My father and I share the same handicap: we are both colorblind. But not colorblind in the conventional sense and not colorblind in the same way either. The difference between my affliction and my father's is pretty subtle though. My father, in his infinite wisdom, has this amazing ability to look at the sky, on Tuesday, and think it is green. Like actually green. In fact, he is so sure that it is green that he thinks that everyone else sees the sky as green too. To him, people who think the sky is any color other than green is wrong and needs to work on their color recognition skills. Then, Wednesday rolls around. My dad walks outside and looks up and just as he thought it was, the beautiful, dependable sky, is purple. Truly purple. As purple as it was yesterday. Anyone who tries to tell him the sky is blue or even green, as he saw it yesterday, is crazy and, bottom line, disrespectful. This is my father's agnosia. For me, though, color blindness is a different shade. On that same Tuesday, when I woke up, I saw the sky and it was blue. Just as blue as it has always been and always will be. But, I go about the rest of the my day, with the blue sky above me, and wish, so deeply wish, that the sky would turn green. I believe, in my infinite wisdom, that the sky could, if it looked inside itself, if it realized its potential, if it came to its senses, turn green. I live out that Tuesday willing the sky to turn green, hoping that today might be the day. Then Wednesday rolls around. I wake up and walk outside again after a full day of blue Tuesday and see that the sky is still blue. I know it's blue. It's so fucking blue. But. Maybe. Today. Maybe today it will turn green.
You are my sky, my blue sky, that I believe, hope, wish could, would turn green. I wake up every day knowing, on the deepest, most realistic level, that you're blue. But I hope, in the most ethereal, religious way that you would just realize that you're green. It's been two years of colorblindness. Two years of watchful waiting. Two years of exhausting, draining, disappointing looking at you and wishing you green. And I can't do it anymore.
I might be colorblind but I'm not stupid. I know you're blue. It's not a facade, it's not a costume. You. Are. Blue. It's time for me to stop willing you to turn green.
I'm so tired. I'm so angry. At myself. At you too. But mostly myself. For ever thinking that you could actually make me a priority or ever love me the way I want you, need you too. You know I have feelings for you. You've known since the time we ate pancakes in the rain and laughed at ourselves. You've known since I finally reached my first boiling point and outright told you. You've known all along. And for selfish reasons, reasons that I would never blame you or fault you for, you kept me close because you needed me to love you. Not too close though. Just close enough for you to make me think you could be green and far enough away for you to stay blue. You needed me to hold the place, to serve as a substitute, until you found something more valuable, more desirable. Just good enough to keep you entertained and relevant. You needed my attention, my affection, my affliction. I made you real, here, grounded, a part of this earth. I took your abstract need for a partner, to fill the void, and made it less distressing, more bearable. I built you up and and supported you through some of your toughest times. I held the pieces that you disintegrated into in my hands until you were ready to take them and put them back together again. And while I was carrying you around, my feelings for you grew, piece by jagged piece. You were so caught up in your own breakdown that you couldn't see how heavy your pieces weighed in my arms. You couldn't see that the parts of you that I nurtured while you rebuilt your walls became a part of me. Became a part of my walls. I took you into my heart, my life and I let you seep into the framework. You flooded my bedrock, my scaffolding, and stuck to it like mold.
Don't misunderstand me. I welcomed your shared feelings, fears. It felt good to know that there was someone in this world who wanted me to know them. Who felt I was important enough to see what others weren't allowed to see. You're so private. So contained. But you let me in and I saw glimpses of your potential greenness. And your blackness. The darkness that that lives inside of you. And I loved it. Your green your black and even your blue. I wanted to be your confidant, your sounding board, your person. Because I loved you. Because you let me love you. You let me believe you could be green and black and blue and if only I stuck it out, played the game, proved my worth, that one day you would wake up and be green for me. Green for me because you loved me too.
But you don't. You don't love me. You. Don't. Love. Me. You have thought about loving me. You're lying if you say you havn't. You maybe have even tried to convince yourself to love me. Because it would be so easy, so perfect. But you don't. You can't. You may not even be aware of it but you dangle it. Your love. Like a dollar on the end of a fishing pole. Because without my love where would you be. Who would tell you that you're worth something or that it will all be okay. You would be bored and alone and that, that threat of loneliness, is scarier than anything. The ultimate motivator. This deep, basic, human, absolute terror of being alone. It makes us blind. Color blind.
If I argue that the fear of loneliness is what drives us all then where does that leave sex? Sex. Sex has blinded people since the beginning of time; it has shifted borders, started wars, made music, created people, so it must be pivotal in what makes us do the things we do. Oh, how it is. But I don't think it starts there. Making decisions does not begin with the drive for sex. It begins with the drive for affection, the drive to fill up the holes we feel inside of ourselves and sex is the ultimate filler. The irony is not lost on me. We followed suite. We started with loneliness and, after time, filled it with sex. Your green but empty sex. Like a business transaction. Without eyes or mouths or passion. Mechanical. We had the emotional and the physical but never the romantic, never the combination of the two. Because that would be way too green. But I am human and I wanted your touch, in any way I could get it. So I let you fill me with blue.
So really, you and I are the same. Afraid of the same things. Too scared to leave. Complacent. That's where I live. Too nervous to rock the boat. The status quo is better. Better this than nothing. Better the hope of greenness than the reality of empty space.
But this is where we differ. I may be too scared to leave but I am also too scared to stay. I have lost so much of myself in my pursuit of loving you, my mission to bring out your green that I am afraid that I don't know who I am without you. I'm afraid that your absence from my day to day life will leave me with a palpable void. A nothingness that will drive me mad.
But, I remember, this isn't my first time at the rodeo. I have loved and lost before and I will do it again. I can't wait around for you to turn green anymore because all this waiting and hoping has turned me white. Made of nothing. Malleable. Moveable. Destructible. And I need to save myself before there is nothing left of me to save.
