anxiety

I have trouble finding the right way to have conversations about books. Book clubs usually bother me. And while getting my MFA, the three required 500-level literature seminars I took probably rank among the least favorite and most useless hours of my entire life. Literature classes are too much about showing off, about making other people in the class feel bad, about assuming that the author and his work fit perfectly into certain genres, time periods, and trends. Literature classes too often assume that any book read in a literature class is perfect and that the author knew exactly what he or she was doing with every single word. Not to mention that literature classes are usually way too serious and seriously boring.

On the other hand, book clubs suffer from different but equally bad problems. Too often the discussion disintegrates into emotional reactions - like which characters we liked or didn’t like, as if these characters really existed. Too often after that, the conversation too quickly deteriorates into talking about boys or shoes. Usually, these book clubs take place in quaintly quirky coffee houses with mismatched chairs, $5 espressos, and music that is just a little cooler than the music you listen to. Without exception, these coffeehouses have punny names like “The Daily Grind” or “Not Your Average Joe” or “See You Latte.”

So, you can imagine my horror yesterday, walking to a tea house called “Subtle Tea” to meet with my work-related book club for the first time. As I walked into the place, esoteric trip-hop music on the stereo (which was a just little cooler than my music ) and Mac laptops covering every flat surface (way, way cooler than my Mac laptop), my hopes were not high. Even though I wanted to talk about the book, I wasn’t sure I was ready to be disappointed again. You might even say I was filled with a deep Apa Tea.

But what followed, to my delight, was a pretty intelligent and fun discussion of the book we read (it was Marisha Pessl’s “Special Topics in Calamity Physics - you can read my review here). No one got interrupted, no one talked too much, no one said “semiotic” or “paradigm” or “post post modern.” Someone brought chocolate.  

It reminded me that, even though most organized book-talking sessions go wrong somehow, getting to talk about what you’re reading with a diverse group of people is something to work toward, even if it means sitting within earshot of a hipster knitting circle discussing skinny jeans. Not only do you get to ask questions and hear about totally different and interesting readings of the book, but I also find myself reading the book more closely before the discussion and getting more out of it. The whole thing filled me with hope and got me totally excited about next month’s book, Ian McEwan’s Atonement.

After the meeting, I met my friend Amanda and we got talking about books, too - a new short story writer she’s discovered, her first experience with Dos Passos. And when I got home, I talked with Ben about the short story I read on the train that he had recommended. Here I was thinking that I never get to talk about books, when really I spent the whole night doing it with one person or another, in one way or another.

My friends, I suppose, make up a more loose-knit un-official book club - we often borrow and lend books to each other, argue over this or that author, talk about this or that review or trend. And I think that’s just as rewarding and just as important. I supposed the only difference is that our book club meets in bars. Bars with more straightforward names like “Cheap Shots” and “Why Not?”

Either way, I’m glad I now have both venues.

Today was one of those days when I got my house keys out at the subway turnstile instead of my metro pass. When I got my metro pass out at my office entrance instead of my work ID. When, instead of getting my house keys out upon finally trudging up the steps to my home late in the afternoon, I teared up a little bit. Just because everything felt a little harder than usual all day long.

Today I jammed the printer and couldn’t fix it myself. I had to be the dumb office lady who calls the young guys in the mailroom wailing like an idiotic damsel in distress: “I don’t know where the paper could have possibly gotten jammed - I’ve opened all the little side doors and checked all of the normal jam sites but my tiny female birdbrain just couldn’t figure it out and I need to be rescued by someone who understands machines and logic. Someone with a penis.”

It was one of those days when, the night before, I made a thorough, detailed To-Do List that compartmentalized Monday’s responsibilities into three neat columns: Work Tasks, Writing Tasks, and Personal Tasks. And I left that detailed list at home, probably because “Take To-Do List to Work” was somehow left off of the list of Personal Tasks.

All day I tried to visualize the list, sitting next to where my satchel sits, thinking that, perhaps, if I squinted hard enough I’d be able to read it in my mind’s eye. Not having it was paralyzing and reading it when I got home was like looking to the answer key to a crossword I gave up on. Of course! Birth control subscription! Call parents! Think of something special, creative, and original for Ben’s birthday! I could have gotten it all done if only I had known!

It was one of those days when I was so convinced that my email client was broken that I - yes, pathetically - sent an email from my work account to my personal account, just to make sure it would go through.

It went through. In seconds. It said, “Hello? I care about you? - Sarah.” I deleted it.

