I was talking with my good friend the other day ( a pseudonym is still forthcoming for her, so I'll just refer to her as G) and we were on the subject of her pseudo-boyfriend. He had recently given her the line, "I don't feel like I'm the number one priority in your life" since she doesn't drop whatever she's doing the moment he calls.
I rolled my eyes. Where do guys come up with this stuff? That's not fair, I suppose--it's something that's been tossed around in relationships for ages from all sides. Priorities, priorities: holding this person above all others, above all other responsibilities that you have. They call, you pick up by the second ring. You have a mountain of work to do, but they want to watch "Lost" instead. The list goes on, but eventually you reach The Discussion, where they look at you with slightly downcast eyes, maybe a pout, so you ask what's wrong and they answer: "I don't feel I'm the number one priority in your life."
Now, don't get me wrong--I know what it's like to feel as though you're not the major priority to someone who you're close to. For many of my formative dating years, I was the one who would call and ask if he wanted to come over and hang out but nah, he felt like staying in. Okay, I'll come to you, then, despite having to get up at 7 a.m. for work! This may seem like a trivial example but essentially I was like an over-eager spaniel, waiting for them to say "when" and throw the ball.
I realize now I probably should have scaled it back and played it cool but I wasn't seasoned enough for it at that point. It took all those examples to wear me down and teach me that taking a step back and not always making them my number one priority was a good way to keep my sanity intact. So I come to my most recent relationship.
We were both finishing up grad school, I was starting to look for jobs, so my head was in a million places. We liked each other, certainly, even dropped the L bomb and made tentative plans for moving in together. He didn't want to move out of the current city; I was ready to run as fast as I could away from the Midwest. And so we get to the fated day where he drops the line.
I can't remember if I rolled my eyes at him or not; I think I probably tried not to, and I was also trying not to laugh at him. It's such an awful response and I don't know why my first instinct was to laugh, but it really did seem ridiculous to me. I rarely if ever chose TV over him. I listened to his endless roommate troubles. I thought I deserved a Gold A+ Girlfriend Medal--except for the fact that I was thinking about my future. I was thinking about a job. I didn't want to stay where he wanted to stay. I was--gag--thinking of independence. And there's the problem--the codependent and the independent trying to hash out a plan for the future. He sees me trying to change things and he blanches. Maybe it was mostly on my own terms, but his uncertain plans for the future didn't seem to be fully formed yet so I took the reigns. I had finally rid myself of my spaniel qualities, and we broke up.
Perhaps it's time we readjust the priority hierarchy in relationships. Instead of having it be something along the lines of:
1. Significant Other!!!!
2-1000. Everything else
Perhaps it can be more of a spectrum: my cat, significant other, job, friends, family, "Survivor."
In my mind, taking away the numbering system takes away the hierarchical importance; everything is now on an even playing field, time devoted to each can be divided up however one chooses. It's more mathematical than I planned, but I feel that it's a good start. So the next time you're fed the "I'm not the number one priority in your life anymore" line, you can feed them the linear spectrum line and say, "See? We're all equal, here."
Or you can roll your eyes, say, "Pretty much" and show them the door.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
For those who do what I cannot
I remember the first time I considered breaking my legs.
My mother was telling me a story about how she had been in her dorm room on December 1st, 1969, the day of the Vietnam Draft, and everyone had their radios on. The guys who lived down the hall were listening, waiting for their birthdays to be called. As each new date was announced, she could hear audible cries and moans from people who had hoped it wouldn't be them. It was one of the worst things she ever had to listen to, and when I heard her retell the story, my heart sank into my stomach because I thought of my father and his friends, sitting around, biting their nails, maybe smoking a joint to help ease the tension.
He never went to Vietnam. His birthday, November 5th, was never called, and after that, he received an educational deferment because he went to graduate school. He was lucky; I asked him what he would have done if he had been called up: throw himself off a train to break his legs, maintain he was too crazy to be drafted into the service, or go to Canada. He shrugged and said he wasn't sure what he would have done.
Going to Canada would have upset his father who had fought in the South Pacific in World War II. My grandfather enlisted in the service after the United States entered into the war. Like many other men of that time, he came back home to start a family, work his job, and never spoke of what happened during the war. My father told me that once or twice, Grandpa had opened up and told him about a time that he and another man had been sent out to patrol an area of jungle before the rest of the group would advance. So my grandfather went and was on the lookout; it seemed quiet, but just as he got up to leave and report back, he found a Japanese soldier curled up, sleeping on the other side of a log. My grandfather took up his rifle and shot him. He had told my father it was the only way, otherwise they would come back and shoot you just the same.
