Being alone in an elevator with a person you don’t know makes for some  awkward silences and a slight invasion of personal space, at least depending on how many people there are in there in the first place. It seems that the more people there are in the space the less awkward it is to be squished together. I find it strange to be in such close quarter with a person and to ignore them completely. There is no other social context quite like it. 

I stood in the elevator trying my best to contain myself and ignore the other man in there with me, but every part of my body was simultaneously aware of his presence and the tension this dichotomy created. It’s all I could think about; the strange silence that passed between us and the tension in our bodies. All of which we tried our best to ignore. 

This is a random post because I haven’t really done much for the past few days except hang out with MD and go to Milan.  But, of course, there is a hot guy at the end of the story…in  a sense.

MD has been fabulous and allowed me to escape crazy roommate for two nights straight, as well as enabling me to decimate what was left of my meager bank account.  (It had to be done, I can’t be walking around wearing American size ‘medium’ anymore….as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s like wearing an Italian XL…and looks sloppy at best.)  I feel I might as well use up the money here, since upon my return to America, I will be (barely) only one step up from a customer service slave to the masses, and only desperation will allow me to refill the account without slowly poisoning the denizens of my city with arsenic.

I also feel, as all ‘real’ gays should, that if a pair of jeans looks cute, you have to buy them, regardless of cost or quality.  Or, more often in my case, if the salesperson is cute, and lies about the jeans to your face, you must still buy them.  It’s always best to bring ‘the honest friend’ along, especially one who is skillful in the art of train travel.

So, off we went to Milan yesterday. I in search of the rush really only Italy can provide, that of the perfect storm of way too much sugar, caffeine, and a dose of hot man-candy, MD, along for moral support and a variety of essential beauty products.

Once you see the picture below, I will once again lose some ‘Daniel P., world traveler points,’ but it was either start a bitch match with this guy, or only mildly suffer and then passive-aggressively punish the guy across from me with own my long legs instead.

After reading some other ridiculous blogs in which exclamation points are often used…in reference to things such as:

- “Europeans don’t have any sense of personal space!!!!! OMG, get away!!!”

- “OMG!!!  The toilet was just a hole in the ground, EWWW!!”

- “Everyone is always late to everything!!!  UGH! It’s so annoying!!”

- “OMFG! I got cut in line again!!”

- “Holy smokes!  How are Italians so skinny?  They eat nothing but pasta!!!!!”

- “Wow!!  Italians are soooo fabulously fashionable and put together!”

Most of these have moderately rational explanations (which I promise will be part of my “end of trip” post), and quite frankly are refreshing (at times), as I find Americans to be obnoxiously polite, slow, lazy, selfish, and often completely unaware of their surroundings.

But, this guy.  I mean really.

Now, I have learned to give up my well honed, “6-feet-at-all-times around me even if you’re my family” personal space, especially when on buses, or in the line at the grocery store (I mean really lady, are you smelling the back of my neck for a particular reason?).  But this guy was already sitting like this, in a packed train, even before he fell asleep.  I felt bad about it later, but the poor (apparently frightened at hearing English) guy across from me had to tuck his little Italian legs beneath his seat.  I’m sorry I’m 6 feet tall and you’re only 4.  Life is hard.  Now move those Ferragamos.

Upon arrival in Milan, one notices that it isn’t an attractive city at all.  Yes, I felt that the general populace is more smartly dressed, but they also tended to be older, richer, and smartly dressed in a boring “i’m a banker, but still attractive” kind of way.  But the city itself, minus the cathedral, was ‘meh.’ Turin is much more regal, interesting, and definitely cleaner.

(random attractive Italian cathedral)

(random attractive Italian, a destra)

After the prerequisite and oh-so-satisfying trip to La Rinascente, it was time for my secret real reason for being so excited about Milan… Included on our tour of the city was a visit to Chocolat!!  Holy smokes this place was good!  As far as my tour of gelato (megapost coming at some point, I swear) goes, it’s in the top three.  I almost couldn’t finish my cup o’ chocolatey goodness.  Almost.  It wins points for: most flavors of chocolate gelato (obviously), smart styling, the hiring of (chocolate) minorities, and the steady stream of extremely attractive Italian men sweeping in and out of the door for a quick ice cream, coffee, and/or hair check.

[Note to ALL travelers to Milan.  Bring a lighter.  Even if you don't smoke.  I promise you won't regret it.]

After more walking around in a carb-tastic, post-chocolate daze, and spending way too much money at H&M, we started walking by a line of people. To get into a store.  An Abercrombie & Fitch. Yes.  Here in Italy at last.  Three cheers for globalization!!!

I had already witnessed this phenomenon multiple times in NYC, where Europeans (and probably U.S. tourists from Texas) would line up literally around the block for the A&F on 5th avenue.

This is even more curious now, because:

A.  I may have gotten a tad older, but, once 40-yr-old gays started to wear A&F, it was a death knell for its coolness.  I could be wrong, but, I don’t think that it’s currently the pinnacle of “American” style and fashion it once may have been.

B.  Italians could buy a round-trip plane ticket to NYC, buy all of their clothes at the A&F there, and still save money than if they bought it in Milan.

