Ramblings, Part the First.

 

My fingertips have been itching to write for weeks now, and today it has gotten to the point where I rather be sleep-deprived in the morning than wait another day. But most of the ideas that come to mind are ranty... so I'm going to write a series of posts about these ramblings.

Here we go...

The topic that every conversation always gravitates toward: My love life. Ah, yes... my love life is truly much like the Loch Ness monster: for something that is completely non-existent, it sure does get a lot of publicity, and people talk about it way too much. 

The general consensus seems to be that I am entirely overshooting, that I need to be given a reality check--an intervention, even--to bring me down to earth, to make me see that I am asking for too much or that my standards are too high. 

In short, I am being constantly bombarded with the idea that I, in fact, do not deserve what I hope for. Read that again. That is what the people in my life are constantly suggesting, directly and indirectly. Take the time to really mull over that, reader, because it means, at its core, that the people who are supposed to love me don't think I'm that great. A crude way of saying it would be "you are just a fat, bald, difficult, tomboyish old spinster. You don't get to be picky. Other people get to be picky because they're fit, or young or have a lovely personality. But you don't. Pray for a man, keep the first one that comes your way--never mind if he's not attractive, just pray that he's a good dude--and thank the heavens for the miracle."

That's what I hear from you, family member, "friend," acquaintance, mom...

That's what you're saying to me when you say I'm too picky, or I'm too superficial, or I'm too difficult, or I'm delusional. You are telling me that other people get to choose their life partner based on an initial attraction that produces a spark that then blossoms into love... but I don't get that... because I don't deserve it.

And trust me, reader, I am painfully aware--PAINFULLY--of my physical, psychological, intellectual, and emotional shortcomings. Even so, dare I hope that maybe, just maybe, there's a God out there that may love me enough to give me a man I won't be repulsed by. Or maybe God isn't gonna give me ANY man. But I know for a fact he's not gonna give me a man I can't stand to kiss and touch, a man with whom I can half-ass life. So, when people make these comments to me... what I really want to say in reply is "wow, you are a turd."**

**What I really, really want to say is actually "wow, you're being a piece of shit right now," but I was trying to keep it clean. Oh well.

Because, truly, when is it ever okay to say you love somebody and want them to be happy only to turn around and tell them "BUT YOU DON'T DESERVE THAT MUCH. YOU'RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH." I beg your unbelievable pardon? The hell with you!

Do you think I don't see the rolls of fat, the double chin, the receding hairline? Do you think I don't see the wrinkles, the dark circles, the white hairs? Do you think I don't notice the quirks, the vast differences between myself and other beautiful women? Why rub it in? What can you possibly get out of reminding me? And how do you think exactly that it will change my mind about what I want in life? BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY, do you really think that calling me "superficial" really adds anything to my self-esteem? Do you think it will make me "snap out of it" and run into the arms of the next man that looks my way? SHAME ON YOU ALL. You legitimately make me sick, and sometimes I wish I didn't have to ever talk to some of you again. Truly... you suck. 

So I pray to God, with all my might, that there will be a day in which He does me the kindness of putting all these people to rest. That I will either find the man He has reserved for me, whom I find attractive not just because of his appearance but also because of his heart, or that He will give me NO MAN AT ALL. But I beg of Him that he'll never let me settle. That's right, world. I rather be a spinster. A thousand times over. I rather die alone than ever be with a man out of desperation or loneliness.

The craziest part is that all these comments come from people who are (or have been) married. So reader, if you are one of these people who's ever said something like this to me, I beg you to consider: is it fair for you to get judgmental of me while you got to marry the man of your dreams (even if he turned out to be the man of your nightmares)?

In conclusion, leave me the unbelievable hell alone. You don't have to worry about me ending up alone. You don't have to worry about my happiness--the part of my happiness that you're responsible for, the one in which you love me and encourage me, you're already doing a horrible job at, so you worrying about my future isn't going to make a difference. You're not gonna be there to take care of my old ass. Most of you aren't even capable of checking up on me now, whenever it really matters. So, let it go. This isn't your fight.