I was a sophomore in college in 2004 when there was a small discussion in the Bush Administration about a possible reinstatement of the draft, this time for all eligible men and women. My heart stopped; it wasn't just that the draft may return, but that I could be sent off too. Basic Training, heaving a gun around, shooting someone: my friends and I laughed at how ridiculous we would look in fatigues, but secretly, I was petrified. I began to think about Canada and breaking my legs, just about anything that would keep me from having to do something I knew I physically, mentally, and emotionally could not do. If I couldn't convince them I was crazy, certainly being in the military would make me insane.
I'm sure some would consider this cowardly and unpatriotic, but I don't particularly care. I know that I'm not made of the same mettle as my grandfather, who marched off into the face of a dangerous unknown, and then returned to deal with everyday life with such conviction and resolve; nor the millions of other men and women who have gone off to war, and either die doing so, or return to the U.S., only to be forgotten by their government with poor or non-existent medical and psychiatric care.
I may not support many of these wars, but that doesn't mean that when I ran by Veterans Park the other day and saw the wreaths put up for the fathers, brothers, and sons who had lost their lives in battle (many from the Vietnam War), I didn't feel crushed by the sense of loss. It was a beautiful day, families out with bikes and strollers, meandering around and I wondered if they knew it was Memorial Day, or if they cared.
I turned from the wreaths and the monument and thought of my grandfather, alone in a jungle in Asia except for his rifle.
My mother was telling me a story about how she had been in her dorm room on December 1st, 1969, the day of the Vietnam Draft, and everyone had their radios on. The guys who lived down the hall were listening, waiting for their birthdays to be called. As each new date was announced, she could hear audible cries and moans from people who had hoped it wouldn't be them. It was one of the worst things she ever had to listen to, and when I heard her retell the story, my heart sank into my stomach because I thought of my father and his friends, sitting around, biting their nails, maybe smoking a joint to help ease the tension.
He never went to Vietnam. His birthday, November 5th, was never called, and after that, he received an educational deferment because he went to graduate school. He was lucky; I asked him what he would have done if he had been called up: throw himself off a train to break his legs, maintain he was too crazy to be drafted into the service, or go to Canada. He shrugged and said he wasn't sure what he would have done.
Going to Canada would have upset his father who had fought in the South Pacific in World War II. My grandfather enlisted in the service after the United States entered into the war. Like many other men of that time, he came back home to start a family, work his job, and never spoke of what happened during the war. My father told me that once or twice, Grandpa had opened up and told him about a time that he and another man had been sent out to patrol an area of jungle before the rest of the group would advance. So my grandfather went and was on the lookout; it seemed quiet, but just as he got up to leave and report back, he found a Japanese soldier curled up, sleeping on the other side of a log. My grandfather took up his rifle and shot him. He had told my father it was the only way, otherwise they would come back and shoot you just the same.
I was a sophomore in college in 2004 when there was a small discussion in the Bush Administration about a possible reinstatement of the draft, this time for all eligible men and women. My heart stopped; it wasn't just that the draft may return, but that I could be sent off too. Basic Training, heaving a gun around, shooting someone: my friends and I laughed at how ridiculous we would look in fatigues, but secretly, I was petrified. I began to think about Canada and breaking my legs, just about anything that would keep me from having to do something I knew I physically, mentally, and emotionally could not do. If I couldn't convince them I was crazy, certainly being in the military would make me insane.
I'm sure some would consider this cowardly and unpatriotic, but I don't particularly care. I know that I'm not made of the same mettle as my grandfather, who marched off into the face of a dangerous unknown, and then returned to deal with everyday life with such conviction and resolve; nor the millions of other men and women who have gone off to war, and either die doing so, or return to the U.S., only to be forgotten by their government with poor or non-existent medical and psychiatric care.
I may not support many of these wars, but that doesn't mean that when I ran by Veterans Park the other day and saw the wreaths put up for the fathers, brothers, and sons who had lost their lives in battle (many from the Vietnam War), I didn't feel crushed by the sense of loss. It was a beautiful day, families out with bikes and strollers, meandering around and I wondered if they knew it was Memorial Day, or if they cared.
I turned from the wreaths and the monument and thought of my grandfather, alone in a jungle in Asia except for his rifle.
Sally
Sally is my cat. She's a three-year old tortoise shell who hails from Brooklyn and she entertains me to no end. Everyday, I come home and before I'm even at the door, she can hear my keys and is meowing on the other side, ready to zip out into the hallway. This is her daily excursion.
Usually, I will go and find her when I hear a neighbor come out of their apartment. Some are amused that she likes to explore the halls so much. Usually I grab my laptop, make room for her on the loveseat and we go through our days.
