Death By A Thousand Paper Cuts: Opting Out

As I drove home from work today, I changed the radio station just as Trent Reznor's 'Hurt' started. By the time I heard, "Everyone I know goes away in the end" I was crying. It was the wrong song to be listening to at the wrong time.

There has been a steady flow of people leaving my life lately and it is killing me. I have walked away from friendships in the past, and it was never easy. Even when I did the walking, it hurt and I hated it. What kind of a person walks away from a friendship? What kind of a person builds and nurtures something and finally gives up when maintaining it becomes too exhausting?

And yet, people are walking away from me slowly and surely. People who have known me best and longest are leaving me, without a word or goodbye. It seems I don't even deserve that. I don't know what that says about me.

It started in February with Tall Lanky Guy. One day he was here celebrating my brother's birthday with us and introducing us to his boyfriend, asking me what I thought--insisting I tell him. Next day he was gone, not responding to my emails or phone calls. At first I thought he was busy catching up after his trip or getting ready for Persian New Year. But then my birthday/New Year rolled around and for the first time 16 years, he didn't call to wish me a happy birthday or a Happy New Year. At the time, it was icing on my unhappy birthday cake. I figured I must have said something--been too direct with my opinion when we last saw each other--so I called. And called and called. I left funny messages, sad messages and apologetic messages--I finally realized he really didn't want to talk to me. I couldn't tell one of my oldest friends that one of my newest friends had passed away. I couldn't joke about New Year parties and visits. I couldn't listen to his stories or make stupid jokes that he'd laugh at.

I didn't have my friend.

Since then at least two more have left me. People I loved have walked away; more are on their way out. I can't stop them. The hole in my chest is growing to the point it's making me numb. Sometimes at work I'll daydream of a different life that I tried to build for so long--a life shared with friends who had become my adoptive family; those in my life by choice and not by accident of birth. Then I'd be faced with the unpleasant reality that the only people left standing will be those who can't change me (fast) enough. Either way, the only thing I am left to believe is that I am unacceptable as I am.

And I couldn't censor myself for another day because of a song I was listening to during rush hour.

Only Stupid People Are Breeding

Below is an excerpt from a recent conversation:

'Hi GWCH! Look what I brought you!'

'Oh, what a pretty wedding invitation. Who is it for?'

'A Pakistanian guy. Do you know him?'

'I don't know. I have a few Pakistani friends, but don't think I know this groom.'

'Can you read the invitation?'

'No, I can't read Urdu. I know Farsi and a little bit of Arabic.'

'That's too bad that your parents didn't teach you Pakistanian.'

(Confused look on my face.)

'It's just that I thought you'd be proud of your Pakistanian heritage and all. You know, because you were talking about stuff that is going on over there for the last couple of weeks.'

(Trying to bite my tongue and not call her an idiot): 'Oh, no. I'm from Iran. I'm Iranian--some people say Persian. It's the same thing. We speak Farsi (also known as Persian). Pakistanis speak Urdu which has a similar alphabet and some shared words, but they're actually different languages.'

'Oh. So, you're not Pakistanian?'

(Me calmly nodding no, trying not to scream that there is no such thing as Pakistanian.)

'Huh. Maybe that's why I was confused and thought you were Indian. Do you know Indian?'

And that is the story of why I have welts in my mouth. And why I'm considering quitting my job and becoming a History and Geography teacher. God knows I can't make the kids any dumber.

Oh--and this lady has four kids, the first two of which she home schooled for a few years.

Zombie Warrior In Training

I have been avoiding writing this post for almost 12 weeks.

That was when I agreed to join Team In Training again to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Most of you remember the story of how I joined TNT last year, going from a well-rounded couch potato to a half marathon runner. The moment I walked into my hotel room before the Nike Women's Marathon, I called her and promised I would do it again next year, if she promised to come to San Francisco. She promised she would and we had a date. Her promise carried me up the hills and through the streets that day. Crossing the finish line was one of the happiest moments in my life--blown out knee, aching ankle, blisters and all. The only thing that clouded the euphoria was knowing that Manda didn't make it to San Francisco because her treatments weren't working. When I posted pictures of the event, she saw what I had written on my arm (Zombie Warrior) and wrote two words that brought tears, "My Hero!" She was gracious like that.

