Tag: almost daily selfie

There’s a pattern in my life and I’m not sure how to interpret it, so let’s dissect the research.

#1. I started at my current day job in February 2007. Two weeks later, someone was using the kitchen’s stove top and mid-burger, smoke smoke smoke, and all the fire doors slammed shut. The entire building had to be evacuated. As everyone gathered outside, one name was whispered over and over again. It was a unisex name, but traditionally more female than male. As as people’s voices repeated the name (with annoyance, with non-surprise, with humor) and as they got louder to be heard over the fire engines, a man walked out wearing a sheepish expression. I got my first introduction to that editor and his brilliant, yet distracted, mind.

#2. I moved to an apartment in May 2010. A week later, at 3am, I woke to red/white lights pouring in through my bedroom window. The scary part was I couldn’t hear the fire alarm going off with my bedroom door closed. The not-scary part was it was unintentionally tripped and me not evacuating was a non-issue. I mean, sort of. The also not-scary part was I lived on the first floor and could have easily climbed out the side window which overlooked a parking lot. Lots of cars to stand on / ease the transition from apartment to outdoors. The scary part was my landlord was a slumlord and didn’t seem to care I couldn’t hear the hallway alarm if my door was closed. I never slept with my bedroom door closed again.

#3. I moved to a new apartment in April 2015. The steady beep-beep-beep of a smoke alarm cut through my unpacking. I poked my head into the hall to see my super walk by. Yes! I moved away from a slumlord and moved in next to the super for my building. He took care of the situation before it escalated. I was able to unpack without any interruptions or further high pitched sounds.

The alarms seem to be happening sooner and sooner after my moves + they’re losing steam from event to event + things supposedly happen in threes = I should be all set with this side effect of my life. Agreed? What else could this be saying about me? Do you have any unusual patterns in your life?

A studio apartment. A room full of people. A heart barricaded by too many self-preservation tactics. A silent apartment and a too loud head. Saying goodbye. A house with three kids and one adult. An empty barstool next to you. Reaching out to friends, checking in, but no questions asked in return. Questions asked but not wanting to answer. Not wanting to answer because the truth of your heart is too heavy. A six hour time zone difference. An empty swing swaying in the breeze. A pot without a lid. A negative sign every month. Looking at the sidewalks instead of those passing by. A website/an app with scores of superficial options. Dropping off your child at daycare. Cat calls from construction workers/passersby. Social media. A loveseat for two sat on by one. Being the first to arrive. An empty slot on a bookshelf. A three hour time zone difference. A keychain with no keys. Rain clouds. The third wheel. The last slice of pizza. No new messages. No lives left on Candy Crush. Cooking for one. The setting sun. A blank page.

I don’t have much in common with rocket scientists, because, math, but there is one commonality. Blood.

You see, my grandfather (my dad’s dad) was a rocket scientist. I first discovered this when I found out he published Jet Propulsion for Aerospace Applications, 2nd Edition (which I, of course, promptly bought even though I can’t decipher a word inside). I re-discovered this fact when another one of his work legacies came into my possession not too long ago. It was then I realized I might have something else in common with those ridiculously smart rocket scientists: failure.

I’m really good at failing, especially of late. I’ve failed to buy a condo. I’ve failed to keep a car in working condition. I’ve failed to stop snacking on every single thing within my reach. I’ve failed to get a good night’s sleep (any night of the week). I’ve failed to take a step where my left foot doesn’t hurt. I’ve failed to feel something other than loneliness. I’ve failed to write anything worth publishing. I’ve failed to write anything merely for my own amusement. I’ve failed to even try.

As the failures piled up, I’ve been unable to see anything else. I clutched at the clear plastic cube. I traced its edges and studied the piece of the rocket within. The piece was from an explosion at, or shortly thereafter, its launch. You see, the scientists had to collect all the blown up bits and reassemble them to study what went wrong so it wouldn’t happen again. (I don’t know if the piece inside was the critical part of the second rocket’s success or the first rocket’s failure, but I like assume they were successful in mastering the rocket launch. I also like to assume my grandfather was an integral part of its success, hence, the trophy. Back then, trophies were for winners, not just participators… :))

To my mind, rocket scientists are brainiacs who never make mistakes and never get messy, but this blows all those notions out of the water, or umm, sky. To study something so you don’t make the same mistake again? Getting dirty as you crawl around in the dirt gathering every minuscule piece and particle? That is hard work. That is what it takes to succeed.

And so I will scrounge up the messy parts of my life, put them on a petri dish, and slide that under the microscope for further studying.

Woah, look at how scientific I already am! Maybe some of my grandfather’s (and father’s) mathematical and scientific sides did make it through the generations to me.