I curse a lot.
And I mean a lot. My favorite curse word is fuck. I love the way the air gets built up behind my lips before it slowly escapes through my teeth. It’s a word that encourages forward body movement. It gives me a sense of liberty each time it springs from my mouth.
It started in college, but I can’t think of the particular reason or instance. It may have been an imitation of my surroundings. Or not. All I can remember is my first Christmas vacation in college. I returned back to Istanbul and I was in the midst of a heated conversation with my father. We switched to English, as we tended to do when emotions heightened, and the next thing I know my dad’s face turned beet red.
My father has always been a perfect gentleman and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him utter a curse word. He’s the sort of person who knocks on an open door, just to make sure he doesn’t disturb your privacy. He looked at me and said, “I would appreciate if you wouldn’t use that language with me, Karen.”
Now it was my turn to feel embarrassed. I hadn’t even noticed the curse words.
During Junior year, when I was a Resident Assistant for fifty-nine women, the other RAs and our supervisor tried to come up with a replacement word so that I could feel the emotional release without offending any students. The best advice was “fire truck” but even that doesn’t come close. That year, I made an extra effort, at least in front of the girls, as I figured it was my responsibility.
Upon graduation, I started working at the investment bank that still employs me. If you know anything about investment banking, it should be that there aren’t many women in the industry. Same goes for technology. So as a coder in the bank, my cube was surrounded by the cubes of six men. A few weeks into the job, one of the guys walked up to me and asked me if I could lay off on the cursing for a while.
I hadn’t even noticed.
I don’t want to give you the impression that I’m not well mannered. I never curse in front of Jake’s parents and neither with mine. I behave perfectly appropriately in situations that call for it. I would lie if I said I’m ladylike and dainty, but I’m not coarse. I don’t curse at strangers or my clients. I try not to be offensive, but I don’t enjoy people tiptoeing around me because of my gender. There are women who mind curse words and women who don’t. Same goes for men. It doesn’t directly correlate to your gender.
I try to respect the values of the people around me. But when my program craps out with a segmentation fault and the debugger won’t tell me why, I feel a strong urge to abuse my computer.
It might not help me find the problem, but it really makes me feel better.
Previously? Biographies.
“Artists’ lives, in those days, were brief. Often in the living, always in the writing. A painter’s life was as long as a who’s who entry or a note in a tourist guidebook. This was what artists’ recorded lives mostly were, chronological lists of works with a note on technique or the odd illustrative anecdote thrown in. the most intelligent and ambitious of these assemblages – Vasari’s in the mid sixteenth century and Bellori’s a hundred years later – elaborated an idea of painting that each artist’s career was used to illustrate. Neither the individual artist’s inner life nor the minutiae of his social existence – the staples of modern biography – was felt worth retailing to anyone interested in the work.” – Peter Robb in M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio
I can’t claim to be a biography expert. I haven’t even read many biographies, let alone studied the differences among sixteenth century biographies and twenty-first century ones. But the above paragraph made me think of how much attention we direct towards the personal lives of public figures.
The categorization of a public figure may vary widely from person to person. While we would all probably agree that the President of the United States qualifies as one, we might have heated arguments on the inclusion of specific painters, writers, actors, etc. This discrepancy will depend on our definition of public, our familiarity with the specific artist and his or her work, and how reclusive he or she is. For example, I’m quite confident that we could all agree that JD Salinger is not a figure whose name is plastered on the gossip columns weekly, yet he may easily qualify as a public figure because as the writer of a famous novel, his work is read by many and his name is familiar to the public.
I don’t know if this has historically always been so, but what a public figure does during his or her private time is considered to be sought-after information today. A quick glance at the tabloids would suffice to prove my statement. There consistently is at least one headline in reference to a well-known actor. Stories range from distasteful to absurd. But anyone who’s studied economics will tell you that the articles would never have been printed unless the readers found them interesting, or at least worthy. Obviously if no one cared about who Meg Ryan’s current boyfriend is, no one would read the tabloid that prints stories on that subject matter and the paper would soon go out of business.
But it doesn’t.
