When you get lazy

I didn't mean to take a break from this blog for so long. In fact, I don't think I wanted to take a break in the first place. But work kind of got in the way and then I didn't feel like writing. All I wanted to do when I was done was veg out in front of the TV or read.

And that's one of the things I have to work on: managing my energy to care about my stuff after I'm done with work, i.e. the stuff I have to do because it gives me money for food. While in grad school, I sometimes gave so much mental energy to my work responsibilities that my academic responsibilities would fall to the wayside just a bit.

Now, I'm going to get a crash course in doing this. I just started a bona fide 9 to 5 job with benefits and opportunity for growth and coworkers and a boss and everything. So I'm going to have to make the time to watch the shows I want to watch, cook, blog, read, be with family, and even do my taxes. Those things are important to me, the same way it's important for me to keep up this blog to develop my writing voice.

So to make this a little easier for me, I'm not going to force myself to come up with a SUPER IMPORTANT TAKEAWAY for each post. I feel that some things I write about here can just be observations. Maybe that's the enchantment right there: we can observe and think and no one can can tell us we can't and no one will quite see things the way we do.

So onward and upward. I'm diving in with everything I've got.

Adventures in Dogsitting

Nearly every morning these days, I wake up naturally around 9:30 a.m. or a little earlier. Sometimes, I'm way too tired and fall back asleep after a few minutes, but my eyes open up at or before 9:30 no matter what (usually after some weird dream).

This didn't used to happen. When left to my own devices without the constraints of school or work, I usually wake up in the late morning or even the early afternoon, depending on how late I went to sleep, as the bad habit of going to bed after midnight was forged deep within me during my college years.

Once in a while, I remember that I'm awake at 9:30 because I was slowly trained to wake up early over a period of five weeks, and this is why.

A relative found herself in the difficult dog-person situation of having to move and being forced to dole out $500 to keep the dog in the apartment complex. She asked my family and I to care for the dog, a three-year-old Maltese named Bella.

I was never one of those kids who wanted a dog (even if my all-time favorite cartoon is Scooby-Doo). And this particular dog had never been too fond of me. When she did approach me at my relative's house, it was only for a few seconds before she ran off to be with someone else.

But somehow, she figured out after one night that I was her new caretaker. She whined at the door for her owners when they left and barked and cried when I tried crating her for the night. But in the morning, she had figured it out.

And when I say morning, I mean 6 a.m., a time which my body considers to be prime dream-production time.

From then on, Bella followed me around, sat outside my door when I needed some privacy and waited for me in the hallway when I showered. I couldn't move without her following me.

Eventually, she and I both settled in and got comfortable with each other. I had her sleep in my office chair so I wouldn't worry about her being uncomfortable on the floor, and she accepted the chair as her spot. She would wake me up with soft semi-growling noises and I would turn on the light to either take her out or coax her back to sleep.

My wake time when from 6 a.m. to 6:30. Then, it moved to 7 ... 7:15 ... 7:45 ... 8. The changes were gradual enough for her to accept them and she seemed to get the message when I told her a few times, "I know you're awake, but it's too early, so you're going to have to wait a while." Now it's forever 9:30 it seems.

For five weeks, she was the theme of my life. She took over my Facebook posts, my Snapchat stories and my Instagram posts. Lots of my family conversations were about her and the little things she did that were adorable, unusual or even intelligent.

There's lots of these stories. The few days she would run away from me when I served her food and would only eat if someone else was around. The way she loved looking out the window during car rides. The time she pulled back on her leash to tell me she wanted to keep walking. The way she growled at other dogs and barked whenever someone was at the door. How strangely she acted after we had her groomed. And, of course, the time she regurgitated her food, peed on the floor and looked absolutely miserable for a few hours as her tail dragged on the floor.

I knew this little dog needed me. But I didn't know I needed her too. After graduating and going through some rough emotional, social and professional situations, it felt good to have a little someone just following me around, depending on me for everything and (sometimes) coming to me when I called. She didn't care about my flaws and was always sad to see us go. When I showered, she would wait in the hallway for me to be done and would immediately want to go in my room with me when I came out. If I needed some privacy, and my door was closed, she would wait just outside the door. I could see her shadow. She would always snuggle just next to my thigh, but if we had been apart for a while, she would rest the top half of her body on my thigh and let me pet her until she got tired of it and decided to move away to sleep on the other side of the loveseat.

Even when I brushed her teeth, combed her hair and gave her a bath--all activities she hated--she forgave me quickly and sat by my side. It was a such a contrast to the way I had been treated just a few months and even weeks prior, and it was something my soul needed.

This dog is a little miracle in the sense that she was found wandering in a big city. She had a microchip with no address and no one claimed her. My relatives had her while they needed her; I had her while I needed her.

We thought about keeping her, but too much was in the way. We couldn't leave her alone for more than a few hours, which got in the way of some weekend activities, and, of course, there were the expenses to think of.

But now a new family has her and is absolutely delighted with her. She's an answer to her prayers, they said.

I still think about her all the time. I look at the dining room and remember that her crate was there. I sit on the loveseat in the living room and remember how she used to love snuggling against between two of the cushions. I go outside and think, "Today, wouldn't have been the worst day to walk Bella." We go out and I wonder how long we would have had to leave her alone.

I wonder if I should feel pathetic about this. To quote one of my favorite authors John Green, "It hurts because it mattered." So she mattered and her temporary presence in my life mattered, but when will I stop thinking about her? Am I going to have to live with this the rest of my life?