It's going to take me a while to be comfortable with the unchangeable blueness of the sky. I am going to wake up tomorrow and look up and see it as blue but still wish it was green. And I'll probably do the same thing the next day and the next day and the next day. But eventually I'll get to the point where it won't matter. Where the sky can be whatever color it wants. And on that day. When the sky is blue or purple or red or orange or green. On that day. I will see. And all I'll see...is me.
Friday, January 27, 2017
Monday, November 19, 2012
The Sound of Fear
And in
the naked light I saw, ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared, and no one dared
To stir the sound of silence.
People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared, and no one dared
To stir the sound of silence.
Simon
and Garfunkel, “The Sound of Silence”
Everybody knows what it feels like to be moved by a song. We have all experienced that moment where we roll down our car windows, jump up on bar counters, strut down the street, singing our favorite tune. We all know what it feels like to get lost in our thoughts when the radio plays a tune that reminds us of a lost loved one, a sad story, or a better time. Your mother’s voice when you are sick and lonely, your lover’s laugh when you said something silly, your dog’s bark when you walk through the door. All of us are swayed by melody, dancing through whatever emotion the noise evokes; and yet, we are unaware of our steps. Our lives are choreographed to an orchestra of inconspicuous clangs and beeps and zooms that are destined to remain just background music for us to waltz to. The noises of life keep it flowing, shifting, drifting, in calm.
In the wake of the increasing violence in the Middle East, I find myself acutely aware of the very things that are supposed to remain quietly loud. The shriek of an ambulance, the cry of a fornicating cat, the wail of an air raid siren all resonate differently with me now, evoking an urgent need for the ability to discriminate between melodies, a burning desire to understand music. When it all began, every note sounded the same, with that deep, threatening bellow that ascends into a warning squeal only to fade off into an ominous hum, promising the inevitable boom. The slightest change in the white noise that is supposed to unnoticeably accompany every moment was enough to make my insides drop and my heart flutter. The capacity to differentiate between the various rackets of city life has become crucial to my sanity…it’s not a warning siren, it’s a revving engine…it’s a warning siren, not the signal for the beginning of Shabbat. Good noise versus bad noise. How does one ever learn how to tell the difference?
I have been doing everything faster in trying not to miss a sound. I get dressed quicker, shower faster, think sooner so that I am not blindsided, caught off guard by a howling siren urging me into the closest windowless staircase. The cacophony of the rockets seem to shatter not only buildings, skies, and families, but the cadence of everyday life. Everything feels choppy and uncoordinated, like perpetual fight or flight. We are all on edge, singing out of tune.
The slightest tickle of my now heightened sense of sound sets in motion a cascade of synaptic, nervous activation of my other four senses. I hear something and I immediately scan my surroundings; I look right and left for the nearest shelter, up and down for the glimpse of a rocket getting intercepted by the Iron Dome. I cannot walk down the street or drive in a car without assessing available refuge at every new distance traveled. And yet, just as soon as I have completed the reconnaissance, I begin to feel my own heart beat. To viscerally understand the sensation of being aware of one’s own heartbeat, I now know, is to fully comprehend what is feels like to feel. So involuntary, so frightening, so real. I feel my atria contracting against my ventricles, sending the blood from my aorta to the rest of my body—my limbs tingle, my head pounds, and my skin sweats, waiting for the sound to last just a few seconds longer than what seems comfortable, for the cry to grow into a howl. As the blood pumps through my veins, I imagine that I can smell the smoke of the exploding rocket, the unwashed uniform of the scared soldier protecting the border, and the dank air of the bomb shelter in my basement that was just reopened for the first time in twenty years. Finally, I taste my own fear, that bitter wave of anxiety that comes crashing down my tongue. It tastes like a thousand ghost stories, a million close calls. I let my senses process, tormented by sound.
It has been six days now. Six days of hyperresponsiveness, of insecurity, of prayers directed at the same God to whom my attackers pray. I worry that my new perception of sound will take the place of the bustling, yet soothing noises that once bathed my ears and become my new reality in the way that it has for those people living in the southern part of the country. In the south, sirens have become as familiar as car horns, exploding missiles as natural as barking dogs, code red warnings as ordinary as upstairs neighbors moving furniture. After having experienced just six days of that kind of terror, my heart breaks at the thought of their tortured psyches.
For now, I can only wish for it to end, will life to go back to normal, and beg for those on both sides of this conflict to let me go back to my quiet noise. No matter your political opinion, forcing someone to go through life waiting for next threat of attack is simply inhumane. I pray for the moment when some form of peace is reached so that I can free my senses and finally exhale.
I cannot live a life where I long for silence, and all I hear is fear.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Foxhole
If there is one thing that I have learned from my first year of medical school (aside from the fact that boring teachers make for boring science and I still prefer a cold weather climate) it is that monotony can kill you. If we are being honest here, what I really mean to say is that the more time you spend with the same people, the more those same people make you want to walk into oncoming traffic. Medical school is an interesting phenomenon, on multiple fronts, but, when trying to describe the feelings it both creates and exhumes from the depths of one’s psyche, most people get caught up in the academic aspect of it all. While it is true that medical school brings with it a stress level that I cannot even begin to put into words—one that makes such mundane things as grocery shopping and shaving seem like privileges that require a certain time and effort that one must earn—and an air of urgency that can make a person go postal, all of these issues would be nothing without the social element of it all. The academic requirements and their accompanying consequences only exacerbate the real issues, the day-to-day humdrum, that grates on your patience and makes you resent the people who matter the most.