Luckily, though, it was also one of those days when Ben opened the door when I got home, all warm sweatshirt and cool aftershave, suggesting that we go to the gym to get the stress out and then eat a whole-wheat pizza, drink some wine, and watch some Monday Night Football. And implying, through such statements, that we all have days like this and it’s okay to tell these days to screw themselves by running three miles, drinking wine, eating pizza, and watching football.

Don’t worry, though - I made sure to put my to-do list in my satchel before I took a too-hot shower, slipped on my one-size-bigger jeans, and sipped my first glass of wine. Because tomorrow I will conquer the world. It’s on my list.

I was at the grocery store the other day and I bought a mango. Although this might not sound weird at first, I should probably add that I can’t stand mangos. The flavor is too bitter and acidic for me and the texture of the flesh is absolutely unacceptable - like human baby skin suede. I actually have trouble successfully chewing and swallowing pieces of mango.

But there I was, picking out a nice ripe mango, walking around the rest of the store with the mango in my basket, and then giving the cashier money in exchange for ownership of the mango. Then this morning, I brought the mango to work, cut it up, and stuck a piece in my mouth. I kind of pushed it around my mouth, trying not to touch it too much with my tongue, and then somehow swallowed it after a while. Then I tried eating another piece, washing it down with water.

What’s my problem? I’m not sure. But I know I do it with other things, too. Every few months I also find myself buying and preparing beets, choking down a sun dried tomato, or ordering sashimi at a restaurant. I can’t stand any of these things.

And it’s not just food. Every once in a while I’ll need to see a horror movie. Then, as it’s playing and trying to scare me or something, I’m thinking of how stupid horror movies are and how stupid I am for not remembering - or, rather, absolutely remembering, but fighting against the feeling. I’m sorry, but I think zombies are kind of dumb. Same with listening to Morrissey or watching sexy television dramas - I know I hate them, and yet every once in a while, I return.

What is at the root of this problem? Am I too open-minded? Am I sometimes overcome by good advertising? Do I have some idea of the person that I’d like to be, and try to force myself into that mold?

It might be a combination of all three problems, with an emphasis on the last one. I want to like mangos. They’re exotic, good for you, and have a nice color to them. They’re a little expensive - a fruit to splurge on when you’re feeling down about apples and oranges. They’re the fancy ingredient in smoothies and health drinks. Even the word, mango, just makes me want to eat them and then tell people that I ate a mango and that the mango was juicy and have a piece of my mango.

Same goes for beets. That rare, deeply beautiful purple vegetable - but one I only imagine myself enjoying. Once, a year or two ago, I bough six cans of on-sale beets and forced them down for weeks. Did I think that somewhere deep into can six that I would finally understand and enjoy the tart-but-stale flavor and soggy cardboard texture of beets? Do I just badly want to be a person who can really savor a beet?

Sure, this trait has helped me out a few times. It took me a few tries to get into one of my favorite Korean dishes, kimchi, probably because it looks like alien brains and smells like garbage. And I had to listen to my two favorite albums of all time (In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel and Boys For Pele by Tori Amos) many times before I was convince that both artists weren’t crazy or retarded and many times after that before I fell in love with them.

So, maybe my weird obsession with persistently trying to understand and like things that I actually hate is worth it in the end. Although I’m really not looking forward to finishing this mango.

Especially since so much of my day is wasted updating spreadsheets and talking sales reps off ledges, I try to devote my free time to Things That Matter. Things That Matter include writing, reading, looking for a better job, and watching Hardball while reading Newsweek at the same time. Things That Matter should involve either learning something or creating something - things that either propel me toward one of my long-term goals or somehow make me smarter or more informed.

But then there are crosswords. I love them. I love them and I hate myself for it. Because where does a finished a crossword puzzle get you? If you finish one, then you have a completed crossword sitting in front of you. And that’s it. I see people doing them on the train, and I shake my head into whatever Timeless Piece of Literature I’m reading - what a waste of time, hairnet lady! But I’m lying to myself. Once my lunch hour rolls around, there I am, wondering what an 8-letter word for “vision” is - angry if the puzzle is too easy, equally angry if the puzzle is too hard.

I thought about why I needed them, and I think it might be about the process. Crosswords teach all of the major tenets of problem solving: Start at the beginning. If you get stuck, pick an easier place to continue (I’m looking at you, good ol’ three-by-three square cake walk). If you get stuck again, make an educated guess and then test it. Try to think about the clues in fresh and different ways. Take a break for a few minutes and then return to it.
Second, it’s grounding. For someone who is constantly worried about everything, a crossword makes you clear your mind of your career and relationship problems and fill it with other problems, like what “Solomon in his later years” means. It starts with a W. If I’m stuck on a problem at work or in my writing, I can escape to my crossword while my subconscious continues to parse out problems in my real life. Sometimes, I admit, I’ll write until I’m stuck, then work on a crossword until I’m stuck, then write until I’m stuck - slowly but surely, one foot in front of the other.

