I have been writing, seriously, but it’s all been massage related. Which is good for the new blog, and (potentially) great for business, but it leaves me lacking. People ask me in polite conversation, what have you been up to besides massage? and I have a hard time answering. Since getting out of the cubicle life, my work is less time-consuming but definitely more (self-)involving.

I volunteer at a clinic for the homeless and less fortunate but I give massages there so it all ties back to what I’m supposed to be doing things besides. I work out of the acupuncture space and the computer/office area is filled with jars and jars of Chinese herbs and have I mentioned that I’m quite sensitive/averse to strong smells? The clients only show up about half the time but by now I’ve been able to massage some of them on multiple occasions. In that setting – working with people who are just learning to take better care of themselves, in need of extra support wherever possible – I feel like I’m using my massage skills in the best possible way (cue warm fuzzy feelings). On alternating weeks I give short massages to the staff there, and with them I’ve made an entirely different (but also incredibly gratifying) kind of connection.

But other than massage, what? Many of my friends are slowly drifting away from Portland. I’m trying to retain as many local guy-friends as possible to counter the incredibly female atmosphere at my clinic (which thankfully is a bit less passive-aggressive than 6 months ago). The majority of my friendships are now more adult-type than college-type, meaning we see each other every so often at events but rarely make plans to get together otherwise because we all live very separate lives. Massage has been my one useful tool for making plans (hey, we should hang out! want a massage?), which, to bring this post full-circle, is another reason why massage has started to define me.

Not that I’m complaining. That’s what having a profession is about, right?

I’m highly sensitive to caffeine. How sensitive? you might ask. In college for a year or so, I drank tea every morning with breakfast. Oolong tea, with the caffeine content somewhere between green and black. Everything was fine: I had a habit but I had no need to break it. Tea was good for me. Antioxidants, or whatever the news is saying these days. But on those rare days when I neglected to get my tea fix, my body rebelled. I’d have a splitting headache for hours. Sometimes I would just wait the torture out (in this case, even advil didn’t help); other times I would cave in and drink a soda.

I finally decided to cut the habit. It took an agonizing weekend of headaches and stomach ails, but after that I was caffeine free. Herbal tea for me, thanks.

That is, until the next summer, when I managed to get hooked on white tea. White tea! with supposedly the lowest caffeine content before decaf. I detoxed in the same manner (and with the same effects) as before, and I swore not to go back.

Since then, I only drink caffeine when I need to stay up late but don’t need to focus on anything too important. I know how my body reacts, and I can usually ingest just enough to keep me awake without tremendous jitters or mild hallucinations.

Anyway, back to the present. I needed a very small amount of caffeine – I wanted to stay awake enough to go out, but still be able to fall asleep when I came home – so my options were (less than half a bottle of) tea or soda.

My preference, naturally, was tea. Of course, bottled tea is not exactly my ideal. While not carbonated, it’s just as sweet, sometimes sweeter, than soda. I’m not talking about sugar content; I’m referring to the taste. The sickly sweetness that, for the general public or at least for the focus groups, makes something healthy a bit more palatable.

But there were two vending machines to choose my tea from, and one of these machines contained Honest Tea – a charming brand marketed to people who prefer flavor over sweetness. Because the bottles were inside of the Coke-brand vending machine, I can only assume that this low-sugar tea is just another arm of the soda company. It seems they finally realized that their basic soft drinks were alienating a portion of their potential audience (that is, the entire population).

The vending machine was a new design, one where the bottle didn’t just fall with a crash. Rather, a smart little lift finds its way to the selected item and provides a sturdy ground for the bottle as it descends. How civilized.

But the machine malfunctioned and two bottles tried to exit at once, one of which fell to the bottom and jammed the mechanism. After struggling and failing to correct this, the machine reported that they were sold out of my choice, please select another item.

But the tea I wanted was there, just beyond my reach. Two of the teas, even. I yelled and kicked and whined but in the end I bought a Snapple from the other, older machine. It tasted like liquid sugar with a hint of lemon.

Life is good. I’m happy, I’m healthy (arguably healthier now than when I sat in a cubicle 8 hours a day). I love my job. I’m not earning tons of money just yet, but I have at least one or two clients per week, including a number of regular (monthly) clients. My practice will grow; I’m not worried. These things take time.

One of my regular clients has realized on his own the benefits of massage that I try to tell everyone when marketing my skills. I’m paraphrasing here in order to generalize and condense his words, but he told me last week, in no uncertain terms, that my massages have changed his life.

His words completely and entirely confirmed that I’m in the right profession.

The clinic. The clinic is… full of women. Not a bad thing, by any means, but it’s a prominent factor. Perhaps most noticeable is the unfortunate preference (or default method) of passive aggressive communication. I haven’t been the recipient of any passive aggressive emails (although I have been the subject of one), but I have tried my best to talk other people through anxieties stemming from these emails and other frustrations arising from our less-than-perfect (and less than three months old) clinic.

I tell them what I’ve told myself a million times already: These things take time. While it’s one thing to know this abstractly, it’s an entirely separate thing to realize it.

Four weeks in, I’m waiting in the lobby of one of the company’s other two downtown buildings, having escaped the rain while waiting for The Boy for another lunch rendezvous. I’m standing to the side, watching people get off the elevators and walk towards the exit. Two women who had worked on the floor above me get off. As they walk and talk, one interrupts herself to point at me and give me a questioning look. By way of an explanation I simply say, “my boyfriend still works here.” I hand them both business cards.

I find myself in a strange middle ground again. I’ve made a complete separation with my previous job – indeed, with the whole cubicle culture – but I’m so often in proximity to the company that I have to frequently remind myself that I’m now only a visitor. The same sort of thing happened after college. For the first year after I graduated, most of my friends were still students, and were therefore still connected to the happenings on campus. I found myself hanging out there far too often to really feel like I had moved on. It took starting a new school and not being on campus – for any reason and for any amount of time – for several months before I felt appropriately like an outsider.

But it’s harder to disconnect from the situation and circumstances I left behind when that situation is located in downtown Portland.

It shouldn’t feel like such an odd scenario. There’s nothing strange about being downtown when you aren’t at work, and there’s certainly nothing strange about meeting up with your boyfriend for a lunch date on those days. I just happen to only work three days a week.

There’s nothing weird about being near your old building so often when your regular bus has a stop right in front of it. But getting off the bus and weighing the pros and cons of yelling out the name of your former coworker who just passed by because you don’t know how much attention you really want to draw to yourself and don’t want to feel any more like you’re stalking your old job than you already do? That’s weird.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.