My father, despite our differences, has said some wise things in his time. Before I left for medical school, I expressed the fact that I was feeling uneasy about the kinds of people I would meet, the friends that I would hopefully make. While I have never really had a difficult time making new friends, I, nevertheless have always found the initial flirting with boys and girls alike, the ritual display of one’s colored feathers, to be exhausting and almost beneath me. The idea of laying everything I have out on the table and offering it to the highest bidder gives me serious social anxiety; I like to stick to what I know, and medical school, or really, medical students, seemed to be the breed of people who would just browse but not buy all that is Danielle – social window-shopping if you will. My father, having gone through his own version of medical school (dental school- not the same but still not so different), tried to assuage my fears by telling me that it doesn’t matter who my classmates are, what kind of weird eating habits, fashion tastes, or hobbies they posses, these people are going to become my family…for better or for worse. Getting a little more descriptive, my Dad argued that these people will become my war buddies, the people next to me in the foxhole, who are trying to dodge the very same bullets, who carry you when you get hit. He told me that we would all become united in a unique shared experience, one that no one else would ever truly understand or relate to unless he or she had been there him or herself.
At the time, his advice sounded a little too poetic for my taste, and I was wholly consumed by my still flourishing disdain for moving to a beach-town (I live in a city with palm trees- gross), so I dismissed him and his prose.
And now I am eating my words. I could not think of a better metaphor if I tried. Medical school IS war—a war against sleep, against leisure, against the ability to say no to chocolate and fried foods—and these people, the ones who, sometimes, make me regret waking up in the morning, are the people who drag you when you can’t carry yourself, who smile for you when the realities of being a medical student won’t let you do it yourself.
We all come from different planet,; from frat boys to the Kiddush club, yet we all find ourselves thrown into the same hodgepodge of personalities. At times, this makes for a motley crew, one that moves to the beats of 62 different drummers. And aren’t drummers, afterall, just artists, elitists who are stubbornly convinced they his or her own beat is the truest? Hells yes. We make out with each other’s crushes because we are too bored and lonely to say no, we make stupidly expensive impulse buys at Zara because we think we need to outdo everyone at the Thanksgiving banquet, since it is our one and only chance to show everyone that we are actually attractive people, and we snap at each other under pressure, in the most passive aggressive of ways, because one of us took the other’s usual spot in the study room. We known every little detail about each other’s personal lives because we make it our business to find out, out of pure boredom and slight jealousy. There are no atheists in our foxhole…because, if there were, we would know about it.
But they are also beautiful. Despite our differences, we all seem to blend into this indestructible meshwork of know-it-all, Type A personality prototypes. While that sounds like it would create a community of cut-throat, gunners who are more than willing to step on everyone around them just to get the grade, life in med school, at least in my experience, is the exact opposite. We stay up until the wee hours of the morning teaching our friends the intricate details of the brain’s functions because he or she has left it all until the night before the exam because he or she was too preoccupied with family or relationship drama to prepare beforehand. We make 70 page long review sheets for our finals only because organization of the material makes us feel like we have a handle on it and email it to the rest of the class (or is that just something I do?). We go with each other to the doctor, we come over in the middle of the night and make brownies when one of us gets dumped, we call one another at the butt crack of dawn to make sure we are all awake for our exams. We carry each other when we feel like we can’t go on, we smile for each other when we feel like doing it ourselves will shatter our faces.
High school was a joke. I saw the same people every single day for 4 years: winter, spring, summer, and fall. College was great: I loved my friends but I also loved my vacations from them and my college town. Med school is impossible: but I can’t wait to go back. Does that make me crazy…or lucky?
My father, despite our differences, has said some wise things in his time. Before I left for medical school, I expressed the fact that I was feeling uneasy about the kinds of people I would meet, the friends that I would hopefully make. While I have never really had a difficult time making new friends, I, nevertheless have always found the initial flirting with boys and girls alike, the ritual display of one’s colored feathers, to be exhausting and almost beneath me. The idea of laying everything I have out on the table and offering it to the highest bidder gives me serious social anxiety; I like to stick to what I know, and medical school, or really, medical students, seemed to be the breed of people who would just browse but not buy all that is Danielle – social window-shopping if you will. My father, having gone through his own version of medical school (dental school- not the same but still not so different), tried to assuage my fears by telling me that it doesn’t matter who my classmates are, what kind of weird eating habits, fashion tastes, or hobbies they posses, these people are going to become my family…for better or for worse. Getting a little more descriptive, my Dad argued that these people will become my war buddies, the people next to me in the foxhole, who are trying to dodge the very same bullets, who carry you when you get hit. He told me that we would all become united in a unique shared experience, one that no one else would ever truly understand or relate to unless he or she had been there him or herself.
At the time, his advice sounded a little too poetic for my taste, and I was wholly consumed by my still flourishing disdain for moving to a beach-town (I live in a city with palm trees- gross), so I dismissed him and his prose.
And now I am eating my words. I could not think of a better metaphor if I tried. Medical school IS war—a war against sleep, against leisure, against the ability to say no to chocolate and fried foods—and these people, the ones who, sometimes, make me regret waking up in the morning, are the people who drag you when you can’t carry yourself, who smile for you when the realities of being a medical student won’t let you do it yourself.
We all come from different planet,; from frat boys to the Kiddush club, yet we all find ourselves thrown into the same hodgepodge of personalities. At times, this makes for a motley crew, one that moves to the beats of 62 different drummers. And aren’t drummers, afterall, just artists, elitists who are stubbornly convinced they his or her own beat is the truest? Hells yes. We make out with each other’s crushes because we are too bored and lonely to say no, we make stupidly expensive impulse buys at Zara because we think we need to outdo everyone at the Thanksgiving banquet, since it is our one and only chance to show everyone that we are actually attractive people, and we snap at each other under pressure, in the most passive aggressive of ways, because one of us took the other’s usual spot in the study room. We known every little detail about each other’s personal lives because we make it our business to find out, out of pure boredom and slight jealousy. There are no atheists in our foxhole…because, if there were, we would know about it.
But they are also beautiful. Despite our differences, we all seem to blend into this indestructible meshwork of know-it-all, Type A personality prototypes. While that sounds like it would create a community of cut-throat, gunners who are more than willing to step on everyone around them just to get the grade, life in med school, at least in my experience, is the exact opposite. We stay up until the wee hours of the morning teaching our friends the intricate details of the brain’s functions because he or she has left it all until the night before the exam because he or she was too preoccupied with family or relationship drama to prepare beforehand. We make 70 page long review sheets for our finals only because organization of the material makes us feel like we have a handle on it and email it to the rest of the class (or is that just something I do?). We go with each other to the doctor, we come over in the middle of the night and make brownies when one of us gets dumped, we call one another at the butt crack of dawn to make sure we are all awake for our exams. We carry each other when we feel like we can’t go on, we smile for each other when we feel like doing it ourselves will shatter our faces.
