Filed under Navel-Gazing …

Oct 08 2008
10 Comments
Navel-Gazing, Refining Fayza

A woman on the verge.

I’ve been attempting to create this post for over an hour. I logged in, I clicked “New Post,” and then…I did everything but write this post. I relocated a few stray containers from ill-fitting locations in my apartment to the tiny closet in my bedroom. I meticulously washed each and every soiled dish, glass, and utensil. I straightened the pillows on the couch. Then I re-straightened them a few more times for good measure.

After all that, I decided to make myself a piping hot pot of soup. At 12:30 a.m. I ate it watching Malcolm in the Middle. You should know, first and foremost, that I detest watching television. Secondly, you should be advised that even opening a can of Campbell’s and dumping it into a saucepan over a protected flame constitutes way too much cooking for me. Especially after midnight. Yet I’d rather do any and all of that instead of writing this post. Go figure.

I don’t even want to write it now. And I’m writing it.

It’s not as if there’s anything to fear here. In fact, Sunday marks the anniversary of the most incredible, most momentous occasion a human can experience while inhabiting the flesh: my birthday. No disrespect to those suffering bloody nightmares climaxing in slitted throats about the aging process, but after age 25, I cannot quite dread earning a few more notches on the life experience belt any longer.

So, my aversion to Sunday derives from an aspect a bit more acute. You see, moving onward in years puts a heavy hand squarely upon our backs and forces us to contemplate the past – whether we desire it or not – before hurtling full throttle toward the future. After all, there are lessons to be learned from the mistakes we’ve made, the decisions we’ve settled upon, and how we managed the hand we’ve been dealt.

In truth, I’m not such a hotshot when it comes to retrospect. It makes my insides cramp and causes me to become swaddled uncomfortably in the past. Why? Because let’s face it – Year 28 of Fayza’s Time on Earth was, oh, um, a composition of about 42.9% frustration and disappointment, 37.2% self-doubt, and 9.65% dizzying nausea (the other 10.25% contains miscellaneous sentiments best thorougly researched within the confines of a thesaurus).

But folks, I’m not copping the role of your garden variety pessimist here! Oh, no, no, no! I’ve got the facts to prove it! However, you don’t need those; generalizations will suffice. So trust me when I say that my 28th year was so full of gnarled tribulations, potholed roadways, and serrated edges that I even found it difficult to put the pen to paper (or the keys to the keyboard) more often than not throughout the course of the last 365 days. And that, my friends, is highly uncharacteristic of yours truly.

But I’m a reasonable girl, and in my waning days of 28, my truths are all unceremoniously splayed about my feet. And the importance of such a lingering backward glance never fails to successfully nudge me toward skipping in pursuit of my greener pasture. No matter how begrudgingly I go.

In celebration of this impending milestone, I present to myself (and you, while we’re at it) this compilation:

Monthly Lessons Fayza Learned
While at the Ripe Old Age of 28
by Fayza

October 2007
Hearts get broken. But if they’re never permitted to be utilized in such a manner that allows them to be broken, they might as well be non-existent. So using the heart? Never regrettable, no matter the outcome.

November 2007
When there’s a risk to take, by golly, it’s irresistible. You might as well take it. You’re going to take it. Or forever hold your timid self silent.

December 2007
Attempts to quash the travel bug only serve to make matters exponentially worse. Andale, andale!

January 2008
Doing that which we believe we cannot do only proves that we are so, so much stronger than we ever, ever realized. Forward motion only.

February 2008
Those whom you trust with your future, your truths, and your happiness in life can and will tell you lies, and betray you heartlessly, ruthlessly, and deceptively. They will derive joy in gleefully taking it all away.

March 2008
When you gut tells you to run, you are allowed a free pass to run. It’s okay.

April 2008
Not all questions have answers.

May 2008
Some decisions, although retrospectively imprudent, are ones you’ll never regret.

June 2008
It is unwise to turn down a second chance at happiness.

July 2008
Mind over matter, body, space, reality, and time. Mind above all else.

August 2008
Once you turn the feeling off, it’s simply not going back on again. No matter how hard you try. It’s futile.

September 2008
Certain friendships demand more than you can provide. It’s okay to want to be able to provide it, and it’s okay to try, but it’s not okay to permit said friendships to cloud your better judgment. You can’t and don’t have to overextend yourself in attempting to make provisions.

