To err is human, right?

Why is it that some people are so unforgiving of basic human error? Yesterday, I made a mistake at work, and realized it about 30 minutes later. I immediately took full responsiblity, explained my mistake and corrected it. Nevertheless, I spent part of this morning getting yelled at, accused and belittled.

Mistakes have consequences. They have to, otherwise people wouldn't be dissuaded from making the same ones twice. Some of those consequences are self-inflicted. Upon realizing my error, I felt embarrassed, stupid and inadequate. I beat myself up about it the whole commute home. I paid the price, which was clear in my apology, the verbal equivalent of falling on my sword.

Why was further verbal abuse necessary? Maybe, this person thought I was not properly educated on the importance of not repeating my mistake. Maybe, this person thinks I don't take my responsiblities seriously. Maybe, this person just likes making others feel bad. I don't have the answers, but I can tell you that for the rest of today, I was less productive and less efficient as a result of the A.M. tirade. Often, it dominated my thoughts, which I think even this person would agree, would have been better off dominated by the day's assignments.

Morning People

I envy morning people. Every so often, I dabble in mornings. Morning people have so much more time in the day and they are probably worlds more efficient than I am. I've tried to wake up early, usually in an effort to get a run in before work. These little phases typically last a couple of weeks, before I am back to resetting my alarm to get more zzz's. I sincerely hope morning people are born that way, because if they're not, then I really am just that lazy.

The last time I woke up at dawn and went to the gym, I was dizzy and didn't actually wake up until the walk back home. It kind of defeats the point of waking up to have more time, when you can barely put one foot in front of the other until your normal waking time. It's not just working out either.

Throughout my life, I've forced myself to get up at ungodly hours of the morning to study, to work and even to shop. In all cases, I'm a big, fat failure. I don't accomplish anything worthwhile or really enjoy myself until at least 9 or 10 a.m. So, all you morning risers, I salute you, and tomorrow when my alarm goes off at 6 a.m. and I try to get to the gym, send me some empowering morning energy thoughts please!

Return to the living

What is the most logical follow-up to my return to weekly 10+ mile runs? Of course -- a ridiculously nasty sinus and ear infection. I spent the last week downing 4 bottles of seltzer and one box of tissues per day, along with sleeping every few hours. I also missed three days of work, much to the disappointment of my employers.

A phenomenon I will never understand is the expectation held by many employers that their employees will show up to work unless their so sick that they're about to be hospitalized. I have no doubt in my mind that I got sick, because day after day I am surrounded by co-workers who cough, sneeze and spray germs in all directions. Being a committed, hard-working employee can't possibly mean you come to work when you're pale, feverish and contagious, can it? There remains the distinct possibility that I am just paranoid and that my employer and others in fact don't want me coming to work when I am legitimately ill. Nevertheless, in nearly every job I've held, I've heard co-workers express fear that they will make a bad impression on the boss if they stay home for more than a single day, if at all, while under the weather. From whence does this twisted perception come? I resent it, and I want answers.

Thankfully, my body has rebounded, responded to the wonder-drugs and I am inching toward 100%. Time to play catch-up at the office in earnest.

Hearts, stars and delirium

I am incapable of a purely romantic moment on Valentine's Day. One year, I actually got dumped on V-Day. For years, I actually wore black in protest of the Hallmark holiday, all the while secretly hoping for those schmoopy Valentine's moments.

This year, I am with JB again, and since last year's day was so perfect, I thought, "Hey, two in a row! My luck is finally turning around." These thoughts came too soon, as today I came down with a world-class head cold. I'm totally congested, have glands the size of golf balls, and my throat is flaming. I look like hell, and for some reason I can't hear anything JB says. "Huh?" has been my phrase of choice, which does not bode well for our dinner out tomorrow at a crowded, uber-popular Mexican restaurant where I made reservations a month ago. At this point, I'm just hoping that I won't be running a fever by tomorrow, or suffering from laryngitis. Ah, Valentine's -- too bad Cupid's not carrying flu shots in those arrows.

Living with a writer

One of the most interesting and infuriating facets of my current living situation is my boyfriend JB's behavior while he's writing. More and more, I find myself studying him like he's a foreign species who will soon have his own Discovery channel documentary. We live in a small studio apartment, and if I am ever home while he's working on his first novel, heaven help me.

Envision, if you will, the following scenario: I come home after a long, intense day at the office to find JB at his laptop - scrolling incessantly with his optical mouse, as he looks for passages that need editing. "Pspsppspspssssspspspsps," I hear as I try to watch television, surf the internet on my laptop, or just sit and relax. He's testing out dialogue, and he gets so darn irritable if I poke fun or, horror of horrors, try to engage him in conversation. I try to ease my way into his world slyly with, "JB, if you're talking to yourself, can't you talk to me, too?" "YOU GET FRIDAYS AND SATURDAYS! Let me work!"

Ordinarily, I would escape to another room and sulk, but lacking one of those, I turn back to my laptop and begin a blog post. If you can't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em. One of these days/weeks/years, JB and I are going to have similar schedules, where when we're both home, we can and want to spend time together like a normal couple. This will inevitably coincide with a time in our lives when we have multiple rooms. It just figures.

Secrets and Sparks

"A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets." - Rose, in Titanic
Despite the fact that this was a seriously cheesy movie, I still remember seeing this movie in college, hearing that line and honestly believing that it wasn't really true. I also remember a few years later, when I discovered it was entirely true.

