Name: Julie
Relation: Family friend
Occupation: Florist, Gossip central, Advice distributer.
“Any good news?” Julie’s standard greeting nowadays. After she had heard his name come up in conversation again she had immediately switched gears and entered the pre-wedding phase. Or rather the pre-engagement phase. With her at this point it was simply that I should marry the boy and call it game over. She was so certain of our eventual nuptials that she imposed a bet against anyone who said otherwise and in turn her winnings would go towards our wedding gift. Julie looked up from the large spring arrangement that she was working on with a mischievous look.
“I’m telling you, there’s no point in waiting any longer. You two have been dating for how long now?”
I start to toy with a discarded daisy in attempts to avoid her question. “We’re taking things slow right now. We want to ‘get to know each other’ again.”
Everyone in the store laughed. My aunt stayed quiet and listened to Julie berate me with her questions. Even as the words came out of my mouth it sounded ridiculous. He and I had known each other since the first day of high school. And even now, post college and into the working world, we were still playing the game of him and me. Sure there were points where we lost touch, but all in all it had been relatively consistent in some sort of communication. Or was that wishful thinking?
“Cie,” she called me. Though she was older, it had become a habit for her to call me “older sister” like everyone else in the family. Here, it was rank that defined you. After all, there were younger sisters, cousins, family friends that looked at the older siblings for guidance. “How old are you now?”
Oh god. The irrefutable count of how long we had been together. “I know I know, Cie Julie, it’s been forever. I know. But in our defense --!”
“No, no! Just how old are you?"
“Twenty-six. But it’s different!” I pause. Different, sure. How? Dunno. “Really, it’s different… I just don’t know how just yet.”
“Okay, now what’s twenty-six minus fifteen?” Julie was adamant. To her, we had been together for way too long.
I sigh. There was no point in fighting it. Logically, she was right. “Eleven. But again! In our defense, we broke up several times and dated other people so that number is completely inaccurate!”
“I don’t care Corinne, all I know is that you started dating him when you were fifteen and now you’re twenty-six. Which means, you two have been dating for eleven years now! Eleven! I don’t even know anyone who’s dated that long before getting married!”
Logically, reasonably, she had a point. Even without the breakups and the “just friends” periods, it was still about six to seven years of being in a relationship with him. And by then the question of marriage would have already been on the table for quite some time with many couples. But with him and me, the topic of marriage had always evaded us for some reason or another.
Either way though, I had no intentions of backing down from Julie. I was right. It was different. The counter started over when we got back together. “It’s different though!” I stubbornly argued. “We’re working things out and learning about each other again.” Because, you know, we forgot who we were. Right… That’s believable.
Well okay, it had a bit of truth to it. Truth is, no matter how much he loved me, and no matter how I changed, he was still worried about my flightiness. He knew we had both changed and matured during the past year apart, but he couldn’t shake the fact that I had a propensity for running. I was the Runaway Bride, only we’d always start talking again and I would always run back to him and then I’d run off again. And there was no ring or a white dress just yet.
“You should just marry him, Cie.” She grinned. “Then I can win that bet and we can have a big party finally!”
“E yah, Niek,” my grandmother chimed in agreement. Her English isn’t good, but when it comes to wedding gossip, she knows. Like a sixth sense, she’ll know. “He’s a good person,” she adds in Chinese. “Hurry, he’s a good person.”
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The First Date
The relationship between HK and myself has always been a funny one. Or perhaps frustrating is the better adjective. On our first official date some many years ago, we went to a nice restaurant – or at least what was nice to us way back when in High School Land. Back then, to qualify as “nice” all you needed was a hostess who sat you at a table. Oh how naïve people from High School Land were.
The plan was that we’d have a nice lunch – dinner was out of the question because I had a curfew – and then we’d go walk around the park. And how ridiculously giggly I was. What High School Land does to its inhabitants to become so crazy, no one will ever know. But after lunch we sat at the park and we talked about everything and nothing.
And then it happened.
He asks.
Almost as a proposal, “Will you be my girlfriend?”
What a trivial question this must be for people not living in High School Land! What a silly question. But to be official, to carry around those labels, one party must ask the other party this question.
“Will you be m girlfriend?” he asks. He is opening his heart to me. Expressing his feelings and putting them into words.
He followed the social customs and rites one would do in High School Land. Asked her out? Check. Meal? Check. Compliments? Physical contact? A touch of awkwardness? Check, check, and double check.
So what was my response to the question and to all of the well presented gestures?
I run.
I ran.
Where to though? He drove after all. No idea, but all I knew was that I wanted to avoid the pressure and the question. And so I chose flight.