October 2008
I am worthy.

Here’s to Year 29.

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Sep 17 2008
11 Comments
I Left My Heart in Houston, Navel-Gazing, State of Affairs

But I know I am lucky.

At sometime around 5:00 p.m. on Sunday, September 14th, the wind abated, the rain subsided, and I had made up my mind. I was going to return to my apartment and face the, ahem, music (please, spare me the Ike-Tina jokes this time, yeah?). Mind you, I live in a garage apartment built sometime in the 1200s. Everything in it and on it is most likely the original, and for all intents and purposes, my landlords are slumlords with just a touch of infectious Southern hospitality.

Thus, I feared the worst. I expected the worst. Visions of roaches setting up shop in my apartment mixed with the blood-like stains of water damage on the walls danced through my head. I knew the outlook was grim and that the odds were against me. Hell, for once I was thankful that I still hadn’t gotten around to unwrapping the plastic from my couch.

I figured, I’d already scurried away from the city in a hurried fourth-down field goal attempt to seek frightened refuge in the suburbs; I’d shamelessly shaken uncontrollably in my borrowed Tony Hawk bed while the eye of the hurricane approached and retreated, rattling me and the house in its wake; I’d subsequently fled the suburbs when the bayou threatened to crest, thereby stranding us all; I’d recklessly driven through beyond flooded conditions to seek shelter once again. What was one more Ike-induced obstacle, truly?

So I went. Down Montrose Boulevard, I hurtled past a waterlogged Allen Parkway and a bursting Buffalo Bayou, I whizzed over a soggy Studemont Street and a waning White Oak Bayou and up the tousled Studewood Street, turned the corner onto my war zone-replica thoroughfare, and parked my car amidst the Heights equivalent of a broken heart – litter upon litter of fallen tree limbs everywhere.

I crept up the stairs, hesitant and wary. I turned the key in the knob.

And…nothing.

By “nothing,” I mean that, evidently and to my naked eye, nothing in my little slice of world had gone wrong. Nothing. My apartment was left entirely intact by the terror that was Ike. No colonies of roaches, no immediate visible damage (although there would be minimal water stains discovered later), no puddles or pools, no danger. Even my electricity, water, and gas were fully functioning! I almost fell to my knees and wept. How did I get off so easily after such a devastating and crippling natural disaster? The tides of my luck never turn this way!

I know I am lucky.

Monday itself was a blur. Okay, to be straight, the last thing I really remembered with any sort of respectable cognizance was being sent home early from work on Thursday, and feeling incredibly apprehensive about what the future was about to bring. So could it really be Monday already? Yes, yes, ’twas certainly Monday, mind you, and the heartaches cultivated from the weekend’s events began to emerge in full force left and right. Numerous saddening tales of punctured homes, burning landmarks, and destroyed dreams complemented the continuing epidemic of dwellings without power or water. Was this really happening? Did it really happen?

Still, I know I am lucky.

Tuesday, it’s back to “normal.” Well, it’s an attempt at regularity, no matter how futile. In reality, it is nowhere near successful. “Normal” is a place void of that pervasive worry that you cannot move about as you please or that you may run out of those very essentials that are so necessary to existing fruitfully in Houston. And I see nothing about Houston as of late that even suggests a degree of normalcy.

For example, back in high school, I had a curfew. “Be home by midnight, Fayza, or else.” I heeded those menacing words then, as a adolescent that still had yet to figure out right from wrong. In post-Ike Houston, I am yet again required to heed those words now. Glaringly obvious public safety reasons aside (reasons I completely understand, mind you), a curfew? Yes, a curfew. It is both stifling and alarming to be instructed as to what time you must be tucked inconspicuously into your home at night.

Adding insult to injury, I have just under half a tank of gas left, and I’m unavoidably on edge. But not because I’m irrational. For all intents and purposes, half a tank is a good thing, and the clear indication that someone was a savvy pre-hurricane preparer. However, that doesn’t particularly alleviate the fact that by the end of the week, I may very well run dry anyway. Especially now that rationing gas has become the utmost priority, and wait times for fuel are averaging two hours at best.

Or take food, on yet another hand. Procuring foodstuffs is no better, as the stores that are operating feature shelves that are next to bare. And those lines for sustenance? Well, they’re vying with gasoline for top wait times.