I was dating this guy. Let's call him the "medical student." Anyway, we'd been together for nearly a year, and I was bored. He was the nicest guy. He never argued with me. He always let me have whatever I wanted. There was no challenge -- or even the slightest difference of opinion. He treated me like gold, and I figured that was the best a girl could hope for. One day, we were on our way to get some lunch (I can recall exactly what street we were on and even the details of his car's interior -- '90's Ford Explorer - gray interior), and I was staring out the window thinking, "Wow, is this really it? You find a nice guy, who will always do right by you and that's it. No moron would throw that away, right? I wish there was a spark. Can I live a life without any spark?"

A few months later, I got my answer. The medical student and I were studying at my law school library one evening when I got up to check my email over at the computer lab. I was tired, still getting over walking pneumonia, trying not to panic over upcoming exams and looking absolutely wretched. After briefly checking my email, I made my way out of the lab. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of my teaching assistant walking behind me. Let's call him "the TA." This was a guy who was really smart, but not someone I'd ever noticed as being particularly attractive, until, of course, I looked like hell and had no time to talk. He stopped me to ask how I was feeling and how my studies were going, and as we chatted I swear that sparks like lightning bugs on a summer night were everywhere.

Long story short (too late), I eventually got the courage to realize I could have a different, spark-filled life, and I broke up with the medical student. I could never fully explain to him why things weren't working out, except to say that it was complicated and I just needed more. Telling him I needed sparks like the ones I felt with the TA would have been cruel, and it was, until this post, one of my heart's ocean of secrets. Since then, my heart has accumulated many secrets, and they always remind me that I can dare to have a different life - one with lots of lightning bugs and one where someone treats me like gold.

My NYC

Today, while reading on my train ride to work, I came across the most wonderful description of my walks home from the subway station in the evenings:
"The soft rush of taxis...and laughter, laughter hoarse as a crow's, incessant and loud, with the rumble of the subways underneath - and over all, the revolutions of light, the growings and recedings of light - light dividing like pearls - forming and reforming in glittering bars and circles and monstrous grotesque figures cut amazingly against the sky."
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

My coworkers often ask how I can stand the commute, why I don't just move to Connecticut, and why I think it's worth it to pay more to live in the polluted, loud, dirty city. The main reason, I think, is that in all of its awful imperfection, it is simultaneously comforting and reassuring. I come home after a day slaving away in the 'burbs, and I am immediately calmer as I listen to the city sounds. Manhattan has a uniquely romantic and hopeful quality to it. Naysayers will tell me to smell the gross city odors and pay closer attention to the crime and pestilence, but when I think of my NYC, I prefer a You've Got Mail sensibility, where daisies, the friendliest flowers, are just around the corner.

Getting old

I'm twenty-seven, and not exactly over-the-hill. Still, when Friday night hits I have the following dominant thoughts: I can't wait to go home and sit in front of the television. Then I can sleep. That will be nice.

I realize how pitiful and sad that sounds. I also occasionally feel pitiful and sad for indulging my Friday night laziness. Last night, for example, I decided to meet some friends from school at a bar downtown after work. On the train ride back to the city, I started to feel the lazy creep in, but I resisted valiantly. I was determined to be young and fun. I got off the train and quickly made my way to the downtown express subway platform. I waited with what was a rapidly increasing number of other commuters. Five minutes went by...then fifteen...then twenty. At twenty-five minutes, I cracked. All the stress and frustration of my work week barreled down on me at warp speed, and I had one of those moments where I just could not be in a crowded place. I was hot, tired, bitter and feeling slightly claustrophobic.

Turning abruptly, I bobbed and weaved through the crowd like George Costanza playing Frogger. I crossed over to the uptown platform to go home, when (of course) the downtown train came roaring toward the station. The fates took pity on me and the uptown train followed a few moments later. I rode the train to 59th Street, and went to the only place that I knew could calm me down after a long, poorly-ended week: Bloomingdales. My usual sitting in front of the t.v. with takeout leftovers was followed by beautiful, sweet, perfect sleep. Ahhhhhh.

a shirt and boobs

Last night, I went to an annual firm dinner. Everyone was wearing a suit, and most of those suits were pants suits. Granted, all the men wore pants suits and there were more men there than women. Still, the women rallied behind the pants suit, with only limited exceptions. One partner recalled the first female partner who wore pants suits to the office some thirty years ago, and the upheaval it caused at the time. I'm sure this same upheaval was occurring at offices nationwide. Employers didn't know what to do with the changing identity of women in the workforce. Without the skirt, what was to distinguish them from their male counterparts?
As Ann Taylor and even Brooks Brothers began to tailor pants suits and collared shirts for women, there remained one difference from the men's version. Aside from that random 90's trend perpetuated by Madonna urging us to Vogue, women do not wear ties.
Without the tie running down the center of our chests, is the female uniform "a shirt and boobs," instead of a shirt and tie?

I don't have a clue how fashion evolved this way. I'm happy that the proverbial noose does not have to hang around my neck all day. I hear it's uncomfortable and often stifling, and that is where it all makes sense. Women's breasts have been uncomfortable and often stifling since the beginning of time. Sure, you can jazz them up with the right undergarments or a really cute top., just like ties come in fun paisley prints, and even with little animals embroidered on them. Dress it up and make it pretty. We're all just showing the world what we're working with (thank you Mystikal for the reference).