Fit

Day 71: A few months ago, I broke my glasses. The lenses themselves were just fine, but the hinge on the right arm came apart. My insurance only covers new glasses every two years and I was still 4 months short when I sat on my glasses. Thus, I was forced to make do by taping the broken arm in place and waiting. My glass constantly slid down my nose, off my nose, into my lap, onto the ground. Sometimes the tape would fail and the glasses would fall apart. Once, that happened while I was driving. On top of that, the arm was taped on in a way that provided stability, but rendered the arm unfoldable and the glasses almost entirely unadjustable. The glasses did not fit well, and would not fit well. But I got used to them.

A couple weekends ago, I lost my broken glasses at a wedding. I am able to see short distances without them, but, without them, driving becomes dangerous during the day and entirely impossible at night.Thus what was once just an annoying situation became an altogether impossible one.

I went to the eye doctor for an exam and walked out with semi-expensive replacements. I liked them. I liked them so much, in fact, that I didn't particularly care when a woman said to me, "Drew... they make you look so... nerdy. Like... more nerdy than usual." An insecure Drew would have openly questioned her ill fitting cardigan and discount hair dye. That day, however, I only smiled and said, "Well, I like them." And I did. I do, even. But then weird things started to happen.

The glasses sit just where they're ought to without pokes from pointer finger or encouragement by way of nose crinkling. They behave as they should. Yet that doesn't stop me (even as I write this) from occasionally reaching up and pushing them here and there, adjusting them, taking them off and looking at them, rubbing my temples and shrugging my nose. They fit perfectly and, because of that, they give me headaches. I can hardly keep them on for more than an hour or so before taking them off. I can see much better with these than I could with my broken (and now missing) glasses, but, still, they're a pain - literally. The points at which they press upon my head are particularly uncomfortable.

I find myself missing the broken, ill-fitting, dangerous glasses, even though I see better with my new glasses, even though these new glasses are aesthetically superior. The old dodgy glasses, however, are familiar. I'd learned my way around the brokenness and had even come to expect and welcome it. When it went missing, I lost the standard that I had adapted to, a comfort I had worked very hard for. The new glasses are superior in every way, but they're not mine. Sure, I own them and use them, but they aren't yet personal. They're not a part of me yet.

That pretty much sums up the entire semester so far. I spent much of the time expecting things to fall apart and get tougher and more impossible, just as they had before. This time, though, things are much easier. Not only am I much more focused, but I'm less burdened and distracted by outside concerns than I was before. On top of that, I'm keeping at it, pressing through the tricky spots, saying no to beer and yes to homework (each when I have to [and ONLY when I have to]) and find myself now on the cusp of having had a successful semester.

And that's horrifying.

I know what it's like to fail. I know what it's like to grunt and strain and try with all your might to lift only to walk away with a gut full of hernia and a heart full of shame. All of that is as familiar to me as the sound of my own voice. I didn't glory in it or celebrate it at the time, and, had you asked me back then, I would have told you how much I hated it.

But this new way is unknown, unfamiliar, and sometimes that feels worse. I'm not familiar with this trajectory and, other than hearsay, I'm flying blind. I don't want my old glasses, and I don't want to go back to the way I did things, but I miss them both. I miss knowing.

I have two and a half weeks left of classes and finals and am already in the thick of planning and registering for coursework for next Summer, Fall, and Spring. I'm exhausted and on the verge of burning out, but I've still got some gas in the tank. I'm good for at least one more round.

This new path is lousy with unfamiliarity but I've eyeballed my grades and they're looking pretty good. I see them and say to myself, "In no time at all, you'll be used to these new glasses. The headaches will be gone, you'll forget you even have them on half the time, and you'll forget all about those old ones that weren't anything but trouble. In two weeks or so, you're going to see just how worth it is was to stretch those underused muscles and try lifting again."

I'm worried about the money, and the time, and the everything else, but can't ignore how good it feels to be trying - trying and succeeding, even.