Oddly enough, this is a good enough segue to my next rant:

I am so sick and tired of having one-sided friendships. Like, shit... enough is enough. I think the biggest reason why I have struggled so much with Elena being in the convent these past three years has been because I get this sense that I have no one else to turn to--not really. Don't get me wrong, I seem to have 
"plenty of friends," but the friends who are actually really good at checking up on me and being there for emotional support have very busy lives and I don't get to see much of them, and the ones that I get to see more often seem frankly hellbent on just taking, taking, and taking. 

Now, you might think I'm exaggerating, and I may very well be... but if I get on a car wreck and NO ONE asks me how I'm feeling the next day, this is a problem. I feel like I would at least invest 30 seconds to check up on a friend if she had been rear-ended the day before, no? Is that truly expecting too much?  Yet here we are. No texts, no visits, no effort--not just this time, but consistently. The moment I get too busy or too depressed or too in my head, everyone goes mute, and the reality of the matter rears its ugly head: if I'm not putting in the work, the other person isn't either. AT ALL.

Should I conclude that I am legit unlovable? I kind of want to. Again, my mind goes to the thought that I just am not enough--for a man or for my friends. Or do I need better friends? Are there even any people out there looking for friends? I don't know, man. It's hard because I keep trying to remind myself that perfection isn't attainable and that I myself aren't the perfect friend either... but I can't shake off this feeling that people just don't care. Someone needs some happy pills, eh?

In conclusion, I'm tired of feeling used. I'm tired of feeling unloved and uncherished. I wish God's love was enough for me. I wish I didn't need another human being at all, but I was not made to be a hermit, I'm afraid. So I wander around this world looking for someone who not only will let me love them but who also will make the damn effort to reciprocate. 

But, Lord, if I'm not exhausted of this life, ya'll. Don't worry--no plans to give up on living just yet. But it is so hard to keep going when there's so little light. Luckily for me, I have the solid prayers of a few good people keeping me afloat. If you are one of those--thank you. 

May God forgive me for selfishly craving attention and recognition and love. Jesus have mercy of me, a sinner. 

Anatomic Poetry

 

Sinus rhythm

All fine and dandy

Utterly unaware

Of its own monotonous routine

Until one day

Green eyes glimmer from across the room

SA node throbs

T A C H Y C A R D I A

“I have called this emergency meeting”

The brain croaks in a deep voice

“To get the situation under control”

The SA node blushes, the Purkinje fibers groan.

“We know full well 

She cannot take another myocardial incident.

So I need your full cooperation

To get things back to our dull configuration.”

The larynx obeys—

She won’t call out his name

The legs lock in place—

She won’t casually walk his way.

The heart though…

Commands the eyes to watch

Lest they miss a glimpse of emerald 

Lest he smiles her into 

A tragic

Beautiful

Warm

Arrhythmia.

Heart Failure

 

I

am sick.

Desperately sick

feverishly sick

ravenously sick

They say it's my heart

that it can't go on like it has

that it's been just too much 

too long

It's rare, maybe congenital 

it is strained

the muscle overstretched 

does not function properly

How could it, really?

it has loved wrongly

it has hoped blindly

it has trusted foolishly

And it just cannot take it anymore

the silence

the coldness

the lack

This existential myocarditis 

I'm told I don't have much time

There's either a full transplant

or letting myself die--

So, do I choose to stay me 

and bleed

or have a change of heart

and never feel

I am sick.

Brutally sick

Perpetually sick

Exhaustingly sick

And I just don't want to be.

2-Uh-2-0h

"Gabriel, something's going on with this thing... 

I think The Matrix glitched or something... come take a look!"

 --God, sometime mid-March.

