The Peacemaker

A few weeks ago I went to E & L's wedding. And it was a beautiful wedding. But it was a hard weekend. I knew it would be, but it wasn't the way I anticipated.

It wasn't because riding in car for two days with a broken back was hard. I mean, it was excruciating, but I expected that.

It wasn't because it was hard to watch my cousin, who is eight years younger, get married before me. Surprisingly, I didn't even feel the tiniest twinge of jealousy.

It wasn't because my sister-in-law was unpredictable. She was, but this time that turned out to be a GOOD thing.

No, what made it hard was something I should have remembered from a great many childhood road trips: my parents always fight on vacation.

Back in July when it was clear I couldn't make this trip on my own, I was weighing my options. I could ride with my brother and sister-in-law, or I could ride with my parents. Both had logical advantages and disadvantages. With mom and dad, I'd have to drive to their house by myself first, but I could take less time off work. With M & C, they could pick me up on the way, but they would be on the road longer. Also, being so close to their 12th anniversary, they would probably want some time to themselves, though they would never admit it to me.

Logic aside, I went with total selfish reasons: the worst thing, I thought, about traveling with mom and dad would be dad's snoring. And I was on serious medication for the back pain, so that would be no big deal. M snores as well, but it was more C's erratic moods that I was afraid of. I can't handle too much emotional stress.

I'm an avoider. I hate confrontation of any kind. I'd rather walk away and wait for someone to forget why they are mad then to talk them down. I want everyone around me to be happy and comfortable, even if that means I'm not. Because a little discomfort is so much better than dealing with messy emotions.

Well, as this particular event was happening on my mom's side of the family, I knew there would be some discomfort. My dad hates weddings (as do I, but that's another post for another time). He also hates family get-togethers, especially on mom's side. Which I've never understood, because he seems to like everyone just fine. My mom cleared that little mystery up for me. See, my mom's family is close. Very close. We spend every holiday together, and we get together in between, just because. My dad's family isn't quite so close. His parents... well, that's a whole can of worms. Let me just say that dad isn't close to his family, and envies my mom for how close she is to hers.

I can't explain when everything went haywire. My dad used me as an excuse to escape all weekend -- "You need to go lie down. I'll take you back to the hotel." Things finally blew up on Sat afternoon, the day before the wedding. My brother and his wife and my mom went site-seeing, and my dad and I went driving. Neither knew what the other was up to. And it caused major friction the rest of the trip.

I spent the painfully quiet rides with my parents trying to talk myself out of feeling guilty. I'm not responsible for how they behave. I can't fix this, it's between the two of them. This emotional stress is not good for my healing.

Despite the beautiful wedding and the wonderful time I had, by Sunday evening I was fighting tears. I hate to see my parents fight, I hate that they hurt each other, I hate that my brother was so worried about me, and honestly? I was in serious pain. All either of them saw was their anger at each other. And the few tears I couldn't hold back? That was because I had overdone it. When my dad finally said, "You probably shouldn't have come" I couldn't have agreed with him more.

The next two days I spent watching Eli Stone on my ipod and pretending to sleep. Because that's how I deal with mom and dad not getting along. I'm a 30-year-old woman who hides because she hates dealing with things. So mature, I know.

I'm glad to be home. In MY house, where I control things. And I don't feel like I have to solve everyone's problems. Because, whether they know it or not, that's the responsibility my family has given me.

Tomorrow never comes

I'm a procrastinator. Apparently I'm really good at it. I've been avoiding lots of things -- reading, writing, blogging, getting in touch with old friends -- until I had more time. For the last 6 weeks I have had absolutley no excuse. I have nothing but time, flat on my back, to tell you the truth.

There is more to me than being shy and lovelorn. Alot more. I'm intelligent and funny and I truly care about people and want nothing more than for everyone around me to be happy.

I'm also terribly accident-prone.

This is different than being just plain clumsy. I'm clumsy as well as accident-prone, but the accidents that find me are the ones that do all the damage.

When I was a kid, I fell off our side porch. I was pretending the edge of it was a balance beam and... well... I missed. If I were a guy, odds are I wouldn't be able to have children.

On a high school field trip I got knocked upside the head by a kid who was goofing off the bus. Concussion.

In college, I was in Europe for the first time and managed to break my foot. Pressure fracture from too much walking.

In the space of eight months, I broke my left arm twice. The first time, I'm still not sure how it happened. The best solution I can come up with is that I rolled on it in my sleep. All I know is it started to ache and swell and after a few days I thought, Maybe I should go to the doctor... The second time was less of a mystery. I tripped on a board with wheels (not a skateboard) and caught myself with the arm that has previously been broken.

But this summer is the mother of all accidents. I was sitting in a boat and broke my back. All I was doing was sitting there, and in a split second, my summer went from packed with awesome activities to three months of a crappy back brace, lots of bedrest and prayers that I don't have to eventually have surgery.

I've learned a couple of things about myself with my various accidents over the years. First of all, I'm stronger than I ever thought I could be. When I broke my foot, I didn't know for over a week. I climbed a mountian. I was in Europe, for Pete's sake, I wasn't about to sit in my hotel room and whine about my suspiciously swollen foot. The moment the boat accident happened, I was in probably the worst pain of my life, but my first thought was, I just ruined our whole day! How can they ever forgive me? (I was with my aunt, uncle, cousin and his fiancee.) I didn't cry, throw up or pass out. In restrospect, passing out might not have been that bad.

