I'm Alive

Just to let my fantastic, wonderful, mind-blowingly kind and encouraging readers know that I am climbing out of the hole. I had a donut yesterday, and as everyone knows, donuts put the ChubbO on the fast track to recovery. Because seriously, how can you be depressed while holding onto a scrumptiously chocolate covered morsel as delicious and euphoria-inducing as a donut. 

Anyway, just to let you know I'm around. And that I love you guys. You're totally tied with the donut. And that's like, some serious love. 

What the Crap Wednesday

I'm in a hole. The walls are high and slippery and sometimes I feel like I could muster the energy to at least attempt to scale them, but then I think it's easier to stay here. Instead of expending all that energy just to fall right back down into the same spot. 

But at the same time, I know that easy does not mean better.

But at the same time, I cannot help but wish that things were easier. I find myself every day scaling back, minimizing, trying to make things as simple as possible. Because simple is easier. 

I have issues, people. Issues I know should be buried underneath the hopes I have for my future. And underneath the happiness that sometimes settles down around my shoulders for hours at a time. And all my time is spent deliberating between how to think about myself, how I should draw this honest picture of myself. Should I be totally critical and lay everything out, scrubbing all my faults so desperately that I leave myself raw and exposed? Or should I give myself a bit of a break and let all the extenuating circumstances bear some of the responsibility? Balance would seem to be the answer here, because I can see that neither one will be very helpful without the other. 

I desperately want to see myself clearly. I want to know which parts to chuck in the trash, which parts to salvage, and which bits to upgrade. But when I start taking inventory of my insides, I become so overwhelmed and I find so many things that disappoint me. And some things that scare me. And other things that delight me, but also cause me to feel guilty because I struggle to think that I find delightful things in myself. Is that allowed? (Yes, I think it's totally allowed... for other people. But I don't allow this for myself? How is that even fair?) 

I'm struggling terribly with discipline in my everyday life. How hard is it to eat breakfast? How hard is it to review Korean vocabulary for a few minutes on the train ride home? How hard is it to put down the book, or the cookie, or turn off the computer and take a walk outside? 

Very hard, it seems. Maybe I have too many goals, too many improvements I'm trying to make at one time. But I'm annoying the crap out of myself and the self-loathing is growing increasingly harder to ignore. I spend so much time alone, in my comfortable, dark little hole. I'm tired of me. I'm tired of trying to improve things, of trying to become things, and failing. I'm tired of wanting things. I'm tired of small fires burning, but never consuming anything. My passions have dwindled to sort of half-hearted wishes that seem like tiny dots on the horizon of my life. They are slowly fading, like the car of the person you love as they drive away. You follow it until they are a miniscule spot (or until they turn a corner). 

I'm entirely dissatisfied with myself. I am constantly ready to berate myself, to scream and rant against my lethargy, my lack of enthusiasm, my all-out inability to discipline myself in the ways I want. But as soon as I catch my breath, I feel sorry for myself and all the excuses for the way I am build a strong case for patting myself on the back. I'm living in Korea. I have no social life outside of my boyfriend (who is FABULOUS and PERFECT and completely awesome in every way). I miss my friends. I miss talking books. I miss having good conversations over good coffee. I miss Kerri, Melanie, and my sister. I miss reading in silence in a room with someone I love. I miss Tariq. I miss my mom. I miss communicating easily with people. I miss a person being an opportunity. Here, a person is a closed door most of the time. I miss Carmen. I miss my Dad and his perfect machine-like ability to just do what he says he's going to do. 

I am the worst version of myself right now. And all I can manage is this silly, vague, blog post about it. I'm writing instead of doing. Another excuse that so easily manages to get me out of anything, because writing is important, right? Writing is essential. (Even this sentence is a lie, as the last time I wrote was like a week ago and it was a stupid post about my stupid hair.) 

What the crap, people. What the crap?

P.S.

I got a perm. See evidence below. Note facial expression. 

I know, you're thinking, "What perm?" And that's exactly what I thought, too. This picture was taken 15 minutes after walking out of the salon. So much for the Korean "Super Formula" perm for Western hair. (I don't believe this actually exists.)