Almost.

And only "almost". We've still got two weeks to go. But, if the last 13 weeks have been any indicator, in two more weeks, we'll be adding a "W" to the books. And I'd say that'd be worth the price of new glasses.

My New Specs

_____


Full disclosure: Wearing my new glasses, I called the reception hall where I'd last seen them, hoping that someone had found them. They had not.

#destiny
#outwiththeold
#noturningback

That Day

Day 51: It begins well enough in New England.

In September, young college men arrive on a campus positively lousy women - supple, buxom, flirty, eager, curious women, many of whom are, for the first time, without their parents supervision. Their shorts are shorter than expected, their hair softer, their eyes beckoning, their staunch inhibitions faded to vestigial mores by an insistent summer sun.

These college men, each of them, are paralyzed by the veritable galaxy of dazzling women, taunted and moved, indecipherably inspired as so much secret flesh dances from quad to quad, winking, like a promise, like a dare. The young men would act if not for the sheer improbability of the spectacle. Is it a trap? Are they the predators or the prey? Where do they begin? HOW do they begin?

But all this hesitation is mere pretense, masking a most profound an unadulterated feeling of gratitude. They  don't deserve this, but... they will take it. And, as the hesitation gives way to adventure, pursuit, hunger, and fantasy, they break from their fragile prisons of insecurity and begin the game that's been in play since time immemorial.

And then, winter comes.

To be sure, there is a necessary pass through Fall, but, here in New England, fall lasts no more than a week or two - ample warning for the natives, and an object lesson for newcomers. It is warm enough to go without a jacket until it isn't anymore. And, by then, you best be prepared to shovel.

And at that, all the young things that danced about, heedless of convention and daddy's unwavering moral standards, cocoon themselves in voluminous jackets and long pants, neutered by necessity. "Male" and "female" become play words, incidental abstractions, rumors. The once fertile land of opportunity and promise is, almost at once, rendered fallow and inert with ambiguity.

For many months afterward, the game lingers in hiatus. The men and boys, no less inspired than on the first day, are forced to funnel their energies elsewhere; football, basketball, Call of Duty. The vixens hide in plain sight - the men see but do not see, smell but do not pursue. Thereby this hesitation, coming from without, is worst than the first. They know what they want, yet cannot know. It is barren. It is confusion.

And then, winter goes.

To be sure, Spring happens, but, here in New England, it is a cursory greeting lasting just long enough for the birds to return. But, in that time, there is a day - the first upon which the long dormant sun first announces herself, compelling the and the old snow to flee and Earth to give up her green things.

Also on that day, - here commonly known by all men as That Day - they emerge.

The long legs and slender fingers are loosed from pants and gloves. The hair falls from beneath the wool caps , tender earlobes uncovered from earmuffs. The androgynous play of heavy coats and collars fades away, in an instant, as if it were never there, as if it might never return. And the shorts - the wonderful, heavenly, gift of shorts - they return.

A thousands limbs and lips and eye try out the sunlight, as if for the first time, and every male so inclined and inspired by the promise made by Fall, watches as the promise is fulfilled before their very eyes, a parade of eager songbirds drenched in the first tethers of honest sunlight strolling across the quad, unaware yet aware, winking with their hips, beginning the game anew.

A Week Back

Day 45: I sat in my car for a few minutes, enjoying the luxury of a few extra minutes of heat before killing the engine. Tucking my keys into my jacket pocked, I grabbed my bag and started to climb out of my car.

And I mean climb.

My back was an unyielding slab of painful twitching muscle. After one failed attempt, I set my bag on the ground, swung both legs out of the car, and tried again to stand, this time using the car door for leverage. As I stood, I made that groaning sound that old men with bad backs make. Unconsciously, my left hand stole beneath my shirt and rubbed at a spot at the base of my spine. A young man with carefully tossed brown hair, walked by. He made eye contact for just a second before casting his eyes to the ground.