C.  Um, now that it’s in Italy…it’s not really all that interesting, far away, or even very American anymore.  It’s like H&M in Atlanta.  H&M was only cool before it arrived in Atlanta because you were wearing clothes that could only be bought in Chicago or NYC.  Now, it’s just another GAP.

All this being said…..you KNOW I had to get my picture taken with the hot Italian A&F beefcake, whose soul purpose (like in America during the holidays) is to stand in front of the door and look hot… I mean, c’mon! Look at him!   W* Milano!!

Um, someone give him a cookie please.

Also amusing is the guy in the background, whose smirk says: “Um, yeah, I know exactly what you’re up to mister”

After my sugar-high-enhanced heart palpitations began to slow, it was time to return home.  This time, having learned the hard way, I had ample legroom and armrest space…without having to cut anyone.

Also, a nice young lady heard us speaking in English (maaaayyyybe about how certain Italians could kiss our grits…) and wished us a Happy Thanksgiving.  It was sweet, but also a sign of how far I’ve literally and figuratively come, as I had no idea (or cared) that it was even turkey day.

Upon return, the wonderful FS procured all I need to survive in this world: french fries and pizza with four kinds of meat…mmmm…Thanks MD and FS!!

(*short for viva!)

            It occurs to me this morning that no two Thanksgiving Days are identical.  The menu for the meal may be the same.  The place settings and traditions may be the same.  But the thanksgiving itself is always unique, because the year that precedes it is unique.  Thanksgiving is a reflective, responsive day that draws its energy from the twists and turns of our story over the past year.

            So this year, I am grateful for the sustaining mercies of the Lord that have carried us through one of the toughest years of our life. “Sustaining” signals images of rich depth for us. 

There have been days when our souls despaired of life itself—and the Father came with resurrection life to sustain us. 

Some days immersed us under waves of weeping and seemingly senseless grief, but somehow, the Father has siphoned those tears into His bottle and sustained us to keep looking for the joy that comes in the morning.

Many days have been lonely, and the Father has sustained us by the quiet assurance of His presence.

Sometimes, we have been just plain scared—and the Lord has sustained us with the embrace of the Spirit, and enough Light for one more step into the dark.

Other times, we have been confused and angry—even with God—and He has sustained us by His living and unchanging word (especially in the Psalms) that gave us a vocabulary for lamenting faith.

Some parts of our story this have tempted us to wonder about the Father’s love. Almost as soon as that whisper hit the ears of our hearts, we were sustained by some reminder of the gospel of a bloody cross, an empty tomb and a glorious throne—and knew that Love had not faltered.

The Father has sustained our minds, hearts and lives through this year. And it is certainly not because we deserved it or earned it.

His sustaining is all mercy.

Mercy that arises from His heart. 

Mercy simply because He is good.

 How has He brought the mercies to us?  In more ways than we can name and more than we know, but certainly…

+ through friends who hung close (you know who you are).

+ through the Word in the Bible, a lifeline for our souls.

+ through a network of pray-ers pleading before the throne on our behalf.

+ through sleep and rest–especially naps. (Preschoolers are onto something!).

+ through unexpected laughter.

+ through phone calls, conversations, cards or e-mails that came at just the right moment.

+ through opportunities to keep a hand in ministry.

+ through books and writing and songs.

+ through our family’s shared faith and enjoying my wife’s stubborn trust and the full circle of being encouraged by my son’s faith.

+…and more.

 So, thank you, Father. You are good! 

We have made it to this day only by your sustaining mercies.

I absolutely CAN NOT STAND the lack of understanding when it comes to personal space when traveling in other countries. Countless times, I have been standing in a line, perhaps waiting to buy a bus ticket or make a food order, and the Jabroni  standing behind me is so close that I can feel his disgusting salami breath on the back of my neck. It’s as if he is trying to discover my true hair color or something. “Ok, I’m busted!” Most of the time, there is nobody even behind him. Just fifty feet of unoccupied space. Sometimes I try to do a nonchalant stretch or sudden weight change so he will get the point. It never works. Maybe I should tell his mother.

As a follow-up to my newsletter article “Be Respectful to be Respected” I put together this simple and short list of ways you can show people you respect them. This list is NOT all encompassing, for crying out loud, so don’t let this limit you in demonstrating your respect to others.

1. Pay attention when someone is speaking to you. Not only does this show that what they are saying is important, but you just might learn something!
2. Don’t interrupt someone speaking. Jumping in while someone is mid-sentence or half way through a point is rude. Let the speaker get to a pause and THEN jump in.
3. Stay out of people’s personal space. Standing TOO close and leaning in TOO far when speaking or listening to a person is unnecessary for good communication. And it’s creepy.
4. Use “please” and “thank you”. If I have to explain why on this one, you need a smack up-side the head.
5. Keep your promises. When you tell someone you are going to do something (especially FOR them) you’re a fool not to follow through.
6. Be on time. Appointments are made for a reason, hello, because all parties agreed they would be available at that time. So do it.
7. Remember and use people’s names. This makes people feel important. I admit I’m not great at remembering names and it’s sad because I know how disappointing it is when a person doesn’t remember mine – but it happens all the time!
8. Be understanding of people’s thoughts and feelings. Every single person is entitled to their own thoughts and feelings and they have them for their very own reasons.
9. Don’t argue in public. Doing this is so rude to the person you’re with and offensive for those unfortunate and very innocent bystanders.
10. Show appreciation. Let people know when you like what you see or are happy with something they have done.
11. Be considerate of other people’s property and possessions. Always, always, always treat someone else’s things better than your own!