It’s often a good way to jumpstart real, actual work that I’m trying to do. If my mind is wandering or if I’m brooding about something, it’s a way I can turn on my computer and work on something before I actually work on something. A palate cleanser.

Third, I love to imagine the person who created the crossword. You can almost always tell a few things about them from the clues and answers they pick. For example, the one I’m doing now (when I’m not working on this entry) was created by a golfing Christian. Yesterday was a young mom with a soft spot for nighttime television drama hunks.

Yes, maybe I’m just trying to justify my useless habit (or, perhaps, nine letters, addiction). Maybe I should stop hiding and start doing them on the train in front of every paisley-covered hairnet lady there is. Or maybe I should join some sort of support group - perhaps a Crosswords Anonymous group where everyone chain smokes and secretly meets to play Scrabble afterward. Maybe we all need a few useless hobbies.

You know those dreams you have where you’re at some meeting at work and you’re delivering this really great speech about a work-related topic in a clever way that no one has thought about before, but then you start noticing that everyone is looking at you strangely? And then you start to stumble over your words and your eyes fly from one coworker to the next and finally down onto yourself and your naked? But then you wake up?

I went through something on the same mortification level this weekend, except for the waking up part.

I was in the grocery store on Saturday morning and everything was going normally. I collected a big basket of food items and headed to the checkout lines. It was the weekend and busy and I had to wait a pretty long time to get to the front. As the woman is scanning my groceries and putting them in bags, I reach into my satchel and find… nothing. No wallet, no keys, no phone, no credit cards.

My mind flashes back to the night before, when I cleverly placed my vital satchel items into a smaller purse before we went on a walk. “I’m so clever,” I remembered thinking to myself. “This purse is much smaller and lighter than my normal satchel, and will therefore be easier and more comfortable to carry on a walk.”

Back in line at the grocery store, I rooted around in my satchel looking for anything that might help me. Finally, among the gum wrappers and pen caps, I find my rarely-used checkbook. I think that I’m saved, until the cashier tells me she needs to see my drivers’ license (vital item located in small clever purse) or my PathMark Membership Card (item attached to vital item keychain in small clever purse).

I tell her that I’ve forgotten my wallet, that I don’t have any money, and she looks at me as if I were telling her a bald-faced lie. I ask if she can type in my phone number, but by this point the long line behind me has lost their patience. The man directly behind me utters the most horrible thing a stranger can say: “COME ON LADY!”

It’s at this point that I check to see if I’m wearing clothes. After the initial COME ON LADY other people in line start to yell. Then the cashier asks me what she’s supposed to do with my groceries and has to void all of the sales. I’m trying to explain why I’m such an idiot, I try to tell them that I’ve been to the grocery store successfully thousands of times without incident and actually I’m really good at grocery stores, but really I mostly start to tear up and babble something about my vital items.

I rush home, cry at Ben for a few minutes (who can’t help but ask where my groceries are), collect my vital satchel items, and then have to go to the grocery store again because we need food. This time I get in a different line, as if that were the problem. 

But it was really just like those anxiety dreams where for a long time after you wake up, you feel unsure of yourself and skittish and defensive. It was actually weekend-ruining. I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything or answer the phone. I just wanted to barricade myself in the apartment, not buying things or running into people who might call me LADY.

It’s been a busy week for both Britney and me as we race against each other to see who can have the more productive, happy, and successful life. Sure, you might think that Brit’s falling behind me a bit what with her child custody battle, hit and run charge, and ecstasy drug rumors, but what we can’t forget is that I have yet to have a number one hit, a child, or a hot bod.

Think about it. Even though Britney was involved in a hit-and-run in a Studio City parking lot, at least, unlike me, she can afford a car. Not to mention that she was being chased by a throng of paparazzi at the time, whereas I only sporadically get catcalled by city workers and the homeless. Face it: I have a lot of catch-up work in front of me and catching up while Spears is distracted is just what I’ve been waiting for.  

