One whole week has passed since my last contact or email with AH. AH is one of the users whose applications we manage. While working on one of the upgrades, we have discovered he was from Pittsburgh till late teen when he joined the navy. From Pittsburgh to Steelers, we slowly developed a bond beyond users and administrators. Once in a while when Steelers scored, we would congratulate each other through email. Since the playoff, we had talked more as the drum roll started picking up for the grand finale, Super Bowl. In between exchanges on football scores, we would add on bits and pieces on life, family or hobbies. I welcome a little distraction from my tedious and sometimes frustrating routines, especially when the distraction comes from outside of my group. The neutral ground makes it void of conflicts of interests, thus much safer to vent. In a work environment, being safe or guarded is a must. The “what goes around comes around” is a unspoken code we live by. Iterations with AH did fall on that guideline and we kept it up for almost a month.
For someone with extreme personality, I too have somewhat extreme tastes. Food-wise, spicy and hot is always preferable; music, BACH alone is the only supremacy; church, no room for Praise and Worship as a frozen chosen. As for people, both conversation and mind have to be interesting and respectable. AH is boarder line for both. He served the purpose more for being available than being acceptable. Then like the rest of my relationship (but one bonded by holy matrimony), this one too dwindled and ended. I was struck by the initial confusion, followed by frustration and finally lamentation. When it comes to any failure, it’s hardly about why and how, or “it” or “whom”. It’s more about me, or my pride: I flunked it. The sadder truth is: it was not surprising.
Clearly, it was by no means my first or my last failure. When young, I stumbled times after times with being accepted as a moody and needy friend. Now, many decades later, I faithfully continue to fail for different reasons. I am well aware, though, that I am not without company in this “loserville”. In a little more than two years, two couples of our good friends have ended up quitting their marriage. Thus far, though I may be exempted from failing this particular relationship for credit not of my own, I certainly cannot say so with the rest of my relationships. In fact, the older I get, the more I dread them. I discovered that I am most secure only when I am my own company. Giving it time, I would either be disappointing or disappointed. As proud as I can be, I couldn’t help asking: why do I fail in relationship? But as I am not at all alone in this struggle, the better question is: why do we fail?
There seems to be a cycle in a failed relationship that goes like this: initial excitement, honeymoon, followed by disillusion and the inevitable doom. The corresponding causes are: failure to impress, failure to accept and finally failure to commit. As self-absorbing and self-serving as we are, we gratify and glorify in our gains only. For any endeavor we put in the relationship, it is somewhat more about performance rather than a single-minded, uttermost interest for the other, which is the only guarantee for a secure relationship. The most unselfish love on the face of the earth is none other than that of a parent, but even that is not devoid of self-interest or pride. Thus we fail. The truth is: we are not conditioned to do otherwise as we cannot love selflessly.
Here I was – reaching my final answer as I struggled through the monologue, though not exactly a happy ending as one would quote. In the back of my mind, I was keenly reminded of another relationship I have not failed thus far – once again not with merit or choices of my own – and how it differs in that it fails not or ends not despite of myself. In tears and shame I was reminded of how He first loved me in my wretchedness, continues to love me in my unfaithfulness and will love me still despite of my failure to impress. While I may continue to disappoint or be disappointed in many more relationships, I have yet one more assurance in this one.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Feb 14, 2010: D-Day or V-Day?
Another puzzling event or phenomenon – 2nd Sunday of February – has come and gone. I have to confess that media was my only accomplice that I remembered this day of festivity as TV and radio ever so faithfully blasted the world with commercials of chocolates, flowers, cards and, of course, jewelry. Some of my coworkers, as all dutiful lovers would do, had even agonized over the tokens or surprises to affirm their devotion. Despite of 20+ years of being part of the “lovers” category, I continue to marvel how this day has such a hold of human race across different cultures, mine included. I remember as a young and impressionable teenager browsing through those Valentine cards at the bookstore back home, my heart pumping with wild imagination and wonder for this amazing thing called love . The truth is, I have no excuses of blaming my lack of diligence or effort in this matter on this culture. On the receiving end, I have indeed benefited once – twice, counting yesterday – when my lover surprised me with roses delivered to my dingy, roaches infested apartment. We had then just started talking to each other. It was a sweet and memorable gesture from him, considering it was my first dozen of roses. The proclamation stopped after the 1st dozen. I may have received another bouquet on a different occasion after our wedding, but never again anything on Valentine’s Day.