There are many more ways to demonstrate your respect: Feel free to comment on them here.

In the meantime… Thanks for reading!
Kimberly J. McCloskey
Authored 5/25/09

… Get back to where you once belonged.

-The Beatles

I have issues with space.

No, I don’t mean that I find the work of NASA to be terrifying or evil. I have some issues with personal space.

Now, on the spectrum of neurosis, with 1 being oblivious to any infringement upon my personal bubble, and 10 being a completely embarrassing meltdown over someone brushing against my arm at a party, I would fall around a 4, which would be mild annoyance and discomfort when people breach the invisible radius of comfort that extends outward from my person.

There are some needs I have that may be slightly more neurotic. Sleeping, for example, requires the perfect equilibrium (according to my standards) between freedom and confinement. This has resulted in the following prerequisites for my own sound personal sleep:

1. I cannot sleep unless I have enough space to rest both of my scapulas upon the bed.
2. Falling asleep becomes challenging if my partner initiates epidermis to epidermis contact (Too warm! Too warm!). Cuddling is fine, but expectations of actual sleep on my end tend to go out the window when this requirement is not met.
3. Just to clarify, the key elements of requirement #2 are: external initiation, and falling into sleep. I can initiate epidermis connection, so long is it is after I have fallen asleep once during a given session of sleep. This sometimes leads to unconscious hostile takeovers of mattress real-estate.
4. I must initially fall asleep with both of my arms tucked underneath the covers all the way up to my shoulders. This is something I have been conditioned to do in recent years for the safety of my partner. I actually used to sleep with my arms outside of the covers, but after backhanding my partner in the nose while dreaming I was having a dance-off with Usher, and delivering a brutal elbow to her forehead while trying to box out Victor Alexander during my REM-induced scrimmage with the 1993 Golden State Warriors, the tuck rule had to be instituted. After a few short months, I actually found that I couldn’t sleep with them outside of the covers anymore.

Now while my list of prerequisites for personal sleep may rate between 5 and 7 on the personal space neurosis scale, I think my need for personal space in conversation with others is more on par with the norm. It was this need that actually inspired this post, as an interaction this weekend reminded me that I have my own personal rules, especially when it comes to physical conversational proximity with strangers.

So I was at this gathering awkwardly mingling in a crowd of about sixty people. I say “awkwardly,” because, a) I have leanings towards social awkwardness, and  b) I was probably one of only five uninebriated (is that a word?) people within the confines of the room (not that I always refrain, or have any major qualms with drinking; I just chose not to on this occasion, thus giving me a less altered view of the lubricated world around me). In any case, during this mingling, I was separated from my partner, and found myself with a friend conversing to a really gregarious and energetic guy who was taking full advantage of the open bar.

During the course of this conversation, this animated individual violated so many of my rules for conversational space with strangers, that I made a mental note in my head that I should actually articulate them in written form so as to clarify them for myself. Hence, here are a few of my rules for personal space which pertain, at the very least, to encounters with strangers or new acquaintances:

• At least twenty-four inches of space must be placed between all faces involved in
  

  In searching for a picture, I discovered that Seinfeld did an episode about "close talkers."

  the conversation. This rule is fundamental for the following reasons: a) reducing the likelihood spittle-to-eye convergence, b) to protect one’s self from bad breath, c) to protect others from one’s own bad breath, and d) One may not necessarily want such intimate knowledge of one’s nose hair density. Some refer to the violators of this rule as face-talkers. Now, it should be noted that exceptions to this rule include whispering or speaking in hushed tones, occasional points of emphasis, and events with high-decibel background noise such as concerts or at a clubs. In such cases, communication with the mouth in close proximity to the ear is preferable to face to face communication within the twenty-four inch buffer zone. Additionally, cultural difference is a acceptable excuse for face-talking, as all cultures have different expectations and standards for personal space, and it would be unfair to impose my standards of space on all people.

   

Said perpetrator, of course, violated this first regulation. While his breath was not noticeably terrible, I did know that he was drinking hops-based libations on this particular evening. I was actually most uncomfortable speaking in such close proximity with others in this particular moment after eating artichoke dip, which always makes for a splendid mouth bouquet.  This violation unto its self is not to egregious, however, there are other standards. For example,

• Hand to body contact should be restricted to the following areas: the arms but not the hands [unless one is in handshake or man-hug mode (an act which deserves its own post)], the back within the thorasic region (lumbar region regulations may differ depending on mood, situation, and person in question), and shoulder area. It should be pointed out that the shoulder area can get a bit iffy, as it can be hard to define the boundaries. The boundaries shall hence fourth be restricted to outside of the armpit (incase the obvious needs to be stated), and no lower than an inch and a half below the clavicle.

Moreover,

• Hand to body contact shall consist of friendly pats and affirming grasps. Over-zealous slaps, and energetic pokes are strongly discouraged.