I had made that groaning sound again. I'm sure that's what spooked him.

The sun hangs in a different place in the sky now that it's Spring, and I'd driven with it's light in my eyes all the way to campus. In the relatively dim light of the parking garage, I stretched out my arms, crucified on an invisible cross, groaning one last time before reaching down to grab my bag and heading for the door.

The woman behind the desk at the library smiled as she always does, and I smiled back, wondering as I always do if she could hear the music playing from my headphones - Rent-A-Cop by Ben Folds. As if on cue, a security guard rounded the corner and joined her behind the desk. He said something that made her smile again but I missed what it was. I was too busy enjoying the coincidence.

This is the 45th time I've done this. It's a strange sort of feeling to look back and see how far I've progressed already, and simultaneously feel as if this all just started. There are about 5 weeks left before Finals, but, so far as I'm concerned, this may as well be the end of my first week. . I'm nervous. I'm ok. I'm sweating a little. And I'm getting used to it.

Parallel to that, the kids (students [classmates]) are getting used to me. And I'm getting used to them. When they're not buried in their cellphones or hiding behind their headphones, we talk. And, sometimes, they have interesting things to say. I wouldn't say that I've made any friends (which is a topic for another post), but I'm certainly feeling much more comfortable talking with them.

I've gotten used to the repetitive studying and testing. Quizzes and exams don't scare me Not understanding something does. I can (and, in the past, have) easily pass exams by holding on to things just long enough to get it down on paper for the sake of a necessary demonstration of knowledge, but, this time, that's not very important to me. Sure, I'd love A's and B's but, this go around, I really want to learn something useful about the things that I care about. It's corny and idealistic but it's entirely true.

Given that, my midterms went off without a hitch and all indications are that I'm doing "well" - by which I mean all indications are decidedly vague, and that "well" is a frustratingly relative term. I'm still getting used to that.

And I still struggle with confidence. Things still move a little faster than I feel I can keep up with and everything is still just a bit confusing - I feel more like I'm being pulled than dragged, but *shrug* I'm still here. And, so far, there have been no major disasters.

The heavy lifting is yet to come what with the final weeks of the semester left to play out. I feel ready though.

Strong.

Just need... a minute... to stretch first...

Into the Wilderness

Day 40: And, just like that, I was let loose upon the world. Or "the torment was over". Or "[insert some ironic disquietedness at the prospect of no classes for the next nine days]".

I'm out. It's over. And, so far, I'm doing well.

I suppose some sort of midterm review/self-assessment/personal reflection sort of thing would fit nicely here if I cared enough to write one. Fact is, I'm tired.

Dog tired.

Pun TOTALLY intended.

Friday and I normally get along. But today, it's not even 11 AM and already:


* My vacation travel buddy canceled at the last possible minute, leaving me with the full tab for the room.
* Zippers on my bookbag broke while getting my things together this morning.
* My sneakers split open.
* My glasses broke WHILE DRIVING on the way to school.
* I burned the hell out of my hand with exceptionally hot tea and nearly scalded a stranger when I dropped the aforementioned tea to the ground where it exploded on impact.
* I carelessly misjudged a fart as a silent but deadly and foghorned in the middle of class.

Whatever. Spring Break, bitches.

I'm out.

*middle finger*

Burn Out

[Actual email exchange b/w Drew and Prof]

Dear [Professor],
I'm in class just now, and I'm the only one. I've been here for about 15 minutes. I've triple checked the syllabus and don't see anything about meeting someplace else. I haven't missed a class but don't remember you saying anything about class being canceled or being moved to another room.
I'm in [Building X, Room Y]. Is that right? Am I missing something?
I'm going to wait another 5 minutes or so and then leave if  no one else shows. I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. Please get back to me as soon as you can.
Regards,
Drew

Hi Drew,
Our class does not meet today.
[Professor].