I haven't written about her since she passed, even though I think of her almost daily. I thought of her as I agreed to join as a mentor, knowing that my original motivation for running was gone; and I think of her every Saturday morning as I try to motivate my team members with a heavy heart.

This year, I know my fund raising can't help her any more, nor can my misadventures make her laugh (or wonder who the heck I am). I'm getting ready for a date that I know will break my heart. That's why everything I am doing (my running, my fund raising, my planning) is behind. Somewhere around the sixth or seventh attempt to write this in April, I had to stop.

A friend and I were talking about this and he made me think of why I'm running again. Amanda inspired me, but now I've met so many others who went through what she did. This week, I learned that one of my mentees will miss the next few weeks of training because he is scheduled for chemo. I have friends who were recently diagnosed with various blood cancers (two in the last year) and those who fight chronic forms of it; I have learned of friends who have overcome their battles and are living healthy lives. When I think about it, I realize my participation and fund raising were inspired by Amanda, but now includes many more friends who I'd like to think are benefiting from my feeble efforts.

And with this, my fund raising officially begins. I know a lot has changed since last year and donations might be smaller. I'll shamelessly accept donations big and small with gratitude. I am looking for sponsors, so if you know of any businesses that want their name raced through the streets of San Francisco, I can provide you with more details. I would also appreciate it if you could each pass on my fund raising site to at least 5 of your most generous friends.

Where is the link for you to donate? Right here!

I'll continue to post stories, updates and possibly pictures. Once my training jersey is personalized I'll start modeling it. Until then, I appreciate your support in any form and amount.

My Country In Flames

As I write this, I'm watching HBO's Letters to the President. We have been glued to our computers and the TV for the past couple of days, following the aftermath of the elections in Iran. Chances are, if you have been watching the news or cable channels, you don't know what's going on. CNN had an interview with motorcycle repairmen yesterday. MSNBC had something about Ted Kazinski.

The Revolution is not being broadcast.

Chances are you don't know much about my country. I don't blame you. You don't know about my people's generosity or their frustrations, you don't know of their dashed hopes and dreams. You don't know what is like to have lost your family to war; to have gathered in a house with your extended family praying that you survive the nightly bombings. You don't know what it is like to bury your sons who fought for the survival of a government they didn't believe in. You don't know what it is like to be seen as ignorant and repressed; international pariahs.

What you probably know is the caricature of a president that is made even more ridiculous in translations. You don't know that he was elected last time because the majority of the electorate boycotted the elections to make a point to the Reformers. You don't know that the he was elected by people who can barely see past their own day to day survival and are willing to vote for anyone who promises to build a road to their villiage, or give them a loan to buy a home. That is not to say those who voted for him were ignorant or stupid. It is to say they are just like us, responding to their basic needs as a people.

Two days ago, elections were held and something did not go according to plans. I tried to block out thoughts of the elections, I did not vote. I no longer live there and don't feel I am entitled a voice in a system that doesn't impact me directly. I was wrong. That system impacts my family who mostly live there, my friends and their families, my people and my culture. I was wrong to not vote, even if my vote would be lost and the loser would be hailed as the president. I was wrong not to vote, even if I didn't have much faith in any of the candidates because there was a lesser evil and even a window of hope. I was wrong to think that the rallies of people in green were just an excuse to get out and mingle. I was wrong to be so cynical about something that hurts my people.

If you look, you can see what is happening in the aftermath of those elections. There are cries of protest, there is violence and there is bloodshed. Those are my people. The pictures you see are of my sisters and brothers, my cousins and friends using the songs and calls of the last revolution against the government. Those cries of Allah-o-Akbar coming from the rooftop are the same cries that brought down the Shah 30 years ago. The cries of 'Azadi, Azadi' (Freedom, Freedom) are being used by a younger generation and thrown back in the faces of the people who are repeating the mistakes of the past. If Khamenei and his ilk have any memory of the past, they should be more than a little worried.