High school was a joke. I saw the same people every single day for 4 years: winter, spring, summer, and fall. College was great: I loved my friends but I also loved my vacations from them and my college town. Med school is impossible: but I can’t wait to go back. Does that make me crazy…or lucky?
Jating
Life in the big city got really dull really fast. The novelties of being in a new city surrounded by new friends wore off but good. Don’t get me wrong, I like Tel Aviv and I love my friends, but medical school—all that unbearably dense embryology and deathly boring histology—can make a girl a little stir crazy. Excitement has been replaced with lonliness and enthusiasm ousted by self-consciousness. My initial perspective, one dancing with wide-open spaces and endless possibilities, has quickly turned into one clouded by boredom and never-ending memorization.
So, what do I do when the tough gets going? Put on my highest heals, shave my legs, and whip out the push-up bra? Hell no. I retreat to my bed, watch crime shows, and complain about how useless I am. I become a hermit, limited to communication with only the few people I find the least irritating. These poor souls tell me I should get out more, beg me to try and stimulate the other aspects of my personality, the ones that don’t revolve around diabetes, broken arms, and Downs syndrome. I promise them that I will find my energy eventually, that I need to rediscover myself on my own terms. Yet, claiming that I must be the one to take control over my life did not stop me from complaining about how much I need to get sexy, get out, and get laid. It must have been seriously draining to be around someone who desperately wanted to be someone different, whined about how hard it is to transform oneself all on one’s own, but would not accept anyone’s help. They got fed up, dragged me out of bed, and forced me to do something I would never have done on my own. Good intentions, awkward consequences.
In order to yank me out of my slump, my friends forced me to step outside of my bubble and throw myself into a different world. It would be good for me, they argued, to hang out with people outside of my comfort zone. What they really meant was, it would be hilarious to watch Danielle squirm while we sent her on dates with people she has never met. They dragged me to the computer, forced me to take out my credit card, and signed me up for Jdate.
My feelings toward the website varied throughout the course of my short time on it. At first, I was completely against it. It made me uncomfortable to have creepy, foreign-looking men send me automated messages expressing the fact that we would have “beautiful looking Jewish children” or that he thinks that he and I would definitely “make memories” over coffee. I was like: who are these people that think it’s normal to speak to someone that way? Who thought of these pickup lines and why is it okay to use them? Why is it acceptable to call someone you have never met a sassy-looking redhead? Who cut that guys hair???
Every new message, poke, flirt, wink, instant message, made me cringe. I don’t know if it was mostly to do with the culture clash, the fact that all of these men were born and raised Israelis, who, as most of us have learned by now, sort of live by a different set of guy-girl interaction rules. What I do know is that, at first, the whole Jdate thing sort of made me want to become a Wiccan (no one asks witches why they aren’t married!!).
However, as time, and my subscription, progressed, all the attention became somewhat flattering. Jdate has features that allow you to see both how many and who has viewed your profile (if Facebook was like that I would be off of it so fast it would make Mark Zuckerberg’s head spin…obviously the beauty of Facebook is it’s, ironically, faceless stalking opportunities) and I was, by internet dating standards, a hit! I got like 5 messages a day begging me for dates. When in my life have I ever been asked out by 5 different guys in one day (with the exception of that weird night at Egon when I was 18)? It was all just so exciting, I even entertained the idea of actually going out with some of these people.
All it took was one date to show me that all of my excitement had been for naught. He wasn’t a bad guy. He was perfectly nice (except for the fact that I had to speak in Hebrew the whole time). He paid for my drink, walked me to the cab, hugged me goodnight. Nothing to really put in the diary. So, why, you might ask, did it turn me off completely? Well, I’ll tell you…it was a Jate. Calling upon the few, yet monumental, dates that I have gone on in my short dating life, this one just sort of felt…different. It was almost as though he and I were both trying to pretend like our time together had not begun with a flirty message created by some, undoubtedly single, 30-something year old reader of romance novels who worked for Jdate. The word “Jdate” was never uttered in the 3 hours we spent together, as if saying the word might out us as desperate. I never would have given this a guy a second thought if I had met him under different circumstances, and he and I both knew that, and yet, we forced ourselves to talk about nothing for 3 hours, if only to finish our drinks and not feel like we totally sucked at life. The whole thing just felt so forced, so synthetic, as if I was stomaching those 3 hours just to make myself feel better about wasting 30 bucks on a Jdate membership.
The messages never stopped flooding my inbox, but my enthusiasm quickly drained. I stopped responding to the would-be suiters, ignored the site entirely, pretty much resigning myself from it completely. What began as creepy come-ons that eventually turned into exciting prospects, became sleazy automated flirts once again. Don’t tell me that you think you and I could hit it off! What, among aaaallll of the oh-so-telling information on my profile (my height, my eye color, and my religious values) would make you think that we would get along, let alone make a darling couple?!? You don’t know me! I could be a glue addict or a lover of prepubescent boys or a Communist for all you know!
Is it so wrong to want dating, falling in love, and marriage (not necessarily in that order) to be organic? Is it a crime to think that I am above the people whose mothers created Jdate profiles for them? These people don’t appreciate what I have to offer. Again, we could attribute this to the culture clash, but no guy that I find on the internet is going to fall in love with the fact that I am a driven future doctor with passionate opinions, a dirty mouth, and big hair. Those are the kinds of people who are looking for mother-wives. People like me need to win people over. We need to make them laugh at the bride’s ugly dress at a wedding reception of mutual friends, we need to surprise them with our opinions on IUD’s as we are stuck in the corner of an overly crowded bar. I can’t impress you on a Jate because, just like you, I am too self-consciously aware of how this union came to be. I have accepted this.