Most friends or acquaintances have wondered how slacking we two are with this sacred day. “What!? You don’t do anything at all?” “NO! You have to do something” I always become more intrigued by their frustration than worried about my own pathetic excuses. As an outcast of this tradition, still, I have no doubt in our devotion for each other. The sensible me calculates that roses last for at best 3 days, chocolates much shorter than that, and diamond, though forever, never the right choice for me. My lover needed no more confirmation to drop the dreadful task from his to-do list. In fact, I am quite sure he thanked his lucky star for his good fortune and praised God for having found this virtuous woman on the day he was excused from this yearly torture.
Coincidentally, this year the V day fell on a better alternative and passion for him: Daytona 500. Unlike the rest of his sex, most of whom dreaded this day of atonement, he eagerly looked forward to its coming and carefully planned out all details: DVR was set, as the race would start before returning from church; lunch afterwards, followed by a trip to the gym, and finally the well deserving grand finale and ultimate reward: a few hours of bonding with his sofa and remote. Amazingly, he even managed to picked up a box of chocolates in between activities, granted the day before I had done my part of grunting “where is my Valentine card?”. So, there we were on Valentine afternoon…. While I shoved my face in my Godiva, he too in his HDTV, we concluded the dreadful love test of the year with flying color. Still I couldn’t help wondering: did we feel move loved? The million dollar question is: does love need to be gifted in the form of chocolates or roses? I know what the answer should be, but my less-than-overwhelmed heart was not convinced then and there. To me, the much preferable choices may be our Saturday mornings with a cup of coffee, a blanket on my lap and an hour of idle talk, a phone call from him from one of their father-son, male-bonding trips telling me that they are almost home, or his calming words and sometimes kind forgiveness in my distressing moments of self-torture. They are far more precious not only in magnitude but also in the essence of being shapeless and timeless. And, I may have it any time or any day.
Could I have possibly just come up with an ingenious innovation of celebration for lovers or is it another ploy from a contrarian, anti-tradition rebel such as I? I don’t know about the rest of the world, but I know my soul-mate would gladly chime in “AMEN” and happily announce: Feb. 14, 2010: D-Day definitely!
Most friends or acquaintances have wondered how slacking we two are with this sacred day. “What!? You don’t do anything at all?” “NO! You have to do something” I always become more intrigued by their frustration than worried about my own pathetic excuses. As an outcast of this tradition, still, I have no doubt in our devotion for each other. The sensible me calculates that roses last for at best 3 days, chocolates much shorter than that, and diamond, though forever, never the right choice for me. My lover needed no more confirmation to drop the dreadful task from his to-do list. In fact, I am quite sure he thanked his lucky star for his good fortune and praised God for having found this virtuous woman on the day he was excused from this yearly torture.
Coincidentally, this year the V day fell on a better alternative and passion for him: Daytona 500. Unlike the rest of his sex, most of whom dreaded this day of atonement, he eagerly looked forward to its coming and carefully planned out all details: DVR was set, as the race would start before returning from church; lunch afterwards, followed by a trip to the gym, and finally the well deserving grand finale and ultimate reward: a few hours of bonding with his sofa and remote. Amazingly, he even managed to picked up a box of chocolates in between activities, granted the day before I had done my part of grunting “where is my Valentine card?”. So, there we were on Valentine afternoon…. While I shoved my face in my Godiva, he too in his HDTV, we concluded the dreadful love test of the year with flying color. Still I couldn’t help wondering: did we feel move loved? The million dollar question is: does love need to be gifted in the form of chocolates or roses? I know what the answer should be, but my less-than-overwhelmed heart was not convinced then and there. To me, the much preferable choices may be our Saturday mornings with a cup of coffee, a blanket on my lap and an hour of idle talk, a phone call from him from one of their father-son, male-bonding trips telling me that they are almost home, or his calming words and sometimes kind forgiveness in my distressing moments of self-torture. They are far more precious not only in magnitude but also in the essence of being shapeless and timeless. And, I may have it any time or any day.
Could I have possibly just come up with an ingenious innovation of celebration for lovers or is it another ploy from a contrarian, anti-tradition rebel such as I? I don’t know about the rest of the world, but I know my soul-mate would gladly chime in “AMEN” and happily announce: Feb. 14, 2010: D-Day definitely!
Friday, February 12, 2010
Oh when the saints go marching in....
