What about Bob?

A little more than six months ago, my former principal and friend, Craig, passed away. It's not uncommon for me to think of Craig, since I spend every day in the building that he built--the high school I teach in. He is *everywhere* in that building in both memory and spirit.

Turns out, he's also on Survivor. I started this season of Survivor about a quarter of the way in, and I immediately noticed Bob. I first noticed his physical resemblance to Craig. Bob is in his late 50s, has a beard, is tall and thin, and has wise eyes. I was struck by how much they resembled each other just based on visuals alone. Then, I saw him act, and this is no lie--it's as if Craig is reliving a bit of life through a reality show. Bob has won the last four immunity challenges. He plays with brains rather than brawn. He moves with intention while the younger folks around him are running themselves in circles. He is a strategist, trusting everyone just a bit, but trusting no one completely.

He's at home in the outdoors of Africa, and, oh yeah, he's a teacher. With very few changes, the following section of Bob's biography, taken from the Survivor CBS official website, could be Craig's:

"as well as President, Vice President and Chief Negotiator for his local Teacher's Union.

When not on an adventure, Robert interests include journal writing, story telling, photography, bone collecting, archeology and camping.

This tree climbing scientist, who describes himself as honest, adventurous, resourceful and witty, built his truly "green" summer cabin back when green was only referred to as the color. His "green" cabin was completely built with recycled material and requires a fraction of the energy of the average U.S. home. He's built numerous structures from recycled material including wharfs, saunas, a chicken house and a hunting cabin."

He says that he wants to prove that a nice guy can win the game.

I am enamored with Bob. I love watching him play a mostly-honest game against deceitful people. And I love that he reminds me so much of a man who had a lot more to give than what he had the chance or time for in his too-short life. It's a relief to know that, though Craig was one of a kind, there are others out there in the world who embody what he was and are able to continue demonstrating intelligence, kindness, and wisdom to those who are fortunate enough to know them.

Attachments

So, last week I opted to stay home and study rather than go to Fabulous Rita's CorePower yoga class. The week before I was too hungover to speak on Saturday morning (the reunion) and the two weeks before that she wasn't teaching. So, you can imagine how much I was looking forward to her class this Saturday.

She's not teaching for at least the next two weeks. Anywhere. She's still on the schedule for November, but, well, frankly after this week with Carina the Chiropractor falling off the face of the earth, I'm a little nervous about whether or now I may have missed a possible goodbye with Rita last week. And I'm a little upset.

Which got me thinking. When did I start forming these lifelong attachments to people I don't even know? I know nothing of Carina's personal life, and even less about Rita. Yet both of these women are important in my life--they make me feel good when I'm with them, I look forward to seeing them, and I'm sad when I miss the opportunity to interact with them. And this week has been unnecessarily hard on me, not because anyone did anything wrong, but because these darn people keep living their lives without consulting me first! And I'm really starting to get confused by it all.

When I was growing up I used to form "attractions" to women--camp counselors, teachers, etc. It wasn't a sexual thing at all, but more of an "I want to be you" sort of draw. I wanted to be exactly like them--be their best friend, be their sister, be someone important to them. This carried on to a few people in college but faded as I became an adult.

Now it seems as though it may be back. I can't label the attraction this time, though, because adulthood is more complicated. It's more sexual in the way that I want to be *with* these women, as opposed to "being them"....but it's not sexual in the way that I can't imagine ever having sex with another woman. So not for me.

So I don't really know what to do. I think my life would be a lot easier if I didn't develop feelings for acquaintances beyond what is probably socially acceptable. I wouldn't feel a sense of loss when they moved on. It's not like I'm devastated for the rest of my life or anything, but when I lose someone it definitely puts a dent in a few of my days. Mostly I want to know *why* I do this. It's not being starved for attention or affection or anything, because it's not ALL women (or men), it's only certain women. But its been four women in the last calendar year. That's a bit much. Even for me.

Go away! Wait, come back! Go away! Wait...

This last week was one of the most stressful I've had in a long time. I went back and read through my teaching posts to give myself some perspective. Tomorrow is Craig's funeral. The last time I went to a funeral that was held in a gymnasium it was for my own English teacher in high school. I know that I will draw significant parallels tomorrow between myself now and myself as a fifteen year old.

No doubt it's due to the events of the week, but over the last few days I've felt so unbelievably needy I almost can't stand to be with myself. I've become obsessive, paranoid, and, what's worst, I feel lonely. I almost can't be by myself. That's so damn annoying. I'm a loner--I always have been. I've savored my time alone to the point that occasionally I'll actually cancel plans with people in order to spend time with my numero uno: me. I'll turn off my phone. But now, I'm reaching out like crazy to anyone who will listen. But, my friends are the type of friends a loner person can have--they're busy people, always off doing things. So they're not really around. And that's okay, 99.9% of the time. This week, though, not so much.

