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“Mamma, che ne dici di un romantico a Milano?”
Dio Mio! Look at you! You’re so grown up since I saw you last!
I can’t believe everything that has happened since I saw you last. First off, let’s discuss once more how I went to Italy, because boy, that was something. I will try to make this blog more entertaining by peppering in some random Italian pictures of Genova, because I know that’s what you’ve really come for, you lazy bum. Before this trip, I had no desire to go to Genova, mainly because I had never heard of it before, and I’ve been to a lot of places in Italy. Rome, Sorrento, Capri, Pisa, Milan, Florence, Assisi, Venice, Bologna, San Gimignano…and a couple of more here and there that I’ve forgotten about. Even after I received my assignment, I wasn’t thrilled, especially once JZ (who had taught in the same area) told me it was a fairly industrial town. But Genova is awesome; it’s gorgeous, it’s fancy. It’s a seaside stretch of town that spoons some lovely hills, which makes for some pretty delicious scenery.
If you read my last post, which I will assume you did not, you will know that I was staying with a host family, and that I had a host cousin, Selena, of the same age in the apartment across the hall. This was great, because Selena would often take me (or us, if the other teachers weren’t being lazy) to places I normally wouldn’t have the opportunity to go. But it was also a bit unnerving, because they were often things I wouldn’t normally want to do as well. For example, she left me a note to meet her at the train station after work around 9; in my mind (silly me), I expected drinks.
She picks me up, and we walk along the lovely Italian street talking about our days, when suddenly she says, “Now, I will take you dancing.” These are words that do not generally thrill my ears, especially when she informs me we will be dancing outside, in plain view of the public. The idea was lovely; we were doing some kind of mountain folk dance (I heard the talk of “dancing in the mountains” quite a bit from my host family, and I’m still a bit unclear about what this refers to, so I guess we are speaking very literally here) next to the port, with lights from the hills glittering peacefully off the water, accordion music playing jauntily in the background. I, however, was full of unease and nervous laughter, which I need not explain to anyone who has seen me dance/danced with me. There was a lot of that kind of dance where you grab hands and make circles, which I felt confident enough with. But then they would break off into couples, with the outer line of women rotating with the inner line of men every 30 seconds or so. Every new partner that approached had that look in their eye, like, “I shall be the one to tame this wild stallion!” The first 5 seconds or so, they seemed so cocksure with their firm grips and their confident directions. But 15 seconds of sweaty hand fumbling and shuffled missteps, you could see the frustration set in, and by the second overly forced twirl, they were only too happy to spin me off to the next unsuspecting chap with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. For one partner only dances, men would come up to ask me to dance, and I would try and spare them the pain by saying, “I’m really not good at dancing.” They would laugh off my fears, but by the end, the sweat above their brows and the confusion in their eyes said, “You weren’t kidding, were you?”
Things like this would happen every time I met Selena. One night, when we had actually planned to get drinks, the rest of the group cancelled, so Selena offered to take me on a small walk around the neighborhood. Two hours later, at midnight (after a day of teaching wild Italian children), I collapsed into bed. Another night, we hitch-hiked up 3/4ths of the way up a mountain, then hiked in the dark the rest of the way to get to a “party”, which turned out to be more of a fair with an 80s cover band, followed by a ska band (not sure how they picked the music). After a rousing mosh pit got started, one guy grabbed my hand and pulled me in. There was a brave moment where I thought, “I can do this!” Almost immediately after, someone smashed into me, and I thought, “I can’t do this.” After slightly crashing into a planter, I crawled my way out of the heaving mass of men back to the slightly calmer feminine circle I had been a part of originally. Every adventure with Selena had me stumbling into bed late at night and waking up completely sore the next morning.
Now, you might be thinking, “But Juliana Maria” (of course I would choose another country where they can’t say my name), “What did you think about the work?” Well, it was alright. 16 Italian children are, as you can imagine, fairly unpredictable, except when it comes to volume, which will always be horrifically and predictably at full blast. One of my favorite students was this very camp 8 year old named Luca, who could usually be seen linking arms with Michele; together, they made up the tiniest little couple I’ve ever seen. Luca would usually come up to me, very seriously, and say, “Teachers.” And I would say, “Yes, Luca?” And he would tell me a very long and animated story in Italian. When he finished, I usually gasped and said, “REALLY?” And maintaining his serious composure, he would nod and say, “YES” before swiftly turning away, Michele in tow, off to swing on some palm fronds (I…I feel like this last bit sounds made up, but I assure you, it happened). If you would like any stories about how I would terrify the children, go ahead and ask me in person, because these stories will be best told with actions and sound effects.
