______________________________

* N. Seal

Mid-air Flight 225 Brussels to Chennai

I don’t mind them, really. They have needs and can’t verbalize them, and as an inhibited person, I get it. So on flights that are 10+ hours long, I don’t mind hearing them scream from across the aisle. But! There’s something about babies that refuse to be comforted.

What is it that you want? I think that in the 10+ flight hours, your parents have done everything they could possibly have thought of to try to pacify you. But you refuse to be appeased and placated. I wonder if there is something that you relish in your anguish. If there is something pleasurable in hearing your own anguished wails that even the healing promise of sleep cannot tempt you. Baby, don’t you don’t realize that your energy is precious? Wasting your youth so absorbed in your own unhappiness is a crime. How many packages of Juicy Juice will it take to replenish your tears?

Please don’t think I don’t understand you. I was once a baby too. Even now as an adult, when I am upset, comfort does not come easily and only sleep, however troubled and fitful, can dry my salty cheeks. But I take comfort in uneasy dreams.

I wonder what sort of woman you will grow up to be. Will you continue to take shelter in some internal struggle, invisible and unknown to the world? Little Joan Jett, will you scoff at the idea of burning gently and go in a blaze?

Oh baby, abandon your invisible plight and take comfort in the arms of those who love you. Because the rest of us can only turn our headphones up so loud. Sleep baby, and may the world look different when you wake.

Quieting the Going feeling is why I run. Because wherever I run, I am Going. Not for long or particularly far and I always Return punctually, but the Going is caged, temporarily.

Sometimes the Going feeling comes in the form of a ‘not here,’ and other times it’s a rosy-hued ‘over there’ pasture. A few weeks ago the Going loudly erupted ‘NOT HERE’ and so I went ‘over there’ with him. And the Going put my restlessness to peace, temporarily.

And then I was Gone again, to the heartland. I paid homage to the flat earth and the great unmoving glass-like Lake. And my Going feeling was soothed by her tranquility, temporarily.

But what will happen when I run out of places to Go, and I am left to my own company? Where will I Go? What will keep me Going?

I am not, nor have I ever been, a girly girl. When convention dictated that I receive multiple Barbie dolls for my 5^th birthday, I much preferred to play with my cousin’s Ninja Turtle action figures.* I didn’t start wearing make-up until college, and the only reason I know my way around a liquid eyeliner applicator is because my little sister schools me. And perhaps most fundamental to a girly girl, I lack the sort of feminine wiles that attract men, potentially due to my colorful use of the English language that comes from being raised in New Jersey; in Jersey-speak: I got no game. I’ve always just been one of the boys.

And yet, my appearance hasn’t ever reflected this observable facet of my personality. That, too, is my responsibility. Because as soon as I was old enough to pick out my own clothes, I chose to wear dresses. And I adored my dresses. Whether they were brought from India or the local K-Mart, I wore them until they were threadbare and loved. And I wore them to every occasion I could, in as inclement weather as I could get away with. My parents were graciously accommodating, and there were many summer nights I wore my dresses out in the rain, and many fall days where I happily sauntered to school in them.

Everyday clothing notwithstanding, as a moon among stars, there was The Dress. The Dress was much more than what it appeared to others; it seemed to be both a physical manifestation of everything I’d hoped to be, and protective armor shielding me from the world’s evils, which included angry neighbors, unfriendly dogs and childhood injuries. And like me, The Dress was dynamic, adapting to reflect my needs and desires. I was 4, in a new country with new language to learn, and it came to me in the form of a frilly pink thing, a hopeful promise. The next year, it returned more confidently as a chic black and white polka-dotted A-liner I wore proudly to my very first graduation. As I grew taller in spurts, The Dress came to me again as a comforting cool blue and white striped cotton dress with thick straps that buttoned at my shoulders.

Instead of coaxing out lady-like manners buried deep within me, The Dress succeeded in making me feel empowered to do as I wanted, and I passed my youth mining for worms in the schoolyard, wrestling with friends, and climbing the Everest-like roofs of my development. Among my childhood friends, I was the bold one, the fearless adventurer. All while wearing The Dress or one of its sisters.