Annual event of the nation, besides Christmas, New Year, finally arrived. After having been part of the melting part for nearly 3 decades, I am at times amazed how this sports event, besides World Series, plays such a significant role in this culture. At Sam’s club, the lines were unusually long even for Sunday afternoon. I couldn’t help noticing the contents in the shopping carts: beer, chips, cupcakes and sandwiches. Even though my cart wasn’t nearly as elaborated, I was there partially for the same reason. There was no party for us at home or elsewhere despite of the invites from a couple of dutiful and zealous fan friends for reasons double folds: (1) Steelers not being part of the game; (2) some family member (no name) has a tendency of losing control in moments of frenzy. Thus, party of 3 it was: nice and simple, and safe.
Being one of the opposite sex, I am not ashamed to admit that I prefer gossip to politics, shoes shopping to sports events. Over the years, however, I have slowly developed an interest in baseball and football after living with 3 men for over 20 years. It started with baseball games, when I discovered the fun at the ball park in the 2 plus hours of fresh air, easy talks and a shared kindred spirit with a stadium of fellow fans. Football-wise, it is a natural evolution from marrying into a family from Pittsburgh, thus inheriting their sports teams. Watching a football game with Steelers involved, however, may not necessarily be fun as you and your whole being rise up and flop down with their performance. The easiest solution for us is to follow up the results after the fact. In comparison, a Super Bowl without Steelers would put us on the neutral sideline with nothing at stake, thus securing for us a night of safe enjoyment.
We had hoped for Vikings and Chargers to make it there this year, but Saints and Colts would do too. As underdog lovers, we unceremoniously sided for Saints. After all, for the longest time they have been known as the ants, the losers. Going to Super Bowl must have exceeded their as well as the rest of the nation’s wildest dream. As cliché as it may be, their win would be a “feel-good” ending that everyone loves. And a happy ending we indeed had hoped and received as the night concluded with Saints being crowned for the 44th Super Bowl champion. The game was perfect, not merely because of the win, but more of its drama, suspense, rise and fall, followed by a twisted, unexpected outcome with a satisfaction that no sure wins could ever deliver.
As we watched the celebration at the stadium on our HDTV, I couldn’t stop thinking of the silly tune “Oh when the saints go marching in”. For decades they had been nobody and on that Sunday night with the confetti showering down and the whole nation cheering on, they might as well be marching straight to the pearly gate. The infectious joy lulled us both to stay on the TV even after the trophy was passed and title awarded. We watched with a smile on our faces those jubilant fans and players roaring in their ecstasy and almost wished that the celebration wouldn’t end. Tonight I would visit my bed with excitement still warm in my heart. We would talk on even after the lights were out, making silly remarks such as “Saints Bree’zed through the win”, “we ain’t ants any more” and recapping the game like two kids that wouldn’t want the night to end. Drunk in glee as I might have been, I did not forget that in a day or two all this exhilaration would vanish like vapor under the sun. No wins on the face of this earth last on. This pessimist should have been deflated to gloom in no time. Somehow, I managed to come back with an epiphany. Despite all let-downs from this life, there indeed is yet a final parade when the saints go marching in at the call of our maker on that final day. In every way and with far greater magnitude we, the elects, are living a Cinderella fairy tale here on earth, waiting for that call and the happy ending in heaven. For many of us, we were once lower than the ants but now the beloved, the privileged and the saints. There is no greater win than this.
I laid my head down and closed my eyes; my heart sealed in peace and contentment.
Being one of the opposite sex, I am not ashamed to admit that I prefer gossip to politics, shoes shopping to sports events. Over the years, however, I have slowly developed an interest in baseball and football after living with 3 men for over 20 years. It started with baseball games, when I discovered the fun at the ball park in the 2 plus hours of fresh air, easy talks and a shared kindred spirit with a stadium of fellow fans. Football-wise, it is a natural evolution from marrying into a family from Pittsburgh, thus inheriting their sports teams. Watching a football game with Steelers involved, however, may not necessarily be fun as you and your whole being rise up and flop down with their performance. The easiest solution for us is to follow up the results after the fact. In comparison, a Super Bowl without Steelers would put us on the neutral sideline with nothing at stake, thus securing for us a night of safe enjoyment.
We had hoped for Vikings and Chargers to make it there this year, but Saints and Colts would do too. As underdog lovers, we unceremoniously sided for Saints. After all, for the longest time they have been known as the ants, the losers. Going to Super Bowl must have exceeded their as well as the rest of the nation’s wildest dream. As cliché as it may be, their win would be a “feel-good” ending that everyone loves. And a happy ending we indeed had hoped and received as the night concluded with Saints being crowned for the 44th Super Bowl champion. The game was perfect, not merely because of the win, but more of its drama, suspense, rise and fall, followed by a twisted, unexpected outcome with a satisfaction that no sure wins could ever deliver.