Dearest and most beloved of readers,

I am so grateful that you are not only alive still but that you are taking time from your busy day to read this junk still! If I have learned anything this year, it is that I am not nearly as good as I thought I was at any of the things I thought I was good at... writing included. So I know that you must be here out of the sheer devotion and affection (and possible sexual attraction--fingers crossed) you feel toward me.

As you can tell already, this will be one of those rare combo truth-bomb/reflection/complete nonsense posts! Because--let's be real: you do not need another 2020 reflection or a lecture on gratitude or a list of things that went great with me this year while everyone else was literally perishing. SO... I will do my best to keep the sermon to myself and to try to keep this light-hearted and brief (the latter being harder than the former). 

What a mess of a year we find ourselves finishing up, huh? I have watched so many people I care deeply about struggle with illness, death, and grief... unlike ever before. It has been sobering and humbling and heartbreaking... and I've found myself realizing that there is literally so little I can do to make a difference for people, especially when they are hurting so bad. Man, that sucks. I hate to even bring to light something that is difficult for me because it's not nearly as difficult as whatever everyone else seems to be going through, but I suppose it's important to discuss it, just in case anyone else is feeling this way. So if you feel like 2020 has finally proven to the world and to yourself that you are, in fact, a failure and a horrible spouse/worker/sibling/child/friend/human, you are not alone in that boat. Feeling so powerless when you are used to getting reassurance about who you are by how much you help others is kind of mind-boggling. Just keep reminding yourself that it's okay to feel this, that you are not alone in this feeling, and that there will come a time again in life when you'll feel useful again.

And we will eventually feel whole again. And peaceful. And joyful. And productive. And sexy as hell.

Now, I said I wasn't gonna be preachy, but I literally can't even keep my promise. This is how bad at being helpful I've become, ya'll. Anyway, I won't tell you to be grateful, though. You know what you need to do, to pull yourself out of the funk. To see color again. Hopefully, it isn't drugs (I mean, illegal drugs... prescription drugs are cool... as long as you follow the recipe, ya know? You get it). What I WILL say is, rediscover the things that make you joyful (and again, hopefully, these do not involve something horribly devious or weird like collecting people's nail clippings). 

These are some of the things I am planning on including in my life more during 2021: 

More Korean Dramas

More walking like a T-rex
More tacos, crepes, and sushi

More time outdoors

More dancing in public spaces

More dancing in kitchens and bathrooms

More writing on this blog space

More ukulele songs

More piano songs poorly played and sung

More hugs

More making my girlfriends uncomfortable with my undying adoration

More singing in the car

More studying (that one is out of necessity, not out of love, ugh... but it's for my own good)

More traveling, especially to go see my Elena graduate from novitiate school (not actually a graduation and not actually called novitiate school) and to party with my Dr. Pip, who is also graduating (and might murder me for calling her Pip).

More Holy Hours in front of the Blessed Sacrament

At the risk of rubbing it in and despite what I said earlier, this year gave me some really strangely and beautifully simple things that I will treasure forever: the joy of feeding people in my apartment, the contentment of quarantining from March until July with just God's presence in my home and feeling absolutely at ease in His company, the peace of mind of having a new car (ya, that happened!), the exhilaration of embarking in this nursing journey, and the utterly delightful surprise of learning just how much FRIENDS care about you and want you to succeed. What a beauty.

Before I sign off, I do want to take the time to give the proper shoutouts to people (I told you I wasn't gonna preach to you about gratitude... but that doesn't mean I don't want to be grateful myself).

First and foremost: to Lauren Nicole, who loves me to the best of her ability and strives to help me despite whatever crippling obstacles she has to face on a day to day basis.

Secondly, and in that same vein, to my dearest adoptive-mom, Joanne, who constantly thinks of me and wants to see me succeed. 

Third, to my beloved Wees, who have shown me what it means to trust the Lord in times of adversity. Particularly grateful for my Henry. Elisabeth--you inspire me more than I can ever express. You are a wonder and a force of nature and such a beautiful Saint in the making. 