But as I grew older, the power of The Dress grew less. Looking back at old photographs, I sometimes feel its loss, although at this point it’s clearly healthier that I don’t place feelings of hope and self-worth into a garment. But there are those pieces of clothing that make me feel sensational when I step into them:

What: black and white polka dot dress, green cardigan, leggings, rainboots.

Defining moment(s):

That time in Paris.

Seeing the look on my old undergrad professor’s face (who I recently dated briefly) when I walked by him in the department and thinking, sucks for you.

What: vintage skirt, green tank top, brown wedges

Defining moment(s): That night that turned into morning in the city.

What: gopi dress, flip flops

Defining moment(s): Those days in my youth I felt close to God.

I know I give a certain feminine impression at first glance. I dress a certain way, and take interest in garments in that I like to sew and knit occasionally. But if you take a closer look, you’ll see a woman who would prefer to discuss the physics of fluid dynamics over diet tricks, who would rather play a game of two-hand touch football than go shopping at the mall, and whose never used the excuse ‘because I’m a girl.’

If you’re smart, you won’t let The Dress trick you.

]]> http://thepipaltree.wordpress.com/2009/05/21/don%e2%80%99t-let-the-dress-trick-you/feed/ 2 thepipaltree IMG_1151 http://thepipaltree.wordpress.com/2009/03/27/great-expectations/ http://thepipaltree.wordpress.com/2009/03/27/great-expectations/#comments Fri, 27 Mar 2009 21:22:21 +0000 thepipaltree http://thepipaltree.wordpress.com/2009/03/27/great-expectations/ Continue reading →]]> *I should not be blogging, I should really be studying for my two exams next week so I’ll have to leave this largely unedited.

When we have known someone for a long time, we tend to develop certain expectations of him or her based upon their past words and actions. We might not even realize we’re doing this and it’s because generally, they meet our expectations and only occasionally surprise us. For example, you would expect your (former) friend not to make out with your (former) crush, or your close friends not to forget to call you on your birthday. When these expectations are met, things go well; when they are not, conflict arises.

For all intents and purposes, being held to a higher standard is absolutely a positive thing. These ‘great expectations’ that others have of us push us to grow and change in ways that we might not have done if left to our own vices. If my mother didn’t have high standards for me, I would probably have given up on my ambitions, and ended up marrying an extremely wealthy and boring Indian gentleman right out of college and popped out several babies like a few of my unnamed cousins. Well… actually, that would never happen. Ok, so maybe it’s like my advisor, who gives me an entire 150+ page dissertation to read by the end of a weekend when I have 2 upcoming exams and a project to finish by the end of the week. I was thinking about how mean she was to give me so little time, but I thought about it, and really, I’m so glad that she’s making me do this. She told me about how she wants me to get caught up on her project quickly so that I can contribute ASAP. She expects that I will pull my weight on the project and begin quickly. Without her expectations, it would be like being at my former unfulfilling job all over again. Anyway, my point is, sometimes expectations can be a positive thing.

On the other hand, there are clearly expectations that are stifling. For example, there are friendships that you outgrow because you keep failing to meet each others expectations. You both may have different ideas about what activities are enjoyable, what music is acceptable, or whether or not Rihanna should have gone back to Chris Brown. Or maybe the problem is more deep-seeded, and there are disagreements on what the limits of your relationship are (even if they aren’t discussed. If you really want to know who your friends are, ask them to help you move.)

But these expectations are all from people who have known us for a while. What about those who we’ve only just met, say a new classmate? I expect that my classmates will be reserved for a while until I get to know them better. I also expect that they will not sport a ‘hobo chic’ fragrance and shower occasionally. And to be honest, that’s pretty much all that I expect of someone in grad school who I’ve only just met.

But apparently I failed someone’s expectation the other day when I neglected to return a text message regarding a homework problem; he told me that I “act all nice but deep down inside, I’m really, really mean-spirited.” He used some additional expletives that I’ll not repeat them here. I was ready to congratulate him on his discovery because it generally takes a few months for others to realize this, but decided that it wasn’t worth escalating the situation. (You never know with Ginger kids.)

And I thought about his point of view, and didn’t really care about it. He always copies my answers because he’s “so swamped with research,” and besides, he was being kind of a dick the night before, so I didn’t text back the next morning when he wanted some answers to a homework assignment that was due that day. But, honestly, what was it that made him think that I was a nice person? Because I externally, I have young girlish features that make me look as if I should be sweet and caring?