On the contrary, tabloids thrive. The paparazzi are well paid and keep their jobs without many struggles. They both continue making money even after the lawsuits and the badmouthing.
We don’t care about Julia Roberts’ acting career (well, acting students possibly do but not the regular population) we care about her relationships, her family, her misery. We feel that since she’s chosen a career that’s in the public eye, she owes it to us to make her life public. We feel that we already know her.
Yet we don’t.
What the public sees of an actor is his or her character, scripted by someone else and simply acted by that individual. We read the stories invented by a writer (in the case of fiction). These public sides don’t necessarily (or even often) correlate to the person behind the face or name. Just because I like John Irving’s stories it doesn’t mean we can be buddies or even that I would like him as a person. While each of his stories might contain some of him, they don’t tell me who he is.
Also, these are one-sided experiences. I might have read all of Irving’s books or watched every Julia Roberts movie, but they’ve never heard of me. They have never been inspired by me. And they don’t necessarily care to welcome me into their lives. While they chose to have careers that affect the public, they didn’t opt to not have any private life. And I believe it’s unfair of us to assume otherwise. I can easily relate to the drive to want to get to know the person whose work inspires the reader and I can see the value of documenting the inner life of a person who’s had a unique outlook on life. But lately, it seems we’ve become much more interested in the person, even to the point of obsession.
Peter Robb’s words are not judging. They are merely a statement on the differences in styles of writing biographies between the past and now. However, to me, his words highlight a crucial difference in the society and its views on artists. They show how attention shifted from the work to the person behind it.
And I’m not confident that’s a positive change.
Previously? New Day.
The radio pierces through my dreams.
Or maybe it’s my nightmares, I never seem to remember anymore. We’ve come a long way from the days when my college roommate, Holley, used to holler “Karen, it’s your fucking alarm!” Now, Jake turns from one side of the bed to the other and I’m wide awake. I don’t dream anymore. I don’t really sleep anymore.
The radio is yelling. The dial is in between stations, but close to one so that the music mixes with static. The volume is turned up so high that it makes me jump out of my skin. I pound the tabletop savagely until the room is once again silenced. If I keep my eyes tightly closed, I can postpone the inevitable.
At least for another seven minutes.
The radio comes alive once more and I show it who’s boss. But it’s not whipped into shape, it takes only another seven minutes for it to commence its nagging. I pound it twice more before I give up. At this point, I have eight minutes to make it out the door. But I don’t jump off the bed. I lie there with my eyes open, staring at the patterns on the ceiling.
As a child I always envied the kids with stars on their ceilings. With my less than stellar eyesight, I was unable to see my own hands at night, let alone a pair of florescent constellations. After my eye operation, I went out and bought a set of my own. Now I can stare at star whenever I wish to, even in New York City.
Even at nine A.M.
I finally drag myself into the bathroom, eyelids shut. Reaching for the bubble gum toothpaste, I move my arm up and down and side to side, like a well trained robot. I take my time because I know that I will need to open my eyes to brush my hair and I’m not ready just yet. I can hear the minutes ticking. The fear that I might have a 9:30 meeting grips me and I drop the toothbrush, wash out my mouth and comb my hair within a split second.
I race back to the bedroom and thank my lucky stars that I shaved last night. The long black skirt picks me and I throw on a white shirt and dig into my black shoes, I grab my bag, throwing in the keys on the way out. I yell back to the birdie, “See you tonight, Cupcik.”
Hailing a cab, I check my wallet and the time simultaneously. 9:15, I’ll make it in on time.
I dig into my bag and pull out my second most precious electronic item. I press play and turn the volume to twenty. The music takes over my soul.
This might be a good day after all.
Previously? The Need for Speed.
I hate roller coasters.
That wasn’t always the case.
Thirteen years ago, my parents took my sister and me to Disney World. My father had been telling us stories about Disney World for years, all made up. He’d tell us that there would be buttons by our bedside and when we pressed them Smarties would fall down.
Our trip started in Paris and involved New York, Florida, Miami, and ended back in Paris. It was the best trip I ever took with my family. We went on every ride and made sure to maximize each day. I even got to celebrate my birthday in two different states. I remember quite a few of the rides but one of the most memorable is Space Mountain.