Next, I'd like to thank all the RELIGIOUS SISTERS I met this year and who have had a profound impact in my life, particularly Sr. Melinda, Sr. Maria Kim, Sr. Aloysius, and Sr. Catherine. Along with that, also super grateful for the women I've met who are discerning the religious life, particularly my Elena (Sr. Lucy), Lindsey, Rachel Clare, Sr. Cooey and Sr. Dominic. 

 Then, I want to give a shoutout to my dear friends who are always checking up on me: Moni, Claire, Ada, and Lou. Ya'll are so good and gracious to me.

Lastly but not leastly (that's a nursing school inside joke, sorry):

Jessica, thank you for loving me from the get-go.

Kimberly, thank you for your sweet and calming presence in my life.

Marisela, thank you for being my big sister.

Cara, thank you for being my love. 

Of course, no thanks are greater than the ones given to my Beloved, the Lord of Time, Space, and the Universe, my Savior and my All, for being so real and present and tangible all these months. And while I'm at it... also thanking my role models, the Saints, for pointing me to Him, particularly my Mama Mary and my Papa Joe. May my heart always belong to the Sacred Heart of my Beloved,  the Immaculate Heart of my Mama, and the Chaste Heart of my Papa. And may everything I do be for THE GREATER GLORY OF GOD.

Jezu ufam tobie.

Totus Tuus, Maria.

St. Joseph, Terror of Demons, pray for me!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, LADS!

Five-Three-Two

 

Oh, my dear 532... 

It is surreal to accept that this is the last night we spend together. I type this as I sit on your bare carpet, with its resurgent dark spots and worn-out, high-traffic areas. There isn't much left to move out, yet it feels like a colossally difficult task I'll have to face in the morning.  I type this as I sit here and question every decision that has led to me losing you.

I remember the first time I laid eyes on you: December 24th, 2016. I walked in knowing you were the bare bones of what would become a robust, delightful, lively home. My home. The place that would become haven and refuge to my often troubled spirit. The place where I would be able to laugh hysterically, sob audibly, sing loudly, curse unreservedly, cook adventurously, dance wildly, dream vividly, and hope defiantly. You, 532, were everything I had ever wanted in my first home: style and functionality, character and efficiency, cuteness galore. And with every year, as I added more pictures, more decor, and more plants, I knew you were slowly transforming into a direct reflection of my heart, a heart that cherishes beauty, joy, independence, and the warm afterglow of being loved. 

532, you are a fountain of comfort, a fortress of joy, a shrine to my self-reliance, and a sanctuary of my faith. So it is with profound sadness that I write this, knowing we don't have much time left together.

It hurts. I am thoroughly heartbroken, and I realize that it must seem so vain, so utterly shallow to be thus attached to a physical place, to ache for it as if it were a person. I realize how difficult--truly difficult--this year has been for some people, and how my problems are nothing in comparison with the obvious monumental crises the world faces today. Yet I can't help to feel this grief taking over me, washing up the shores of my very soul. I do know I am rather dramatic, but it is what I feel... as if I've just lost one of the most important pieces of the puzzle that makes me who I am. It is in this place that I learned to look at the mirror honestly and face the brutal truths about myself that I had been avoiding. It is here that I slowly began to recognize the core of what makes me who I am. It is within these walls that I finally dared to embrace the mess that I am and waltz around with myself. Here, life forced me to befriend myself and fall in love with myself despite all the reasons I found to not. All of that happened in here, 532. 

And when the world was wrong, broken, cruel, or indifferent, there was always the allure of 532. This apartment always felt like a warm hug waiting for me at the end of a long day, like a favorite grandmother who waits for you to come home with a tray of your favorite cookies and a cup of tea. Who wouldn't want to come home to such a place?! The magic was not hidden from visitors, either. There was always something inviting and cozy about you, 532. It was like living in a pillow fort all the time. 