But here’s what I’m really scared of: that Brit will hit rock bottom. Let me explain. As we all know from various episodes of Behind the Music and other rockographies, hitting rock bottom is an essential turning point in the lives of pop artists that leads to comebacks, happy marriages, bullet-proof abs, and clean urine tests. Yes, her family is being ripped apart, her career is in shambles, and her body is a shadow of what it once was (a bigger, jigglier shadow). But now she’s just a child molestation accusation, lost limb, or celebrity murder charge away from realizing that she’s got to change her ways and turn her life around.

What does this mean for me? It means that I can’t stop and rest, no matter how many times Brit shaves her head or swallows a sedative. I have to push forward in my own life and focus on my own goals knowing that Brit has the ability to hit the top …one more time.

I’ve decided to start small and not worry about my music career just yet. I’m focusing on the little things that will make me surpass Brit’s fame and glory. I try to go to the gym every day and work on my hot bod. Right now, I have Britney’s slightly doughy built, minus the spectacular boobs and angelic face. I’m most concerned about my abs, which are not hard (and not because I’ve spawned two kids in the last two years), and which my significant other likes to jokingly call my TIRE (are you smirking at that Britney? At least he still loves me.).

I also try to surpass Britney in fields where she often fails. For example, I go out of my way each day to wear underwear.

I know that these days it seems easy to outdo Brit, but you can’t pretend she isn’t a force to reckon with. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she has orchestrated all of the drama of her descent in order to throw me off the track - to see if I would give into sloth and Hostess products as soon as I saw a crack in her tight, tight veneer. She’s probably just waiting for me to skip a day at the gym or give up my dream of one day publishing a book that rivals the emotional and philosophical gravity of A Mother’s Gift, and then she’ll pounce, producing a song with ten times the catchiness of “Toxic” and an accompanying music video with even more sexily futuristic stewardess outfits.

Even if that’s not the case, even if Britney’s entire life is in a nosedive that will be impossible to pull out until she crashes, I still might be in trouble. As far as I’m concerned, every step Brit takes toward hitting rock bottom is one more step toward clawing her way back up again.

Click here for the first installment of Sarah vs. Spears.

We have a new person in our office. She started yesterday and since she works right next to me I decided to pop in despite the fact that no one bothered to introduce us or even tell me that she was starting. Why didn’t anyone introduce us or let me know about her starting? Because she’s a few levels above me - whatever that means.

In any case, we’re neighbors so I popped in to say hi. I told her my name and that I was right next door if she needed anything in her first days.

She was nice and everything, but the first thing she asked me was, “What’s your title?”

I told her I was a marketing assistant and tried to move on. But then she asked who my manager was and then asked where my manager’s office was. I told her those things, too, but I was feeling smaller and smaller and quieter and quieter with every question. I tried to recover by asking her a few more… friendly… questions - we’re both from Boston, for example, and have that in common - but the entire atmosphere had changed and she was cold. Since then, she hasn’t as much as looked in my direction.  

Now, I don’t think this is a problem of this specific person, who may or may not be a nice person (I will perhaps never know, unless I get promoted and therefore suddenly materialize before her). But I do think that it’s an unforgivable problem in my workplace and in offices in general. Why must we treat people differently, depending on their title? Why can’t we talk to each other like equals? This woman is probably around the same age as me. She looks around the same in appearance. What separates us beside our paychecks?

I mean, I didn’t ask her how many degrees she had or where she’s been published. Or what her family tree looked like. I didn’t try to find out who had the richer creative or emotional life. I didn’t ask for her SAT scores or her pants size (obviously bigger than mine, I might add, just because I’m bitter). I just stopped by.

It reminded me of when I first started working here and one of the editors emailed me and asked me to sort an Excel file for him alphabetically since he didn’t know how. I called him and asked him to open the document and walked him through the process (the clicking of a single button, mind you) and then suggested that he take a tutorial on Excel (which my company offers) since we use the program so much. He seemed deeply offended, but why? Why shouldn’t I share my knowledge with him or make a (much needed) suggestion that would help the company as a whole? I certainly wasn’t mean or condescending about it. Is there just a general problem with me speaking my mind?

And I’m trying to walk the fine line between letting it show that this class/authority/title stuff bothers me and keeping it all knotted up inside. As much as I wanted to yell at that woman, “YOU DON’T KNOW ME!” or, “AM I SUPPOSED TO FEEL INTIMIDATED?” or, possibly, “ARE THOSE MATERNITY PANTS?” and stomp off, I guess I’ll be slightly more mature than that. I’m going to keep approaching her and talking to her like an equal. I hope it makes her as uncomfortable as she’s made me.

Is it necessary to treat people in the workplace according to their “status”? Does this happen in every workplace?