We didn’t know what we were getting into, we just eyed the extremely long line and figured it must be the best ride in the park. As we got closer to the ride, my parents got suspicious from the screaming and suggested that maybe we should go to another place. My sister and I whined about how long we’d already waited and how there was no way we were turning back now. And we didn’t. Our turn came and our car took two couples, one in front of the other. I opened my legs and my sister sat in front of me with my arms wrapped around her chest. My mom did the same to my dad.
If you’ve ever ridden Space Mountain, you’d know that the place is completely dark. You cannot even see your own hand. When we got off the ride, my mom said that for a second she was confidant that my dad’s heart had stopped as we did a huge dive. But I liked Space Mountain. It wasn’t scary. At least that’s not how I remember it.
By the time I made it back to United States, six years later, I had somehow done a complete 180. My boyfriend coaxed me to ride Steel Phantom and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. My head kept banging to the sides and I couldn’t understand the point of it. When Jake and I visited Florida, we rerode the Space Mountain and I hated it.
I’m not really sure what happened between 14 and 18, but scary events don’t seem to produce the exciting dose of adrenaline in me.
I don’t understand the joy of sitting on a piece of steel and having your body throttled around. Why is it such a rush? How come cutting it close is such a thrill? Does it make you cool if you die of something moronic like mountain climbing without proper equipment? Is it all to compensate for some other area of lacking? Or maybe it’s me who’s undercompensating. Maybe I’m running away from some bigger fear. I really don’t know the answers. All I know is that I hate motorcycles. I can’t stand roller coasters. I never felt the need to go bungee jumping. I don’t even watch scary movies. Nothing scary turns me on.
Except for jumping out of a plane.
But that’s a completely different story.
Previously? Noises.
“Sweetie, I really think we should move into a two bedroom.”
“What?”
“It’s just that this house is so small and we really should be looking for a two bedroom.”
“But we only come home to sleep.”
“We’re here all weekend long.”
“When we’re not at work.”
“This way when my family or your family comes to visit, they can stay in the other room and it won’t create the mess it now does in the living room.”
“Karen, it would be cheaper for us to pay their hotel each time. Do you really think we need another bedroom?”
Do I? Nope. Of course we don’t need another bedroom and the amount of rent saved would easily allow us to go to Turkey once a month. I don’t think we should move into a two-bedroom. My mom does.
“Maybe I should take a writing class?”
“What? You don’t need a writing class, you just need to write more.”
“But I write so badly.”
“No you don’t and a class won’t help that anyway.”
“But maybe I cant take a class that tells me what I’m doing wrong or one that helps me find my voice? A class where the teacher can tell me that I should keep trying or just cut my losses and move on.”
“Karen, you’re fooling yourself. You’ve already taken all the necessary classes.”
Have I? Would a class really help? Nope. Why do I know? Cause I took it. Did I think it was going to help? Nope. But Jake did.
“It’s really important that I learn how to speak French better, with a perfect accent.”
“I shouldn’t quit my job when they think so highly of me.”
“Why would I move to California when I’m already so far away from home?”
“I can’t be a real writer if I don’t like James Joyce or Hemingway.”
Who says? Why are other people’s thoughts, words, priorities and judgements so important? Why do I hold myself to the expectations of others?
In the blur of other people’s conversations and questioning, I’ve been having a hard time finding my own thoughts. And it’s important that I do. It’s my life. These are my days on this earth and it’s my right to use them up as I wish. As long as I’m not harming others, I should be allowed to execute them according to my own wants.
And I will.
I’m learning to distinguish my voice within the noise.
Previously? Random.
I didn’t use to believe in randomness.
As a person who spends too much time on each of her moves, my decisions and choices are never haphazard. I have specific reasons for almost each step and can recite them to you if you so wished. I try to think before I speak and I search for meaning behind my actions. The idea that people do things without thinking never made sense to me.