See, our excited new friend took neither of these standards into consideration. During the course of our encounter, he did a lot of tapping, poking, and resting of his hand in my pectoral region. The taps and pokes were not not aggressive, but rather they punctuated points he was trying to make. I also do not think the touching was intended to be in any way sexual, however, all of the contact made me a bit comfortable, especially him resting his fingers directly above my areola.

I honestly think this guy’s major issue was a lack of spacial awareness. This was best illuminated by his violation of the following standard.

• If, for whatever reason, one must be in close proximity with others during conversation, gesticulation should be kept be confined to short, compact, almost abbreviated, motions.

Our new friend seemed to enjoy expressing himself with arm motions hinging at the shoulder. This made his violation of the eighteen to twenty-four inch buffer zone a bit dangerous and potentially inappropriate. I kept worrying he might poke somebody in the eye, and I actually turned my hip towards him in an effort to protect my crotch a couple times.

Eventually we were able to extricate ourselves from the face-talker, we’ll call him Finley, and continue on with awkward mingling.

About two hours later, my partner came up to me and asked me in hushed tones, “Have you met Finley?”

“Yea, he seems like a nice guy, but he’s sort of a face-talker.” I responded.

Her eyes got wide, brows arched, and she mouthed the words, “I know!” Then said, in a slightly more audible tone, “I actually had to slowly step away from the conversation.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Well, he kept waving his arms around, and… well… he brushed his hand up against my boob. Who does that? I actually don’t even think he realized he did it, too!”

“And now a message from Alan Thicke.”

“Hi, I’m Alan Thicke.

“Face-talking is one of the fastest-growing causes of socially awkward interactions in the nation today. Every day, hundreds of people come in contact with unwanted spittle, smell putrid breath, suffer from unexpected chops to the crotch region without provocation… and you may be to blame!

“There is hope. If you think you might suffer from Chronic Face-Talker Syndrome, also known as CFTS, the Institute for the Promotion of Personal Space can help. Don’t hesitate, please call their toll-free number now: 1-800-SPARE-ME. That’s 1-800-772-7363.

“And together, we can put an end to Chronic Face-Talker Syndrome.”

Dear Seventeen-Year-Old Boys,

Okay, well, the truth is, once upon a time, I spent a lot of time with you. In the hallways, sitting next to you in class, getting burgers at Dick’s (oh my god, please click on this link, the website has music and everything)…let’s stop here for a minute and talk about Dick’s. It’s a detour, but like Dick’s itself, it’ll be worth the extra five minutes.

I can't really explain this picture. It was a theme party, then I was cold, there was a kimono? in my car...like I said, I can't explain.

It’s a local Seattle drive-in serving burgers, fries, shakes, ice cream– no substitutions, no special orders (unless you order the special, har har). And it’s glorious. You can get an ice cream cone for under a dollar. Burgers cost $1.20. Meat is fresh and never frozen, shakes are individually pulled out of the freezer and whipped as they are ordered, fries…oh the fries! You park along the edge of the outdoor order counter, and depending on the weather, you eat just as you step out of line or you crawl into the toasty warmth of your car and people watch through the windows. Make sure the glass is rolled up or keep the comments to a low volume…or not, as the case may be. In high school we used to all jam ourselves into cars and “meet at Dick’s.” Seriously. Even in the 2000’s, it was our version of a soda shoppe. It’s probably a good thing they put bathrooms in though, given the number of times the boys disappeared behind the building to pee. Here’s the thing: Dick’s is open from 10:30 am – 2:00 am seven days a week. I cannot fully express the glory of this. And there was always the chance that if you were, say, seventeen, and with your girlfriends, and trying very hard to run into somebody, it could happen. At Dick’s.

Ahem. At any rate, not that I ever had any particular insight into the minds of you, you seventeen-year-old boys, but I did at one point spend half my waking hours with you. And at the time, and again now looking back, I want to say that you are not all that different from seventeen-year-old girls. You are simultaneously insecure and over-confident, you are confused and very, very sure that you understand things no adult does. You desperately want to be liked while acting like you couldn’t care less. You are worried about what happens after high school….or, I suppose, frantic to get out of that hell-hole of torture. You are pushing boundaries (your own, your parents, the school’s, the city’s/town’s/state’s/law’s), and a little bit shocked when it works. Then really righteously indignant when you get caught.

Or– OR!!!– you are miles away from seventeen-year-old girls. There are oceans, mountains, valleys of impenetrable desert between you and your female counterparts. This might as well be Lawrence of Arabia, the distance is so epic. And not in a yin and yang sort of way, either. Not in a North Pole / South Pole way. Those are both cold and have ice. Honestly, I’m willing to bet Mars and Venus are too similar as well for this comparison. Maybe in a rare steak and chocolate chip cookie way. Except those are both foods…

Or maybe it’s a “so far West it’s East” thing. If one goes far enough around, as far as it’s possible to go, one ends up back at the start. Maybe seventeen-year-old boys and girls are so different they are actually the same. Maybe that’s it.

Hell, I don’t know. I don’t know your life. I understand that there is a whole variety of you out there, and you are individuals, and all of you want and push and pull in different ways.

Let me tell you, though, there is nothing more appealing to a seventeen-year-old girl than driving around in a car with a boy, windows down, music up, whether you are on the way to somewhere or just killing time. Offer to stop at Dick’s for an ice cream cone and she’ll smile.

