There are some days when you just need to cook. Today's been a day of writing, writing, writing and memorizing French. Assuaging an exhausted brain can only be remedied in one way: with mindless activity.
Cooking may not be the case for everyone. Cleaning, gardening, and organizing all seem like approximately equivalent tasks in terms of the amount of mental exertion/energy it requires. Cooking requires some motivation, of course,to create and use the side of one's brain that says "OK, Jenae, take this recipe step one, two, three, four until completion."
Following steps is a beautifully mind-numbing yet all-consuming task. Simply focusing on stirring over the stove top or chopping up an onion is a perfect and simple way to relax. I've been wanting to make homemade pizza for ages, staring at the pizza pan thrown in the cabinet with the other pots and pans, debating what to make and how to make it.
I made a really simple recipe (and used pre-made pizza dough, which definitely does not make me a very legitimately gourmet cook, but whatever) and... it was fun. I cooked for myself by myself and it was probably one of the most satisfying experiences I've had in a long time. See, I love to cook for other people and I love to entertain, but I love the lack of pressure in simply experimenting on a recipe for me. There are no expectations when I'm cooking for me. If I mess up, it's my own fault and I'm the only one who really has to suffer the consequences. I don't have to justify any culinary choices to anyone but myself. Sure, it's a little lonely in the kitchen knowing that you're the only feeding yourself, but finding happiness in autonomy and realizing that being alone does not necessarily equate to loneliness is beautiful.
Doing something like cooking by yourself, too, provides an opportunity to just be and not worry about other people's expectations of how you should act, too. I didn't have to worry tonight about maintaining a conversation while attempting to pay attention to the stovetop. All I had to do was stir, focus on the Franz Liszt I had playing at high volume in the background, and... create great food. It's funny how simple life can be when experienced all alone every once in a while.
Now here's the greater question: to continue my culinary conquests (how's that for some alliteration) with a batch of sweet potato and walnut muffins or no?
Showing posts with label loneliness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loneliness. Show all posts
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Today I Appreciate the Receptionist at Work
This was a bad day.
Consistently on the verge of weeping/crying (depending on the severity of what little thing bothered me), I'm exhausted. Walking felt strangely automatic today, as if my feet were working for me and I had little control over where they shuffled me. My head felt light, detached from my body, trapped in its own hazy state separate from every other part of me. Everything was - still is - bizarrely muted. Ironically, this distance from everything around me triggered this instinct, this desire to flee. Anything would have been better than that distance I felt, that complete and utter isolation from everything around. Nothing felt close and real and nobody could hug me or kiss me or rub my back and assure me that it was going to be OK.
So I cried in a crowd, too, and it had to be one of the worst feelings, watching everyone pass me content or bored with their own lives when I felt like I was simply drowning in mine.
The receptionist at work noticed, though. I'm a writing tutor and no students signed up to work with me today, so I worked on homework and perused Facebook when I lost focus. I saw our receptionist out of the corner of my eye; he sat down next to me and just asked me:
"Hey, are you OK?"
And that was the only thing I needed to hear. I told him honestly ("no"), but he didn't pry, he didn't try to get at any gossip or emotional trauma. Instead, he just said he hoped I felt better, but not in a passing way. It felt genuine.
So, thank you, Covel Receptionist, for noticing me.
Consistently on the verge of weeping/crying (depending on the severity of what little thing bothered me), I'm exhausted. Walking felt strangely automatic today, as if my feet were working for me and I had little control over where they shuffled me. My head felt light, detached from my body, trapped in its own hazy state separate from every other part of me. Everything was - still is - bizarrely muted. Ironically, this distance from everything around me triggered this instinct, this desire to flee. Anything would have been better than that distance I felt, that complete and utter isolation from everything around. Nothing felt close and real and nobody could hug me or kiss me or rub my back and assure me that it was going to be OK.