I can agree that, often times, people aren’t aware of their own motives. Many of us are affected by our subconscious and do things because they ‘feel right’ or ‘come naturally’. To me, even forgetting was an active decision. The fact that you forgot to buy a dress of the occasion meant that you secretly didn’t want to go at all. I guess I didn’t like the idea of taking away credit. Since humans are amongst rare animals that have thought and decision-making capabilities, it didn’t make sense that they wouldn’t constantly take advantage of their unique capability.
Accepting randomness sounded like a copout to me. Instead of taking responsibility, people got to say “oh, I forgot” or “it didn’t mean anything”. Everything means something. Things happen for a reason. If you forgot, it most likely wasn’t all that important to you in the first place. Instead of hiding behind excuses, I wished people would be bold enough to tell the truth.
“Actually, I don’t enjoy going out on Friday nights.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t like that movie at all.”
“I just feel like you always bring me down.”
There are better ways to phrase honest sentiments and it’s important to do that, but so is not being fake. And I just figured why lie forever when you can tell the truth once and be done with it?
Everything means something.
I’m not sure if I believe that anymore. The above sentence makes it really hard to deal with major calamities beyond your control like murder, rape or losing a baby. I’m adjusting my mind to the fact that sometimes things happen for no reason at all. At least no discernable reason. And it’s okay not to know the ‘why’s.
Sometimes it’s best to just move on. To know that something will only affect you if you let it and that you won’t.
Maybe entropy is more likely to be the world’s model than order, but it still doesn’t excuse your not thinking about your actions and words. Next time you run across a situation where you seem to have done something inadvertently, pay attention to your feelings and thoughts.
Maybe you’ll discover that the act wasn’t so random after all.
Previously? Seed.
It all starts with a single seed.
A tiny, imperceptible seed of thought or emotion. An uneasy feeling that you could swear wasn’t there a minute ago.
It has no apparent trigger. It’s not the outcome of a recent occurrence. It doesn’t have any visible relevance to the previous moments of the day.
Like the Big Bang, it expands within you in less than milliseconds. What was an annoying moment becomes an overwhelming state of mind.
There’s no going back now. The pull is too strong and it warps everything around it. The word “right” is not a part of your mind’s vocabulary anymore.
There are no whites. No goods. No positive sides.
You’re in the land of jet black.
The forest is so dense that you can’t even see the grass or the road. Everywhere you look is trunks, locking you in like a prisoner.
There is no light. No tunnel. No way out and no way back.
You try to think back to the moment all the grays disappeared but all you can recall is being here, feeling desperate. It’s as if you have never been elsewhere. You were born here and you will die here.
You want to yell but words won’t cooperate. You want to cry but your eyes are dry. You want to ask for help but there’s no one around.
You’re alone.
Anger rises within you. “Stop this,” you yell at your mind. You think of all the suffering people in the world. The people with real problems.
You start naming the good things in your life, but it doesn’t even flinch. The goods morph into not so great. They might even be bad. It has taken over your sense of judgement, perception and memory. It doesn’t like to leave loose ends.
Maybe resistance is a stupid idea.
Giving up seems to be the best option. Just thinking about it covers you with a sense of relief. Maybe the dark is not so bad after all. Maybe you’ve belonged here all along.
The phone rings. You say, “Hello?”
The voice is cheerful. “Hi, honey, just checking up on you.”
A single tear escapes.
Previously? Cynical Copout.
I’m fed up with cynicism.
I didn’t really encounter large doses of cynicism until I came to the United States. In college, when people acted bitter and negative, I kept looking for reasons. I couldn’t understand why a teenager, attending a decent college with a healthy body and a caring family would have reason to be so scornful. What had already happened in his life to make him so distrustful and so full of hatred?
My childhood, while not uneventful, was pretty decent compared to how it could have been. We had ups and downs but no major calamities. I lived through a divorce and a remarriage, way too much teasing for a soul like mine to handle, and a constant lack of belonging. But I never turned bitter. I’m not asking for a pat in the back. I had other emotions to deal with. I was sad to the point of misery. I chose to run away, leaving behind a family I adored and starting my life all over again. It just never occurred to me to be a cynic.