Second, I have a rather high pain tolerance. I know some men (*cough* my father *cough*) who whine more about a head cold than I do about having a broken back. I have been subjected to plenty of painful tests over the years and have managed to survive them all without screaming, fainting, crying, or whining. I think you just deal with what you have to deal with, and that's it. Whining and crying doesn't help. Don't know about fainting....

Basically, you have to deal with what you have to deal with, and I don't know if anyone knows how strong they are until they have to deal with something that actually tests that strength.

Wow. I just wrote a whole blog post. Yay me! Now, to keep this up....

I'm not a thief, but I am annoyed....

My job involves planning large events. Most of the time they are out of state, but once a year there is a big to-do here in town and I am in charge of getting the supplies for it. Last May I was preparing for such an event, which involved buying cases of water for the attendees. I would run into the local Wal-mart, where the greeter at the front door is a kind older man from my church. On one of these occasions, I bought 15 cases of water. Rather than go through self-checkout, as I normally do, I went to a cashier thinking it would be easier (I wouldn't have to put every case over the scanner, or even one case 15 times). She rang me up, I paid, took my receipt, and went on my merry way. When I got to the door, the greeter just waved. He didn't ask to see my receipt -- this in itself isn't all that odd, they don't always make you show a receipt, and after all, he knew me from church.

When I got to my car and started to unload -- I noticed the cashier had only charged me for 14 cases. So I unloaded the rest and went in to pay for the other case. As I passed the greeter, he gave me a confused look. "Small mistake," I said, and went back to the cashier, she added the case to my bill, I paid again, problem solved. Right?

Not so much. See, now, every time I go to Wal-mart (which is every week -- I do my grocery shopping there), there stands the same greeter. And every time he says, "Now the last time you were in here, you assured me that everything was paid for and then you came back in all red-faced because you'd missed something." The first time he said that, I was honestly confused as to why he was bringing it up. He went on to tell me, "Now, you make sure you pay for everything so you don't have to be red-faced." Um, whatever.

First of all, I came back. I wasn't legally but rather morally obligated, and only because I happened to look over my receipt. I don't always do that, to be honest. Second, I wasn't upset -- 14 instead of 15 is an easy enough mistake to make, and I fixed it with little trouble. Also, I have a red face. I just do -- if it was any redder, it was likely from the heat of the spring day or moving 15 cases of water into my trunk, not from embarrassment. And finally... He says the same thing EVERY WEEK. "Now the last time you came in here...." It was six months ago! And I was not the one who forgot to pay. I wasn't deliberately trying to steal a $15 case of water from Wal-mart. Seriously, move on.

As I will, now that I have ranted.

"Here's the story..."

Last week my cousin E came to visit me at work. He wanted to tell me in person that he and his girlfriend, L, were engaged. I was truly elated at this news -- though I knew it was coming, I still couldn't be happier. They have been together nearly 3 1/2 years, and rarely have I seen a couple so well-matched. And I honestly like her. How could I not? She's a lot like me.

Always with news of this variation comes a slight twinge of envy. This is E's first girlfriend ever, and looks to be his last. They met the first week of college. I had always hoped that my love story would be so simple -- that I would meet the right one and that would just be it. Alas, 'tis not so in every life. And certainly not in mine.

I often find myself thinking that the reason I am not in a relationship, that I have never really been in one, is that I want it so badly. It's hard to explain -- it's like how women who really want children can't have them, yet the ones who don't want them, or couldn't really care one way or the other, are reproducing like bunnies. It's the sure unfairness of life -- all I ever wanted was to fall in love and get married. No career ambitions, no burning desire to travel the world or sow my wild oats before settling down. I just wanted a man to love me, and a stable family life. And most of the time it seems that this very desire is the main reason I cannot have it.

I'm not disappointed with my life. I have a great job, great friends, a house I love (and own) and the car I've always wanted. These are the things I can actually do something about. But my love life? How do you make that one work? I am surrounded by well-meaning friends who offer advice. Advice I loath but accept as I remind myself that they love me and want me to be happy. But really, how is any of it helpful? I hear often that you need to "put yourself out there," whatever that means. Ironically this advice comes from those who have never really had to put themselves anywhere -- they were pursued by their true loves. One friend who is fond of this mantra told me she had to put herself out there because she and her husband were set up. I think she forgets that I was there -- she was dating someone else, she and her nowhusband became friends and she broke up with previously mentioned boyfriend for nowhusband. She hasn't been single since I have known her -- when we were in our early teens.

The other piece of advice I get that drives me crazy is that "you have to stop looking and then it'll happen." For starters, this completely contradicts the "put yourself out there" thing but is equally nonsensical. I haven't been "looking" for 10 years. And I haven't found anything either.

The truth is, I have to wonder if it's me. I'm rather fond of everything I am, and I know I am likeable. But the idea that someone would be attracted to me has become a preposterous concept -- I have so many guy friends, it's weird to think of a guy wanting me. At all. Does this add up to low self-esteem or just the realization that I'm not that kind of girl? I don't know. It's hard to pinpoint. There is just the frustration that never quite goes away -- you can't have what you want, so stop wanting it.

Ah, look at all the lonely people...

Why are there so many lonely characters named Elinor, and why do I identify with them?

I have a wonderful family I'm close to, the best friends anyone could ever ask for, and I'm generally a happy person. But -- and you knew there had to be a but -- I've always felt like I understood the Eleanor Rigbys and the Elinor Dashwoods of the world. Those with the greatest capacity for love, and no one to really share it all with.

I'm smart, creative, and quite silly most of the time. But there are times when I am reflective, pensive. And that's why I created this blog. An outlet, a place to let my inner Elinor out.