But I know I am lucky.

“Stupid spoiled American,” you mutter disdainfully under your breath.

I heard that. And perhaps your point has some merit. But you’re not really listening, are you?

After a day of work that felt insignificant in light of the affairs of the past few days, I went to Home Depot to buy a few of cans of paint for my living room and bedroom. If I couldn’t be useful, I might as well be resourceful, right? I cornered the nearest salesperson and asked how I purchase the paint. She told me regretfully that there weren’t enough employees to mix the paint; all human resources were being dedicated to assisting people with getting their homes back on track.

Indeed, I know I am lucky.

Last week, I could’ve driven down the street to fill my tank, purchase food, procure supplies. It was my way of life, and the way of life for the majority of residents in the Texas Gulf Coast region. There are countless others in this world that have never had that opportunity, for certain, to exist on this earth the way we do. If there’s any sentiment you take away about me, it should be that I am the last person that would fail to empathize with the plights of others. Nor would I ever take my own good fortunes for granted.

Because I know I am lucky.

But this weekend, in what felt like a single, incredibly long, excruciatingly trying day that spanned lifetimes, my way of life changed profoundly. Berate me for the privileges that being an American affords me, but when your sense of “normal” is toppled – no matter what your way of life – and you can no longer function in “normal” mode in your very own sphere of survival, it creates quite a sense of incomprehensible upheaval. It is dominated by a form of dizzying grief. My face smiles, my mind connects, but behind my eyes, I’m very much the shell of a lost soul.

But I know I am lucky. I know I am lucky. I know it could’ve been much, much, much worse.

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Jul 18 2008
5 Comments
Navel-Gazing, Refining Fayza

With an S on my chest.

There’s something inherently confusing to me about America’s favorite pastime. Ahem, not baseball, my friends. I get baseball. I’m referring to dating. Yes, dating. Why? Because. It’s baffling. Annoying. Irritating. Stupid. Moronic. Idiotic. Okay, scratch those. Honestly, dating’s best described as “utterly bewildering,” or “throw-my-brain-against-the-wall frustrating.” Yeah, now that’s more like it!

The proverbial “they” always say, “You gotta play the game.” I mean, c’mon. “Playing the game”? Why do I have to do that? Can’t you just like me and can’t I just like you, and can’t that be that? No, I might get baseball, but that sort of game-playing I don’t get. If we’re going to “play a game,” aren’t we supposed to have protective equipment and some ground rules for governance of the activities, anyway? Hell if I’ve ever seen any of those. In fact, the entire concept is one I’ve never quite grasped, and as a result, I’ve yet to figure out how to do it “correctly.” Needless to say, my foibles and fumbles have been epic in nature, and well, I could tell you stories that would make your head spin right off your neck in disbelief. However, I will not, because that was documented in a blog from days of yore. I’d like to covet a few shards of dignity here.

But sometimes, it’s just hard. Hard to keep sight of what you’re worth in attenuated, sticky situations of enamor. You try to roll like Timex, and your attempts are sometimes unsuccessful – you take a licking and you do your best to keep on ticking. But instead of “ticking,” you may only find yourself buzzing.

I mean, what’s “the game” and what’s just plain intolerable? I might assume I know the answer to that inquiry, but in practice, I may opt for the wrong answer. And don’t tell me to “go with your gut,” because we all know that guts have a tendency to lie right to your face when he’s “so cute” and “was really nice to me” and “kisses like butter.” Um, yeah. It can become incredibly easy to doubt and question what you will and won’t stomach. And what you do and don’t deserve, for that matter.

Gwen’s recent post gently nudged me on a fact I claim to know – that I’m a superwoman, of course. But do I only assert that I know that, or do I really know that? Moreover, do I live that? My friend Michelle always tells us that we’re “at the top of the food chain,” and that we “f*cking walk on water,” and we should be treated as such – and nothing less. Two points I agree with wholeheartedly, for certain. But do I understand that? Do I breathe that?

I’m not sure.