As we watched the celebration at the stadium on our HDTV, I couldn’t stop thinking of the silly tune “Oh when the saints go marching in”. For decades they had been nobody and on that Sunday night with the confetti showering down and the whole nation cheering on, they might as well be marching straight to the pearly gate. The infectious joy lulled us both to stay on the TV even after the trophy was passed and title awarded. We watched with a smile on our faces those jubilant fans and players roaring in their ecstasy and almost wished that the celebration wouldn’t end. Tonight I would visit my bed with excitement still warm in my heart. We would talk on even after the lights were out, making silly remarks such as “Saints Bree’zed through the win”, “we ain’t ants any more” and recapping the game like two kids that wouldn’t want the night to end. Drunk in glee as I might have been, I did not forget that in a day or two all this exhilaration would vanish like vapor under the sun. No wins on the face of this earth last on. This pessimist should have been deflated to gloom in no time. Somehow, I managed to come back with an epiphany. Despite all let-downs from this life, there indeed is yet a final parade when the saints go marching in at the call of our maker on that final day. In every way and with far greater magnitude we, the elects, are living a Cinderella fairy tale here on earth, waiting for that call and the happy ending in heaven. For many of us, we were once lower than the ants but now the beloved, the privileged and the saints. There is no greater win than this.
I laid my head down and closed my eyes; my heart sealed in peace and contentment.
Love me, love me not
Another restless night. By now, I have lost the count as to how many days have passed since this persistent ailment started. At 3:54 am I gave up fighting with the 3 blankets and gained a 6-minute start for the day. After nearly 20 months of working, I continue to improve my morning efficiency by cutting or simplifying all routines. From dressing to heading out, it takes as little as 15 minutes. I think I even beat that record today. Better yet, I beat my morning pal by a hair of room. He was right behind me when I walked through the chilly dawn to the office. Today, I got to turn on the lights. I never realized my competitiveness, or the extent of it, until I met him. He has in fact been pushing up his morning hour because of me and I found it annoying. As painful as it has been, my insomnia actually paid off and brought me some sweet consolation in this ridiculous win. I felt brave, triumphant and proud.
By the time coffee was made and emailed opened, it was barely 4:45 am. Another long day was officially unrolled. After over a month of sleep deprivation, my body seems to adjust well. It is always faithful, ready for work despite of my heavy eye lids and mild headache. For someone with high energy and spirit such as me, it is not hard to imagine. What amazes me is that I actually don’t seem to mind. Though a scrooge still, I may have accepted my fate here, work and insomnia included. I have always found comfort in routines all my life -- just never thought that would include a 4am wake up call, 10-hour work day, and yes, no sleep night.
End of January concluded my 20-month of working after 20 year of child rearing. A dear friend of mine recently commented how happy she was for me and that my making it means there is hope for “late” boomers such as me. I am not nearly as encouraged as she is as I know well how much struggle it has been and still is for me to have jumped back into this deep end and tried to float atop after 2 decades of absence. I face not only the professional, technical challenges but also the interpersonal, social skills, the later to me proven much more complex than the former. It may have something to do with a changed world for which I was not prepared, having been confined and consumed by another world of totally different dynamic. Yet, the further truth is that the deficiency or struggle within this department has always been there.
In my growing years, I was always quoted by family as difficult even for ghosts’ company. I remember having frequent emotional outbursts as a very young child when agitated. After moving up to school age, I gained some control with my firing fits only to be confronted with another mission impossible: the forever quest for approval from both adults and peers. My emotional well-being or balance was constantly hanging by a thread. Any perception of rejection would result in a mass of explosion. Gone was that little dark shadow at the corner, there emerged from nowhere the green Hauk frantic in her wounds that no one could tame. My beautiful older sister was then my sweetest dream and also most hated rival. I longed to be her: straight A’s, popular and adorable. The mystery remained forever why and how she could be that well controlled in the realm of the same world we were both in. There was this confidence and capacity in her to take on anyone or any task with very little effort, while I looked on with astonishment and could not even begin to imitate. Patience, perseverance and maybe even detachment were what I perceived her biggest assets. I hardly ever saw her losing balance for anything or anyone, not that they ever became anything disadvantageous to her. The loved her as much as she loved them.