I don't want to leave. I begged for a miracle for so long. Alas, it was not meant to be. God has determined that I must leave and that this beautiful space is for someone else. So I just want to say: thank you. For being a physical space that allowed me to breathe in so deeply that I feel I took root. Thank you for giving me room to be my own person, however loud or quiet, happy or sad, rageful or peaceful. Thank you for being shelter for my body and a balm for my soul. Thank you for being so beautiful that it made my heart swell with pride to call you home. Thank you for being Cafe Cristina. Thank you for being the best nightclub-for-one. Thank you for being with me through the countless tears that no one else saw. Thank you for being the best audience for my constant stand-up comedy special. Thank you for being the most Catholic apartment in the world. Thank you for becoming the home I had been needing my entire life. 

I love you, 532. I will never forget what you meant and how you made my life so much better. I hope your next tenant will show you some loving. And I hope that I'll be able to feel the same way about a place again.

Dear Abuelita

 

Dear Abuelita,

Today marks seven years since you were born into eternal life. Like most well-meaning, cringe-worthy cliches, "time heals all wounds" seems to be true for me, especially when I consider those first few (or several) months when I would just burst into tears at the thought of you. Yes, most of the time, I carry on with the memory of you in my heart as if it were a nice ornament on the Christmas tree--it's pretty, it's worth looking at closely, but I tend to not focus on it too much but rather look at the tree as a whole. 

Because the truth is that, if I look too closely at the ornament, all the memories start rushing in like a storm surge. The tide comes in and batters my heart with grief, and in those moments, time doesn't seem to have healed any wound. I am swallowed up  and spat out seven years back, in my dark Durham room, where I read a message telling me you have finally passed after 8 hellish weeks of agony, where I lie on the thin industrial carpet and weep quietly so no one can hear me through the wall. When I really think about you, like actually really think about your absence, the scar tissue tears open and my heart bleeds anew. 

Today's anniversary of your death is hard, and I find myself shaken to the core when I remember the last time I saw you, the last time I spoke to you as you faded away in that hospital bed. But there are random days throughout the year when this pain sneaks up on me, and I must confess that it has been happening a lot more than usual lately.

I enrolled in nursing school with a certain smug confidence that I wanted to be a pediatric nurse (even though I have very little experience or knowledge of what that entails). So image my absolute and utter surprise when I started seeing your face on every patient I encountered at the hospital during my clinical rounds (and no, none of my patients were children). My first patient ever died in her hospital bed, by herself, only about an hour after I had "met her" (she was unconscious the whole time I interacted with her). I had the honor of praying for her soul as I assisted in giving her body post-mortem care and getting it ready for the funeral home to take her. As I gently wiped her body clean, I knew it was the body of my grandmother, who I did not get to see taking her last breath and whom I did not get to prepare for burial. 

 The next time I was in the hospital,  I took care of a 60-pound patient whose body was shutting down due to malnutrition. She didn't speak English, so when I came into the room and greeted her in Spanish, her eyes opened wide. I asked her what was her name. She replied, "Concepcion." "Que hermoso nombre," I said, and to this day my eyes fill with tears when I remember the light that illuminated her emaciated face as she smiled back at me. That was your smile, Abuelita, when you saw me visiting you at the hospital. You weren't expecting me to travel half the world to come, but there I was. To this day, that smile rips my heart to shreds. Concepcion's smile did the same. The next time, it was an old man's pat in the hand. An elderly lady's chuckle. A 45-minute conversation with a lonely soul. 