Now, there are some non-Italian things worth mentioning. Recently, you heard that my older sister Jenni got engaged to that Bostonian, Brian (who is really a lovely fellow, even if he has the slightest hint of what is probably the worst accent in America). But what you might not know, and what I might not know, is that my older brother Rory also got engaged. You might have seen on Facebook that my uncertainty about this situation stemmed from time zone differences (also, FACEBOOK, we are going to have words about you showing statuses to people who I have continuously tried to hide status updates from), but when I emailed my mother to confirm the actuality of the occasion of engagement (i.e. “Did Rory and Ashley get engaged?!?!?), she replied back, “Sounds like it,” so apparently, we are all just placing bets right now. I still haven’t been able to Skype my mom since it happened, which, if our roles were reversed, means that it would be time to start posting pictures on milk cartons to locate a missing person. I just find this whole lack of information as strange, because everyone knows that Rory is the biggest gossip in our family. I did at least know slightly more than my younger sister Tara, who told me, “I didn’t even know they had gotten back together until she posted that ring picture on Facebook.”
Speaking of Tara not knowing things, here is a conversation we had on Skype (with my Aunt Kelly present as well).
Me: Well, I’ll be finished with school in September, but I won’t get my master’s degree until January.
Tara: OHHHHH! You’re getting your master’s!
Me:…What did you think I was doing over here?
Tara: I thought you were still in school.
Me: What do you think a master’s program is?
Tara: Well, I guess I never realized what you were doing there. Nobody ever tells me anything.
Aunt Kelly: Nobody ever tells Tara anything.
Me: I’ve definitely told you multiple times what I’m doing here.
Then, a little while later…
Tara: Do they celebrate Christmas over there?
I tried to hint a little later that I think she should stop smoking so much pot. On a related note, whenever I want to experience amusement and depression at the same time, I read my little sister’s Twitter feed.
On a closing note, if you REALLY want to be amused, watch this routine by John Mulaney. I’m pretty certain John Mulaney is my dream man, but shucks; he’s taken. I’m also pretty certain that if I was born a man, it would be John Mulaney (those are two disturbing statements to put back to back). So I spend my days watching his bits on repeat to console me.
Italian Children and 6 meals a day
Ciao, fratelli! Perhaps I have forgotten to tell you, but I have gone to Italy. Or from my perspective, I have come to Italy. I often forget to tell people that I’m doing these things, so now I am telling you; don’t be angry because I have neglected you. I am here because I’m teaching at an English summer camp for two weeks. That’s right; I convinced someone to pay for me to come to Italy; flight and food and all (and all the food! Dio Mio!). I will walk you through a typical day here for me, mainly because I need the exercise after all the carb consumption.
7:20- Wake-up. This is a very vital step in starting the day.
7:50- Eat breakfast prepared by host mother, which I know is ready when I hear her call out, “There is the breakfast!” The entree is usually a large cappucino, which is surrounded by a carton of yogurt, some kind of fruit (cherries, baby strawberries, etc.), a plate of perhaps 20-30 cookies, and a plate of 4 melba toast slices; 2 covered in butter and marmalade, and 2 slathered with Nutella. I usually eat one of each of the toasts, the yogurt, the fruit, and no cookies. I described the full English breakfast to my host mom, and she said it would hurt her stomach; that this kind of Italian breakfast was big enough for her. I would certainly hope so; I imagine it would be the perfect meal for Buddy the Elf.
8:20- Leave for the school. Sometimes I am met along the way by an 8-year-old named Gianluca, whose mother promptly passes him on to me. I then struggle to make awkward small talk about the weather with a young boy who does not really speak or care about English.
8:30- Arrive at school, hoping to get things done in a leisurely manner so I’m prepared for when the students arrive at 9. I try to set up the boardwork, arrange the desks, etc., so that the classroom is in order.