Ok so I didn’t really run off. Just squirmed and avoided the question as best as possible. Which, in such a situation, is actually quite impossible. So I agreed. I liked him after all. It was sweet. And he would be my first. And so boyfriend and girlfriend we became.
Labels? Check.
Now for that First Kiss.
The plan was that we’d have a nice lunch – dinner was out of the question because I had a curfew – and then we’d go walk around the park. And how ridiculously giggly I was. What High School Land does to its inhabitants to become so crazy, no one will ever know. But after lunch we sat at the park and we talked about everything and nothing.
And then it happened.
He asks.
Almost as a proposal, “Will you be my girlfriend?”
What a trivial question this must be for people not living in High School Land! What a silly question. But to be official, to carry around those labels, one party must ask the other party this question.
“Will you be m girlfriend?” he asks. He is opening his heart to me. Expressing his feelings and putting them into words.
He followed the social customs and rites one would do in High School Land. Asked her out? Check. Meal? Check. Compliments? Physical contact? A touch of awkwardness? Check, check, and double check.
So what was my response to the question and to all of the well presented gestures?
I run.
I ran.
Where to though? He drove after all. No idea, but all I knew was that I wanted to avoid the pressure and the question. And so I chose flight.
Ok so I didn’t really run off. Just squirmed and avoided the question as best as possible. Which, in such a situation, is actually quite impossible. So I agreed. I liked him after all. It was sweet. And he would be my first. And so boyfriend and girlfriend we became.
Labels? Check.
Now for that First Kiss.
Relations and Probations
Every job has a probation period, an introduction period to the company. It is within these first few months where directors, superiors, bosses, and managers decide whether you’re a good fit with the company. Here they decide if you’re good for the long haul, or if you’ll ditch at the first sight of trouble. Can you handle the pressure?
As it turns out, families too have such a period. Parents need to know if the person their child decides to spend the rest of his or her life with is good enough. Mothers want to be certain their sons have someone to take care of them and fathers want to know that the guys their daughters choose will treat them right. Will these newcomers survive the long haul? Or will they break under the pressure? Will they stick around when the going gets tough? Or will they run and flee from responsibilities? Will these newcomers choose fight or will they choose flight?
As it turns out, families too have such a period. Parents need to know if the person their child decides to spend the rest of his or her life with is good enough. Mothers want to be certain their sons have someone to take care of them and fathers want to know that the guys their daughters choose will treat them right. Will these newcomers survive the long haul? Or will they break under the pressure? Will they stick around when the going gets tough? Or will they run and flee from responsibilities? Will these newcomers choose fight or will they choose flight?
Fight or Flight
When nature is stressed it reverts to one of two choices: to stay and fight or to run and save one’s derrier, also known as the fight or flight response. No matter the situation, one always chooses one or the other. Fight or Flight. As it turns out, I’m one for “flight”. Not like that’s news to anyone. In fact, if you know me, you would know that I’m definitely not one for confrontation. If I can avoid it, I will. The “We Need to Talk” talk? Let’s change the subject, shall we? Fight downtown? Call cops? Head the other direction. Dark, scary alley versus bright and shiny one in the opposite direction? Bright and shiny please! Okay, but that one is probably a given to anyone.
Fight or flight. It’s instinct. It’s what scientists have studied in animals and humans alike. When one perceives danger, adrenalin kicks in. The same adrenalin that kicked in and allowed a mother to move a car to save her son. The same adrenalin that kicks in when someone decides to defy death by jumping off of a plane and goes skydiving. Your heart starts racing. Your breath becomes quick and shallow. You pale. You flush. You lose sight of anything else around you. All you see is danger.
And you decide. Fight. Or flight.
Some choose fight. And some, me in many cases, choose flight.
But then again, if you want something bad enough, if it’s truly worth it to you, then the only choice is to fight. And so fight it shall be.
Fight or flight. It’s instinct. It’s what scientists have studied in animals and humans alike. When one perceives danger, adrenalin kicks in. The same adrenalin that kicked in and allowed a mother to move a car to save her son. The same adrenalin that kicks in when someone decides to defy death by jumping off of a plane and goes skydiving. Your heart starts racing. Your breath becomes quick and shallow. You pale. You flush. You lose sight of anything else around you. All you see is danger.
And you decide. Fight. Or flight.
Some choose fight. And some, me in many cases, choose flight.
But then again, if you want something bad enough, if it’s truly worth it to you, then the only choice is to fight. And so fight it shall be.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Part 14
Three years and three months ago today I was standing here with your hand in mine. I was pointing out to you all the beautiful sights of Paris from the top floor of the Eiffel Tower. It was such a beautiful sight, do you remember? The sun was setting, casting it’s beautiful last rays onto all of Paris while the city lights slowly turned on. What a perfect time to be there, atop the most beautiful city in the world.