The point of this letter, though, is to ask for information. I’m doing this thing where I pretend to be a writer, see, and that involves, sometimes, trying to capture the voice of people who are not me. Alas, I am not nor ever was a seventeen-year-old boy. (Secretly, I’m grateful.)

So if you were, or even if you weren’t, but you have something insightful / hilarious to say, please let me know. Top three things a seventeen-year-old boy wants? (Once we get past sex, that is.) Top three things he’s scared of? How much you miss Dick’s? How you went there yesterday (don’t tell me that…)? How to get inside a seventeen-year-old boy’s head?

I’m sure you’re right, I’m sure I don’t really want to know. But call it in the name of science, or art, or just sheer morbid curiosity– help a twenty-something girl out and take her deep into the abyss.

Love,

MM

These past few weeks have been difficult.

I’m interviewing for two different jobs. My dad is moving to a new house, so I’ve been helping him pack. I’ve also been traveling 4 hours back and forth from OH to IN to be with my aunt during chemo. Not to mention watching my nephews thrown in along with prepping for a big craft fair this Saturday both by making chocolate for my dad and jewelry for my mom. Oh and my dad had knee surgery today, so I sat at the hospital all day.

I’m exhausted. Emotionally drained. Physically tired. Soul weary.

The weather is turning cold. The skies are grey. The trees are naked and I feel like it all matches my mood right now. I’m on edge. Little things are bugging the crap out of me.

I’m not hopeless. I’m not freaking out about anything. Life is just stressful right now. I also realize that some of this is part of the aftermath of my parent’s divorce. As the oldest child I am now called on to stand in the gap, a lot. There are needs to be met. There are things that need to be done.

I’m also realizing how much of a team married couples are. When one of those people is removed from the equation there is a giant hole. With the move my mom would have packed, organized and transferred all services. My dad is responsible for finding the heavy lifters and getting it all moved. My dad didn’t stop to think about the things my mom usually does. This is just one example of many. As I step in to help I am hit with a wall of sadness and grief. There is a pain in realizing they are no longer a unit.

I could say no. I could walk away. I could draw harsh boundaries but I want to help. I want to encourage. I want to be involved. I just haven’t figured out how to do that and still take care of me yet.

I realize I need more me time. I know I need to find space to rest emotionally and spiritually. It’s just hard right now. I’m shuttling back and forth between my mom’s house and my dad’s house. I’m hoping that if I get the job I want it will buy me some space.

I especially feel responsible because my brother has removed himself completely. That is how he is choosing to cope. To me that is unacceptable. I can’t do that. Perhaps that is because I’m the firstborn and we naturally assume these roles. We naturally feel obligated. We are used to taking the reigns.

So it’s a whole bag of emotions. I need to get them out. I need to release them. Crying is part of it, but I also need to be creative. I think that’s why I’m so irritated right now. I haven’t had the time I want to focus on this show. I have had zero time to take photos. I haven’t been to a museum in a while. There have been no festivals to enjoy. I am also on people overload. As an introvert I need time alone. I have no space to be by myself. I have no space to call my own. I miss all my stuff that has been in boxes for almost two years.

So there’s a lot going on. It’s not life or death and I feel like I should insert some positive thing right here, but I can’t. It would be insincere. It’s not that I don’t feel positive. I can see lots of evidence of God moving in our lives. I feel settled into my skin more now than I ever have before.

It’s just hard right now. I’m jonesing for a trip to CA. I need to be with my peeps. I’m hoping it will work out that I can go for my 35th birthday. We’ll see.

I take the train downtown to work every day.

Yesterday, there was a guy sitting next to me, reading a newspaper.

I felt like Santa Claus.

He was leaning so far over the armrest into my personal space that if he came any closer, he would be sitting in my lap telling me what he wanted for Christmas.

Idiots.

They’re everywhere.

Be warned.

            On the day our son was born, somebody shot video of me standing outside the operating room, waiting to go in and be with Paula.  I was nervous and excited and sort of bouncy.  There was a joy in the waiting.

            Almost two decades later, I got a call early on a Monday morning with the news that my mother had experienced a devastating stroke.  I flew home and spent the next week beside her bed in ICU, watching for the final breath.  There was agony in the waiting.

            Sometimes, you wait for something to be born and sometimes you wait for something to die. And sometimes, you’re in-between and you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for.  You’re just in the waiting.

            For the past several months, we have been in a season of transition unlike anything in our lives.  Something has ended—the steady rhythm of vocational ministry that has marked our lives for three decades. At some point, something will begin, perhaps a new ministry.  But right now…well, we’re just waiting.

This waiting has been unlike the others.  There is mystery, not knowing where the journey is headed.  There is often been a baffling silence from God, even while we strain to hear His voice.  There is confusion, as we wrestle to press meaning into this season.  There is a dulling of emotions, a vacancy sign in the window of the Passion Inn.  There is a deep weariness that no afternoon nap can relieve.

Our souls are unsettled.  Like eggs cracked and in the pan, but not yet cooked.  Like a compelling story that comes to the end of a page with the frustrating phrase, “to be continued…” Like a night-time journey down a rural road with no street signs. Unsettled.