So I cried in a crowd, too, and it had to be one of the worst feelings, watching everyone pass me content or bored with their own lives when I felt like I was simply drowning in mine.
The receptionist at work noticed, though. I'm a writing tutor and no students signed up to work with me today, so I worked on homework and perused Facebook when I lost focus. I saw our receptionist out of the corner of my eye; he sat down next to me and just asked me:
"Hey, are you OK?"
And that was the only thing I needed to hear. I told him honestly ("no"), but he didn't pry, he didn't try to get at any gossip or emotional trauma. Instead, he just said he hoped I felt better, but not in a passing way. It felt genuine.
So, thank you, Covel Receptionist, for noticing me.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Today I Appreciate Not Being Thirteen Anymore
I had completely forgotten what thirteen looks like until this weekend. Thirteen is all pink lip gloss, big feet, and braces. Thirteen also involves a lot of squealing, jumping up and down, and lip synching. Thirteen gets awfully tired, awfully quickly, especially if you're not thirteen.
See, it was my cousin's Bat Mitzvah (a Jewish coming-of-age ceremony that girls and boys undergo at... thirteen) this past weekend and as my sister and I entered the temple and saw a huddle of girls clamored together in the back of the synagogue, biting painted fingernails and gripping on to oversized purses, we looked at each other and understood that this was SO MUCH THIRTEEN all in one place.
When I first think of myself at thirteen, I'm actually not all that embarassed. In fact, I'd say most of my memories at thirteen are pretty happy ones. To be a Jewish thirteen-year-old I think makes being thirteen a little bit easier because if you're enrolled in Hebrew school and if you're at least a socially acceptable member of said Hebrew school class, you will be invited to a Bar or Bat Mitzvah at least every other weekend. What this means are constant opportunities to feel accepted and social and to have fun. At what other age does one have any excuse to go to an elaborate birthday party every weekend geared specifically towards your own age group?
Seeing my cousin's friends huddled in the back of the synagogue reminded me of Michelle, Leah, Rebecca, Liat, and me all squished in one row together, whispering about how cute each other's dresses or shoes or make-up looked. We'd try to nab the yamulkes off the boys sitting in front of us (Josh was the only one who minded, but he wore purple sweat pants to Hebrew school every day, so he never really counted). We'd be the loudest singers of the prayers (we knew them all, thanks to meeting for Hebrew school twice a week). We'd all find a way to migrate to the restroom together at steady intervals during the service (because god knows, a two hour or longer service gets pretty boring when you have a party to anticipate and lipstick to reapply). Most of all, however, we'd be the most congratulatory towards the Bar/Bat Mitzvah at the end of each service because we all knew exactly what it was like to sweat on the bima (that is, the pulpit) and crackle out Hebrew prayers that held very little direct relevance or meaning for us. That's not to say that the service itself lacked any value. On the contrary, I felt proud of my accomplishment to read Hebrew, to sing Hebrew, and to become an "adult" in the way that other Jewish women did before me.
What most resonated with me at thirteen about my Bat Miitzvah, however, was that throughout the process, I became a part of a community. At an age where feeling isolated or different was about the worst possible thing that one could be, finding connection, finding unity with others, and most importantly, finding acceptance among my peers was what made my Bat Mitzvah so meaningful.
Of course, longing and yearning for this acceptance was also what made thirteen so painful. I could see it in the faces of the girls at my cousin's Bat Mitzvah. When I went to the bathroom during the service, six of them crowded around the sink, clamoring for views of themselves in the mirror to brush hair, adjust strapless bras, and purse their lips. A skinny girl with ratty, red-dyed hair, heavy black eyeliner, and black fingernails sighed.
"How much longer do you think this is going to be?"
One of the other girls, blonde, heavyset, and stuffed into a short sparkly blue dress shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know. Do you think we're going to throw candy at the end like at Rachel's Bat Mitzvah?"
The girls at the mirror turn around and start to giggle and titter about candy.