Anywhoops, Le Scientific and Irrefutable Results:

My hair has 0.5% more body. 

My ponytail is 2% more interesting than the pre-perm pony.

My hair looks 7.5% less greasy when I wake up and go to work without washing it. 

I am 100% sure that all hair styling products are a crock.

I have 99.99% learned my lesson about expecting my hair to do anything besides naturally hang limp and refuse to be "styled." That nagging percentage keeping me from full surrender to the facts is that relentless little thing called hope: the hope that is innate in every human being, but especially active in women regarding their physical beings, which causes them to believe that things could be different from what they happen to be if they would just try a little harder, make a little more effort, or pay a little more for whatever the world is selling today. 

I feel 6% disappointed and 87% duped. 

Ah well. In about two weeks, I'm sure my hair will be back to normal and it'll be like it never happened. 

What do you guys think? 

(Two Left Feet: Does this satisfy your request for a picture of the "out hair" you made about 5 years ago?)

(Mom: I don't need any eyebrow comments. I know they're ghastly. I can only handle one beauty-related issue at a time.)

LAC to the Max

We now return to your regularly scheduled programming. Life of Anonymous Celebrity is back. In case you're just now tuning in: 1, 2, 3. 

Scene 1: My new coworker Angie (who adorably asked me "So what is a blog anyway?" and I was all, "Oh reeeeeeeally?" in a creepy voice that probably, instead of luring a new reader who would remain faithful through personal-contact-guilt-workshops, will cause her to now immediately navigate away from any page or site containing the word blog) and I were eating at Outback because our kids drove us to a state of carb craving like you have never seen. A nice young waitress approaches, listens as I point to the menu and tell her what we'd like, and then looks at me and says, "Long time, no see." And I had to say, "Yes, it's been a while. Is Austin still working here?" She told me he quit. And that made me sad. Because Austin actually made me proud to be an Anonymous Celeb. He always said, "Hello Ladies," and it cracked me up, because when do you hear Koreans saying Hello Ladies? Anyway, waitress just made me look like even more of a ChubbO in front of the new blog-innocent Angie. Eh, she would've found out sooner or later.

Scene 2: Keun Ha and I climbed Gomdansan. On the way, we stopped at a memorial and had some cookies in the grass underneath a tree. But as I was walking across the plaza of the memorial, three high school boys came up to me with a piece of paper. 

"Si-nuh."

"What?"

"Si-nuh," was repeated while a pen was shoved into my right hand. As I put the pen in my left hand and took the paper I said, " What do you want? My name?"

"Yessuh! Yessuh!"

"Why?"

"Uuuuuuuh. Mmmmm....... PROJECT! Yessuh. Project." 

"Okay." 

Signed my lovely autograph on the piece of paper and the boys giggled as they rejoined a large group of their fellow students in the shade of the monument. (Yes, they giggled. Korean boys and men have no masculinity issues WHATSOEVER. You got stuff you need to carry? Purse works, use it. You like that shirt that is hot pink with the flowers across the shoulder? It fits, wear it. Your friend's hair is all whacked out? Put your hands in his hair, fix it. You can't see the game he's playing on his cell phone unless you wrap your arm around his waist and rest your chin on his shoulder? Do it.) 

So, I have officially been asked for my autograph. See? Famous. 

Scene 3: I was checking out at the Family Mart when Mart Man all of a sudden popped a free apple juice down on the counter and told me it was mine. For free. Free stuff is awesome, even if it's just apple juice.

So, I believe I have brought quite a strong case in support of my position as an Anonymous Celebrity here in Korea. In the past month I have been "sighted" at a popular restaurant, "accosted" by teenage fans and begged for an autograph, and gotten a "freebie." 

I'm a celebrity. Touch me. 

It's Sermon Sunday

John 21: 9-12

When they got out on land, they saw a charcoal fire in place, with fish laid out on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, "Bring some of the fish that you have just caught." So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, 153 of them. And although there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, "Come and have breakfast." Now none of the disciples dared ask him, "Who are you?" They knew it was the Lord.