My Jdate membership is now cancelled. When I called up the company to suspend my subscription, a friendly young man named Adam asked a whole bunch of questions about my account and my reasons for terminating it. I am sure that Adam was expecting one of the usual responses that most people give when asked this question—it just wasn’t for me. I am joining eharmony.com instead. I met the man of my dreams at a comic book convention. But, as I have so expressly pointed out, I am not your average Jater. Poor boy…when he asked me: “Ms. Platt, if you don’t mind my asking, why is it that you are choosing to end your membership with us here at Jdate?”, I quickly responded. “Well, Adam…I am becoming a Wiccan.” Told him!
So, what do I do when the tough gets going? Put on my highest heals, shave my legs, and whip out the push-up bra? Hell no. I retreat to my bed, watch crime shows, and complain about how useless I am. I become a hermit, limited to communication with only the few people I find the least irritating. These poor souls tell me I should get out more, beg me to try and stimulate the other aspects of my personality, the ones that don’t revolve around diabetes, broken arms, and Downs syndrome. I promise them that I will find my energy eventually, that I need to rediscover myself on my own terms. Yet, claiming that I must be the one to take control over my life did not stop me from complaining about how much I need to get sexy, get out, and get laid. It must have been seriously draining to be around someone who desperately wanted to be someone different, whined about how hard it is to transform oneself all on one’s own, but would not accept anyone’s help. They got fed up, dragged me out of bed, and forced me to do something I would never have done on my own. Good intentions, awkward consequences.
In order to yank me out of my slump, my friends forced me to step outside of my bubble and throw myself into a different world. It would be good for me, they argued, to hang out with people outside of my comfort zone. What they really meant was, it would be hilarious to watch Danielle squirm while we sent her on dates with people she has never met. They dragged me to the computer, forced me to take out my credit card, and signed me up for Jdate.
My feelings toward the website varied throughout the course of my short time on it. At first, I was completely against it. It made me uncomfortable to have creepy, foreign-looking men send me automated messages expressing the fact that we would have “beautiful looking Jewish children” or that he thinks that he and I would definitely “make memories” over coffee. I was like: who are these people that think it’s normal to speak to someone that way? Who thought of these pickup lines and why is it okay to use them? Why is it acceptable to call someone you have never met a sassy-looking redhead? Who cut that guys hair???
Every new message, poke, flirt, wink, instant message, made me cringe. I don’t know if it was mostly to do with the culture clash, the fact that all of these men were born and raised Israelis, who, as most of us have learned by now, sort of live by a different set of guy-girl interaction rules. What I do know is that, at first, the whole Jdate thing sort of made me want to become a Wiccan (no one asks witches why they aren’t married!!).
However, as time, and my subscription, progressed, all the attention became somewhat flattering. Jdate has features that allow you to see both how many and who has viewed your profile (if Facebook was like that I would be off of it so fast it would make Mark Zuckerberg’s head spin…obviously the beauty of Facebook is it’s, ironically, faceless stalking opportunities) and I was, by internet dating standards, a hit! I got like 5 messages a day begging me for dates. When in my life have I ever been asked out by 5 different guys in one day (with the exception of that weird night at Egon when I was 18)? It was all just so exciting, I even entertained the idea of actually going out with some of these people.
All it took was one date to show me that all of my excitement had been for naught. He wasn’t a bad guy. He was perfectly nice (except for the fact that I had to speak in Hebrew the whole time). He paid for my drink, walked me to the cab, hugged me goodnight. Nothing to really put in the diary. So, why, you might ask, did it turn me off completely? Well, I’ll tell you…it was a Jate. Calling upon the few, yet monumental, dates that I have gone on in my short dating life, this one just sort of felt…different. It was almost as though he and I were both trying to pretend like our time together had not begun with a flirty message created by some, undoubtedly single, 30-something year old reader of romance novels who worked for Jdate. The word “Jdate” was never uttered in the 3 hours we spent together, as if saying the word might out us as desperate. I never would have given this a guy a second thought if I had met him under different circumstances, and he and I both knew that, and yet, we forced ourselves to talk about nothing for 3 hours, if only to finish our drinks and not feel like we totally sucked at life. The whole thing just felt so forced, so synthetic, as if I was stomaching those 3 hours just to make myself feel better about wasting 30 bucks on a Jdate membership.
The messages never stopped flooding my inbox, but my enthusiasm quickly drained. I stopped responding to the would-be suiters, ignored the site entirely, pretty much resigning myself from it completely. What began as creepy come-ons that eventually turned into exciting prospects, became sleazy automated flirts once again. Don’t tell me that you think you and I could hit it off! What, among aaaallll of the oh-so-telling information on my profile (my height, my eye color, and my religious values) would make you think that we would get along, let alone make a darling couple?!? You don’t know me! I could be a glue addict or a lover of prepubescent boys or a Communist for all you know!
Is it so wrong to want dating, falling in love, and marriage (not necessarily in that order) to be organic? Is it a crime to think that I am above the people whose mothers created Jdate profiles for them? These people don’t appreciate what I have to offer. Again, we could attribute this to the culture clash, but no guy that I find on the internet is going to fall in love with the fact that I am a driven future doctor with passionate opinions, a dirty mouth, and big hair. Those are the kinds of people who are looking for mother-wives. People like me need to win people over. We need to make them laugh at the bride’s ugly dress at a wedding reception of mutual friends, we need to surprise them with our opinions on IUD’s as we are stuck in the corner of an overly crowded bar. I can’t impress you on a Jate because, just like you, I am too self-consciously aware of how this union came to be. I have accepted this.
