Bad Math

After moving north a few months ago, ex-colleague M is back in town. I had actually heard from another colleague yesterday about her visit and a possible lunch date opening to all. Sure enough, the invite was announced during our staff meeting. Prior to the meeting, the boss unexpectedly visited my cubical, inquiring me of the lunch: “You are NOT coming?” Instantly a mixture of self-defense and guilt surfed through my body while I cautiously replied no, tagging with “is that OK”. He explained he had assumed I wouldn’t be coming thus was assigning me to be the emergency backup. Strangely, another mixture of emotion rushed through me, partly relief from his not taking offense and partly indignation from their being so openly presumptuous. Regardless, I was more pleased than annoyed.

Friday lunching-out is customarily though not obligatorily observed by some of us here after a long week of brown bag sandwiches. I faithfully remain untouchable by all invites, which have never been many, if not few. The truth is, it hasn’t taken more than 2 or 3 “NO”s to stop them from coming. I neither find it ill nor fault my “considerate” coworkers. To me, eating with a group of colleagues at a table is far more challenging than working on some troublesome tickets. There is the unknown factor of whom you might sit with, what you should talk about, but mostly how to look interested and engaged when you are totally NOT.

So gladly I took the DOA, focusing on the joy of being left alone to hold the fortress, even though it was but a couple of hours of sheer solitude. I left the meeting looking like a cat with a mouse on her mouth, grinning from ear to ear and full of herself – until I stepped back to my cubicle and realized that I would not be alone. B and R, 2 of my cube-mates, would NOT be going to the lunch either. They don’t ever, just like me.

My heart sank and my joy fled. I sat deflated, frowning and grumbling. As self-absorbing as I am, I am not without conscience. While I fumed with my unfortunate loss, I had to ask myself: if one scrooge equals to FUN, why does one scrooge plus 2 NOT?

Interestingly, R and B are of 2 totally different dispositions and in fact at odds with each other though not explicitly. B is the golden boy and Mr. Perfect, while R is the black sheep, the wild child out of control. At first meeting, I too was drawn to the perfect son. He prays long prayer before his lunch, reads his Bible religiously everyday and works/talks like a prim and proper IT professional. R, on the other hand, is loud, volcanic and borderline obnoxious. Both claimed to be professed Christians and yet they couldn’t be any farther from each other. It didn’t take me long, though, before I switched camp.

I have suspected if my defection had something to do with the fact that R sadly reminds me of myself, a child forever trapped within that is impossible to grow up. Flawed and even damaged, he is incapable to hide or pretend. However, his Christian charity does submerge on and off though not without grunting and cussing. All the good and bad are out open glaring at the world as it condemns him. In comparison, B’s even temperament, long southern drools and seemingly perfect disposition are strikingly superior and yet short-lived (to me) once I detect all Christian’s heart and acts stop at his straight A appearance.

Both, just like me, have been known as the lunch rejects for different reasons: one refuses to mingle while the other is just cheap. For someone who is the cheapest of all, it seems unjust to judge another for that. But I am not speaking of lunch alone. In almost 3 years of stay here, I have not seen him lending a giving hand in work or life. His appearance – helpful and gentle - is all without any actions to give. Charity without action is no charity at all. And even actions, without heart, are just acting like. There are plenty of scrooges here that are self-serving and cheap, but at least they don’t pretend to be something else. . Then again, we will never escape the guilty charge for being wayward and irresponsible as long as we wear the brand-mark of Jesus. As I look at his opponent, R, I have to ask the inevitable, convicting questions: for a child of God, which is worse – the one that is imperfect in deeds or the one that is perfect in name alone? When the day comes to face my Lord, will I be able to explain myself away in either charge?