Do you remember how beautiful Sacre Coeur looked from up there? The rosy pink glow from the sunset. How beautiful it looked then, a rose colored monument atop the only hill of Paris. Notre Dame, the Louvre, and the Pompidou Center, even the Défénse, Paris’s business district, all glowing bright as the city of light, the city of love, fell deeper and deeper into the summer night. And the infamous golden dome concealing beneath it Napoleon’s grave. Who else would leave such a vibrant mark on the Parisian skyline?
Do you remember how I pointed out everything to you? How we went all around the top of the tower and I kept trying to tell you all the landmarks I recognized between the large diamonds of the gate? Do you even remember that man who joined in our conversation? How he asked me what and where things were? He was a tourist like us, an older man with a large camera around his neck, before they were so popular, and a fanny pack around his waist.
Did you know that that was one of the happiest days of my life. Top five. I was so happy to be on top of Paris like that. To see all of Paris from one point and to be able to vividly see and name all the famous landmarks of Paris. But most importantly, I was so happy to have shown it to you. I don’t know if you knew it at that moment or any time during our European post college trip, or even now, but I was so happy that day to have spent and shared it with you by my side. That evening, it was only you and me atop the Eiffel Tower. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else was there. You. Me. And Paris.
Do you remember how beautiful Sacre Coeur looked from up there? The rosy pink glow from the sunset. How beautiful it looked then, a rose colored monument atop the only hill of Paris. Notre Dame, the Louvre, and the Pompidou Center, even the Défénse, Paris’s business district, all glowing bright as the city of light, the city of love, fell deeper and deeper into the summer night. And the infamous golden dome concealing beneath it Napoleon’s grave. Who else would leave such a vibrant mark on the Parisian skyline?
Do you remember how I pointed out everything to you? How we went all around the top of the tower and I kept trying to tell you all the landmarks I recognized between the large diamonds of the gate? Do you even remember that man who joined in our conversation? How he asked me what and where things were? He was a tourist like us, an older man with a large camera around his neck, before they were so popular, and a fanny pack around his waist.
Did you know that that was one of the happiest days of my life. Top five. I was so happy to be on top of Paris like that. To see all of Paris from one point and to be able to vividly see and name all the famous landmarks of Paris. But most importantly, I was so happy to have shown it to you. I don’t know if you knew it at that moment or any time during our European post college trip, or even now, but I was so happy that day to have spent and shared it with you by my side. That evening, it was only you and me atop the Eiffel Tower. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else was there. You. Me. And Paris.
Part 13
Waiting at the platform, a man passed by in front of her. She watched him inhale from his thin white cigarette, the end of it turning bright red as he satisfied his nicotine craving.
Blowing the gray smoke out, he continued walking, the gray smoke, now a halo surrounding and following him away.
Two girls sat on the railing were also puffing away. Their conversation was littered with breaks every now and then as each one took a breath from their cigarette. Sixteen years old and they already surrounded themselves with the swirls of gray haze and little white sticks that seemed to fit perfectly and naturally between their two fingers. Every once in a while they would turn away to spit onto the platform floor. Juliet couldn’t quite figure out which was the more disgusting habit: the knowledge that with every breath from each cigarette they were bringing themselves and those around them that much closer to lung cancer and the inevitable death, or the fact that they were defiling public space with their cigarette butts and spats of saliva.
Blowing the gray smoke out, he continued walking, the gray smoke, now a halo surrounding and following him away.
Two girls sat on the railing were also puffing away. Their conversation was littered with breaks every now and then as each one took a breath from their cigarette. Sixteen years old and they already surrounded themselves with the swirls of gray haze and little white sticks that seemed to fit perfectly and naturally between their two fingers. Every once in a while they would turn away to spit onto the platform floor. Juliet couldn’t quite figure out which was the more disgusting habit: the knowledge that with every breath from each cigarette they were bringing themselves and those around them that much closer to lung cancer and the inevitable death, or the fact that they were defiling public space with their cigarette butts and spats of saliva.
Part 12
It had already been five hours since Juliet’s plane had landed. Five long hours of waiting and wandering and utter confusion. Now, at the house where she was to spend the next seven months of her life, she waited in an exhausted daze.
After her layover in Chicago and an even more turbulent flight over the Atlantic Ocean, Juliet had finally landed in Paris. Everyone around her bustled about with anticipation of getting off the plane, but Juliet waited patiently in her seat. There was no point, she felt, in standing in the crowded aisles with impatient people trying to get their stowed baggage down while standing shoulder to shoulder with just about everyone on the plane. Where was the point in pulling down your luggage when you know without a doubt that not only would at least three people be hit by either you or your luggage, but that you would now be taking up twice as much space as you were before. So Juliet waited in her seat. Though eager to stand and stretch her weary limbs, she was now reveling in her new found space with the vacated seats next to her.