Here’s the even more frustrating thing.  I know God is in this.  That’s sort of part of the deal for Christ-followers.  I affirm His omniscient providence and that He knows the end from the beginning.  I agree that my life is a small part of His divine purposes.  I believe that He has marked out all my days before one of them came to be, and that His purposes includes this season of waiting.  But in the waiting, those truths can have steel-cold edges.

I know the Scriptures urge me to “wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord.” (Ps.27:14) I can quote the promise in my sleep: “they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” (Is.40:31)  But in the waiting, when my heart is terrified and just crawling is a dream, even precious promises can wear thin.

What’s left? What is there solid to which I can lash my soul when nothing is familiar, nothing makes sense, and everything is odd?

Just this: my Father is very fond of me. 

He has lavished the riches of His grace on me (Eph. 1:7-8), has adopted me (Rom.8:15-17) and calls me His very own child. (1 John 3:1).  My Father loves me the same way he loves His Son, Jesus, who also walked through his own season of waiting, sensing God’s abandonment and pleading for another way to accomplish divine purposes than the excruciating pain of the cross. This Jesus, “the author and perfecter of faith, for the joy that was set before Him, endured (waited through) the cross, despising its shame and sat down at the right hand of the Father.” (Heb.12:2) 

For His Father and by His Father, Jesus made it through.

So can I.  So can you. 

Because no matter how long we have to wait to see what’s next, no matter how confusing or unsettled the future seems, our Father’s gracious love is our one most certain thing. 

Right now, in this moment. In the waiting.

Dear Men,

Stop asking things of me. Just because you let me know that I have dropped my beach towel gives you no right to my name. I said thank you.

If I do not answer you once, do not ask me twice. If I refuse your offer of a drink once, do not ask me twice. If I refuse you once, do not ask me twice.

Do not get angry. Recognize that it is my right to withhold personal information such as my name, where I live, where I am from, and it is my decision whether or not I want to spend time with you. Recognize that there is no answer to the question, “Where’d you get those pretty ______ ?” Unless you are talking about my shoes.

The next person who makes me repeat a refusal or who asks an aggressive question twice is going to get cold-clocked with a long lecture on sexism and misogyny.

MM

PS– And yes, thinking you have a right to answers, a right to lean in close, a right to invade my time and space at all, is a result of sexism. It’s representative of the misogyny pervading the United States today. It’s a belief that because I am a woman and I am walking/standing/waiting/grocery shopping alone I must want you to harass me. I don’t.

If you cannot understand how asking me my name twice in increasingly louder tones as I walk away feels aggressive to me, pay a stranger who is bigger and stronger than you to invade your personal space either verbally or physically and imagine a lifetime of rape/assault statistics.

PPS– Do not twist my words and claim that I said men can never approach women. Just don’t do it. Seriously. You have a chance today not to be purposefully moronic. Take it.

PPPS– Look, I am sure you, individually, are very nice. But aggression and assault on women in the United States is a very real thing. This is a nice user-friendly article on it by Bob Herbert in the New York Times. A woman is sexually assaulted in the United States every couple of minutes.

So if you are very nice, as I’m sure you are, take a minute to think about how you can contribute to the solution instead of the problem. My Favorite? If you’re walking behind a woman on a dark street, cross to the other side so she does not have to. It’s a small gesture, and one not made often enough. I have been yelled at after crossing to the other side, along the lines of “What, you don’t trust me?!?” SERIOUSLY, GUYS, SHAPE UP. It’s not about you; it’s about my safety; it’s about the fact that ONE in THREE women will be sexually abused in their lifetime.

PPPPS– Did you know that empowering women is one of the fastest ways to lift a developing nation out of poverty? True story. How wonderful is that?!?

I’m not one of those local fans who thinks these two guys to the left are out to get us.  I often hear how much they hate Philly.  How excited they get when the other team gets a hit or scores a run.  How they always seem to be “rooting for the other team”.  Although I once nearly fell for this bit of nonsense, after further review, I now find myself refusing to buy into it.

Nope, the only issue I have with Joe Buck and Tim McCarver has absolutely nothing to do with their skills as broadcasters – they’re both pretty solid if you ask me.   My gripe is that they seem to have missed the memo on the 3-foot threshold for personal space.  Take a look at the photo if you don’t believe me.  There is no acceptable reason for two grown straight men to be conversing, standing, drinking, smoking – what have you – this close to one another.  If you were to further examine the photo, their heads appear to be no more than 5 inches apart.  As a stickler for space and not wanting someone all up in my grill, I find it dumbfounding!  They might as well be sitting on each other’s lap.  I understand that they have to be within the camera frame.  I get that, but this is bordering on ridiculous.  Believe me, I did my research.  This photo is one of many examples.  Look it up.

Otherwise, a job well done so far in this 2009 World Series!

NTKOG #51: The kind of affectionate, magnetically vivacious woman who doles out hugs like candy at a parade and punctuates every conversation with casual contact.

I am: an armchair person, not a couch person. As in, I will not even sit two people to a three-person couch with someone I have known for years. And if my leg accidentally grazes yours, rest assured I will apologize until you become semantically satiated with the word “sorry”.

I am not: super comfortable with personal contact. Can you tell?