Every time, traces of you appeared in all these sick people. Every time, mementos of your love for me emerged in every patient I served. I saw myself bleeding and didn't turn away from the mess that was my heart. I didn't try to patch it up or bury it under indifference or busyness or other worries. Instead, I watched the hurt grow larger, throb, and gush. And in the process, I saw how much easier it was to love with Christ's love when I allowed my heart to be broken for you, for them, for what breaks His heart.  And every time I watched myself with them, I had the certainty for once in my life that I was where I was meant to be. Every time I put myself at their service, I knew I was making an act of atonement for the way I left town without going back to the hospital to say good-bye to you because I was too scared (your most cowardly grandchild, after all). My heart bleeds and heals simultaneously. Certainly, this is a paradox worthy of a God who humbles himself even unto death. 

I am certain you walk the gardens of paradise with the Lord. I'm sure you enjoy your mom and sister's company. You spend timelessness in praise of God, and you obviously are a fluent English speaker now, since I'm writing to you in English. I wish I could tell you that I've done much in these past 7 years, but they truly do feel like wasted time, for the most part. Even so, I think I would have liked you to be a part of them here on earth, and mostly for the sake of your children, who have sore hearts over missing you, over longing for your embrace. 

I found a photo of you as a little girl, with your parents and your siblings. It was striking to find bits and pieces of my face on yours, tia Emma's and Nana Cristina's. I wish I could tell you that I'm doing you all proud, but I'm not sure. Most days I am just grateful to get by. Missing you savors strongly of incurable homesickness. I know this feeling will only go away when we meet again, and while I long for that moment with anticipating joy, I must confess I would rather prefer for that moment to be many, many years away. Your most cowardly grandchild also happens to be the slowest doer, so she's going to need a long time to make you proud. I pray that she may make amends for her cowardliness by laying down her life for those ordinary, little Christs who remind her of you. 

With everlasting love, 

Your Cristi. 

I am not normal.

 

I wish I could tell you I was one of those people who just always knew something was different--or rather, that something was off about them--but I wasn't. I always thought of myself as being a very competent, normal human being. 

Sure, I've had my moments when I've thought, "Oh, I might be the next Mia Hamm" (yeah, that didn't happen) or "I think I might be much smarter than the average person" (only to remember that it was my siblings, and not me, who could not study for a test and still pass). I even had the delusion once in a while that "if Stephanie Meyer did it, so can I" (now that, to be fair, is considerably easier a task than being the next Mia Hamm). But, ultimately, all of these delusions of grandeur have come to nothing, and I've always ended up concluding that I was a totally average unremarkable (to use Abed's terminology). After all, doesn't everyone talk to themselves, both in their head and out loud, like... all the time? Doesn't everyone use their adult wages to indulge in their childhood pleasures like buying a whole bunch of Yakult or any other brand of Korean probiotic yogurt and drink it all at the same time? Doesn't everyone construct music videos in their head for their favorite songs? Duh!

So, it has been a bit of a shocker to come to the realization that I am, in actual fact, not normal at all. 

Not in the slightest. 

Because, really, reader, it isn't normal to be 33 years old and have no desire to form a family or have children. It isn't normal to be 33 years old and not picture what your life will be in five, ten, or twenty years. It isn't normal to have such an incredibly low level of ambition about things to accomplish in life. It isn't normal to walk away from a perfectly stable and well-paid job in a beautiful profession where you are more or less liked by the majority of your pupils and start over from scratch as a student in a field that has the potential to be satisfying and fulfilling but also utterly terrifying and exhausting. It isn't normal to find relief in the fact that, for the next two years, I won't have to think about how not-normal I am because I am doing a beautifully difficult and complex thing that MIGHT turn out to be the answer to my lack of clarity and purpose. 

It ain't normal, ya'll. I hear about it constantly. 

"But you're such a great teacher! Give it another chance!"

"Well, but are you sure you want to be a nurse? It's such a difficult field. My ____ used to be a nurse and she hated it! So stressful!"

"Wait... 33? And you don't have a husband? A boyfriend? NO KIDS? 33? But... you need to get started, or it will be too late before you know it."

"Don't worry. You'll find the one once you stop looking."