Staring out the window, she watched French workers move about underneath the belly of the plane unloading, refueling, and signaling with their flashlights. Her dream of actually living in France was now just about fulfilled. Once she got her baggage, found the bus to take her to her new home, and get her new set of keys she would finally be able to say that lived in France. To fulfill a dream she had since high school. To live amongst the French. To drink wine and eat cheese. To listen to French and speak French in return.
Juliet looked up to see if the people standing had started moving. With the front of the line beginning their slow waddle towards the door, she finally started to collect her things and joined the crowd.
Just a few more hours and I’ll actually be able to sleep in a bed, she thought happily. Sleeping, let alone sitting, in an economy class seat had left with a body dying for movement.
Ten minutes at the baggage claim and finally the baggage began to show. The conveyor belt groaned and started with a few jolts. Soon baggages began showing up and people pushed closer to view the output. Over her shoulder, a French family was greeting relatives who had just come back from their American tour. At the sound of the poetry of the French language, Juliet’s ears were immediately drawn into the conversation. The fact that she didn’t understand most of it didn’t seem to bother her at the moment, for she was too overwhelmed by the amount of French being spoken all around her.
Fifty minutes later and the crowd had diminished significantly. The conveyor belt revealed what was left of the intense crowds. One red luggage, badly beaten, one giant black duffle bag, of which Juliet was sure she could fit into, and one cardboard box which seemed to have leaked one of its contents out were all that remained on the conveyor belt. Around it, airport workers were walking back and forth, some of them stopping to talk to their coworker. Juliet stared at the remains of the conveyor belt. The three luggages making their same lowly trek around and around and around. And yet, Juliet still couldn’t find her second luggage.
One more turn, maybe something happened and they’re still getting it to the baggage claim, she nervously thought. One more turn. Still the same three bags dejectedly paraded before her.
She turned and made her way to what she assumed was the lost baggage desk.
“Uh, je suis désolée, monsieur, je uh, I um, lost my, uh, baggage,”
After her layover in Chicago and an even more turbulent flight over the Atlantic Ocean, Juliet had finally landed in Paris. Everyone around her bustled about with anticipation of getting off the plane, but Juliet waited patiently in her seat. There was no point, she felt, in standing in the crowded aisles with impatient people trying to get their stowed baggage down while standing shoulder to shoulder with just about everyone on the plane. Where was the point in pulling down your luggage when you know without a doubt that not only would at least three people be hit by either you or your luggage, but that you would now be taking up twice as much space as you were before. So Juliet waited in her seat. Though eager to stand and stretch her weary limbs, she was now reveling in her new found space with the vacated seats next to her.
Staring out the window, she watched French workers move about underneath the belly of the plane unloading, refueling, and signaling with their flashlights. Her dream of actually living in France was now just about fulfilled. Once she got her baggage, found the bus to take her to her new home, and get her new set of keys she would finally be able to say that lived in France. To fulfill a dream she had since high school. To live amongst the French. To drink wine and eat cheese. To listen to French and speak French in return.
Juliet looked up to see if the people standing had started moving. With the front of the line beginning their slow waddle towards the door, she finally started to collect her things and joined the crowd.
Just a few more hours and I’ll actually be able to sleep in a bed, she thought happily. Sleeping, let alone sitting, in an economy class seat had left with a body dying for movement.
Ten minutes at the baggage claim and finally the baggage began to show. The conveyor belt groaned and started with a few jolts. Soon baggages began showing up and people pushed closer to view the output. Over her shoulder, a French family was greeting relatives who had just come back from their American tour. At the sound of the poetry of the French language, Juliet’s ears were immediately drawn into the conversation. The fact that she didn’t understand most of it didn’t seem to bother her at the moment, for she was too overwhelmed by the amount of French being spoken all around her.
Fifty minutes later and the crowd had diminished significantly. The conveyor belt revealed what was left of the intense crowds. One red luggage, badly beaten, one giant black duffle bag, of which Juliet was sure she could fit into, and one cardboard box which seemed to have leaked one of its contents out were all that remained on the conveyor belt. Around it, airport workers were walking back and forth, some of them stopping to talk to their coworker. Juliet stared at the remains of the conveyor belt. The three luggages making their same lowly trek around and around and around. And yet, Juliet still couldn’t find her second luggage.
One more turn, maybe something happened and they’re still getting it to the baggage claim, she nervously thought. One more turn. Still the same three bags dejectedly paraded before her.
She turned and made her way to what she assumed was the lost baggage desk.
“Uh, je suis désolée, monsieur, je uh, I um, lost my, uh, baggage,”
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