Running Thoughts (2)

Happy New Year!

The New Year means my wedding is less than 3-1/2 weeks away. Gulp. I wish people would send in their RSVPs.

Italy Italy Italy!

We booked hotels today. Beautiful hotels. Smallish, elegant hotels. Hotels with good views. Hotels that are close to the Spanish steps in Rome and the Academie in Florence.

I'm so excited.

The richness of history in such a small geographical area fills me with wonderment. The Sistine Chapel only blocks away from the Colosseum; the Uffizi steps from Il Duomo. Archeological treasures right next to artistic masterpieces. The old and the new, all meshed together, connected by winding cobblestone streets, lined with dinky cafes and haute couture. (My guide book mentions that our hotel in Rome is a few streets away from Valentino and Bulgari and quite near the Spanish Steps. )

Now I'm really getting excited. The promise of such a romantic honeymoon tingles my skin. My rose-colored glasses are firmly on my face; I have no time to hear about gypsies and thieves and pickpockets.

Honeymoon. Even that word is gooey with love. "Honey" conjures up images of sweetness, warmth, a silky-smoothness; "moon" . . . well, if anyone thinks the moon isn't the ultimate symbol of romance, I'd like to talk to him. It's so big and bright and round and full . . . full of promise.

And that's the best part about the honeymoon, I think. It bursts with the promise of marriage, the fullness of joy that two people can have in one another.

I am definitely gooey with romance. Pardon me.

// posted by divine angst @  8:57 PM     |     0 comments

I plan to apply for a new job in the next day or so.

Applying for jobs is one of those weird experiences that I cannot adequately describe.

First, I get very excited when I read a description.

Then I get incredibly nervous.

I write a resume. And I rewrite. And I edit, then trash it. And write a new one. And edit some more and send it to everyone I know for input and rearrange everything and desperately search the Web for resume-writing tips and finally, with a sigh of despair, figure it's as good as it's gonna get.

Then I write a cover letter. And I go through the same process as with the resume, but with twice as much angst because a cover letter doesn't really have a format like a resume. Sigh of despair—it's as good as it's gonna get.

Then I submit them both.

And suddenly, I am overcome with insatiable optimism. I am certain I will get the job—I have bought into my own rhetoric. I talk about all the things I will do when I have that job: work out more because I'll have a flexible schedule, go home for lunch because I'll be closer to home, ride the bus because there's a convenient stop. I begin to talk about it as if it's in the bag. Nevermind that I haven't had an interview yet.

I haven't applied for a new job in two years. It's time. Not only am I stuck in a rut intellectually, I am beginning to doubt my worth as an employee. But certainly, certainly, I cannot be destined for administrative drudge work forever. Surely not.

It is time for a change. Time to change.

I love Christmas, I really do.

But I am late to the holiday spirit this year. What with everything else going on, I haven't even BEGUN my shopping.

I have a very strange self-imposed stress about Christmas gifts. They have to be awesome, they have to be meaningful, they have to be really, really special. Last year I gave both my parents "memory books" of photos of their kids through the years—inexpensive, yes, but highly time-consuming and very sentimental. Excellent gifts.

This year, I am looking at electronics.

Maybe it's just me, but electronics seem so impersonal. There's something so cold and mechanical about buying someone a PDA or printer. And Lord knows my dad doesn't need any more electronics. Mom probably wouldn't know what to do with them if she had them.

And there's the ever-present question of the SO. Electronics are definitely not the way to go—not with a technophile, at least. Jewelry seems like a good idea, and I know he wants a new watch, but jewelry is also dangerous. What if he doesn't like it? What if it's not what he was hoping for? What if what if what if?

I know, I know, the season is not about the gifts, it's about the spirit. But then, I know he likes to be extravagant. Extravagance at Christmas makes me nervous, it stresses me out a lot. I don't like paying off Christmas for the next nine months. I don't like watching my credit card balances inch upwards.

I want to be in the spirit of Christmas, feel that holiday joy and fun. But all I can think of right now is how much shopping I have left, how little I've already done, and how everyone is going to be so disappointed in our gifts this year.

I am just plain weary. Quick trips are tiring, funerals are exhausting, and cold weather is draining. One more week of work, though, and I'll have two weeks off.

I always think I'll get so much done during the holidays—housecleaning, gift buying, decorating, baking, organizing. I usually end up watching a lot of TV, eating poorly, and rushing out on Christmas Eve for last minute shopping. I simply can't bring myself to get anything done early.

This year, I am already two weeks behind on one important project. I am dedicating my entire Saturday to it—after I get done sleeping in and before I have an early dinner with my parents. Dedicating an entire Saturday? Maybe about four hours.

I'm just plain exhausted.

I love Anne Lamott. Here's a recent column of hers in Salon.com. I like stories about family in its multiple permutations. Not every family is related and not every group of related people are family. There's a rightness to that, somehow.

(Word to the wise: you'll have to click through the Salon Day Pass to read it, since Salon.com is primarily subscription. It's a small hassle for oodles of good writing. If you like it enough, subscribe. It's not that expensive.)

Yeah, the title says it all. It's hard to tell people baldly and honestly how much you think they rock.

Why have I never written about Sewanee? Sometimes I wonder if my thoughts on the Mountain are just a little too deeply held, a little too tender, a bit inscrutable—will other people understand? Can they understand?

"It's a long way away, even from Chattanooga, in the middle of woods, on top of a bastion of mountains crenelated with blue coves. It is so beautiful that people who have once been there always, one way or another, come back. For such as detect apple green in an evening sky, it is Arcadia—not the one that never used to be, but the one that many people always live in; only this one can be shared."

Lanterns on the Levee, Alexander Percy

That's one of those perfect descriptions that would be difficult to improve.

Sewanee was Arcadia for me. It had tricky moments, depressing winters, frigid fog, and was a very long way from home. But wonderful people live there—the kind of people who invite you to their homes for Sunday dinner and drive perfect strangers 90 miles to the airport. It is home to beautiful music and softly imposing buildings; in winter the trees in Manigault Park droop with ice and in the spring the cherry blossoms perfume everything.

I have too much to say about Sewanee and yet not enough. I feel inadequate to the task—a task others have no doubt done much better than me already.

For now it must be sufficient to write this: I am a greater person for having lived on the Mountain and loved its green slopes, rocky protrusions, decrepit dormitories and magnificent chapel.

Buying a car is scary.

The last time I did it, my dad was there for moral support and to be the hard-nosed negotiator. This time, I have Brian. He's good at it, but there's still the scare factor in buying a car on our own. And the loan thing, too. Scary scary scary.

Probably getting up at the ass-crack of dawn tomorrow to drive to Dallas and buy the darn thing. Bye-bye savings! Hello more debt!

Scary.

But—

New-to-us car! Nice new-to-us car. Leather seats! Nav system! Programmable seat position (excellently compensating for the 14" height difference between drivers). My poor Civic is going to have an identity crisis parking next to the pretty new car.

Clarify above post: never have to share a hotel room with someone OTHER THAN my new husband. That will be a delight!

Yeah, so now that my writing class is over, I actually have time to write. Question is, will I?

JT said I should find that thing which I am passionate about and write it down. Urk. Gah! Problem! What am I passionate about? Sometimes I just feel kind of blah about things. Sure, I could write about the wedding (the wedding the wedding eeeee) but I am pretty damn sick of thinking about the wedding. I want to get it over with already! Just be married and happy and never have to share a hotel room with someone else ever again.