Yes, that sounds a little over-dramatic. But when you're sad about something, it takes a while to go away. Plus, you never stop missing someone, do you? Just yesterday, I thought about her and then dreamed I saw her again. Then I found out a family in my neighborhood had just lost their Maltese and I felt I had an idea of how they felt.

So the enchantment is more personal this time: My dog story is no Marley and Me, but it's mine. And it'll always be a really important part of my life.

The Past Tense

Sometimes, it takes me a long time to write emails. I'm a words person, and I always want to say the right thing in just the right way. This combined with the anxiety of not having the benefit of nonverbal communication to guide me makes me rewrite emails and edit them and worry about them when I click send.

And the waiting is excruciating, of course, especially when you're not sure how they will react to a sensitive request.

The number one thing I worry about is coming across as pushy or bossy. Hence, I've noticed that tend to say things like

I was wondering if ...

I was hoping that ...

Do you think you can ...
Is there a possibility that ...

It's fairy common knowledge that "was" is the past tense form of the verb "to be." But what's not-so-common knowledge is that it's also a way to pretend to be polite. At least for me. If my email prose were a person, it would be a shy child asking for something they're sure they're not going to get.

"Gee, you know, I was just wondering ... if maybe ... you know ... could you? ... if you're not too busy, of course ... pretty please with a cherry on top?"

I've even noticed this in my writing. When I was working on my thesis in grad school, my advisor noted that I used conditional verbs a lot--would, should, could, etc.--that can often be replaced with stronger verbs or the simple past tense. From then on, I was aware of this implicit hesitancy in my writing, as if everything that were happening were dependent on others' opinions even in fictional stories. 

But as I re-learned while writing my thesis, one of the tenets of good writing is simplicity and using only as many words as you need to get your point across. Using the past or present tense often does just this.

When you're hesitant to ask for something or when you're dealing with any measure of social anxiety, it's easier to beat around the bush, shielding yourself in case things don't go your way. I mean, I was "just wondering" so if you say no, it's not the worst thing that could happen right?

And hesitancy for me is also a way to avoid controlling people or making people feel that I want to control them. Being controlling is one of the worst traits someone possess because it affects everyone around them. I don't want to order people and I don't want to sound as if I'm expecting something from them. I'm kindly requesting a favor and I want my communication to sound like that.


Which is why I'll be drafting an email and thinking that instead of saying, "I'm wondering if you can do ... for me" or "Do you think you might be able to ...?" I could be upfront about what I want and when I want it. But I backtrack and wonder if that's necessary and try to be hesitant and simple and to the point all at the same time.

I don't think there's anything wrong with being assertive, but assertiveness comes off differently in the written word. There're no body language cues to let you know that this person isn't really the worst, and no assurance that the other person believes that you deserve what you're asking for.

And here we reach the rub of it: being deserving of whatever you're requesting. Maybe I've been hesitant in the past because I've struggled with wondering if I truly need or deserve what the other person has to offer. I reached out in hopes that the person would give me what I needed out of the kindness of their heart and I wanted to be sure that I was as nice as possible and didn't come across as someone who believed I was entitled to their time. It's a difficult line to balance on. 

So the enchantment is this: Once you believe that you're worthy of that person's attention--that's when you find the words to ask what you want for with confidence.

Shredding Paper

Recently, I took on the task of organizing the bookshelf outside my room. Though it was organized for the most part, I knew there were lots of papers that could be rearranged and books that could be brought together to look more attractive. Not to mention the old checks, bank statements, and the Sephora shopping bag with hundreds of receipts from the past four or so years. (Lesson here: don't save your receipts. It's just not worth it, and the ink just fades out anyway.)

Among the rejectamenta were several manila folders labeled and sorted and, by most definitions, organized. I thought, "I'm sure I don't need most of this stuff. I'll sort through it." I opened one folder and thought "Later." Then I opened the next and thought, "Later." I repeated this process three times before I realized that I just didn't want to throw anything away.

The useless papers from my old job still looked important. I thought that maybe I wanted to remember how much work I had done. How much I worked every day and week to get my job done. I wasn't willing to throw out the old coworker numbers or meeting agendas or scrap papers decorated with my notes from meetings and conferences.

I found I wanted to keep them all for a while longer. What could it hurt really? They would just there on the shelf not bothering anyone the way they always had.

I wondered why--why couldn't I throw them away? What is stopping me? Why is it so important to me that I keep these useless scraps of paper and that I hold on to the phone numbers of people I don't talk to anymore?

Heirlooms are one thing. Inheritances are another. Bu why do we hold on to the past when we don't need to?

It would've been so easy to shred those papers along with the bank statements. I've already accumulated about six small supermarket bags of shredded paper and two small bags or ripped paper. What was one more bag? Nothing in the scheme of things that matter.

But, no. I kept everything. And now it's sitting there, reminding me of all the work I used to do and all the activities that required drinking multiple cups of coffee each day and headbutting with coworkers and those I supervised and the awkward meetings with my boss and the times I locked myself in my office to breath while I held my head in my hands, wondering if I was about to have a panic attack.

I keep looking back at the folders as I write this. Josh Groban's "Hymne a L'amour" is playing and I'm thinking of making myself a sandwich. Later, I have to do some laundry and email someone. I'm thinking of those headphones I have to return to Amazon and the fact that I have some library items due later in the week. The paper shredder is resting after overheating from overuse and there's bits of paper on the floor that I'll have to sweep when I'm done with the organizing.

Yet in the background of my thoughts are the things I used to do and all the ways my life changed in the past year.

And I still don't know when I'll get over it.