My Jdate membership is now cancelled. When I called up the company to suspend my subscription, a friendly young man named Adam asked a whole bunch of questions about my account and my reasons for terminating it. I am sure that Adam was expecting one of the usual responses that most people give when asked this question—it just wasn’t for me. I am joining eharmony.com instead. I met the man of my dreams at a comic book convention. But, as I have so expressly pointed out, I am not your average Jater. Poor boy…when he asked me: “Ms. Platt, if you don’t mind my asking, why is it that you are choosing to end your membership with us here at Jdate?”, I quickly responded. “Well, Adam…I am becoming a Wiccan.” Told him!
Monday, January 24, 2011
A Lovely Paradox
I know that I have not written in a while (mainly because I, once again, have nothing exciting to say and because medical school has, obviously, become a lot harder) and I cannot help but feel slightly sad that I cannot find the time to come up with something witty to say. I cannot make any promises that I will try harder to keep posting because, well, let's face it, wrapping my mind around Neurophysiology is slightly more important than devoting time to blogging about my unrequited loves, overtly feminist opinions, and obnoxious rants. Yet, I was approached by someone the other day (a fan of the blog and a longtime fan of me) who had some interesting insight to share. She has only come into her writing abilities somewhat recently, but I feel as though her voice must be heard and her opinions shared. She writes with a sense of honesty that I find refreshing and a level of self-deprecation that is sad yet aware. She was kind enough to share her words and feelings with me and I feel obligated to share them with you too. I would love to hear feedback on her piece (as well as mine) so please feel free to comment.
I hope you all enjoy this guest author's work...I know I did.
A Lovely Paradox
Why do I continue to stare at his name hoping and willing that he will call or instant message? Why do I intermittently remove and then replace his screen name? Why do I think about him day in and day out- from the moment my eyes awaken in the morning to the moment I lay my head on the pillow? Why am I tormenting myself?
It’s quite astounding how the mind works. Assumingly, from a developmental standpoint, humans are endowed with rational and logical capabilities which allow for man to, as he matures and experiences the many facets of life, to grapple the difference between right and wrong. Although such recognition pertains to all areas of existence, I would like to focus on the superficially minute yet mentally cloaking sensation called love.
It has come to my attention that logic and common sense evaporate with love. As a direct result of the above said, we neglect our human privilege and mastery of right and wrong, and create a parallel universe in which immoral behavior becomes acceptable and allowable. We- and I use this pronoun sensitively- condone and excuse deplorable, selfish, and obviously improper conduct in order to allow for what we consider to be love. But how can this be? The above said is the complete antithesis to logic- a defining trait unique to mankind- to allow for irrational behavior to seamlessly fit into what is supposed to be a logical framework.
An analogy: Upon discovering a flaming stove, a curious youth will most likely touch it to discover if he or she would warm up- like the food. After a second or too, the child will realize that his or her hand has been burnt to blisters. But, does this discourage the youngster from placing his or her palm on the burning stove once again? Probably not. Just as the child intentionally and illogically allowed for him or herself to get marred, so too, does the hopelessly and foolishly in love female. We make the same mistakes repeatedly- we burn our hands (replace hands with our heart if you will) over and over again until we become absolutely numb to the pain. Why would an individual endowed with logic and reason ever deliberately hurt him or herself? The answer- logic is completely uninvolved in love- all contemplation and problem solving are derived from the heart, and the heart alone. Although on the onset the above said seems utterly romantic, it is in fact, detrimental and injurious. To think with the heart is to disallow oneself the safety net of right and wrong. Point taken.
I hope you all enjoy this guest author's work...I know I did.
A Lovely Paradox
Why do I continue to stare at his name hoping and willing that he will call or instant message? Why do I intermittently remove and then replace his screen name? Why do I think about him day in and day out- from the moment my eyes awaken in the morning to the moment I lay my head on the pillow? Why am I tormenting myself?
It’s quite astounding how the mind works. Assumingly, from a developmental standpoint, humans are endowed with rational and logical capabilities which allow for man to, as he matures and experiences the many facets of life, to grapple the difference between right and wrong. Although such recognition pertains to all areas of existence, I would like to focus on the superficially minute yet mentally cloaking sensation called love.
It has come to my attention that logic and common sense evaporate with love. As a direct result of the above said, we neglect our human privilege and mastery of right and wrong, and create a parallel universe in which immoral behavior becomes acceptable and allowable. We- and I use this pronoun sensitively- condone and excuse deplorable, selfish, and obviously improper conduct in order to allow for what we consider to be love. But how can this be? The above said is the complete antithesis to logic- a defining trait unique to mankind- to allow for irrational behavior to seamlessly fit into what is supposed to be a logical framework.
An analogy: Upon discovering a flaming stove, a curious youth will most likely touch it to discover if he or she would warm up- like the food. After a second or too, the child will realize that his or her hand has been burnt to blisters. But, does this discourage the youngster from placing his or her palm on the burning stove once again? Probably not. Just as the child intentionally and illogically allowed for him or herself to get marred, so too, does the hopelessly and foolishly in love female. We make the same mistakes repeatedly- we burn our hands (replace hands with our heart if you will) over and over again until we become absolutely numb to the pain. Why would an individual endowed with logic and reason ever deliberately hurt him or herself? The answer- logic is completely uninvolved in love- all contemplation and problem solving are derived from the heart, and the heart alone. Although on the onset the above said seems utterly romantic, it is in fact, detrimental and injurious. To think with the heart is to disallow oneself the safety net of right and wrong. Point taken.
Friday, November 19, 2010
To Build a Home
In his timeless novel The Brook Kerith, acclaimed Irish writer, George Moore, states that “man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.” It is with these words in mind, and the fact that I now live thousands of miles and millions of cultural differences away from where I grew up, that I find myself wondering about what it means to call someplace home. Beginning medical school in Israel has forced me, for the first time, to try to create my niche in a location outside of the state of Michigan. I have only recently realized that growing up in metropolitan Detroit and attending the University of Michigan has enveloped me in a Great Lakes bubble. I have thus been shielded from the reality that most people, when they learn that I grew up in Detroit, immediately jump to some unsettling conclusions. If it is not immediately followed by a “Oh! Detroit Rock City, huh!?!” or a “Motor City, ay?!?” my divulgence of my hometown is consistently succeeded by an “Oooh, I’m sorry to hear that”. Despite the fact that these comments are usually the results of ignorant assumptions that everyone from Detroit lives on 8 mile (damn you Eminem!) and is afraid to leave his or her house for fear of being caught in a gang-related crossfire or an economic disaster, I am consistently caught off guard by the notion that most people do not see Detroit the way I do.