Day 39?: This must be what it feel like to be disco; historically relevant and necessary, yet relegated to the unforgiving nether realm where culture saves all it loves to hate. We know it's there but we don't care to attend to it. We watch it wane and rot like that's it's point, like that's what it was made for, a parchment left yellowing in the sun embellished with instructions written in a language we've long forgotten how to read. It's old and faded and, therefore, forgivable. It's battered by design. It's a bicycle pump for a bike that was stolen from us. It's a pattern that's fallen out of use. It's a conversation piece who's story we've forgotten. We trade on the presumed intention of the thing. 

We'd tell us more but we'd only confuse us.

It is complex. It is interesting. It is expanding at all angles before our eyes, collapsing with a sigh and dissolving into a statue for everyone to smash. It is ugly and useless on purpose, ironically gauche and intentionally obtuse. It trades on its lack of function. That's what makes it so important. 

You wouldn't understand. 

We blink and sip our lattes, yawing that we've seen this all before, done better, probably in the 80's, probably by some French guy, bisexual, died ironically, requested that his body be made into low quality vegetable matter pressed into rectangles and sold as energy bars to middle class housewives. He was the hidden sub-divided backbeat your parents had sex to. He was elusive. He was bias-neutral. 

He was 100 % cage free.

We should be thanking him. We should be thanking me.

I am the object that once housed the objects you so desire, the creator's dusty storage bin, satan's cubby hole. There's nothing in me just now, but you imagine what might have been and wonder at its absence. 

It's my emptiness that makes me interesting. I am not trapped by content or definitions. I am capricious and whimsical and paralyzingly boring, a labyrinthine poem written in a secret language comprised entirely of middle fingers and mouth-farts. I am highly complex. I am expressed potential. I am a revelation.

You're curious because I matter.You wouldn't understand.

You return to your playthings, your soiled teenaged bodice, your filthy man-pants. The hem has come unstitched. Buttons are missing. It smells like Grandma's inappropriately white wedding gown but we still wrap ourselves in it when we drunk and feeling nostalgic. We summon the relics to prove we know they exist, which is the only reason we have not to use them. The dress was only white because it wasn't supposed to be. 

Concentrate. You're not getting it. 

I am pointing at footprints I have yet to make. It is high art. It is passé. It is instantaneous. It's hiding in plain sight. You've missed it. 

You would. 

Pay attention. It's right behind you. 

Everything is catching on fire, including the tinderbox. That is the point. That is its purpose. That is my purpose. 

Now, if you'll please excuse me...

Proof

Day: 29-31: This is just like before, only it's not. Everything is identical, and everything is different. Everything feels the same, but there's something else, something... different.
This feels like the beginning of something you can only describe in French.

I'm walking on the same streets, the same paths. The wind tastes the same, runs through my beard the same way it used to. The way the light is laid out over the grasses and wet brick and concrete sides of the buildings is familiar. The building standing like sentries, reminding me of something.

I've been here before.

Even the people seem like replacements, mock-ups, stand-ins. Not a day has gone by wherein I haven't almost waved or said hello to someone who was at both immediately familiar, and entirely new to me.

There's a phrase in Latin that can describe what I'm experiencing. I'm sure of it.

The classes are all the same. I've been in this lecture hall, that crowded room, this musky library. The seats are new and there a new blackboard but I'm not fooled. I see through the new coat of paint. I am experiencing the past in real time.

Despite the modest adjustments in landscape, this is still old territory. In spite of the repairs, the new paint, the updated awnings, this is nothing new.

There was a wing place there before, though it had a different name. That building used to have a side entrance. That group's office used to be on the 2nd floor. We called it something different. We used it in a different way. That wasn't there but it's just like the thing we used to do to make due. It was our before it existed. They've inherited our dreams and watched them come to life, but they're still our dreams. This is still our place.

This is just as it was before. And yet...