It's Friday night. I'm watching the National Spelling Bee, playing games on pogo.com, and hanging with Gatsby. I plan to make popcorn later, do some math, and read my book. I need to get back to where I'm okay being in my own head. This is just very, very strange to me.

I what? *blink* Are you sure?

So, I went to my senior prom with the captain of the football team.

I just found this out tonight. From my mother.

She said, "Why do you think it was such a big deal? Why did you think that you got a standing ovation during grand march?"

I said, "I got a standing ovation during grand march?"

She said, "You didn't. Your date, the captain of the football team, did."

I said, "I went through high school in a total fog, didn't I?"

She said, "Yep. College too. But you're coming out of it now."

*I* went to my SENIOR PROM with the CAPTAIN of the FOOTBALL TEAM. Dude, was I popular? I went with him because we worked at Hardee's together. I had no idea he played football. Or maybe I did. Who knows? But doesn't that make me honorary Prom Queen or something? It dang well should.

Serindipity and all that

Tonight I watched 'Conversation(s) With Other Women' staring my beloved Helena Bonham Carter. I do so adore her, more and more every time I see her.

The movie is about two exes who run into each other at a wedding and briefly flirt with returning to the past. The whole thing is about age, loss of opportunity, regret, experience and maturity.

So I log into my email and there's a message from a guy I went to high school with...who was always in love with my best friend who was always unavailable to him. And I crushed on him my entire freshman and sophomore years...junior year too, when I went to prom with his best friend and he went with mine. We had a smashing time.

And he's married now and lives in another state and that's totally fine because I do not live in the movies. Thank God. But, still, it's an interesting thing to wonder--how many different people I've known in my life and how many paths I turned away from either by choice or because they weren't options to me.

Book #47 The Time It Takes to Fall by Margaret Lazarus Dean

The answer to the question is two minutes and forty-five seconds...the question is "How long did the Challenger astronauts fall, alive, to the earth".

The Time It Takes to Fall was recommended to me by a fellow teacher; she described it as a coming-of-age novel that takes place during the Challenger disaster in 1986. She thought I would be interested in it because everyone my age knows Challenger--it was the first major national tragedy in our memories.

The book is excellent. It's unassuming, just words written on a page to tell a story rather than trying to impress literary critics or prize committees or compete with bestsellers. It is purely story, and I loved every word of it. Delores, the main character, is 12-13 during the course of the book. Her father works for NASA and she wants to be an astronaut when she grows up. There were some parts that missed the mark--thoughts a teenager wouldn't logically think--but overall the novel is real and true to the last word.

The book also made me think about where I was on January 28, 1986. I know full where I was: in my fourth grade classroom at Cleveland Elementary in Fergus Falls. What I don't know, because I remember so little of that year, is why we did not watch the Challenger launch. I didn't see it. I don't remember any of the aftermath of it. I don't remember Regan's speech or any of the reports. I sometimes think that I'm the only person my age that wasn't sitting in a classroom in front of a television.

Or maybe I did see it, not live but at some point on the news, and filed it away in my "forget" drawer--where I put things from my childhood that I didn't quite know how to define at the time. If I could go back to one day in my life, I would choose that day. I want to know what I was doing when the shuttle exploded, why I didn't see it happen, what I thought about it. I remember thinking that Christa McAuliffe was beautiful, knowing she was a teacher. I remember hearing the jokes (which are, suitably, retold in the book by students to other students) and thinking they were both funny and horrible.

If you are a child of the 80s--not born in them, but truly a child of them--you will love this book. You will remember it be able to dust off your own memories of that time and place as you read an amazing story of a girl growing up, trying to hold her family together, falling in love, and questioning the mortality of others--still too young to contemplate her own.

The language of Love

In 8th grade I became absolutely enamored with the French language and begged my parents to send me to French camp in Hackensack, MN for two weeks. French camp was, for two (or three, can't remember) summers, a completely singular life experience still to this day.

I fell in love, immediately, with one of the counselors. His French name was "Gregoire" and he was simply the most amazing creature I had ever met. He was hot, funny, had crazy glasses, and, most importantly, he paid attention to me. During the first weekend of camp there was a dance, and after what I'm sure was HOURS of contemplation, I asked Greg to dance. The song was 'I Remember You' by Skid Row. Whenever I hear that song I think about Gregoire and our dance.

He and I wrote letters back and forth for awhile, and he sent me his senior picture. Then he went off to college, I went off to high school, and, heartbroken, I was sure I would never love again.

Fortunately, there was no shortage of hot men for me to love in Hackensack. The next year the subject of my adoration was Fabrice Massot, a French man who was, I believe, in his 20s. He was my "Pere"--the head of my family at meal times. He made a killer fondue. He signed his PTTs to me "gros bises" (PTTs were the camp mail system, 'gros bises' means 'many kisses'). I still have his PTTs to me that say "gros bises" in my high school memory box.

Fabrice and I also wrote to each other for awhile but this was before email, so we relied on air mail and the postal system. We stopped writing, and Fabrice was lost to me forever.