The disciples had been fishing all night, catching nothing. When Jesus called to them to throw their nets on the other side of their boat, they caught an abundance of fish. When they got to the shore, Jesus didn't give them a lecture. Jesus didn't ask them any theological questions. Jesus didn't hand them a pamphlet on how to avoid damnation. He cooked the boys breakfast. ChubbO style. 

Real Love is not handing out pamphlets, thumping a Bible on the streets, or asking people if they really wanna go to hell. Real Love is action. An action as simple and unpretentious as cooking breakfast. If you believe in Real Love, you will live in such a way that others will not be hungry, others will not be naked, others will not be isolated, alienated, and alone. 

Now, all this talk of breakfast is making me hungry. 

If only I wanted bread and fish for breakfast, instead of The Waffle. 

The Art of the Mogi (모기)

You've got to respect the Seoul Summer Mosquito, or Mogi as they are known here in Korea.  Being from the southern US, I'm well acquainted with the annoying bite of the mosquito. But the itching kiss I've been the victim of here is quite different from those I got at home. And this difference is due to the fact that the Seoul Mogi has got skills. Mad skills, people.

For starters, the Seoul Mogi is small. I don't know if it's that the mosquitos in the USA are growing obese along with their population (perhaps the cholesterol in our blood streams is affecting the weight and size of our blood-sucking insects), but so far it seems that the more petite the citizens of a nation happen to be, the smaller the mogi. Small Mogi sucks for you, but is freaking awesome for the Mogi. Because it adds to his element of stealth. I often mistake these miniature Mogis for gnats or annoying nameless summer bugs, casually waving them off with a hand, when I should be vigilantly seeking nothing less than their utter destruction. 

Relative to their size is their sound. Seoul Mogis are quiet little demons. There is no telltale buzzing, no miniscule siren warning you of the approaching, hovering, vampirish danger lurking around your exposed ankles and wrists. Nope. There is only The Silence of the Mogi. 

And the Seoul Mogi is the epitome of stealth- like the pickpocket who doesn't need to bump into you to steal your wallet. He simply takes it with such finesse that although you're enraged by the act, you have no choice but to bow to his adroitness. The Seoul Mogi is so small and quiet that you won't notice him. His bite is also impossible to detect. Back home, I can feel the offending prick and can slap the guts of the mogi along with my own precious blood,  flat across my calf. But here, you don't notice the bite, you don't feel anything and the next day you wake up with 15 bites and you wonder where and when you got them. Yeah, I think the Mogis study the Ajummas, or the Ajummas are taking lessons from the mosquitos. 

The Seoul Mogi, although invisible, inaudible, and impossible to feel, is a vicious, vicious creature. I went to school today to see one of my 6 year olds with 3 nickel-sized red welts: one smack dab in the middle of his forehead, one on the side of his face next to his left eye, and another one on the back of his neck directly beneath his hairline. Another 6 year old had at least 10 bites all over his face. Vicious, vicious, but creative creatures. 

The thing is, we're sleeping with the enemy. One day Kenny accused me of having a mogi in the apartment. I said, "There's no way! I have a screen on the window and I never leave the door open. How could it get in here? I only opened the door once to come in here!"

And he said, "They're really smart. You know how they got to the 9th floor? They rode the elevator." 

So, the Seoul Mogi has size, silence, creativity, and apparently, brains on his side. 

Current Mogi bite count: 1, on the back of my right arm. 

Runner's Rage

I have a hard enough time moving my body for more than 5 consecutive minutes. When I have been doing this for about half an hour, I am definitely sucking wind, heaving and trying not to drool on myself in my fatigue. The last thing, last thing I need is an ajosshi (think male version of ajumma minus the visor and handbag) with an impressive pot belly in a too-tight t-shirt and disgusting biking shorts, standing on the ramp where all bikers and runners enter and exit the riverside trail smoking a cigarette. 