My 2-hour alone-time turned out to be nothing alone as 3 of us shared the “empty” nest in absolute silence. It was just like any of the lunch hour – the same cubicle, same occupants and same silence and yet it felt more crowded and stifling than usual. I had no one to blame but myself when all went wrong that Friday: bad recess, bad mood and bad math. Let it be a precious lesson for all mankind that false expectation can be a grave peril - it could ruin your fun.

TGIF

It was just another Friday – with a twist of an exciting prospect. Reason one, I took a day off from work. Secondly, I was planning for a dinner party. For this all-or-nothing rebel, I cycle through two social extremities periodically and this time it was diving in full force – a voluntary invite, including one couple whom we have not seen for over a year.

Among many of my downfalls, pride is the chief-most. And it shows even in my hosting. I would lose sleep over if not checked. My worst fear from house cleaning to menu planning is if I have enough food (and varieties) for my company. As this time there were but 2 couples, whom we have known for more than 2 decades, it wasn’t all that troublesome. Still, I managed to work myself up to comb through 3 stores and cook for 3 hours. By the time I finished racing the clock, 6:25 exactly, dinner was in the oven, table set and dishes cleaned.

To spice up my menu, I put a spin of Chinese flare: pot roast with Chinese spice, whole grain rice, roasted vegetable and 2 authentic appetizers or side dishes: spring rolls and pot stickers, the last two being everyone’s favorites but labor intensive. My vanity was the only drive I needed as I swept through the kitchen utensils and appliances to make homemade dough, shred the vegetable and grind the meat. Finally I sat down to wrap the spring rolls and dumplings. My fingers swiftly performed their magic as I had done it a million times. It felt home and peaceful. Then the door swung open, in walked the little gypsy from his daily bike patrol trip. Those saucer eyes lit up as he spotted his favorite food, dumplings. He exclaimed “ooooooh”, a simple but clear expression of joy. Instantly, my heart swelled up with matched emotion – I was happy to make my son happy. He went off to his computer while I remained in that afterglow of warmth that only a mother could fully appreciate. Suddenly I was caught unguarded by the questions: how long would I be able to make his favorite dumplings? And who would make them for him when I am gone? I felt that heart that just pumped with comfort seconds ago now constricting in such pain and panic that I could not breathe. Surely it was hardly my first time to face my own mortality, but it was the first time when I realized I could not make dumplings for him forever.

Where was the Friday cheer? My hands mechanically continued on with their task while the tears helplessly and foolishly rushed in. Gone was TGIF, my merry party and all anticipation. The house was all set for my company with food smelling mighty festive, clutters picked up and bathroom cleaned – all except that hole in my heart.

Later that night I unintentionally brought up the silly dumpling scare during our dinner conversation. Several suggestions were brought up, one of them being “Freeze a lot of them”. As the laughters filled up the room, I wondered still if our company’s claim of similar fright as all parents do was indeed valid. Even so, could their share of anxiety ever match the capacity and extent of my fear beyond dumplings? Was it my children’s “difference” that weighed down my outlook for Christians’ ultimate joyful end (or beginning) or was it just my weak faith? It was fear that brought me to the foot of the cross, and yet decades later it is still fear that brings me to the same place where I started. I couldn’t help wondering, again, on the million dollar question: am I saved?

On that particular Friday, I had meant to celebrate with all honesty and effort. It started out well but somewhat deflated despite of the good friends and conversation. Still, it wasn’t a complete lost cause. The weather was glorious with blue sky and gentle breeze. Daffodils were waking up from the deep winter dormant, checking out their new neighbors, the pansies I had bought from the nursery earlier that day. I played house all day long and most importantly my friends never ran out of food. Doubt and fear aside, I did enjoy a change of season with good friends. It was TGIF - almost.

Shall We Walk?