The next summer I did not go back to French camp. I'm sure I blamed it on getting a job, or being too busy, or bored with French, but the truth is I think my poor young heart just couldn't take it anymore.

The language of Love

In 8th grade I became absolutely enamored with the French language and begged my parents to send me to French camp in Hackensack, MN for two weeks. French camp was, for three summers, a completely singular life experience still to this day.

I fell in love, immediately, with one of the counselors. His French name was "Gregoire" and he was simply the most amazing creature I had ever met. He was hot, funny, had crazy glasses, and, most importantly, he paid attention to me. During the first weekend of camp there was a dance, and after what I'm sure was HOURS of contemplation, I asked Greg to dance. The song was 'I Remember You' by Skid Row. Whenever I hear that song I think about Gregoire and our dance.

He and I wrote letters back and forth for awhile, and he sent me his senior picture. Then he went off to college, I went off to high school, and, heartbroken, I was sure I would never love again.

Fortunately, there was no shortage of hot men for me to love in Hackensack. The next year the subject of my adoration was Fabrice Massot, a French man who was, I believe, in his 20s. He was my "Pere"--the head of my family at meal times. He made a killer fondue. He signed his PTTs to me "gros bises" (PTTs were the camp mail system, 'gros bises' means 'many kisses'). I still have his PTTs to me that say "gros bises" in my high school memory box.

Fabrice and I also wrote to each other for awhile but this was before email, so we relied on air mail and the postal system. We stopped writing, and Fabrice was lost to me forever.

The next summer I did not go back to French camp. I'm sure I blamed it on getting a job, or being too busy, or bored with French, but the truth is I think my poor young heart just couldn't take it anymore.

Knowledge is power

Fourth grade was a bad year for me. I was bullied by my peer group, bullied by my teacher who preyed on weak students, and I didn't have best friends. Moreover, it was in fourth grade that I noticed that every girl in my class had a best friend. Literally all of them were paired up, and I was the only one without. I remember thinking that even if someone wanted to be my best friend, there was no one available to want that...everyone already had the coveted "bff." It was a miserable year.

Flash forward 21 years to today. I realized today that I have been being bullied by someone I know for the past four years. It's been far more subtle than the other fourth graders on the playground, or Mrs. M keeping me inside every day for a month to write an essay on why it was wrong to steal and why I was going to go to hell because of it (fyi: I stole Joey Mehl's garbage pail kids out of his desk, but I gave them back plus I had to give him all mine. And we went to public school, to answer that question.), but it is bullying none the less. There were witnesses today, and today I decided that it will not continue.

There is far more power in knowledge than in age. Over the years I have realized the following about bullies:

1. They are afraid.
2. They generally hold equal or less power than those they bully
3. They work by intimidation tactics.
4. They prey on those who acquiese, who seem powerless, and who avoid conflict

While upsetting, my problem is relatively easy to solve.

1. I can't do anything about this person's fear. That's not my problem.

2.The person bullying me has no real power over me in any adult situation. This person is not my boss, not my husband, not anyone I rely on to enhance any aspect of my life.

3. Intimidation tactics stop working when the bullied person stops being intimidated. By showing no response, no lack of control, I take away the bully's arsenal.

4. I decided this fall that rather than avoid conflict, rather than just say everything was okay when it wasn't, I would disagree. I would argue my points, and I would express myself. This hasn't failed me in the last six months. It's a huge suprise to my bully that I'm disagreeing with what I'm being "told to do," but that's the way it is. Like a child having a tantrum, my bully freaked out when I did not give the expected response. It'll get worse before it gets better, but life is like that.

What this person doesn't realize is that the year that I spent in Montgomery prepared me for any level of hell that I could possibly be exposed to by someone who wants to be an "authority figure." My weakness was in not realizing the comparisons between this situation and that year. Now that I understand what the levels are, I couldn't possibly be more prepared. Bring it on, my bullying friend. Bring it on.

Cleaning out my closet

The Salvation Army just came and hauled away my twenties. I left the decade, and the majority of its symbols, out on my driveway this morning and all that's left now is a slip of paper that says I donated stuff who have been or will someday be in their twenties.

I have to say, I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, I've gone through the stuff several times and I know there's nothing in there that I need (or, frankly, want) and my garage is getting emptier (because it's a two car garage and it's FULL. Crazy.). These are good things. I'm thirty, and its time I got rid of my clothes from high school. So, from that standpoint it's a weight off of my shoulders because I got rid of a tremendous amount of clutter.

On the other hand, I am materialistic. My stuff is important to me, and I measure a lot of who I am by the things that I have. I know this isn't my best feature but a feature it is, nonetheless, and one that I have to deal with. Getting rid of my stuff gives me an icky feeling in my stomach that I got rid of something important. This feeling will pass, I've gotten rid of things before, but right now I plan to spend a few hours feeling oogy.

Ultimately, though, I did the right thing. Of this I have no doubt.