Growing up, I never really felt a burning desire to escape small-town suburbia and move on to bigger, better, and faster. However, part of me was always jealous of my peers who lived their fabulous lives in the fabulous fast lanes of the American urban centers; I secretly wondered what it would be like to move away and create a cosmopolitan, New York funky fresh version of myself. Yet, now that I have made the big move, living outside of Detroit has only strengthened my affection for the city. Living in Tel Aviv, where the sun always shines, the buses always run, and the people always complain, has made me appreciate temperate weather, private transportation, and the Midwestern twang more than I ever believed possible. Oh, how I ache for a Franklin Cider Mill doughnut and my Ugg boots! Now, when I think about my early years, I am overcome with tenderness for the Rouge River ravine where my friends and I carved our initials into a tree that had fallen over during one of our mysteriously soothing, Indian summer thunderstorms. I long for the strangely fulfilling pain that I felt on the days following the neighborhood-wide snowball fight that nearly always ended with someone sporting a mean shiner. I miss my quiet West Bloomfield subdivision, my local Starbucks barista, my family, my home.
I always questioned my peers who gave up their lives in the bustling concrete jungles of America and returned to Detroit. They bought homes in the same zip code as the houses in which they grew up and had children who would inevitably attend the same schools through which they had suffered. I was suspicious of their apparent lack of independence, their need to run home to mommy because the city was too loud. Yet, now I understand. Living abroad has taught me that we can strut down the big-city streets in our big-city clothes and our big-city attitudes all we want, but home is where you fell off your bike and skinned your knee on the way to best friend’s house, where you run into your kindergarten teacher at your local supermarket. At the end of an arduous journey, home is where you carved your name into a tree when you were twelve-years-old.
Growing up, I never really felt a burning desire to escape small-town suburbia and move on to bigger, better, and faster. However, part of me was always jealous of my peers who lived their fabulous lives in the fabulous fast lanes of the American urban centers; I secretly wondered what it would be like to move away and create a cosmopolitan, New York funky fresh version of myself. Yet, now that I have made the big move, living outside of Detroit has only strengthened my affection for the city. Living in Tel Aviv, where the sun always shines, the buses always run, and the people always complain, has made me appreciate temperate weather, private transportation, and the Midwestern twang more than I ever believed possible. Oh, how I ache for a Franklin Cider Mill doughnut and my Ugg boots! Now, when I think about my early years, I am overcome with tenderness for the Rouge River ravine where my friends and I carved our initials into a tree that had fallen over during one of our mysteriously soothing, Indian summer thunderstorms. I long for the strangely fulfilling pain that I felt on the days following the neighborhood-wide snowball fight that nearly always ended with someone sporting a mean shiner. I miss my quiet West Bloomfield subdivision, my local Starbucks barista, my family, my home.
I always questioned my peers who gave up their lives in the bustling concrete jungles of America and returned to Detroit. They bought homes in the same zip code as the houses in which they grew up and had children who would inevitably attend the same schools through which they had suffered. I was suspicious of their apparent lack of independence, their need to run home to mommy because the city was too loud. Yet, now I understand. Living abroad has taught me that we can strut down the big-city streets in our big-city clothes and our big-city attitudes all we want, but home is where you fell off your bike and skinned your knee on the way to best friend’s house, where you run into your kindergarten teacher at your local supermarket. At the end of an arduous journey, home is where you carved your name into a tree when you were twelve-years-old.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Highway
I am not a patient person. I never have been. Even as a kid, I had a difficult time understanding why some people just didn’t get it, why it took some people longer to figure out what I had already learned or discovered. My parents worried about me. They were concerned that I would grow up to be intolerant and standoffish, cruel to those who are not as quick as me. In a way, their suspicions sort of came true. I have had to consciously work, my entire life, on accepting the fact that everyone runs at different speeds, that people’s minds do not function the same way mine does. I battle, every single say, to keep my patience in check, to hold back from lecturing people on what I think is the correct way to live. It has taken a really long time for me to become aware of my penchant for edginess, but now that I know that it is a salient aspect of my personality, I look for it in others. My problem with impatience has done a back-flip; since I have to constantly worry about my own disregard for the nuances in people’s personalities, I find myself worrying about everyone else’s too. Failure to recognize the differences in people’s minds and actions has now become my pet peeve instead of just my own personal imperfection. It haunts me in every aspect of my life.
As seriously screwed up as this sounds, we all struggle with a certain level of impatience. Humans are self-centered beings—we only value what WE think to be the truth, we all attempt to impart our way of life onto others. This has been the case since the beginning of time (think American Imperialism, Nazism, Globalization…you name it). There is real truth behind “it’s my way or the highway”, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise to me, or anyone else, that people often revert back to this inherent flaw and neglect to take into account that people handle situations differently. We tend to forget that, more often than not, people much prefer the highway.
Ok, enough of my soapbox, here’s the rub: the other day, I found myself in a very awkward situation. While pre-gaming at a friend’s house, I found myself in the same room as a person with whom I have nothing but negative experiences in common. He and I are by no means friends, yet our paths have crossed on many occasions, none of which I look fondly upon. His presence has always made me somewhat uncomfortable, so finding myself in the same social setting as him made me highly uneasy. Sitting there, next to the air conditioner, drinking more wine than probably necessary, I was reminded of a bad time in my life, a period in which heartache ruled and logic fell to the wayside. Watching him socialize with my new friends made me hate myself for what I used to be. It was depressing to be around him. So, it seems somewhat understandable that, as soon as he left the house, I let the drama queen out of her cage. I launched into a panic attack, complete with empty threats of future suicide attempts and exclamations that I was going to vomit. I paced around the room, squeaking about how much he and everything associated with him makes me want to punch a baby, running up and down the stairs and snapping at even the slightest attempt to calm me down. It was not cute.