When I’m staring at a call log on my cell that doesn’t include his name (no matter how far down I scroll), or when I am refreshing the browser with my Gmail open and only CNN Breaking News tops the list, my self-image falters. It wobbles. I’ll admit it; it does. Because while I’m certainly not the type to let a relationship (or lack thereof) with a male suitor define me, I want to be treasured and admired by someone who appreciates me. Just like anyone else does. It’s a good feeling, or so I think, and there’s nothing wrong with desiring it. It’s an entirely new interest to me, as I’ve spent a lot of time believing it’s a weakness that I could avoid.  But now I think it’s only human to seek it. And while I believe that I’m intelligent, phenomenal, and (really, really) awesome, I waver a little when the opportunity I have given him to evaluate me on such an intimate level is exploited.

It cuts. It stings. It bites, and maybe it bleeds. Maybe. But it’s not the end of the world. It never is. Of this I’m well aware. I suppose that’s why even when I’m a mess, I still put on a vest, with an S on my chest. ‘Cause no matter what happens, and no matter what he decides, I’m still – very much – a superwoman. Yes, I am.

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Jul 05 2008
1 Comment
Navel-Gazing, Refining Fayza

When’d I get so white?

In an effort to avoid annoying all of my followers on Twitter to no end with my incessant quoting of Salon.com’s interview with “Stuff White People Like” author Christian Lander, I thought I’d post a screen capture of the passage from the article that hit home the closest. It directly addresses white people, their obsession with advanced degrees, the panic that ensues before settling upon the decision to attend law school, and the desire to take that law degree and work for non-profits in order to “be very helpful” so we lawyers can “hold it over other people.”

The fact that any of this banter applies to me, even in a loose sense – I have never wanted to work for a non-profit just so I could lord it over anyone else, but you get the idea – really shocks me. Lander claims the website is particularly written about “left-wing, upper-middle-class white people.” If that’s his succinct description, then I find that interesting, intriguing, and infuriating, all at once. That’s because I never, ever would’ve classified myself in that category – not now, not previously, and likely not ever.

It’s hard to shun the imprints of an upbringing, let’s be honest. I mean, neither of my parents went to college (although they both took college courses, neither finished the degree). For the majority of my life, I grew up in a single-parent household, without the buoy of child support to cling to from the abandoning parent. Which inevitably leads to a vivid recollection of my first experience (which wouldn’t be my last) using food stamps at The Pharm to buy groceries. And that’s just the beginning. But even still, I pinch pennies no matter what salary I’m raking. My clothes are decidedly cheap and acquired cheaply. I suffer from bouts of a tumultuous tummy when spending more than $50, or spending money on things other than food or “useful,” non-aesthetic items, like electronics or furniture. I have always foregone most niceties that characterize a comfortable, middle-class existence because, for the most part, those aspects have never characterized my life.

But in reading the article and digging through the site, I realized that I am an integral part of Lander’s target audience. I mean, as clearly documented, I see no harm in an impromptu pickup league of kickball. I packed up (and sold off) a happy life in Houston so that I could live in and worship the storied San Francisco first-hand. I studied abroad and wouldn’t take it back for the world (no pun intended!). I’m obsessed with vintage wares, I’m a vegetarian, I am working up to running a full marathon, I listen almost exclusively to indie music, and I’d marry Stephen Colbert if I could! The list goes on and on and on! Like my snarktastic friend Leslie says, Lander has us pegged!

Lions and tigers and bears, I’m an upper-middle-class white!

(cue bloodcurdling scream)

Holy cow. When (and how) did this happen?

While I – of course – have justifications different from Lander’s generalized explanations for liking what I like and enjoying what I enjoy, almost anything he says on the matter could admittedly be applied to me in some way, shape, or form. I understand that, I suppose. I more or less accept it, because “denial” is a river in Egypt, you know. But what I can’t grasp is how this makes me feel. Do I feel proud of my apparent ascension, or do I feel embarrassed to be such a sell-out to who I really am? It seems that I’ve “risen in the ranks,” so to speak, in terms of that arbitrary social ladder by which we are still allowing ourselves to be archaically classified. Right?

Maybe. But however accurately the case may be made, I want to make sure that my roots always keep me squarely grounded in reality. I might have a law degree, I might have infinite professional and social opportunities, but I never want to forget from where I came. After all, you might be able to take the girl out of the poorhouse, but I wouldn’t want to truly take the poorhouse out of the girl.

Now please excuse me while I ready myself for a early afternoon round of yoga. Namaste.

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