Meccanized

I was at a bowling alley a few weeks ago and heard a techno remix of “If I Die Young.” At that point, I was distracted by several things – the cheap beer in my hand, coming up with clever trash-talk to rattle our opponents – so I didn’t give the song much thought and continued helping my team lose the playoffs.

The other day, though, the same remix came on during a boot camp exercise class. As I had far fewer distractions this time – pretty much just staying conscious and not tripping and injuring myself – I was able to focus a bit more on the song.

I actually like “If I Die Young” (in the same way I like most saccharine pop ballads), but am I the only one who thinks it isn’t…well-suited…for a bump-and-grind beat? This is a song that is sort of about making the most of the time you have but mostly is about a little girl dying…and things she missed out on in life and how she wants to be laid to rest…and her grieving mother. These aren’t the things I want to think about when I’m seeking a mental distraction from the physical pain of getting my ass handed to me by a screaming boot camp instructor. Or when I’m really excited to dance and hit the floor, ready to get groped and sweated on by strangers (mmm…yummy).

I appreciate the need to find new usage occasions for songs to keep them fresh, popular and generating money. I also appreciate a good beat. But some songs should just be left alone. I’m not irate enough to Meccanize anything – I’m only at my “huh…that’s an interesting choice” level, not my “…REALLY?!” level –  but if I am ever bowling, exercising or rocking out to a techno remix of “Tears in Heaven” or “Cat’s in the Cradle,” I am going to be pushed over the edge.

A former boyfriend once suggested that I received unwanted attention on SF public transportation because I made eye contact with the crazies. What I learned recently was that, apparently, eye contact represents the universal sign for “please, touch me inappropriately and with purpose” to ALL forms of life, not just mentally unstable bus riders.

It all started when I was sitting at my gate at Dulles playing “spot the Air Marshall.” As my peepers jumped from person to person, I accidentally locked eyes with a 4-year-old girl sitting across from me. In true Fatal Attraction fashion, it meant nothing to me but I guess she felt differently.

When we boarded, I discovered that this girl and her parents were seated across the aisle and one row up from me. As we readied for takeoff, the girl climbed out of her seat, tottered over to me and handed me her stuffed dog. I smiled and said “Thank you, but I think he’ll be happier staying with you.” The girl couldn’t take a hint. She continued to stare up at me with her big, wet, Steve Buscemi eyes and thrust the dog at me until I finally took it. As she turned around, I tapped the father on the shoulder, handed the dog back and continued reading about the safety features of our Airbus A320. Five minutes later, the same thing happened, only this time, the father turned around, took a picture and said “This is amazing, she’s never shared anything with anybody before!” So glad I could play such a crucial role in this kid’s development. When I tried to hand the dog back, the father asked “Would you mind just holding on to it for awhile? We’re so happy that she’s learned to share that we don’t want to stifle her now by having you give the dog back.” Um…Yeah, ok, sure. I guess I don’t want to…stifle…her either. And so I took off for California like all normal 28-year-old women — holding a stuffed dog against one knee.

• At hour 1.5, I fell asleep. At hour 1.75, I woke up to find her standing in the aisle, face inches from mine, staring at me…expressionless…like an extra from Children of the Corn.
• At hour 2.5, I exited the bathroom and tripped over her…standing in the aisle outside of the stall…waiting for me. She then followed me back to my seat and stood in the aisle staring at me…still expressionless.
• At hour 3, she walked over to my seat, reached her stubby arms into my row and fiddled with my magazines in the seat-back pocket in front of me until I put them in my bag. At this point, I wondered why her parents weren’t paying attention to her but was too distracted by “Elf” to say anything.

And then, at hour 4,we hit turbulence. Like a normal person, I fastened my seatbelt, started sweating and prayed silently that we stayed afloat. Not like a normal person, this kid climbed out of her seat, OVER her father’s seat, walked back to my seat and started to climb in my lap. That was enough for me. I gently pushed her away, tapped her father on the shoulder and said: “Hi, I don’t mean to be rude, but would you please keep a closer eye on your daughter? She’s adorable, but she’s been a little bothersome and I really don’t want her to get hurt climbing on me during turbulence.”

And that is apparently how to become the most hated person on a JetBlue flight from Dulles to Long Beach. The little girl finally decided to get an expression and started bawling. The mother held her and said “What did you do to her?” The father glared at me and rudely exclaimed “Jeez, lighten up, she’s just a kid.” The woman directly across the aisle from me whispered to her husband “well, she could have just held the kid for a few minutes.” Really? Really?!

When did it become acceptable behavior to let your kid creepily stare at and crawl all over fellow passengers? Shouldn’t that go the way of smoking or carrying on liquids over 3 oz? To parents who think their kids can do no wrong and who don’t bother to keep an eye on them, I say: Meccanized.

Usually on this blog I rant and rave about things that bug me. For example, I could tell you about the exchange I had with a nurse taking my vitals at a doctor’s office recently:

Nurse: “How tall are you?”

Me: “4’11″…and a half.”

Nurse: [tilting her head to the side and giving me the kind of condescending brow furrow and half smile that says "Aww, that's ok that capri pants fit you like regular pants." Then, lowering her voice and in a "this will be our little secret" way…]: “Well, we’ll just say you’re 5 feet.”