For a while, she was one of the only friends I had in Milwaukee, so we'd spend a great deal of time together. I tried to teach her how to use her pink halter, but she just slunk around and looked forlorn. We might try that again this summer, since it's all about new projects this time around.
There are a lot of people out there who have either never had pets or simply can't comprehend talking to animals or making up voices for them to talk back with. My brother is one of them; we grew up in the same household with the same anthropomorphizing mother, but he grew up to be a zoologist who is leery of movies like "Finding Nemo" with talking fish (while in secret he lets his dog up on the furniture if his girlfriend isn't around).
Sally is also fluent in several languages:
She's also been to the Sorbonne, but dropped out after a very problematic and secretive row with a higher up in the French government. She burned her beret after that, and gave up cigarettes.
In Brooklyn she hung around the lofts and bemoaned the gentrification until one evening, she was found by my brother who, in a strange fit, decided to fly her back to Madison, WI with him and put her up in his apartment that he shared with his allergic roommate. She was passed around to several other people before my brother ended up moving in with his allergic girlfriend, and Sally was brought to live with me.
I was ecstatic; I kitty-proofed the windows with reinforced screens so she could sit and watch the birds without rolling out. I found extra toys for her, and brought in an air conditioner for the hot days.
Sure there are the days when I wake up to step in cat puke or a turd on the rug after a relatively restless night of her trying to chew on my hair and zipping around on the bed and I curse her and tell her I can't look at her at that exact moment due to overwhelming irritation.
But she's my dear friend; she's seen me through plenty of relationships during our tenure and will probably see me through plenty more and I will keep scrubbing the carpets to get the puke stains out and shaking the treat jar to get her excited.
Usually, I will go and find her when I hear a neighbor come out of their apartment. Some are amused that she likes to explore the halls so much. Usually I grab my laptop, make room for her on the loveseat and we go through our days.
For a while, she was one of the only friends I had in Milwaukee, so we'd spend a great deal of time together. I tried to teach her how to use her pink halter, but she just slunk around and looked forlorn. We might try that again this summer, since it's all about new projects this time around.
There are a lot of people out there who have either never had pets or simply can't comprehend talking to animals or making up voices for them to talk back with. My brother is one of them; we grew up in the same household with the same anthropomorphizing mother, but he grew up to be a zoologist who is leery of movies like "Finding Nemo" with talking fish (while in secret he lets his dog up on the furniture if his girlfriend isn't around).
Sally is also fluent in several languages:
She's also been to the Sorbonne, but dropped out after a very problematic and secretive row with a higher up in the French government. She burned her beret after that, and gave up cigarettes.
In Brooklyn she hung around the lofts and bemoaned the gentrification until one evening, she was found by my brother who, in a strange fit, decided to fly her back to Madison, WI with him and put her up in his apartment that he shared with his allergic roommate. She was passed around to several other people before my brother ended up moving in with his allergic girlfriend, and Sally was brought to live with me.
I was ecstatic; I kitty-proofed the windows with reinforced screens so she could sit and watch the birds without rolling out. I found extra toys for her, and brought in an air conditioner for the hot days.
Sure there are the days when I wake up to step in cat puke or a turd on the rug after a relatively restless night of her trying to chew on my hair and zipping around on the bed and I curse her and tell her I can't look at her at that exact moment due to overwhelming irritation.
But she's my dear friend; she's seen me through plenty of relationships during our tenure and will probably see me through plenty more and I will keep scrubbing the carpets to get the puke stains out and shaking the treat jar to get her excited.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
For those who do what I cannot
I remember the first time I considered breaking my legs.
My mother was telling me a story about how she had been in her dorm room on December 1st, 1969, the day of the Vietnam Draft, and everyone had their radios on. The guys who lived down the hall were listening, waiting for their birthdays to be called. As each new date was announced, she could hear audible cries and moans from people who had hoped it wouldn't be them. It was one of the worst things she ever had to listen to, and when I heard her retell the story, my heart sank into my stomach because I thought of my father and his friends, sitting around, biting their nails, maybe smoking a joint to help ease the tension.
He never went to Vietnam. His birthday, November 5th, was never called, and after that, he received an educational deferment because he went to graduate school. He was lucky; I asked him what he would have done if he had been called up: throw himself off a train to break his legs, maintain he was too crazy to be drafted into the service, or go to Canada. He shrugged and said he wasn't sure what he would have done.