So for the longest time, I kept thinking that these people must have had a much more miserable life than I had had and that I had no right to judge how they dealt with it. It wasn’t like I’d dealt with my issues maturely. Running away hardly deserved praise.
Now that years have passed, I’ve decided that just like running away, cynicism is total crap. It’s useless to the person who hides behind it and to the world in general. Talk about a wasted emotion.
Just like running away, a cynical attitude is a copout. It’s choosing to hide behind a mask that will be used as an excuse not to take any responsibility. It’s taking the easy way out.
It’s so much easier to sit there and complain. It’s so much easier to distrust. It’s so much easier to hide behind the protective walls of anger.
I’ve come to believe that having faith is a much harder emotion than lacking it. Not in the religious sense, though that case might apply too, but in the day-to-day interactions. Expecting a person to cross you gives you an excuse to feel justified when the person does, intentionally or not, end up doing something that’s not in your favor. When kicked, it’s so much simpler to say “See I told you so?” or “What’s the point of getting up when I’ll end up back down here again?”
What’s hard is picking yourself up and trying again. What’s hard is trusting others. What’s hard is smiling and being happy. Believing in yourself. Believing in others. Believing that there is still so much you can do for the world and having the courage to try.
Recently, I was telling my manager about my intentions of starting a non-profit organization and he kept telling me that it was a waste of my time, my passion, and my intelligence. He said that I can’t change the world. I looked at him and simply replied, “You’re wrong.“
What if everyone felt the way he did?
It’s easy to be cynical. It’s hard to give it all you got.
I dare you to be happy. I dare you to trust others. I dare you to drop your mask and put yourself out there. I dare you to give it all you got.
I double-dare you.
Previously? More Than Genes
I’ve always been fascinated with how little we know about our parents.
A few years ago, when I first started writing, I went around and asked my friends how their parents had met. Many of them had no idea. (Most of the ones who did, unfortunately had a really boring story, but that’s another issue.)
I remember being appalled at how little we knew about the people who brought us into this world and with whom we spent many waking moments of our childhood and adolescence. I’d never thought to ask my grandmother what kind of a daughter my mom was or my father about his memories of boarding school.
As someone who lives really far away from her family, one of my biggest fears has always involved a rapidly spreading disease taking away one of my parents before I had a chance to say goodbye. I specifically didn’t say “before I was ready” since I’m not sure I’d ever be prepared for the demise of either of my parents. But the fear of not even making it to Turkey in time used to overwhelm me enough to consider moving back home.
I decided that I wanted to get to know my parents better. Like many caregivers in one’s life (i.e. teachers, psychologists, etc.) interaction with parents tends to start as a one-sided relationship. Obviously, in the beginning, you’re too small and can’t take care of yourself. Your parents are fully focused on you and you’re often focused on their focusing on you. You don’t spend too much energy trying to figure out what their life outside involves, as you often don’t want them to have a life besides the one with you. I’m sure this doesn’t apply to everyone. It did to me. I always cried when my parents went out at nights. I wouldn’t care what they were going out to do, all I cared was that they were leaving me.
Over the years, my relationship with my parents changed and I found out a lot about their relationship with each other, the early days of their marriage, their family dynamics with their parents and siblings. But I still don’t feel like I know my parents as well as I want to.
I often wonder what their aspirations were before they met each other. Did they have another significant other that they almost married? Did they fight as much as my sister and I with their siblings? Do they feel like they’ve achieved what they set out to do? Did they even set out to do something? Did they always only want to have two kids? What’s their happiest childhood memory? What about the saddest?
I just wish I could have met my parents when they were kids. Would I have liked them? Were they too quiet? Too popular? Too geeky? I wish I could know more about their own childhood and pranks and naughty things they did that drove their parents crazy.
So I decided I wanted to take vacations with each parent separately. A week where all we talk about is their childhood. Their life. I feel like if I get to know them better, it won’t hurt so much to know that they might not be around forever.
Which is bullshit since it will hurt like mad regardless.
But at least this way I won’t feel like I’ve missed out on the chance of knowing the people whose genetic makeup merged to create me. This way a part of them will live through me and I can tell their stories to my children and my children’s children.