I bang around campus, surrounded and lonely. I say, "The weather is getting to me," and pull my coat tightly around myself, even with my zipper up to my neck. "I need sleep," I say, and chug a Red Bull. "I should have eaten breakfast," I say, ignoring my bacon breath and the bits of egg in my beard.

In class, I remind myself to pay attention, even though I'm surrounded by the stink of ink from my pen. I shake out my hand, rubbing and massaging my palm, reminding myself to keep up, to take notes, to stay awake. I arrive to my next class early and it feels like the first time. I take a seat in front and remind myself to do this every time, even though I always do. I feel the guilt of not having my homework, of not being prepared, of having missed so much class it's a wonder I remember where the room is.

And then pull my homework out of my bag. I contribute to discussion. I ace the exam and get a head start on my paper.

Just like before, only not at all like before.

I'm afraid of failing. I'm still haunted by a past that hangs over my vision like a veil, telling me the way things were and the way this ought to be, telling me that I'm lazy, that I'm a failure, that something is going to happen to ruin everything and that that's ok because I'm not working as hard as I should anyway. That is my mantra. That is my "proof". That is the only proof I have.

Yet, here I am regardless, feeling like a stranger possessed with another man's drive, another man's constitution. Whatever this is, this is the thing that is different.

And this has gotten me to the halfway mark. Just like before. Just like never before. 

* * * * *

"No way in, go in, measure"

- S. Beckett 

Ours

Day: 27/28: In my Poli Sci lecture, we watched a part of a PBS documentary series about the African-American Civil Rights Movement called "Eyes on the Prize". I'd seen it before in other classes and at home so I had an idea of what was coming. When the professor asked if anyone had seen it, I was about the only one who raised a hand.

He didn't see me. 

The video started and I had an immediate reaction: gut-sick, angry, sad, frustrated, proud - all of them at once. I sat up in my chair, eyes glued to the screen, mumbling under my breath at times, wincing at others. I'm not sure that I could ever watch that or any similar documentary without getting emotional. I wanted so badly to yell but bit my tongue instead. 

And then I heard laughter. It was the tittering politely dismissive sort of laughter you'd hear when someone told a joke that didn't quite hit the mark. On screen, we watched as the Little Rock Nine were accosted and nearly hanged by an angry mob. The laughter started when one of the women in the mob began pushing at a crowd control barrier. 

When I saw that very same footage, my heart about stopped. When the woman began pushing at the barrier, I almost stood up. The Little Rock Nine were teenagers - children, really. And, still, I heard laughter from multiple sources when the narrator explained that the crowd was begging to be given "just one" child to hang. 

I told myself that they lacked the emotional or cultural context to take what they were seeing seriously. They took it as a given that things would work out. They saw it as inevitable that, even though things were bad, the good guys would win because the good guys DID win. So they laughed, in the same way that anyone laughs when they see Wile E. Coyote trying and failing to kill and eat the roadrunner or when they see Elmer Fudd trying with all his might to outsmart and murder Bugs Bunny. It's an ignorant, expectant, and outright insulting point of view that necessarily ignores the visceral human costs. As far as they knew, they were watching characters on film,  avatars facilitating an inevitable evolution. The Little Rock Nine were no more "real people" to the laughing students than a cave man using a bone as a tool for the first time. 

I sat there, feeling grateful, and humbled, and shocked, and heartbroken, and FURIOUS, and many other things. And I was, by no means, alone in how I was feeling or reacting. But that laughter - that tawdry ignorant laughter - threw me off. And it made me wonder if I wasn't overreacting, if maybe I was taking this a little too seriously.

Later, in discussion, our TA advised that we'd have to watch two more parts of the documentary. A girl leaned over to me and whispered, "I don't know why we have to watch that crap."

"Because it's our history," I said. She looked at me, as if seeing that I was black for the very first time, and blushed. 

I leaned in a little closer to her and pointed; first at her, then myself, then a few other students. "Our history," I said.

"Right, right," she said, and took out her cellphone. 

I let it go.