Going to Canada would have upset his father who had fought in the South Pacific in World War II. My grandfather enlisted in the service after the United States entered into the war. Like many other men of that time, he came back home to start a family, work his job, and never spoke of what happened during the war. My father told me that once or twice, Grandpa had opened up and told him about a time that he and another man had been sent out to patrol an area of jungle before the rest of the group would advance. So my grandfather went and was on the lookout; it seemed quiet, but just as he got up to leave and report back, he found a Japanese soldier curled up, sleeping on the other side of a log. My grandfather took up his rifle and shot him. He had told my father it was the only way, otherwise they would come back and shoot you just the same.
I was a sophomore in college in 2004 when there was a small discussion in the Bush Administration about a possible reinstatement of the draft, this time for all eligible men and women. My heart stopped; it wasn't just that the draft may return, but that I could be sent off too. Basic Training, heaving a gun around, shooting someone: my friends and I laughed at how ridiculous we would look in fatigues, but secretly, I was petrified. I began to think about Canada and breaking my legs, just about anything that would keep me from having to do something I knew I physically, mentally, and emotionally could not do. If I couldn't convince them I was crazy, certainly being in the military would make me insane.
I'm sure some would consider this cowardly and unpatriotic, but I don't particularly care. I know that I'm not made of the same mettle as my grandfather, who marched off into the face of a dangerous unknown, and then returned to deal with everyday life with such conviction and resolve; nor the millions of other men and women who have gone off to war, and either die doing so, or return to the U.S., only to be forgotten by their government with poor or non-existent medical and psychiatric care.
I may not support many of these wars, but that doesn't mean that when I ran by Veterans Park the other day and saw the wreaths put up for the fathers, brothers, and sons who had lost their lives in battle (many from the Vietnam War), I didn't feel crushed by the sense of loss. It was a beautiful day, families out with bikes and strollers, meandering around and I wondered if they knew it was Memorial Day, or if they cared.
I turned from the wreaths and the monument and thought of my grandfather, alone in a jungle in Asia except for his rifle.
My mother was telling me a story about how she had been in her dorm room on December 1st, 1969, the day of the Vietnam Draft, and everyone had their radios on. The guys who lived down the hall were listening, waiting for their birthdays to be called. As each new date was announced, she could hear audible cries and moans from people who had hoped it wouldn't be them. It was one of the worst things she ever had to listen to, and when I heard her retell the story, my heart sank into my stomach because I thought of my father and his friends, sitting around, biting their nails, maybe smoking a joint to help ease the tension.
He never went to Vietnam. His birthday, November 5th, was never called, and after that, he received an educational deferment because he went to graduate school. He was lucky; I asked him what he would have done if he had been called up: throw himself off a train to break his legs, maintain he was too crazy to be drafted into the service, or go to Canada. He shrugged and said he wasn't sure what he would have done.
Going to Canada would have upset his father who had fought in the South Pacific in World War II. My grandfather enlisted in the service after the United States entered into the war. Like many other men of that time, he came back home to start a family, work his job, and never spoke of what happened during the war. My father told me that once or twice, Grandpa had opened up and told him about a time that he and another man had been sent out to patrol an area of jungle before the rest of the group would advance. So my grandfather went and was on the lookout; it seemed quiet, but just as he got up to leave and report back, he found a Japanese soldier curled up, sleeping on the other side of a log. My grandfather took up his rifle and shot him. He had told my father it was the only way, otherwise they would come back and shoot you just the same.
I was a sophomore in college in 2004 when there was a small discussion in the Bush Administration about a possible reinstatement of the draft, this time for all eligible men and women. My heart stopped; it wasn't just that the draft may return, but that I could be sent off too. Basic Training, heaving a gun around, shooting someone: my friends and I laughed at how ridiculous we would look in fatigues, but secretly, I was petrified. I began to think about Canada and breaking my legs, just about anything that would keep me from having to do something I knew I physically, mentally, and emotionally could not do. If I couldn't convince them I was crazy, certainly being in the military would make me insane.
I'm sure some would consider this cowardly and unpatriotic, but I don't particularly care. I know that I'm not made of the same mettle as my grandfather, who marched off into the face of a dangerous unknown, and then returned to deal with everyday life with such conviction and resolve; nor the millions of other men and women who have gone off to war, and either die doing so, or return to the U.S., only to be forgotten by their government with poor or non-existent medical and psychiatric care.
I may not support many of these wars, but that doesn't mean that when I ran by Veterans Park the other day and saw the wreaths put up for the fathers, brothers, and sons who had lost their lives in battle (many from the Vietnam War), I didn't feel crushed by the sense of loss. It was a beautiful day, families out with bikes and strollers, meandering around and I wondered if they knew it was Memorial Day, or if they cared.
I turned from the wreaths and the monument and thought of my grandfather, alone in a jungle in Asia except for his rifle.
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