Ok, so I flipped out. I lost my cool for a moment. I gave into my impulses and lost control of my rational thought processes. But it lasted for all of ten minutes. Ten minutes of unattractiveness, ten minutes of overly-emotional, bat-shit crazy passion, ten minutes of attention to my past—and everyone witnessed it. I knew it wasn’t pretty, I felt bad about forcing everyone to attend my pity-party; yet, at the same time, I feel I was entitled to a little indulgence at that moment. I needed that ten minute freak out, if only to get it out of my system, to make room for my logic, to move over so that my problem solving abilities could kick in. Excuse me for being human.
Even though I felt (and still feel) that my panic attack was warranted, I still felt the need to apologize to the people who were there, just to remind them that I am not always that crazy, that I don’t often give in to the overly-emotional part of my personality. So, when I IMed my friend the next day, during another impossibly boring Epidemiology lecture, to apologize for the outburst, I expected him to just say thanks and move on. No. Someone forgot to turn on his understanding that morning. As soon as I expressed my apology, he responded with a terse, “don’t apologize for living, Danielle”. Confused, I asked him what he meant by that, and he said, in so many words, that no one should ever do anything that he or she is going to have to apologize for later. Yeah? No shit—easier said than done, no? Here I was, just trying to be nice and apologizing if I had made him uncomfortable, and he launches into this whole speech about how I should never allow myself to lose control. I’m sorry, but last time I checked, I wasn’t you. How dare you try to impose your way of life on me! Let me do me and I’ll let you do you. If I want your advice on how to live, I’ll ask. In the meantime, try and realize that not everyone handles life the way you do. Take a walk in my shoes…I guarantee you won’t find them very comfortable, but it won’t hurt you to try them on.
I try to make it my business to attempt to understand people. I always try to figure out what makes people tick, that way, when they do tick, I get it. I too have problems with empathy, I also struggle to remember that people are different from me, that everyone lives their lives their own way. All I ask is that people do the same. So, next time someone does something that you think is completely contrary to what you believe to be acceptable, remember that if everyone continues to choose the highway, and you still can’t realize that that’s okay, your way will end up being pretty damn lonely.
As seriously screwed up as this sounds, we all struggle with a certain level of impatience. Humans are self-centered beings—we only value what WE think to be the truth, we all attempt to impart our way of life onto others. This has been the case since the beginning of time (think American Imperialism, Nazism, Globalization…you name it). There is real truth behind “it’s my way or the highway”, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise to me, or anyone else, that people often revert back to this inherent flaw and neglect to take into account that people handle situations differently. We tend to forget that, more often than not, people much prefer the highway.
Ok, enough of my soapbox, here’s the rub: the other day, I found myself in a very awkward situation. While pre-gaming at a friend’s house, I found myself in the same room as a person with whom I have nothing but negative experiences in common. He and I are by no means friends, yet our paths have crossed on many occasions, none of which I look fondly upon. His presence has always made me somewhat uncomfortable, so finding myself in the same social setting as him made me highly uneasy. Sitting there, next to the air conditioner, drinking more wine than probably necessary, I was reminded of a bad time in my life, a period in which heartache ruled and logic fell to the wayside. Watching him socialize with my new friends made me hate myself for what I used to be. It was depressing to be around him. So, it seems somewhat understandable that, as soon as he left the house, I let the drama queen out of her cage. I launched into a panic attack, complete with empty threats of future suicide attempts and exclamations that I was going to vomit. I paced around the room, squeaking about how much he and everything associated with him makes me want to punch a baby, running up and down the stairs and snapping at even the slightest attempt to calm me down. It was not cute.
Ok, so I flipped out. I lost my cool for a moment. I gave into my impulses and lost control of my rational thought processes. But it lasted for all of ten minutes. Ten minutes of unattractiveness, ten minutes of overly-emotional, bat-shit crazy passion, ten minutes of attention to my past—and everyone witnessed it. I knew it wasn’t pretty, I felt bad about forcing everyone to attend my pity-party; yet, at the same time, I feel I was entitled to a little indulgence at that moment. I needed that ten minute freak out, if only to get it out of my system, to make room for my logic, to move over so that my problem solving abilities could kick in. Excuse me for being human.
Even though I felt (and still feel) that my panic attack was warranted, I still felt the need to apologize to the people who were there, just to remind them that I am not always that crazy, that I don’t often give in to the overly-emotional part of my personality. So, when I IMed my friend the next day, during another impossibly boring Epidemiology lecture, to apologize for the outburst, I expected him to just say thanks and move on. No. Someone forgot to turn on his understanding that morning. As soon as I expressed my apology, he responded with a terse, “don’t apologize for living, Danielle”. Confused, I asked him what he meant by that, and he said, in so many words, that no one should ever do anything that he or she is going to have to apologize for later. Yeah? No shit—easier said than done, no? Here I was, just trying to be nice and apologizing if I had made him uncomfortable, and he launches into this whole speech about how I should never allow myself to lose control. I’m sorry, but last time I checked, I wasn’t you. How dare you try to impose your way of life on me! Let me do me and I’ll let you do you. If I want your advice on how to live, I’ll ask. In the meantime, try and realize that not everyone handles life the way you do. Take a walk in my shoes…I guarantee you won’t find them very comfortable, but it won’t hurt you to try them on.
I try to make it my business to attempt to understand people. I always try to figure out what makes people tick, that way, when they do tick, I get it. I too have problems with empathy, I also struggle to remember that people are different from me, that everyone lives their lives their own way. All I ask is that people do the same. So, next time someone does something that you think is completely contrary to what you believe to be acceptable, remember that if everyone continues to choose the highway, and you still can’t realize that that’s okay, your way will end up being pretty damn lonely.
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