The Scene: In an effort to grow slightly less neurotic about never touching anyone ever ever ever, I’ve been attempting to — um, touch strangers in what I consider to be inappropriate ways? Okay. That doesn’t sound quite as noble when you say it aloud. Nonetheless, a trio of interactions:

The Acquaintance Hug: A few mornings ago, one of my co-workers entered the office in a fairly deflated mood. She’s usually warm and vibrant, very sweet girl, but whatever combination of events — some confluence of relationship and finances and all the thousand slights the world sometimes likes to heap on you before breakfast — had chipped her veneer.

“Dude,” I said, standing up. “You need a hug?”

I was only a little horrified when she actually folded herself into my awkwardly proffered embrace. Then I stood there, not moving, waiting for her to leave. Apparently she didn’t think it was weird, and I was glad to be emotionally available, I guess, but dude: not. a. hugger.

The Coquette Tap: I see women all the time who, when talking to a man, will flirtatiously tap on his arm to get his attention or signal that he ought to pay attention to the totally brilliant thing she just said. This, to me, is weird. I mean, shouldn’t your voice and face be all the verbal italics you need in conversation? Is the point of the tap just a reminder? Hey! Bodies! We have them! We maybe could use them to hook up as a result of this conversation?

No single story here, but I’ve made a conscious effort to use this technique when talking to random guys I meet — especially on the T, where we’re stuck sitting in close proximity anyway. I tend to reach out for the casual upper-arm tap to underscore the fact that I’m joking when I say mean-funny things, just to lighten my tone. Because, yeah, I’m one of those smart girls who’s kind of a jerk to guys. Regret to inform! Basic results of this: the guys don’t seem to notice it one way or the other, but I always feel profoundly awkward afterwards.

The Fist Bump: Last night, as I was wandering around Cambridge trying to find the School of Government for a professor’s office hours, I got hopelessly lost and decided to ask the next grad student-aged passerby for directions. A guy passed me and I tapped his shoulder. When he spun around, I saw he was cute. Cutecute. I mean, so attractive that he was almost ugly — like a young Robert De Niro with designer stubble and the kind of Mediterranean beachy blue eyes you just want to bathe in.

TKOG: Uh, excuse me, do you know where the Kennedy School of Government is?
Seriously Movie Star-ish Leading Man: I’m sorry, I have completely no idea where that is.
TKOG: We. We have so much in common right now.
SMSLM: Yeah, I’m really feeling that bond.
TKOG: Pound it?

I offered him my fist and he switched his cigarette to the other hand and, y’know, knuckle-bumped, then — weirdly, amazingly — used his cigarette hand to pull me into a, like, slightly bro-ish but non-A-frame hug. I was afraid for a moment that his cigarette would burn my hair. But, guys, I kind of didn’t care. I mean, this guy was too cute to even be talking to me, let alone hugging me on a street corner.

After a second, he pulled away and wished me good luck finding the School of Gov. Which I basically floated to on a cloud of deep personal well-being.

The Verdict: Um, movie-star Harvard guys? You can hug me all you want. Everyone else? Look, I’m sorry, and don’t take it personally, but I’m just going to go ahead and sit on my side of the couch and you can sit … on another couch … in another house … and maybe we can just email each other. Unless you’re on my “people I couldn’t live without” list, there’s just no reason we ever need to touch!

We were at the beach this summer and this guy comes up to us.

He hunches down and gets all up in our grill. As he’s hovering and trying to sneak a peek in our cooler, he asks us, “Do you have a soda?”

So, I lean back (I don’t like my personal space invaded) and say, “No, but we have juice.”

And he’s all like, “Pffffft. Nah.”

Can you believe he actually walks away? I know, right? But, after about ten paces, he turns back and says, “Ok, I’ll take it.” Oh, really? Maybe I don’t wanna give it to you now…

I went ahead and handed him the Capri-Sun or whatever, but little does he know I DID have a soda. Of course, I had a soda. I never not have a soda. Duh. Lucky for me, he doesn’t know me.

Stingy of me? Maybe. But it was my last Dr. Pepper for the afternoon and we had like 4 of those juice pouches. Do the math. It was just a math thing…

Picture by: dunno source Submitted by: dunno source via Fail Uploader

I am prompted to write by this tweet from @gassho The Cell Refuseniks, an Ever-Shrinking Club – http://bit.ly/2s9c5w

In the article people were said to equate having a cell phone to a lack of privacy. Who gave everyone that idea? Just because we see people at the beck and call of their cell phones does NOT mean privacy isn’t possible. NEWS FLASH! Cell phones have an off button. They also have this cool feature that turns off the ring tone even if the phone is on! Gosh – who knew!

I got rid of my land line years ago. My cell phone gives me all the bells and whistles I had to pay extra for on my land line and it’s easier to turn off. I can keep it with me all the time for emergencies but don’t have it turned on much. My life sort of requires quiet. People can leave a message! Gosh – who knew.

Another reason people are cell resistant is they see so many people who can’t interact with the people they are physically with because their phone is taking center stage. It makes people angry to see so many people who are unwilling or unable to be where they are, doing what they are doing with who they are with. Hey, nothing new with that – now it is just easier to spot. If it makes you angry, while you are busy being angry with all those other people, you aren’t where you are, doing what you are doing with who you are with either.