I am sad that they are suffering, I worry about the people I love. But I am proud that they did not accept this in silence. I am proud that they are braver than I ever could be. I am proud and hopeful.

Death By A Thousand Paper Cuts: Feel the Burn

Wednesday night, I had my hair trimmed and colored. I was generally displeased, because my usual stylist had shown me her new 'enhancements', wondered why she looked so 'exposed' and handed me off to her assistant before she went to dance class. Now, as you may know from my blog title, I have a thing about my hair. And I like how this particular lady does my hair, which is why I have followed her through three different salons and drive much further to get to her than my own logic dictates. So I did not like being handed off to her assistant--at all. Nor did I like an update on Brittney's concert, someone someone's wardrobe malfunction, celebrities dumped and others picked up. I don't really care. Yet, I got an earful as I was being worked on and my request for my hair to be styled was translated to the top layer of my hair being straightened with a flat iron and the layers beneath being neglected to a puffy semi-curl. Considering how many times she left to save her new puppy and come back to me, I thought it wise to pay and be on my way--with my curiously styled hair. To add insult to injury, she charged me as much as my regular stylist.

Thursday morning, I started styling my hair and trying to spritz, blow dry and curl it into order. I was feeling particularly clumsy as I burned the back of my fingers with the curling iron. I decided to prevent further disaster by taking of my robe so the wire wouldn't get entangled with the robe. I finally finished half my head and realized I'm running late for work. Really late. On a day that I'm scheduled to interview candidates for our Atlanta team. Then, as I tried to avoid burning my neck I dropped the stupid curling iron all together and burned myself again as it fell. On my general chestal area. As I digested what had just happened to me, I started yelling profanities in pain and sheer anger. I don't typically use bad language, which means I am not well versed and tongue tied when I legitimately need to be expressive in that way. I immediately got under cold water to prevent blistering, causing the finished side of my hair to unfinish again, but in a different way from the previously unfinished side. As I got out of the shower, still sputtering what few profanities I could string together, I started looking for my bottle of aloe. The giant, Costco bottle of aloe that I look at every single day, that was not in its regular spot, because I had removed everything for the plumbers while they tore my bathrooms apart. I stopped looking in drawers and cabinets long enough to try and remember where I had last seen it. As I walked towards M's closet where I stuffed a bunch of things, I slipped on the now wet bathroom tile and banged my already bruised knee. Normally, such a thing wouldn't happen because I have a carpet lying on the bathroom floor, but that too, had been folded and stuffed some place safe while the plumbers were doing their work earlier in the week.

I finally sat down with my half-flat, half frizzy hair; sore knee and burned flesh on the cusp of tears because I couldn't find my stupid bottle of aloe. For some reason I thought it would cheer me up to quote Richard III. "ALOE! Aloe! My nation of some f!@#! aloe!" As soon as the words were out, I realized I had misquoted Shakespeare. It wasn't a nation, it was a kingdom. I couldn't even quote Shakespeare. What was happening to me? As the tears started running down my face, I tried to think of calling someone who would understand. Someone accident prone and knowledgeable. But there was something just so ridiculous about my situation that I couldn't call anyone. Questions would be asked, laughter would have to be stifled and I couldn't handle mockery for at least an hour or two.

I finally got up, pulled my hair into submission, covered my burned flesh with a high collared shirt and left for work.

I sucked at the interview and wanted to apologize to the poor candidate for my tone. I wanted to explain why I sounded so distracted and in pain, but was pretty sure that would be considered TMI and possibly sexual harassment.

Somehow, I made it to the end of the day. M couldn't make sense of what had happened or how I had managed to hurt myself as much as I did in such a short time.

I need to learn to some new words. I'm sure it would have been much better if I had a stronger vocabulary. I also need to buy some more f@#! #$@aloe.