"But you don't even get to eat the candy!" the ratty-hair girl asserts. "I remember, I like, started to eat some of the candy they gave us and then I, like, realized we were supposed to, like, save it and just throw it at her and I was just, like, what the heck? What are you supposed to do with candy if you don't, like, eat it?"
The blonde girl girl nodded and the others followed suit, everyone a little bit too afraid to voice any disagreement or dissent. Ratty girl was outspoken, a leader; no one wanted to try to justify the traditional candy-throwing after a Bar or Bat Mitzvah finishes reading a Torah portion. I remembered stuffing candy into my purse at other Bar or Bat Mitzvahas, saving some to throw, some to eat for later. This was not uncommon.
"God, I'm huuuungry," ratty-hair girl complained again and everyone else giggled.
"It is pretty long," I finally spoke up. The girls grew silent. The ratty-hair girl looked at her friends, looked back at me, and gave me a little nod. How old did I look? Was it totally weird for me to reassure them that services feel a little dull after a certain period of time?
Somehow, I needed some reassurance that I was cool enough, that I could agree, that I could assert my opinion. The insecurities of thirteen struck me again and I realized that with all of my fond memories of adolescence, all of my moments of happiness and belonging were coupled with constant questioning of how I looked, how I acted, and how I was perceived by my peers. I always felt a little on the fat side or a little on the plain side or a little on the nerdy side and never quite centered with Michelle and Leah and Rebecca and Liat. I would never (still don't! Ha!) fall into the camp of popular or totally accepted because I couldn't always be overwhelmingly friendly or bubbly or assertive.
In spite of these concerns, I grew. I changed. Upon entering high school, the rest of my body grew to meet the size of my large, thirteen-year-old feet, and my concerns with appearance, with attitude faded slightly.
At thirteen, it's achingly normal to feel so alone and to feel so lost and confused about one's identity. I apreciate the fact that I can see these other thirteen-year-old girls, smile, and realize that they, too, will grow to find their own identities. While it's exciting to be at the cusp of change, the cusp of adolescence, I'm also grateful that I'm past the point in my life where I'm concerned with those changes.
Thirteen may not seem like an appropriate age to become an adult as there is so much about being thirteen that's so immature, so childlike, and so unbelievably awkward, but it's the right time to emphasize to a girl or boy that no matter how alone or how weird or how unpopular you feel, you have family and friends and people who love and care about you in spite of yourself.
See, it was my cousin's Bat Mitzvah (a Jewish coming-of-age ceremony that girls and boys undergo at... thirteen) this past weekend and as my sister and I entered the temple and saw a huddle of girls clamored together in the back of the synagogue, biting painted fingernails and gripping on to oversized purses, we looked at each other and understood that this was SO MUCH THIRTEEN all in one place.
When I first think of myself at thirteen, I'm actually not all that embarassed. In fact, I'd say most of my memories at thirteen are pretty happy ones. To be a Jewish thirteen-year-old I think makes being thirteen a little bit easier because if you're enrolled in Hebrew school and if you're at least a socially acceptable member of said Hebrew school class, you will be invited to a Bar or Bat Mitzvah at least every other weekend. What this means are constant opportunities to feel accepted and social and to have fun. At what other age does one have any excuse to go to an elaborate birthday party every weekend geared specifically towards your own age group?
Seeing my cousin's friends huddled in the back of the synagogue reminded me of Michelle, Leah, Rebecca, Liat, and me all squished in one row together, whispering about how cute each other's dresses or shoes or make-up looked. We'd try to nab the yamulkes off the boys sitting in front of us (Josh was the only one who minded, but he wore purple sweat pants to Hebrew school every day, so he never really counted). We'd be the loudest singers of the prayers (we knew them all, thanks to meeting for Hebrew school twice a week). We'd all find a way to migrate to the restroom together at steady intervals during the service (because god knows, a two hour or longer service gets pretty boring when you have a party to anticipate and lipstick to reapply). Most of all, however, we'd be the most congratulatory towards the Bar/Bat Mitzvah at the end of each service because we all knew exactly what it was like to sweat on the bima (that is, the pulpit) and crackle out Hebrew prayers that held very little direct relevance or meaning for us. That's not to say that the service itself lacked any value. On the contrary, I felt proud of my accomplishment to read Hebrew, to sing Hebrew, and to become an "adult" in the way that other Jewish women did before me.