But, still, what he said bothered me. And I think it continues to bother me so much because he might be right: I could very well be a mean-spirited person. Not because I didn’t let him copy my homework, because I still don’t give a crap about that mooch. But he still might be right. I do treat other people sort of derisively when they don’t meet a set of expectations I have of them. And that kind of sucks. People should be free to do as they like without fear of judgment or derision from others, least of all me.

This is not the person I want to be. I expected better of myself.

The other day, when friend’s house party was winding down, this guy started hitting on me, being pretty suggestive while his girlfriend was literally asleep in the next room. Then there was that time when that other guy started cozying up to me as soon as his girlfriend left, assuring me that ‘she doesn’t care.’ Then there was that OTHER guy (with a girlfriend, obvs) who I thought was a friend who just insists on getting me alone when he’s drunk – to do what? There are lots of stories I could give, but they are too disturbing to write.* I am literally losing my faith in the ability of men to be faithful.

Also – did someone send out a memo? I am not cheap, I am not easy. And I may be a lot of other things, but a home-wrecker I am especially not. My ex-boyfriend broke my heart when he cheated on me, and there is no way in hell I would send another human being through that, especially a member of my own sex. Fuck. That. Shit.

I know what I look like to these guys. I’m no Gisele, but I think I’m a moderately attractive person. But the fact that they boil down my entire breadth of emotions, ideals, loves, fears and basically my whole existence to my being ‘hot’ just doesn’t work for me. I know what you want, and I am having nothing to do with that.

Real men take care of their women. Just as real women take care of their men. That’s what it means to be in a relationship: you take care of each other. If you want to play games, go ahead; but don’t use me as a pawn to make your lady jealous. And if you think that I am an empty vessel in which to sate your lust, why don’t you pick up a prostitute whose job that is, you dumb fuck.

With this in mind, I’m putting together what is essentially a help wanted advertisement for a boyfriend/bodyguard, based on a 6-point identification system, similar to the one prepared by the DMV of the State of New Jersey:

Primary ID

You must have at least TWO of the following qualifications.

4-Point Qualifications:

· Have the ability to solve simple 2^nd order partial differential equations (PDE’s) without the use of Maple or Mathematica.

· Be a musician, painter, photographer, or sculptor. Sculptors who work with marble, add 10 points.

· Be able to complete the Thursday New York Times Crossword puzzle in pen.

· Be Stephen Colbert.

· Be able to win in a fist-fight with the average man who hits on me and doesn’t take no for an answer.

· Own a Honda or Kawasaki motorcycle, or better yet, a Vespa.

· Have affection for the Lou Reed of his Velvet Underground days.

· Have a Ph.D. in math.

Secondary ID

You must have at least ONE of the following qualifications.

3-Point Qualifications:

· Have a collection of Batman comic books.

· Be 6’ or taller.

· Maintain good cardiovascular health by running or swimming.

· Have a cruelty-free vegan lifestyle.

· Love the ocean.

2-Point Qualifications:

· Like ‘The Office’

· Know how to change a flat tire.

· Be able to fix my computer. (Not because I can’t but because I’m too freaking lazy.)

· Be a blood donor.

1-Point Qualifications: (you cannot use more than TWO of these)

· Be able to drink and digest whole milk.

· Not have any baby mamas.

· Join me when I want to got to the Met and not complain about it.

Proof of Sensitivity

You must also present proof of sensitivity, which may be, but is not limited to, ONE of the following:

· Weekly telephone calls to your mother.

· Past volunteer work at an animal shelter.

· Maintain a bird feeder outside your apartment.

· Cry every once in a while, even if it’s when your favorite football team loses.

Also – anyone that does not live a sustainable, green lifestyle need not apply.

You need a minimum of 12 points to apply,

In the meanwhile, until this ad is answered, ladies please keep your boyfriends on short leashes and the hell away from me.

————————–

*And if you think any of these guys is YOUR boyfriend, you’re probably right.

