Alma Mater

Tonight I stood at the front of a room full of ravenously inquiring brilliant minds; young, hopeful, yearning. I began [paraphrase], “Interesting that our firm is presenting to you this evening in this location; I have quite the fond memory of this room because it was within the very same chairs almost 10 years ago that I sat where you are today…” RRRRRiiiiii!!?? [That, if not plainly evident, is my alphabetical representation of a record scratching violently to a halt]. 10 years? Has it really been that long?

What I recall from that fateful 1998 fall evening in the warm confines of the student union building, where I drank hungrily the words of my future colleagues, was pure, intimidation-brimmed excitement. The hymen-tearing “I want to do that” experience; raw, unjaded desire. These consultants represented the brass ring; the fruit of my academic labours. Their delivery was effortless, their passion unparalleled, their culture so obviously unprecedented.

And now I am the embodiment of everything for which I vocationally ached. At least, that’s what I’d like to imagine I exude as I speak with as much confident energy as I can muster to an audience full of Me Juniors; the only thing separating me from them being the words “10 years”. Their drive, their naiveté, it’s so sweetly enviable. The soul of my younger self perches playfully on my right shoulder and mocks, “Oh, for these students to be flies on the wall of your subconscious right about now...”

Control

There are so many tidbits of information orbiting the hemispheres of my cerebral cortex at the moment that I doubt my present ability to write with any clarity. My mind is peppered with the uncertainty of momentous change and the pong-ball mayhem of my endless to dos. Most days I surface only seconds long enough to gasp hungrily for air before sinking again below the weight of my tiring schedule.

Interestingly enough, in the midst of my deep, sparkling chaos my husband and I have begun to consider our family plan. Unbeknownst to him, many a solitary tear has strolled across my cheeks in the last few weeks as a result. If you’ve read my blog for any short period of time, you know how vividly I dream of children. At the same time, a child means absolute upheaval. What I desire most frightens this control freak in much the same way that a dog trembles under the refuge of a dining table in a thunderstorm. The boom of black clouds rioting is enough to send rational consideration out the window. I married my soul mate who promised me partnership for better or worse; regardless, I cannot seem to squelch this innate fear I have of surrendering dictatorial governance over my own well-being. I rule me. I take care of me. I prosper, because of me. This regime, this formula, this methodology - it has worked for decades. Jessica is because Jessica does all and [please pre-excuse my French] I am scared absolutely shitless to let someone else take over. How can a caregiver accept the role of care given? The answer: with a vehement amount of resistance, procrastination and relative anxiety that materializes in the form of needless overexertion. Hence, the periodic tear or two. How else is a wound up girl like me to release those built up bubbles of hesitation?

Today's Carat Word = Patronymic

It’s a curious feeling this “in limbo” thing. I’ve been making slow but sure progress on the legal documentation of my new surname, but I still flinch every time somebody refers to me politely as “Mrs. Clark”. It’s been more than four months (not including the few months prior to my wedding where I whispered my future name to my atmospheric audience and practiced my future signature on newspaper scraps) and the adjustment has not sunk in. What's odd is, the sound of my maiden name in conversation is equally as bizarre. My name no longer rolls off my tongue without conscious deliberation; when somebody asks who I am, I hesitate.

In my honest opinion (because what other opinion would I offer?), the only deplorable thing about marriage is the name update process. Though by law I can call myself whatever I please, by convention I’m a traditionalist who loves the idea of sharing my sweetheart’s patronymic; in symbolic gesture of my gratitude and respect. The administrative hours spent in line at the county clerk, DMV, immigration, Social Security, bank and HR (not to mention countless internet upgrades)…have, although fleetingly, made me consider the sanity of my choice.

Now that I’m nearing the end of the paperwork, I wonder how long it will take for the change to feel natural. New clothes – a few days; new address – a few weeks; new car - a month; new name – to be determined…

Fragrance

“Ooh, but I still smell her. [Inhales deeply through nose] Women! What can you say? Who made 'em? God must have been a fuckin' genius. The hair... They say the hair is everything, you know. Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls... just wanted to go to sleep forever?” - Scent of a Woman

I know each aroma that emanates from my husband and believe it or not, I love every one of them – particularly the scent of his shoulders as my eyes flutter and I curl up against him in those waking moments before the dawn. I love the softness of his breath; the mild sour of his sweat; the apple of his pomade; the sand of his soles; the subtle, entrancing spice of his neck. Whether freshly groomed or leisurely shaggy, he always radiates a hypnotic wonder that paralyzes me. We make for interesting cavies in the study of romantic chemistry.