This way I won’t regret not knowing my parents.
Previously? Artistic Expressions.
I’ve always favored high Renaissance art over most other periods.
I think there are two reasons for my fascination and awe with that specific period. The first reason is not specific to the artists of that time, but it was strongly exercised. Most of the elements in the paintings of that time either present a story or have objects which represent icons of some idea or belief.
I’m quite sure I’ve mentioned previously how I like that this sort of art rewards its viewer for having done his homework. If you know that a pair of shoes symbolizes marriage the painting containing them takes on a new level of meaning for you. I like that almost every item has a purpose. It somehow implies that the artist’s job was harder since he had to adhere to certain symbols and tell a specific story and the artists relaying the same story found profoundly differing ways to envision the same scenario.
The other reason I love Renaissance art is the preciseness of the strokes. The realness of the imagery. The incredible resemblance of the picture to an actual scene. It is the lack of that very essence that gave me a dissatisfied feeling when I looked at an impressionist painting. The blurry look made me feel like the painting was unfinished. Like the artist cheated and gave us the feeling of being there without having to work hard to create the details. They lacked the meticulousness I enjoyed.
For me, it was as if the fact that you could replicate real world with its minute detail made you a qualified artist. Cause anyone can splash paint onto an empty canvas, but not everyone can draw the curves of a woman’s body or the branches of a tree realistically.
Last week, I went to the Metropolitan Museum and spent a long time looking at the works of some of the most famous impressionist painters. I had never previously seen these works anywhere besides a book. I’d never seen them in their full three-dimensional glory. As I stared at the canvases, I was awed by the dichotomy of the lack of meaning when viewed close-up and the scenery that emerged as I moved back, away from the painting. It seemed that with each stroke, the painter must have always kept the big image in his head and had total control over what the stroke meant for the painting as a whole.
Today I watched one of Jake’s friends paint a scene here in Martha’s Vineyard with watercolors. I marveled at how quickly a picture emerged with each movement of her brush. I was fascinated at how she wasn’t really concerned with each angle being correct and each color matching the world precisely. I loved the idea of letting go of the need to be so tightly coupled with the subject of the painting.
I realized that even my favorite painting style represented something about my personality. That I had enjoyed the methodical, mathematical world of exact replication and symbols over the loose and relaxed. The more I thought about it, the more it felt good to let go. Suddenly, making your own paintings, listening to something from within and combining that with the beauty of nature seemed so much more powerful and rewarding.
Maybe this is how letting go starts: one painting at a time.
Previously? Tradition.
Traditions are at the core of our daily life.
I don’t know whether the appropriate word is tradition or ritual but the concept is similar in this context. There are certain things we do every day/month/year on a certain date to celebrate an occasion or to remember something or even to forget.
To me, Jewish religion has always been all about the traditions. My family isn’t very religious so I never learned Hebrew. (Well, actually, I did speak it fluently when I was four, but that was mostly cause we spent an entire summer in Israel and I was enrolled in kindergarten, but upon our return to Istanbul I promptly forgot all of it.) We didn’t go to synagogue much or light candles on Friday night. But we did observe the major holidays and we told and retold the stories. Today, when someone asks me why I still fast on Yom Kippur or suffer a week without bread during Passover, I can recite the full story of why we observe that specific holiday. I still recognize and appreciate all the people who suffered so that I could be here and I agree with the idea that we need to remember our past and not take things for granted. But, to be honest, I don’t observe the holidays for those reasons.
I do it cause it’s become a personal tradition.
Both my mom and my sister suffer from health problems that disallow them from fasting. My family is miles away and I am often alone on the eve of Yom Kippur, but I fast. Cause I always have.
It’s so engrained at the core of who I am that I don’t even see it as an option anymore. It’s not something that can be reconsidered; it’s a part of me.
But religion is an extreme example for my point. I realized this week that we have little self-traditions that at one point became something that we don’t consider from year to year, we just do them. For Jake and me, coming to Martha’s Vineyard to celebrate Fourth of July is one of those yearly rituals. The entire family collects at the island house and often there is a guest family as well. It’s very low key but it has become a tradition.