It was another brutally cold day; both inexcusably and ridiculously for March in the southern Virginia. We (my 29-year-old coworker and I) were on the way to drive-through for some fried chicken. A greasy yet comforting lunch made sense after a confusing week with temperature fluctuating between 70’s and 30’s. We were letting out our frustration while we dreamed of our hot, scrumptious chicken. I was fuming especially about missing my morning walk when my young coworker cut in, eyes wide open with excitement. “I should walk too. When the weather warms up, we should walk together.” Without a second to spare, I blurted out, short and precise, “No.” “Why?” She asked with more protest than curiosity. “You can’t keep up with me.” I said. “That’s exactly what I need: someone to whip me and push me”, insisted she. Without a split second loss I replied with same obstinacy: “I don’t want to talk when I walk.” “Is it just physically too strenuous?” This time she was sincerely curious. “Yes,” said I with equal sincerity, “Talking and walking is too much work.”

I realize that my coworker’s request was not all that unreasonable. In fact I have seen enough coworkers doing so, in 2 or 3, everyday. What seems to be most natural in their body language, the smile, ease and talks, is exactly the most absurd to me. How do they do that? And how COULD they? It pains me even to see them doing it.

Later on that day when I had time to reflect on our interactions, I began to feel some regret, only on my lack of diplomacy or tactfulness rather than the answer itself. I would reply with the same answer each and every time. That night I asked my other half what he would have said. There was no reason to expect from this born loner a different sentiment about “walking with others”, but he did say he would have said something like “Maybe. Let’s see.”

I had my “Maybe, Let’s see” older days. In fact, I was a proud graduate from “Maybe, Let’s see” or even “Sure, why not”. There were plenty of days when pleasing others was almost an obsession to me that my mouth would always unwisely say yes before my brain had a chance to stop it. How desperate and needy I was, and how frustrating and foolish it must have been to try and fail time after time! Of all failing attempts, the worst trauma came about 15 years ago – it ironically too started with walking with someone else.

S was then 6, young, ignorant and over-zealous for his almost first social come-out. Prior to this, he had known almost no one except his autistic brother, thus one can appreciate his (or my) excitement when Chris came to the picture. The family had just moved in – appearing at first glance a perfect match for us with a father working too at the college and mother full-time home-maker. The two boys from the same neighborhood attended the same school and the same class. Imagine our joy! So we had our hurdle underneath: our autistic older son and socially inhibited 2nd son vs their two perfect children, and the frozen chosen Calvinists vs the liberal Presbyterian couple, but no one is perfect and we were more than willing to forgive and forget. Soon enough the two boys and mothers were thrown together at play time, phone calls and all that motherhood good stuff. For a little while, I almost felt normal – until that tragic downfall, when we started walking together.

Beth and I first bumped into each other in the 5:15 morning walk at the neighborhood. After a few times of “good morning, how are you?”, it was logical that bumping together turned into walking together. In truth, except for speed, there was nothing in common between us: she was soft-spoken, sweet in demeanor, and kept a house clean and white. While her life appeared to be perfectly in order, mine was anything but. It was, though, not our differences that caused the ruin, but the talk along the walk. Granted I was excited about being admitted to the “mom circle” finally, the 40 minutes of non-stop, friendly chit chats turned out to be just most exasperating and excruciating! Before long, I found myself stuck in a situation where I ran out of not only topics on my miserable life but also comments on her perfect one. The walk turned into this insufferable pop quiz that I had not and could not possibly have prepared for – EVERYDAY. To recover, I decided to cut down on our morning session. I started my round a half hour earlier and met her at the end to do the last 10 minutes. When questioned, I frankly admitted I needed time to wake up. My candid andswer wasn’t well received as I had expected. Pretty soon, my new friend started missing from our walk, and then the phone calls, eventually all interactions altogether.

