting the idea of a Judeo-Christian nation? Trying to pin down my exact line of reasoning now would be a pointless exercise, but suffice it to say that I didn’t feel I should support a pledge I didn’t believe in.

So I stopped standing for the pledge in the morning. At first, no one really noticed. Homeroom was in an art classroom, so the room was large and we sat at big tables instead of desks. We were also arranged alphabetically, meaning that, as usual, I was near the back.

I don’t know how long it took, but eventually my teacher noticed. I wish I could remember the exact interaction that took place, exactly what words were exchanged or for how long it went on, but I don’t. All I remember is that one day, after one or more unsuccessful attempts to get to me to stand for the pledge, my teacher decided to write a note to my parents in my homework book.

To get a message to my parents, this would be the most logical way. The homework book was given to us by the school – we’d write down our daily assignments, finish these assignments at home, and get the page signed by a parent. Now, for some kids and families I suppose this was very helpful – getting the parent involved in the child’s education, getting the child to be responsible for his or her work.

Ok, enough with the grand ideas – it was just an extra layer of nannying. No one trusted twelve year olds.

For me, it was just a burden. At least when it came to homework, I was pretty responsible and self-sufficient. I was one of these crazy kids who actually enjoyed learning. I did my homework without any pressure (and usually during the school day) and I didn’t need anyone checking up on me. My parents knew this. Signing the book every night was a huge waste of time on their part.

Because no one in my family cared about the homework book, I often forgot to get it signed. Obviously, this didn’t reflect anything about my ability to do my assignments, but some teachers saw it differently. In a few of my classes, the teachers would randomly check the homework book and award points if it had been signed the night before. It didn’t matter if I had done the homework or not – suddenly, the most important part was whether I (and my parents) could follow pointless rules.

Without too much fretting, we found an easy solution to this crisis. My mother pre-signed the entire homework book.

Back to the situation in homeroom. My teacher opens up my homework book so that she can add a note to my parents about my refusal to stand for the pledge. Before she begins to write, though, she notices that my mom had already signed off on my homework for the current day. Confused, she flips to the next page. Another signature. She continues flipping. Again, I wish that I could remember her words, but in summary, she is outraged by this conspiracy against the school system. She writes an impassioned note, no longer about me, but about my mom’s apparent dismissal of necessary parental responsibility.

I’m suddenly off the hook. My mom, on the other hand, is reported for her actions. She gets a stern talking-to by the principal during parent/teacher night.

In the homework book I receive for the next quarter, my mom writes a note on the inside cover: “For purposes of this homework book, my new signature will be an ‘X’”. I explain to teachers that this just saves us time – two overlapping strokes is much easier than a full signature each and every night.

One teacher asks, “but Natalie, how will I know that you aren’t just signing your homework book every night?”

I can’t respond immediately. I stare at her, eyes wide, jaw slacken. I really don’t want to lie to her face.

But before I can attempt to dig myself out of this hole, my teacher answers her own question. She says sincerely, “because I know you would never do that!” and I almost feel bad about the delusion she’s created. Almost.

A few days ago, I saw a younger version of myself on the bus. First semester at Reed, second month in Portland, happily chatting with a stranger sitting across the aisle about how friendly the city is. I couldn’t see her from where I was sitting, but I knew her wide-eyed excitement just from the sound. I didn’t feel jaded when I quickly acknowledged that my fresh (and naive) outlook was a thing of the past – rather, I took comfort in the self-awareness I’ve built over the past 6 years.

The strange man finally proved a bit too eager to start up a friendship with the girl, which I think she realized as she left. She’ll learn the same way I did, by slowly whittling away her positive generalizations with each new and strange interaction until they better reflect the ins and outs of the city.

Well, now what?

One year later and I’m out of massage school, full of new knowledge and skills, ready to quit the cubical world and forge a new path.

My evenings and nights are suddenly empty. I have free time again! But for the past week and a half I’ve been restless, shifting from studying for my board exams to making bracelets to taking walks without much focus. I didn’t immediately start writing again because I had forgotten that I have stories to tell and the capability to write more than one sentence per day. But I’ll work out the kinks and start writing more, dammit, because life started to get interesting again and there’s suddenly enough spare time in my day to record it.

Spare time. What a foreign concept. The feeling is similar to the end of senior year, when I worked and pushed myself harder than ever before and then suddenly, nothing. This year was more a matter of time consumption than intellect. Still, the principles are the same.

The point is, I need some hobbies. Some combination of amusement and physical activity and actual usefulness. Fitting neatly into these categories are my plans to dust off my video editing software, take a belly dancing class, and re-teach myself Spanish.

A part of me wants to start a revolution, but I know I’m far too lazy for that.

I also need to study for my board exams so that I can be a licensed, not just trained, massage therapist. Oh! and find a job. Always easier said than done, but hopefully with specialized skills this time around the job search won’t be quite as tedious as before. I’d like to work at a hospital or rehab clinic and ideally maybe one day work with kids in one of these settings. For now, though, I just want to start working.

Work with kids, give massages. Anyone could have predicted this by the time I was in high school – well, anyone except for me. I loved giving massages but never even imagined the possibility of wanting to do it professionally. I loved working with kids but knew that I didn’t want to work with them forever. No, I wanted to join the “real world” and use my school-built smarts to enact change on a global or at least a company-wide scale. As it turns out though, the real world doesn’t require much brain power, and even the smallest amount of change moves at a snail’s pace. Not quite what I was looking for.

So instead, I think I’ll stick to using my intuition and changing the world one body at a time.

Today I watched (from the bus window, while paused at the red light) a man sing to himself in the car. I continued watching even after getting the creeping sensation that I was invading his privacy.

On the train. One guy wearing a shirt that says “Jesus University”; one guy wearing a shirt that says “WWJD: for a Klondike Bar?”

The doctor commented on my high socks, blue with pink robots.

You seem to have a lot of.. kid-type things.. Your backpack [pink plaid], your socks…

…and my Hello Kitty shoelaces, I added. Yea, I do, and that’s just… (here I shrugged, unable to come up with a concise reason).

Walking me to the front desk, the intern told me that they had some Hello Kitty stickers, perhaps I would like some? (she asked, as least half seriously)

Oh, that’s alright, I said. I covered my mouth as if to tell her a secret and whispered, I already have some Hello Kitty stickers back home…

(she started laughing)

…that came with my coloring book.

(and continued laughing)

I received an “Ovation” award at work today for my effort and hard work during June, which was a very busy and important month for the insurance agencies I work with. This award can be exchanged for prizes of an even greater monetary value than the Dazzle award I received on Monday, including two even higher quality waffle irons. I haven’t chosen anything yet because the “choose your award” screen overwhelmed and confused me – want chocolates? an iPod shuffle? an electric wok? kid’s bike? coffee maker? jewelery? ack! [and yes, this was pretty much the entire premise of my undergraduate thesis.] While I’m happy that the work I do is being recognized and appreciated right now (since I’m not actually eligible for a raise until the end of the year, by which time I’ll be far, far away from this company), I just really wish that the white collar/middle class culture didn’t have such a sickening attachment to stuff.

I received a “Dazzle” award at work yesterday at work for enthusiastically doing not much of anything during a very important visit from very important people on Thursday. I hadn’t realized before that these awards were not just of the feel-good variety and could actually be exchanged for tangible prizes. The items to select from weren’t very interesting at all – ranging from crappy DVDs to Starbucks coffee to ugly bowls and glasses. The choice finally came down to a waffle iron, which I didn’t need at all, and an electronic sudoku game, which I needed even less.