But how I did too love and long to be loved… except that desire and acts seemed to have included something else. It was the deepest personal abandonment, followed by a price tag of my whole world and my sense. For someone with so much at stake and at the same time such extreme passions, interpersonal relationship was a dangerous, if not impossible, task. Years of head-on combats later, the little frustrated girl eventually calloused up and became an old soul. She learned to clam shot most of the time for self preservation sake. For the longest time, even after that night when God and I had our first chancing, I have continued to struggle to make peace between the one He loves and the one I do not, and more importantly, between His approval and man’s. Twenty months are nothing comparing to twenty years of dormant, but I started sensing the danger in the dilemma: sense or sensibility, love-me or love-me-not? Can I, decades later, dive into this battle all over again – only this time with clearer perspective on Him whose love I should really care? As self absorbing as man is, can anyone really love, himself included, without regret or fear?
The time ticks 5:30am when my colleagues will soon be showing up. I have hoped that I never have to play the daisy game, as older and wiser I thought I have become, but the anxiety is submerging up slowly. This time around, the question on the surface seems to be more of love you, or love you not, but maybe, as it has always been, is it still: love me or love me not?
By the time coffee was made and emailed opened, it was barely 4:45 am. Another long day was officially unrolled. After over a month of sleep deprivation, my body seems to adjust well. It is always faithful, ready for work despite of my heavy eye lids and mild headache. For someone with high energy and spirit such as me, it is not hard to imagine. What amazes me is that I actually don’t seem to mind. Though a scrooge still, I may have accepted my fate here, work and insomnia included. I have always found comfort in routines all my life -- just never thought that would include a 4am wake up call, 10-hour work day, and yes, no sleep night.
End of January concluded my 20-month of working after 20 year of child rearing. A dear friend of mine recently commented how happy she was for me and that my making it means there is hope for “late” boomers such as me. I am not nearly as encouraged as she is as I know well how much struggle it has been and still is for me to have jumped back into this deep end and tried to float atop after 2 decades of absence. I face not only the professional, technical challenges but also the interpersonal, social skills, the later to me proven much more complex than the former. It may have something to do with a changed world for which I was not prepared, having been confined and consumed by another world of totally different dynamic. Yet, the further truth is that the deficiency or struggle within this department has always been there.
In my growing years, I was always quoted by family as difficult even for ghosts’ company. I remember having frequent emotional outbursts as a very young child when agitated. After moving up to school age, I gained some control with my firing fits only to be confronted with another mission impossible: the forever quest for approval from both adults and peers. My emotional well-being or balance was constantly hanging by a thread. Any perception of rejection would result in a mass of explosion. Gone was that little dark shadow at the corner, there emerged from nowhere the green Hauk frantic in her wounds that no one could tame. My beautiful older sister was then my sweetest dream and also most hated rival. I longed to be her: straight A’s, popular and adorable. The mystery remained forever why and how she could be that well controlled in the realm of the same world we were both in. There was this confidence and capacity in her to take on anyone or any task with very little effort, while I looked on with astonishment and could not even begin to imitate. Patience, perseverance and maybe even detachment were what I perceived her biggest assets. I hardly ever saw her losing balance for anything or anyone, not that they ever became anything disadvantageous to her. The loved her as much as she loved them.
But how I did too love and long to be loved… except that desire and acts seemed to have included something else. It was the deepest personal abandonment, followed by a price tag of my whole world and my sense. For someone with so much at stake and at the same time such extreme passions, interpersonal relationship was a dangerous, if not impossible, task. Years of head-on combats later, the little frustrated girl eventually calloused up and became an old soul. She learned to clam shot most of the time for self preservation sake. For the longest time, even after that night when God and I had our first chancing, I have continued to struggle to make peace between the one He loves and the one I do not, and more importantly, between His approval and man’s. Twenty months are nothing comparing to twenty years of dormant, but I started sensing the danger in the dilemma: sense or sensibility, love-me or love-me-not? Can I, decades later, dive into this battle all over again – only this time with clearer perspective on Him whose love I should really care? As self absorbing as man is, can anyone really love, himself included, without regret or fear?
The time ticks 5:30am when my colleagues will soon be showing up. I have hoped that I never have to play the daisy game, as older and wiser I thought I have become, but the anxiety is submerging up slowly. This time around, the question on the surface seems to be more of love you, or love you not, but maybe, as it has always been, is it still: love me or love me not?
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