Seriously? No, I mean, really? Okay, yeah, we're outside. But have you ever walked down the sidewalk behind a smoker? It's like smoking only worse because there's no nicotine buzz or the calming satisfaction of inhaling death slowly but surely. There's only the choking and coughing as you, completely unaware that the guy in front of you has even lit up, attempt to take a deep breath of nice blue-sky afternoon fresh air. I wasn't walking behind him. I simply had to pass him and I thought my lungs were going to crawl up out of my mouth and strangle him they were so incredibly enraged. 

There seems to be no correlation here (or there) with smoking and health. I see serious hikers smoking at the top of mountains; I see basketball players take a smoke break; I see the gym guy light up after his workout. And now I see the lone potbelly biker (obviously not much of a biker are we Mr. Belly?) making it even more difficult for me to breathe, when the ChubbO is already like 5 years closer to death because of her latest foray by the river.  

So, rage rage rage, rage Rage, rage rage rage, and rage.  

Half Way

Today, I have been in Korea for 6 months. So, I give you 6 things that the ChubbO has learned:

1. ChubbO can climb mountains. Or, rather, she can be bribed into climbing mountains for periodic rewards of delicious chocolate chip cookies from her boyfriend, who is always pushing her to go a little farther before giving in and handing over the goods. Cookies make your legs feel stronger, they make your shoulders feel less strained from your backpack, and they also heal the big bump on your head from that low tree limb you didn't see because you didn't have enough energy to raise your head and look at anything but your feet. Anyway, hiking has been a really new experience for me and it is teaching me to challenge myself, to push myself a little harder, even if it is all for a cookie! It's also fabulous practice, i.e. Honeymoon Training, for our time scheduled in Nepal, in the Himalayas, on the Annapurna circuit. 

2. I have learned that there will always be those people who stand in the door of the metro, blocking the people attempting to exit and enter the train. These people will always choose to stand there, no matter how inconvenient it is for other people, no matter how illogical, inconsiderate, and unforgivable it may be. I am glad that I have learned I am powerless, helpless, utterly incapable of action when it comes to Door Blocking. The Rage has cooled a bit and I'm now directing it towards more profitable areas, like those around my midsection and my inner thighs, which I can actually do something about! 

3. I have learned that in order to be a part of a community, you must seek it out, you must give something, and you must work for it. Community doesn't just happen. Fellowship isn't a given. It must be cultivated and cared for. Caring for others and having compassion for the people in my life must be practiced. It doesn't stem from some deep well of goodness in one's heart. It must become a discipline. I am learning this mostly from Keun Ha. He is teaching me so much about what it means to be kind, humble, and to serve others. 

4. No matter how hard I try, I cannot kick the coffee habit. I have tried to stop drinking it altogether; I have tried to only drink iced Americano; I have tried to only reward myself with coffee for making it to Friday. NOTHING WORKS. Dearest readers, what can I do? I know if I could cut those extra calories I would be ChubbO NoMo in like a few sweet seconds. For reals. Help a chubster out!

5. I cannot live without buying books. This is a sad revelation. I thought I could do a year without buying books last year in grad school in England. Negative. I ended up shipping home over 100 books. I thought I would try again this year. Luckily I only have.... 23 so far! That's pretty good. So, if I keep up this pace, I'll at least cut my consumption in half from last year. So perhaps this should be something I continue to work on, each year cutting down my book buying. 

6. I love blogging. I really do. Even though I'm not as consistent as some of you daily bloggers, I seriously enjoy writing here. I have found a few new friends and have been able to keep in touch with old ones. I have been able to think out loud, to whine, to Rage, to rant, to swoon, and to be generally all over the place. And I love it. 

Stand a Little Closer

"...the subway gave us much more than a way to work and back home. It gave us an object of pride and fascination, fear and loathing. It gave us a permanent topic of conversation and a perfect excuse for being late. It gave poets a new muse and moviemakers a new set. It gave warmth to the cold, a bed to the weary and a captive audience to anyone with a cheap guitar. 

But it also gave another gift, much less appreciated and more important, one that changed the city fundamentally and forever: the gift of proximity. In other words, the subway made us sit together. And stand together." 