Death By A Thousand Paper Cuts

I have been wanting to write lately, but frankly have found it difficult with the many things that have been going on in my life and around me. Many of them are just daily annoyances; insignificant, absurd and tedious--perfectly forgettable, were it not for the larger things that have been looming. For a while, I was self-censoring, not able to talk about everything that was going on. Then, I was too emotional to write about what was happening coherently. Now, as somethings are resolving themselves and falling into place, I am beginning to see what the problem was: death by paper cuts (and occasionally cardboard). The reason that it freaked me out as much as it has (in addition to the frequency), is that Spring is the beginning for me. Things are supposed to recalibrate and renew. The only things that have been renewing this Spring are things that don't bode well for the future or set a good tone for the rest of the year. That has overwhelmed me and dragged me down more than the events themselves.

And so a new theme is born. Each time I want to write about my misadventures or whine about things that I know are insignificant--even by my melodramatic standards--I'll post them under the title above. At least you'll know what's coming.

Am I Evil? Perhaps

My parents have been visiting us over two trips; a few days at a time. The first trip provided some interesting moments and revelations, including the very real possibility that I'm a slightly wicked child after all.

M started running around the same time that I would trot over to the park by our house. By the time I joined TNT last year, he had joined the Tri(athlon) Club and was occasionally participating in local runs and bike rides. He has often said that he started running because I started, which flatters me to no end. Today, he runs and bikes much more regularly than I have since last October.

When he came home a couple of weeks ago (the first time my parents were here) he was still in his running clothes, sweaty and flushed from his 6 mile run. My parents started oohing and ahhing over how much more fit he looked and how impressive that it was that he was becoming so active. My dad couldn't stop admiring his will power and committment. My mom kept whispering to me how much better he looked. I kept smiling, because I know my parents and knew exactly what would be coming after all this admiration. I almost had a little countdown going.

To their credit, they both held out much longer than I thought they would. On the afternoon of their second day here (less than 24 hours), they asked if I ever went running with M. "No, he's asked me, but I don't like being left behind so I don't go at all." Now, this may have been a good time to say, "No, I ran with my Team In Training group until October, when I went to semi-retirement because of my injuries." But that would have opened a whole new can of worms, explaining the fact that I hid a half marathon and one of my proudest accomplishments for so long. So I let it be. Later than night, my dad started another conversation with M, asking if he would go to Phoenix and train my brother to run. (My brother who played rugby for a few years until he injured his knee, etc. who still managed to train until he could barely stand).

"You should also take GWCH with you."

Looking at me, "Of course, running may be too much for you right now" (slowly evaluating my figure with a little sadness) "Maybe you can walk around the block a little bit, then work your way up to walking to the park..." (the park is about 3/4 of a mile from our place) "You just need to get started and maybe one day you can run, too. With a better diet, you can probably lose some weight while you're at it!" He said this with the optimism of a man who hasn't given up on his child yet, a man who is still waiting for a miracle that will provide him with stories to take home of his daughter getting up and finding her legs.

M slowly said, "I started running because of GWCH. I didn't used to run, even when my co-workers kept encouraging me to. She inspired me." (Again, big brownie points to a man who can defend and compliment me at the same time).

"Well, that was back when she was in college. I don't know if she actually ran then, probably just walked to the library and said she was running."

M opened his mouth to say he was referring to my training and the half marathon that I ran last year. I stopped him with a calm look and a smile stolen from the Cheshire cat. My running was officially my secret. You see, in the past, this conversation would reduce me to tears. I would be angry that my parents didn't think I was acceptable in some way; or the fact that they would talk about my fixing/improving myself as if I wasn't even there. I would probably even be a little angry at M for accidentally providing an opportunity for them to criticize me. But this time things were different. I am officially too old to care that I don't fit into the image of how great I could be. I have come a tiny step closer to accepting myself, flaws, pounds and all. I also have a secret that I kind of enjoy keeping. There is no need to defend myself, now that I know what I can do. I can just sit back and nod in agreement when they say it would be good if I could be motivated enough to wake up early and walk around the block. I may be a little evil to get such (perverse) joy withholding information like this from my parents, but I can't help it.