"If you were a little more feminine, you'd have better luck finding someone."

"You just... are too intimidating. Men are afraid of you."

"Are you sure you're not just a lesbian?"

"Just admit you're a lesbian."

"Why don't you adopt?"

"Oh, so you say you have a 59-year-old, 300-pound coworker with no teeth... is he single?" *wink* (this one is less factual than the previous ones, but it captures the essence of the non-stop heckling I get from my beloved Mexican family).  

"No, no, you are not cut out to be a nun. That's not for you."

I understand that most of the above are well-meaning attempts from both strangers and non-strangers to give unsolicited advice. I also see how their unsolicited advice is a reflection of their own fears and insecurities in many cases. And if I were more practical, I would simply reply to all those inquiries/statements mechanically, without getting my panties in a bunch (LOL, I had never used that idiom before--go me! This whole "being an American citizen" is changing me!):

" I'd make a great lesbian, but Henry Cavill makes my heart stop and takes my breath away. I would also make a great nun, and Jesus Christ makes my heart stop and takes my breath away. I can't adopt a child, I have no money nor the mental capacity to give him/her my all. Men aren't afraid of me, I just don't flaunt my goodies around or pretend I am interested in what they are saying. I'm feminine, I sleep with my earrings on. My mother had a kid at 43, so if I really wanted one, ten years seems like plenty of time. The 300-pound, toothless coworker is a fan of Club America, therefore completely undatable. I hated teaching more than I liked it (a lot more). I don't know if I'll like nursing or if it's my life's vocation, but I'm willing to try it out."

There's the other man of my dreams ^^^^

But the problem is, I am a sensitive weirdo (and clearly have a resentful memory), so those comments stay with me and pile up and get filed under "proof that you aren't normal" in my brain. And my brain translated these phrases into "proof that you aren't worthy," "proof that you aren't important," "proof that you suck."

And then a beautiful thing happened in 2017. A man broke my heart so deeply, so horribly, that I finally realized that I couldn't do this life this way anymore. I finally accepted that I needed a hand (or several). 

It's been three years almost exactly to the day that I started going to therapy. My friends can tell you that I love my therapist as fiercely as I love them and that I feel guilty about the fact that she has helped me so much yet I know so little about her. Sometimes I really just want to sit there and be like "enough about me, let's talk about you" (as you can see, reader, I am still working on "healthy boundaries"). Therapy the way I experience it might not look like more than "oh, someone to vent to," but somehow it has done a world of good. 

Of course, I am not suddenly cured of all my insecurities, anxieties, fears, trauma, etc. Sometimes, those comments cut me to the core, especially when they are coming from people who are meant to have my back. I have to remind myself that, ultimately, "hurt people hurt people." But, most times, when I'm far enough removed from those awkward situations when those comments were said, I can laugh about it and conclude, light-hearted, that I am not normal. It can even be a source of pride, to be so out of the norm. 

So, yeah, dudes, I know I'm not normal. I know how that probably ends up playing out: I don't get married, I don't have kids, I go to college for another decade and miss out on the convent, I get too old to adopt, I work as a nurse for a while and then end up being a school nurse because the hours are better (OH THE IRONY), and I probably die younger than average (I am left-handed... the stats are against me). That's that. A seemingly unremarkable life.

But, when put under the lens of an existential microscope, one might be able to observe a rich microcosm teeming with life. The life of a world traveler, of an amateur writer,  of everyone's favorite auntie, of an avid karaoker and ukuleler, of a former teacher turned nurse, of the owner of a piano who has very poor piano skills, of a lifetime jokester, of a terrible dancer who loves to dance, of a clumsy dummy, of a road-rager, of a Mexican lady with a thing for white dudes, of an intense foodie,  of a woman deeply, passionately loved by the King of the universe (and by his mother).  What an extra-ordinary life, indeed. I'm so glad to be right in the thick of it already. 

--Cris