Although these are certainly really, really nice, particularly if you have a fondness for pastries, I mean to describe one of those feelings that everything in your life is exactly how it’s supposed to be, and every event that unfolds seems to have been guided by some cosmic force that knows what you need better than you do yourself.*

I know that by convention, a person isn’t defined by what they do, and maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s just the how a person’s 50 hour/week job affects their spirit that really matters. It’s like Michelangelo’s studies on the rebellious slave and dying slave. The former struggles against his fate, and does everything that he can to break the bonds that hold him captive, torturing himself in the process; the dying slave, however, has made the decision to go gently into that good night, and has resigned himself to his dark destiny.

It might be a somewhat sacrilegious to compare Michelangelo’s sculptures to cubicle life, but I feel an affinity toward the rebellious slave. I was trying to rebel. I was at stupid, boring, thankless job. There was only one project that I was given that really kept my interest, but it was not enough for me to feel like I was being challenged. I was really only there so that I could make some money until I figured out what I really wanted to do with my life.

I had always envied people who knew practically from the womb what they were going to be when they grew up. There was that one girl in high school who knew she was going to be a kindergarten teacher, and that other girl who knew she was destined to be a sports lawyer. And they are doing exactly what they’ve always wanted to do. I think my problem is that I’m a jack-of-all-trades, and I can do a lot of things, but I can’t do any of those things really well. I like sewing/crocheting, drawing/painting/photographing, math, but wouldn’t necessarily make a really good designer, artist, or mathematician.

I must have been complaining about wasting my life unfulfilled at my day job for the umpteenth time when Bill single-handedly changed the course of my life. We were exploring downtown DC when he suggested that I might make a good environmental engineer. It took a minute to sink in. I can’t say that it clicked when he said it. It was more like, what he spoke was some truth that I had known, but it had been buried for so long. I decided to go back to school full-time for my graduate degree so that I could become an environmental engineer.

Anyway, to make a long story short, I gave my boss verbal notice that I was leaving to pursue my masters, but a week later he told me he the company was laying me off. I don’t think he’s ever seen anyone happier to be laid off in his life. I am now eligible to collect unemployment for 26 weeks at 60% of my salary rate. I also found out on the same day that that one project that was not a total waste of my time and company funds might be published in a technical food journal! How freaking sweet would that be to be published at 25?

The next two weeks went really fast. It seems that the universe had plans for me before the new semester began, and I was put in charge of decorations for my temple’s biggest festival, Janmastami. I made sketches and worked out a theme where we had canopies of lights and paper lotuses inside the temple and outside the grounds. Because the festival is at night, when you walked through the canopies and looked up, it was like you were watching these softly blinking stars that were only a few feet away from your face. It was so amazing watching 2,000 people walking through that and looking up at it. It was a really cool creative outlet, and I was really proud of the execution. And because no one had really done anything like that, I got a lot of rather, um, unfortunate attention for it.

So, I was interviewed for TV Asia that night. I really didn’t want to go on. I insisted on not going on. Anyone who knows me knows that unless I have a few shots of vodka in me, I am hopelessly stiff, and as awkward as… well, an engineer. But it is not in the DNA of an Indian person to be reasonable. So I was thrust in front of the camera as the interviewer asked me questions. At first, they were easy ones: how long have I been a member of the congregation, about the decorations, etc. But then, he dropped the bomb on me: he asked me what Janmastami means to me.

When he asked me that, I froze for like 10 seconds. I had nothing to say. It didn’t mean anything to me. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, it was even worse than that, because I didn’t feel anything. All of the 80+ hours that I had poured into making my vision of lights and lotuses hadn’t really been an offering to God, but more to the community, to facilitate the congregation’s and public’s enjoyment and sense of pleasure and peace on that holy day. But on God’s own birthday I just felt a complete lack of His presence in me.

The thing is, the connection is not something that can be forced. It might be me, but I can never feel God during holidays or festivals. I think for me, God is in the details. The other day I walked to Newark Penn Station, and stood a moment in the rain, watching the water drizzle, trickle, and pour down the carved concrete slabs of one downtown building and feeling it on my face. I much more felt connected at that moment than I ever do at holidays.

I finally stammered out something really clichéd about Janmastami being about bhakti (love), and that I felt that there was a lot of bhakti here tonight. It was so lame. To be seen on TV Asia, so watch for it.

So anyway, there you have it. My summer was spent finding purpose in my life, and finding God only in the places where no one else can – Newark.