So all together what I am saying is – tough love here – If you can’t handle the whole cell phone thing – you have issues that have nothing to do with cell phones. You may want to take a look at that. Or not.

My Students:  Yes, Julie, and we also want YOUR personal space.

This is the theme of this week, as it would seem. Regardless of national law, natural law, or just plain personal preference, I cannot seem to keep these children from holding my hands, hugging my arms, jumping on my back, or playing with my hair. This is normal for the elementary school students, but this week it’s the middle school where the offenders are hiding out. The most troublesome of the bunch is Hannah Montana, who I am going to psychologically terrorize (in a totally safe and legal way) if she doesn’t stop tickling me. -_-;;

Although Tuesday, this was kind of entertaining. During lunch time, Hannah Montana and Co. came to see me, and we decided to hang out on these benches near the school entrance and talk. This eventually turned into a paper-rock-scissors tournament, where we got into two lines and the people at the front of the lines paper-rock-scissors. The winner got to stay, and the loser went to the back of her line. Whenever I was at the front, I’d usually make my opponent answer an English question as well.

Violation of personal boundaries came about because whenever Hannah Montana was behind me, she draped herself over my back, played with my hair, and occasionally tried to tickle me. Occasionally the girls would switch which team they were on, and I soon got this treatment from all of them. Except for the tickling – only Hannah Montana is foolish gutsy enough to do that.

This group of first years is so funny, because whereas last year’s batch was very focused on Becoming Junior High School Students Very Quickly, this group is really still interested in being Elementary Students. With a few exceptions, they’re not interested in dating, they still like to play sports and color, and they would really prefer having a 20 minute recess in the mornings.

It was a very cute, simple, and fun lunch break. I liked it. Unfortunately, The Awesome Vice Principal wasn’t quite so enthusiastic about our jovial games. In retrospect, we were being pretty loud, and I got kind of a grumpy look when I returned to the teacher’s room after the bell had rung.

Still, I’m not really feeling all that contrite about it. Children are loud, giggly, touchaholic beings. It’s part of their charm, and one of the reasons that I like them so much – they’re always reacting, always moving, always having opinions, always searching.

It is, essentially, why I like my job. ^o^

You’re alive, said the Maker
And he smiled at the Aardvark…

Today I went out to see a movie and dinner with my assistant teacher Sunny (referred to earlier as “Son-ee” before I knew how the Anglicization of her name was spelt) and her two daughters, whose names I won’t even try to spell. They are about 14 and 16 or so. We saw Fame, Sunny probably picked it because it was one of the few English movies playing. I don’t know if it was the fact that I haven’t been to a movie in awhile or the fact that it was nice getting out, but I liked that movie, I don’t care what that 14-year-old says. (In her words, it was “disappointing.”)

Afterwards we went out to dinner, to Pizza Hut. It was actually really good. It was only slightly different than American pizza. We sat for awhile and ate and talked. The 14-year-old speaks very good English and is very charismatic and smart. Sunny’s 16-year-old daughter is also very nice, though her English isn’t as good so I didn’t get to talk with her as much. Also, Sunny explained that she is very shy. I liked them both and it was refreshing to be out with a family, especially one that seems so close and to get along so well. It seems as though it’s more socially acceptable for a 16-year-old to go to the movies and dinner with her mom than it felt when I was 16 in America.

When friends walk, especially female friends, it’s very common to hold hands or to have their arms linked. Sunny often had her arms linked with one of her daughters or was holding one of their hands when we walked from my apartment to the theater, the theater to Pizza Hut than Pizza Hut to the grocery store. At times when walking since I’ve been in Korea, Sunny will reach for my hand or arm and I still feel uncomfortable. It’s not that I am uncomfortable because I feel as though she is being rude, I’m just not used to it; it’s a cultural difference. Likewise, I feel at odds when I’m with Koreans and something happens where it would normally be customary in America to hug. For example, when I was leaving Sunny and her daughters, I feel as though in America we would have hugged goodbye (and in Brazil there would have been a double-cheek kiss.) However in Korea, it’s customary to wave goodbye and not hug. It’s interesting how the different cultures have negotiated when physical contact is appropriate and when it is not: when people hold hands and when they don’t, when they hug and when they don’t and when they kiss and when they don’t. I’m sure I’ll get used to the difference, just like I got used to hugging and kissing everyone in Brazil whenever I entered or left a room full of friends or acquaintances.

During dinner Sunny told me that one of my co-teachers, Mr. Woo, said that I was a very good teacher and better than the last native English speaker. From what I’ve been able to gather, the old teacher before me was probably around my age and had majored in teaching in college. I out-taught an actual teacher. My ego is slightly inflated at the moment. Despite that, I have no idea if I want to keep on doing this teaching business. I enjoy it and while I do my best, I don’t know how passionate I am about it. My motivations for wanting the kids to do well, to learn and to behave are strictly selfish; I don’t want to get fired and I do really want to limit the number of 4th grade fist fights I break  up. It’s fun for now, but I don’t know how I would feel about teaching if I had to do it with the knowledge that I will be doing this forever. I would feel suffocated. Right now I’m going to enjoy the ride and see where it takes me.