I didn’t appreciate the strength of this tradition until this year. As I mentioned a few days ago, I recently found out that I most likely have a third herniated disc on my back. My neck is causing large quantities of pain over my back, my arm and my spine in general. I’ve been depressed and grouchy. So when Jake mentioned our plans, I told him that maybe going to the Vineyard when I felt so crappy wasn’t such a good idea.
Hell broke loose. (Well, it didn’t. mostly because Jake’s such a wonderful person and didn’t give me the guilt trip that I was already feeling.) I could tell he was sad but I was so busy feeling sorry for myself that I didn’t spend enough time caring about his feelings.
As Saturday got closer and closer, I realized that I got depressed at the idea of not going, too. We always went to the Vineyard this weekend and now I was the reason we weren’t going to go. I realized that breaking this tradition meant that I was admitting something was seriously wrong with my body. And I didn’t like the idea that something was so wrong that we would alter a tradition. So what if my back hurt some? Staying in New York represented caving into my sickness and it would be downhill from there.
So I didn’t.
I bought a neck brace and we took the trip slowly. As I stare out the window to the endless water and trees, I am really glad we came. My back already feels better, my nerves are calmer, the wind is caressing my face and the kitty is giving me curious looks. There’s a reason this trip became a tradition.
And you don’t mess with traditions.
Previously? Horny.
Some people are turned on by power.
Others, by money.
No matter what people tell you, there’s something non-physical about their partner that turns them on.
I don’t mean to undermine the importance or relevance of physical attraction. Often, it’s the first thing that people notice and at times it can completely nullify your chances of seeing someone more than once.
Physical attraction is extremely important, but for me, it’s not necessarily the outcome of a physical trait. There are certain personality traits about a person that can make me physically attracted to him.
Love is one of those things. With every boyfriend I’ve ever had, I’ve gotten more and more attracted to him as I fell deeper and deeper in love.
Power doesn’t turn me on; neither does money, not even education necessarily. I’ve met some extremely well educated people who make me want to puke as soon as they utter a word.
Kindness turns me on and strong family values. I think I’m not the only woman who likes men who are kind to dogs, babies and the elderly. I am turned on by patience. By someone who’s truly interested in what I think. Someone who makes me laugh and doesn’t have a bitter and cynical look on life.
Yesterday I found something new.
One of my teammates and I went to a meeting with a research person who wrote an application that we’re supposed to use for our client-side applications. This one hour meeting grew to four and a half hours as the guy gave us a full background on why they had built this package and how excited he was about it and some of the problems they were aware of, etc. While I could tell that my teammate was about to pass out from boredom, I was so excited that my neck pain disappeared for some time.
I discovered that geeks turn me on.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. There are several kinds of geeks. One kind thinks he’s better than the rest of the world and looks down at everyone who asks questions. This breed is often bitter and condescending.
The other kind, the one that excites me way more than it should, is the kind who is so thrilled by the work that he wants to share it with the whole world. He comes into your office and says, “Look what I figured out, isn’t it neat?” He’s not showing off, he’s like a little kid who discovered a new toy. He’s giddy.
Maybe that’s what really turns me on. The giddiness. The intoxicating level of fascination with something that is obviously driven by large doses of passion. And that turns me on.
It’s contagious.
It’s not the intelligence or the technology. It’s not the knowledge.
It’s the child-like ability of exercising pure joy.
And this guy had it. I sat there, getting drunk by his love for it. At that moment he was much hotter than Tom Cruise. (Okay, so Tom doesn’t do it for everyone. Put your own hottie here, since that’s not my point anyhow.)
My list of favorite people just got incremented by one.
What turns you on?
Previously? Durable.
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projects for twenty twenty-six
projects for twenty twenty-five
projects for twenty twenty-four
projects for twenty twenty-three
projects for twenty twenty-two
projects for twenty twenty-one
projects for twenty nineteen
projects for twenty eighteen
projects from twenty seventeen
monthly projects from previous years
some of my previous projects
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