So last week I went all out and bought brand new watercolors, acrylics AND oils as an early birthday present to myself.  It was so worth it. It gives me so much pleasure just to open my paints box and bury, wiggle and  maneuver my fingers through the midst of all those little tubes.

If only I could get half as much pleasure from Advanced Thermodynamics, I’d be all set. :-/

This was an experiment in skin tones, and done with Grumbacher watercolors in my sketchpad.

9:30. Greeted consultant, a large 65+ year old chemical engineer retiree. Made small talk regarding his commute to campus. Pretended not to notice his tie was on backwards. Maybe he just wanted us to know that Calvin Klein designed his threads?

9:35. Fetched consultant water.

9:36. Wished I had made the intern get it instead. Had an unsettling impression he lied when he said he didn’t know where the water was located. Bastard!

9:45. Sat through Intern’s presentation detailing our initial scale-down experiments; listened to feedback regarding further studies.

10:15 – 10:30. Walked to lab in adjacent building with intern and consultant. Passed through multiple doors. Realized doors are extremely and horribly awkward. Should I allow the older gentleman to open them for me because I am a young woman, and he grew up doing so for young women? Or should Intern open them because he is an international student, and was taught to open doors for others, especially for women and the elderly? Or, as the senior-most ‘walker,’ should I open the door for both of them? Am completely befuddled. Needless to say, it was a very gauche walk to the lab.

11:45. Observed coworker take consultant through extraction steps.

11:50 – 11:55. Walked consultant through viscometer methodologies.

11:56 – 12:10. Appeared to act sympathetic as consultant complained about the department’s viscometer being ‘a piece of shit.’ Was actually playing the Kaiser Chief’s Oh My God on repeat in my head.

12:30 – 2:00. Working lunch. Periodically fell in and out of my current favorite daydream, where some of my artwork is discovered and my super-sensitive, foreign musician boyfriend breaks the news to me that my debut gallery opening is going to take place at no other than the Smithsonian in DC.

1:36. Snapped out of my daydream and into horrific reality. Oh my God, did the consultant just put his hand down his pants?? Yes, and it’s still there! Tried to keep a straight face, and managed to do so, although I noted my colleague was unable to follow suit.

1:42. Hand finally extracted from lower regions of said pants.

2:30 – 2:45. While waiting for attendees to arrive for next stage of the meeting, watched consultant put slideshow of his Prague vacation on the flat-screen. Listened to him explain how he hates to vacation like the ‘typical’ American as he detailed each slide to myself and Intern. Have acquired new skill of falling asleep with my eyes open.

2:47. Concluded that I would refer to the intern as my ‘young padawan.’

3:30. Have begun to pass notes with young padawan. Simultaneously wondered why consultant placed six separate writing utensils in his bulging breast pocket, and what indeed pocket needed protection from. Analysis of writing utensils is as follows: regular blue BIC pen; fancy pen that probably cost $20; mechanical pencil; fine-tipped blue marker; orange-hued liquid highlighter; red pen.

3:47. Consultant has put his hand down his pants again. Made eye contact with padawan, subsequently broke down snickering, and attempted to pass it off as sniffles; left conference room before I embarrassed myself. Is this guy for REAL?

4:55. Wondered how I could have possibly have sat through meetings for approximately 8 hours and have only really learned new information from 9:45-10:15. Also wondered if I should get a baby after I get my Masters. Decided that I should probably get a dog first; and upgrade to a human baby if dog survives first few weeks. Excellent decision.

5:05 – 5:10. Took a 5 minute ‘biology break’ at consultant’s request.

5:12. Told Intern about my decision to refer to him as my young padawan. Padawan unreceptive.

5:15. Have begun to derive some sick pleasure out of watching consultant become more and more cantankerous as day drags on. Decided he would make a great Santa Claus in an alternate universe where Santa gets to wear a suit and tie and wields the gift of process control. Meeting finally adjourned.

5:15 – 5:45. Attended a post-meeting meeting with coworker and padawan, reiterating meeting minutes from 9:45-10:15 and restating the next steps that need to be taken to tackle problems.

5:45. Fetched consultant some water for the ride home and shook hands goodbye. Immediately realized that aforementioned hand had been down his pants. Scrubbed hand profusely, but somehow still felt unclean.