As I lie next to my husband ingesting his sweetness, or inhale what lingers on his pillow when he is gone, I sometimes find myself considering the importance of aromatic compounds to the success of a relationship. We have been known to writhe in laughter at each other’s unpleasant stories of the fetid clam hatchery and the dime-store musk of former flames. What exactly is it about one person’s hygienic habits that are so repulsive to the first lover, but so palatable to the next? After all that contemplation, all I am left to comprehend is that, whatever olfactory god blessed my husband's glands, he has ruined me for other men.

January's Book of Jessica

Perfect Match by Jodi Picoult

I have opted out of the book clubs to which I used to belong because I no longer have the leisure of finishing books on a dictated schedule. However, I absolutely love to read (a curse of my premature literacy at age four) and do so as often as my life-balance permits. I envy with virtual seething drool the number of hardbacks Namaste plows through and thus, I have made a new resolution to read, in one year, at least one sixth of what I presume Namaste consumes [excluding her students’ writing and her requisite PhD literature]. In other words, I am attempting to savour one novel per month. I intend to use my blog as a forum to discuss briefly the impressions I develop from my periodic verbal ingestion. My independent book club, if you will.

This month’s fare: a fast-paced, pop fiction best seller from an author known for her deeply emotional exploration of difficult issues. She is the sole writer to have evoked in me a weep-out-loud-for-five-minutes sentiment when I read her acclaimed “My Sister’s Keeper”. Unfortunately with this novel, she failed to reach the heights I have grown to expect. The characters were genuine and unguarded; impossible not to pity. Her descriptions, as always, were magnificent and robust. The problem with this novel was in the storyline; a plot that was both tired and exaggerated, just like a Matthew McConaughey film [A Time To Kill, anyone?]. Despite its hurried gait, the plot twists were strangely roll-your-eyes unbelievable. Halfway through the book I considered shelving it entirely. I was disappointed that she revisited the concept of infidelity with the enduring, lovelorn BFF – a theme that consistently bores me. If not for the vacillatingly virtuous husband and the angelic, victimized son I might have considered the novel a valuable time despoiler. The read was simply bourgeois and my expectations far exceeded the vanilla I was fed.

Vail

Everyone has a vice; something on which too large a reasonable percentage of one’s income is spent. My vice is travel (and expensive wine; but for the sake of this post we will assume my zest for pricy blends is commensurate with my penchant for world exploration). This is the reason I do not own designer handbags, nor are my appendages adorned with a multitude of Tiffany’s baubles. I’d rather spend my hard-earned salary on airfare. That’s why I keep my Myspace calendar updated, so my friends don’t have to play the “Where’s Jessica” game. I’m hardly ever home.

This week, it’s Vail, Colorado; where I spent the day bulleting through knee deep powder moguls on the back bowls of the mountain. On the last quad-lift of the day preceding my last run, as the wind bit at the air pocket beneath my goggles and the sun illuminated the bleach of the snow-capped trees, I seriously said a prayer of thanks. I realize this manic voyaging is not sustainable; but for now, I give in unreservedly to my vice because…I can.

Are You There God? It's Me, Jessica.

Interesting that when I’m the most tired, I can’t fall asleep. My thoughts are as flippant and circular as the dryer currently spinning the last of my [formerly moth ball smelling] ski clothes. As the dust of my excitement settles and the certainty of my lease termination taunts me, I battle my nagging doubts solo, in what feels like a hotel bed. This is something I will have to get used to – spending multiple evenings separated from my husband’s thermal affection. I have a million fateful reasons to relocate, but the advocate devil perched atop my ear is fighting logic with claws bared. And, in the midst of this life-altering decision crux, I am headed to Colorado to escape. There is a message here somewhere: a sign, an admonition, a reassurance? Alas, a cryptologist I am not. Instead, I await the 4:30am alarm and wonder (with that same angst-y paranoia I have unwilling inherited from my superstitious grandmother) what is going to become of me when I leap deliberately from the security of my nest…