Looking back on this unfortunate rift, I can finally deduce that it was caused by a combination of my own poor judgment, lack of self-understanding and haste to conform. As much as I sympathize with her sense of rejection, I have to defend my honor that I was then young and hopeful, not realizing my socializing deficit. After all, it wasn’t just my son’s first social attempt alone; it was mine too. This mistake, though sad, did teach me precious lessons: (1) talk and walk should never mix and (2) if necessary, I reserve the seats solely for Bach and my mate, bound by law and life, with whom I have neither need nor fear to please or displease. My young coworker may never appreciate my curt response but this overcomer, much older and wiser now, would rather be blunt in truth than blunder in foolishness. No matter what, let my walk remain forever more sacred as it should be: solo and safe. Amen.

Morning War

Another work day commenced. Same ritual: clothes, shoes, lunch box, 18-minute drive (plus or minus a few grunts pending on the sequences of the stop lights), parking and 2-block walk to the office. All was well. I continued on with the rest of setup: tea, email, phone messages. Finally, the bottom right corner of my computer displayed 4:15 and there it came, the same anxiety, almost anguish, as my ear listened for the sounds of door opening and the intruding footsteps.

I realize that I do work in a 21st century IT world, open floor plan with cells or cubicles, where the comfort (or concept) of privacy simply does not exist. It is exactly that reason that I found my morning solitude so primal to my emotional well-being. On top of it, there are parking issue and insomnia which made my “early to rise (arrive)” a no-brainer solution. When I first started changing the hour, I bumped into another early riser a few times at the coffee lounge and engaged in a few cordial coffee-tea conversation sessions. It was then around 5am. Our social rendezvous, instead of promoting an amiable kinsmanship, ironically evolved to be a waging war as he (or I?) started shifting the arriving time for earlier. Before long, my competitive instinct was baited such that the alarm clock went through a confusing sequence of adjustment, until 3:23 finally settled the dispute. For a while, peace finally arrived on B521, where I had my 30 minutes of alone-time before my rival, now co-owner of the temporary peace domain, came in at 4:30. After that, we had another 20 minutes before the 3rd runner reached the winner’s circle. My ear soon learned to distinguish the footsteps at certain time. 5:10 was S, who religiously turned off the lights at his quarter. 5:30-ish belonged to neighbor T, and then neighbor B who could be rowdy at times due to the inconvenience of next-door location. After that, we have 5:55 for E, 6:05 for M, and so forth. All was well. The hopelessly impulsive, at the same time impossibly rigid rebel was thankfully tamed with the help of a dose of solitude and the clock-wise routines of the others’ arriving.

If only life proved to be predicable ever after! It started with neighbor B, with allotted arrival time 5:35, decided to disturb the perfect sequence. With a sneaking 5 minutes here and there, he reset his clock, against my wishes, to 5:15. Meanwhile the 3rd arrival joined the treachery by inching in to the war-zone, switching her time from 4:50 to 4:30. Such rebellious defiance was not only unthinkable but also excruciating. Eventually the shock did taper off, only to be replaced with persistent pain. Morning after morning, I go through the same anguish, awaiting the disturbed sequence with unresigned indignation.

How and why have I been stuck in this predicament? I have to wonder. Is it my own competitive and controlling nature to blame? Granted if I did own my fault, I have to add that I am not without company here. The all-wise Chinese proverb does say: “One hand claps not”. There would have been no war or competition if there had been one party all along. Recall, specifically, the first instigation started with the other early riser, AKA “light man”, who shifted his time from 5 all the way to 4:30 upon my first appearances. What would you do with rejection or provokes such as those except for joining in and fighting your honor as any good soldiers should? What of the other two defectors? Don’t they know once their time is set there is no excuse to change, especially when my mental, emotional well-being is at stake? What is it that people cannot embrace stability when everything is running perfectly (and most importantly, I am happy)?

I heaved a long breath as the door finally opened at 4:25 when light man came. There it started all over again: the new and undesired sequence. Changes are BAD. I muttered to myself, but “time heals all wounds”. Hopefully, and SOON, time will do her other magic: change the offensive ‘new’s back to old and then peace may finally arrive – both at B521 and most importantly, cubicle 20.

Let there be no more deviation henceforth, I pray.