The above is from a book I'm currently reading, Subwayland: Adventures in the World Beneath New York by Randy Kennedy. And although the New York subway and the Seoul metro are a world apart, I think this idea of proximity is universal, and maybe even much more realized here in Korea. For proximity in the U.S. involves American ideas of personal space and privacy, culturally based guidelines on staring and physical contact, and proximity here... well, if you've read any of my posts on Rage in the A.M., you know about the reality of Korean proximity. 

I've been in a weird place emotionally this week for several reasons. One of the main reasons is that I've been here almost 6 months and I'm still realizing how unsettled I am. I discovered Monday that one of my most valued friendships has run its course, and I'm still trying to catch my breath. Keun Ha is dealing with headaches (MRI was clean, thank goodness) that are probably stress-induced and I'm inclined to believe I'm helping the stress sometimes rather than relieving it. So, after an odd Monday-Wednesday, Thursday morning I found myself on the train as usual.

And there was no Rage. 

 He was tall, wearing a navy t-shirt. He was wearing glasses and his nose was round. His hair was shaggy, but not messy. He had his earphones in and was standing next to me, hanging onto the handles with both hands, like me. He was enjoying himself on this morning, sometimes closing his eyes and mouthing the words to his song. He was warm. Not physically warm, although that may have been the case. But I'm talking about a warmth I can't necessarily define or explain. His arm was touching mine and instead of moving every which way possible to keep anyone from touching me, I simply enjoyed being close to this human being. I didn't move when he inched closer to me to let someone stand on the other side of him. I felt comfortable. And that's not something I normally experience on the subway ride to work. 

It reminded me of driving. You're driving down the interstate and you begin to notice that the car in front of you is headed in the same direction at the same pace. You become used to looking at his taillights, you unwittingly memorize his license plate, you imagine he is listening to the same album with the cruise control on, his hands resting comfortably at 4 and 8 like yours. And all of a sudden he exits! Without any warning, not a kindly blinker or anything, he's gone. And you realize you have no idea who was in that car, but it felt nice to be traveling with someone, heading in the same direction. So you adjust yourself in your seat, shifting in your realization that you've just become emotionally attached to a car. 

And I transferred at Jamsil, willing this tall, oblivious man to follow me. But he didn't. Once more my telepathic abilities bow in submission to the language barrier. I mean, really that's obviously the only reason he didn't get my message. 

But I was thinking about how thirsty I must be, how starved for community I am here. And I'm not talking about just spending time with someone in the same room, although it seems that's all it would take at this point to satisfy me. I want to be with like-minded people, those who are seeking to love, to serve, and to connect in a way that is only found between humans. I am hungry for my friends, particularly those I can no longer have, and those that are too far away. 

So here I am. Participating in this community, where our greatest desire is to be heard, to be read, to be considered of worth just because we are here, just because we are writing. 

I'm going to go downstairs and sit in happy communion with the Coffee Shop Lady. She doesn't speak English and my Korean is so very poor, but we sit together and we smile at each other and we feel together. Sometimes proximity is a worthy substitute for genuine fellowship, because sometimes proximity is all you have. 

Teacher, Teacher

Kevin: "Teacher."

Danielle Teacher: "See, Andrew, this one is subtraction, minus, so the number gets smaller."

Kevin: "Teacher."

Danielle Teacher: "Yep. Good job, Andrew. That's how you do it. Exactly."

Kevin: "Teacher. Teacher."

Danielle Teacher: "Hold on Kevin, I'm helping Andrew." 

Kevin: " Teacher. Teacher. Teacher. Teacher. Teacher. Teacher. Teacher. Teacher."

Danielle Teacher: "OH MY GOSH, KEVIN! What do you want?

Kevin: "I eat this." (Holding up tiny scrolls of used eraser.)

Danielle Teacher: "What?"

Kevin: "I eat this." 

Danielle Teacher: "You eat that?"

Kevin: "Yes. I. Eat. This." (Slowly and deliberately as if English was not my first language.)

Danielle Teacher: "Eew. You eat that? Gross." 

Kevin: (Big grin).

Yep. This is my life. I was totally proud of his sentence, "I eat this." He's the smartest kid in the class. Too bad he's busy digesting bits of eraser.