What most resonated with me at thirteen about my Bat Miitzvah, however, was that throughout the process, I became a part of a community. At an age where feeling isolated or different was about the worst possible thing that one could be, finding connection, finding unity with others, and most importantly, finding acceptance among my peers was what made my Bat Mitzvah so meaningful.
Of course, longing and yearning for this acceptance was also what made thirteen so painful. I could see it in the faces of the girls at my cousin's Bat Mitzvah. When I went to the bathroom during the service, six of them crowded around the sink, clamoring for views of themselves in the mirror to brush hair, adjust strapless bras, and purse their lips. A skinny girl with ratty, red-dyed hair, heavy black eyeliner, and black fingernails sighed.
"How much longer do you think this is going to be?"
One of the other girls, blonde, heavyset, and stuffed into a short sparkly blue dress shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know. Do you think we're going to throw candy at the end like at Rachel's Bat Mitzvah?"
The girls at the mirror turn around and start to giggle and titter about candy.
"But you don't even get to eat the candy!" the ratty-hair girl asserts. "I remember, I like, started to eat some of the candy they gave us and then I, like, realized we were supposed to, like, save it and just throw it at her and I was just, like, what the heck? What are you supposed to do with candy if you don't, like, eat it?"
The blonde girl girl nodded and the others followed suit, everyone a little bit too afraid to voice any disagreement or dissent. Ratty girl was outspoken, a leader; no one wanted to try to justify the traditional candy-throwing after a Bar or Bat Mitzvah finishes reading a Torah portion. I remembered stuffing candy into my purse at other Bar or Bat Mitzvahas, saving some to throw, some to eat for later. This was not uncommon.
"God, I'm huuuungry," ratty-hair girl complained again and everyone else giggled.
"It is pretty long," I finally spoke up. The girls grew silent. The ratty-hair girl looked at her friends, looked back at me, and gave me a little nod. How old did I look? Was it totally weird for me to reassure them that services feel a little dull after a certain period of time?
Somehow, I needed some reassurance that I was cool enough, that I could agree, that I could assert my opinion. The insecurities of thirteen struck me again and I realized that with all of my fond memories of adolescence, all of my moments of happiness and belonging were coupled with constant questioning of how I looked, how I acted, and how I was perceived by my peers. I always felt a little on the fat side or a little on the plain side or a little on the nerdy side and never quite centered with Michelle and Leah and Rebecca and Liat. I would never (still don't! Ha!) fall into the camp of popular or totally accepted because I couldn't always be overwhelmingly friendly or bubbly or assertive.
In spite of these concerns, I grew. I changed. Upon entering high school, the rest of my body grew to meet the size of my large, thirteen-year-old feet, and my concerns with appearance, with attitude faded slightly.
At thirteen, it's achingly normal to feel so alone and to feel so lost and confused about one's identity. I apreciate the fact that I can see these other thirteen-year-old girls, smile, and realize that they, too, will grow to find their own identities. While it's exciting to be at the cusp of change, the cusp of adolescence, I'm also grateful that I'm past the point in my life where I'm concerned with those changes.
Thirteen may not seem like an appropriate age to become an adult as there is so much about being thirteen that's so immature, so childlike, and so unbelievably awkward, but it's the right time to emphasize to a girl or boy that no matter how alone or how weird or how unpopular you feel, you have family and friends and people who love and care about you in spite of yourself.
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