If I were more adult, I would have smiled and let this slide. But I’m petty. So I looked her right in the eye and said “No, please write 4’11″ and a half. Because that’s how tall I am.” Kids, that’s how to turn a nerve-wracking doctor’s appointment into an awkward, nerve-wracking doctor’s appointment. Meccanized.

But today is not about Meccanization. Today is about honoring some truly  wonderful people.

For a number of reasons, these last few days have been stressful and vaguely unpleasant. I’ve been anxious, cranky, exhausted and whiny… generally, a real joy to be around. That’s why when I feel low, I tend to lay low. This week, “laying low” has meant a few things. Lighting candles, drinking wine and listening to the Avett Brothers. Ordering Chinese food, watching movies like “Jerry Maguire” and “Love Actually” and crying like a little bitch. Last night, laying low meant banging my head against the wall trying to finish my last paper of the quarter. I was not a happy camper, as there were many other things – basketball games, having needles driven through my eyes – that I would have rather been doing.

Then came a knock at my door. I asked who it was. No answer. I asked again. No answer. Now, this is pretty much the universal sign for “you’re about to get serial killed.”  But I did a quick statistical analysis on the likelihood that the knocker was going to hack me to pieces (which, based on my performance in Decision Analysis last year, was most likely 100% inaccurate) and ultimately decided to open the door.

Instead of a rapist or other unsavory character, I found two beautiful ladies standing before me with three different bunches of flowers, ice cream and Celebrity Taboo. There was even an attempt (and alleged rehearsals) to quote movie lines from the long list of cathartic movies I had been watching these past few days, but this failed when one of the two couldn’t stop laughing. My friends stayed just long enough to put the ice cream in the freezer, help me arrange the flowers in an aesthetically pleasing way and tell me they were thinking of me.

I love surprises. I love flowers. I love board games. I LOVE ice cream like…well…like a fat kid loves ice cream. But most of all, I love that there are people on the planet like Priyanka R. Tandon and Cassidy McKee, and I love that I am lucky enough to have them in my corner.

Ladies, let me say…without hope or agenda…but because it’s Christmas…and at Christmas, you tell the truth…to me, you are perfect. As promised, for brightening up a really bleak few days and for being two of the best friends a girl could ever ask for, consider yourselves de-Meccanized.*

*Please note that this does not make you immune to Meccanization in the future…you’ve been warned.

It’s 2 am, and I can’t sleep.

Part of it might be the absurd amount of food churning in my stomach (I got a little too friendly with the chocolate fountain at Darden prom). Another part might be that my feet are throbbing (dancing my face off in high heels…looks good, feels horrible). But I think the real reason is that I’m just generally feeling restless right now. And this blog is way cheaper than therapy.

About every 6 months I go through a mild crisis of self where in some form or another I start wondering if I’m living “correctly” and doing things the “right” way. It’s stressful but the introspection (i.e. mental masturbation – almost as much fun as real masturbation!) is always interesting. The topic on the agenda for this mid-year freak-out is whether the way I am naturally inclined to live my life is no longer the way I should be living my life. If this makes you want to slam your head into a table until you lose consciousness, feel free to check out lighter fare in this post or this one.

Most people who know me would say that I’m the one who is usually up for anything, and the more ridiculous the better. It’s the ridiculous experiences that make the best stories, and I love to have stories to tell. And not just any stories, either. I want the conversation-stopping, choke-on-your-food from laughter, “this is something that would only happen to you” stories. And I’ve done a pretty good job of being an experience collector (with an overdeveloped sense of the absurd) over the years.

There are definitely upsides to this approach to life. For one, it’s fun. Second, I am 100% confident that in any given stage of my life, I have gotten the most out of it that I possibly can, and that’s a pretty cool feeling; I rarely feel regret that I should have done more, because I have a strong innate sense of whether or not I’ll feel bad about missing an opportunity, and if I will, I make sure not to miss it. Third, going and doing has been my way of figuring myself out, of defining personal boundaries and learning who I am and who I’m not. Sure, some things I perhaps didn’t need to do even once to figure out that I wouldn’t ever do them again, but those mistakes were valuable, too. All of this is good.

But I worry that I’m too old to still be approaching life this way. And even more than that, I worry that I’m not taken seriously because of it. At this stage of my life, shouldn’t I be…calmer? Shouldn’t I have my boundaries figured out and solidified by now? Shouldn’t I pick one or two hobbies to do consistently rather than trying a bunch of new things just for the hell of it? I have passions I dive into deeply, but I get equally excited about doing interesting, random one-offs. A BYOB pole dancing class here. A trip to a Scientology center there. Three hours ago, I agreed to train for a race using the Zombie method (no joke — it is a running training program where you pretend you are being chased by Zombies to motivate you…I KNOW, DOESN’T IT SOUND ABSURD?!)

I know I’m a serious person. I have depth. I think about and can speak intelligently about a wide variety of socially relevant topics. But I worry these things don’t come across when I meet people. Instead, I worry I seem like a good time gal. Someone who is always up for fun. Quick with a joke. Bubbly. Friendly. But not the person you take seriously. Consider for career advancement. Marry.  I guess there is a part of me that feels like I need to grow up, calm the crap down, stop doing things for the stories and start…like…being a legit adult. One who can talk politics. And cook a meal that looks like a meal and not like something that fell from above. And whose furniture matches. And who seems polished and sophisticated.

I like to think there is a way to meld these two worlds, but I haven’t figured it out yet.