8:50- An Italian school employee comes in to tell me I need to switch rooms, because they need the room I’m in for some particular reason; perhaps to set up the “We don’t want you here” flag (and remember…this is an average day).
8:52- Race to another classroom (Gianluca in tow) and scramble to imitate the classroom whose set-up I just tore-down.
9:00- Bring class 2 students (10-13 y.o.) to the classroom, take registration. Get them to sing and dance to Pharrell’s “Happy”.
9:30- Start English class with the same group.
10:45- 30 minute break with students. The breaks are a nice advantage.
11:15- Art, Drama, or Sport with Class 1 (usually the 7-10 y.o.–there is an overlap in age between the groups). If you think this sounds fun, imagine a group of 15 Italian children screaming as they grab paper, scissors and glitter flying in all directions.
12:30- Lunch. Sit with kids in the villa next to the school and eat packed lunch that my host mother made. This usually consists of 2-3 sandwiches, 2 bottled waters, 1 juice, 1 piece/container of fruit, 5 cookies in tinfoil, 1 package of cookies, and sometimes chocolate milk. During this time, a student usually gets hurt in the most non-injurious way, but with the most melodramatic performance. One girl scraped up her knees last week, and she had 5 students surrounding her, gesturing wildly with voices reaching all levels of alarm. Now imagine 5 Italian children of various heights with the arms around each other’s shoulders trying to walk while one wails in the middle. Then, one inevitably calls the kid’s parents (without telling us teachers), wildly exaggerating the incident with tales of gushing blood and shattered bones.
1:30- Prep time (or as I call it, Facebook time*), followed by half hour break.
3:15- Last English class. Since it is the youngest group, I pray silently that if something must be thrown by a student, that it might at least have dull angles. Most of the class is spent telling the kids to shut up.
4:30- Children go home (finally). Spend the next two hours on what is supposed to be a 15-20 minute end of the day meeting. This used to bother me until we started adding beer to the mix.
Sometime between 8-10- Dinner. Imagine the amount of food usually eaten in one day, then double it: this would probably be just under the course and portion sizes served. And the food is amazing, so every day I’m torn between the threat of not eating dinner or not fitting into my pants. Let’s just say I’m thankful I wear a lot of dresses.
Sometimes, I will go out with my host cousin Selena after dinner, as she is the same age and full of joie de vivre. (What’s the Italian equivalent? Gioia di vita?) Usually, these adventures turn out to be a bit more…exciting than expected, but I think I’ll save that for another post.
Now, for those of you who are anxiously awaiting my return to England (all 2 of you), I will be back to Bristol on Sunday. I may even have snacks. (Who am I kidding; I always have snacks)
*I felt guilty about this, until I realized that since all our “breaks” are spent watching children, we really weren’t getting what legally could be termed rest periods.
Just a note…
I’ve mentioned this before, but the name of this blog comes from the times when my mom panics if she hasn’t heard from me in a week, and starts writing “Where is Jillian?” on my facebook wall, or sends me emails with this subject line, etc. I’m mentioning it again because my mom often starts panicking without actually messaging me, so that I have no idea she is worried. Then, out of nowhere, I will get an email from her about how terrified she is that I haven’t called her, followed almost immediately by one from my brother which reiterates her words.
Candy, for those of you who don’t know my mom’s name, is a really kind person, but she can get a little caught up in certain ideas. So, if she calls you (this applies to Californian friends mostly) to ask where I am, all you need to do is reassure her that it is highly unlikely that I have been murdered, and that if she hasn’t heard from me, she should try skyping me at a time when I’m not likely to be sleeping. Also, it would be nice if you threw in the advice that she should stop watching shows like 48 hours, CSI, Law and Order, Cold Case, etc. That’s all; thaaanks!
“Hers is reachable only by an old drawbridge, and is guarded by a troll who asks you a riddle.”
Just for kicks, here are some videos I think best represent American’s views of Brits:
Cheeky.
Just a little magic
On the flip side, here’s how the Brits seem to view Americans:
Gimme gimme moar
Mmm, sexy.
Oh, stereotypes!
“I thought you’d ask me not to leave”
Warning: fairly depressing topic at hand today (written after a goodbye party that did involve vodka). This is something I feel like I’ve written over and over again, and yet I can’t find anything about this. If I have written on it before, I apologize, and hope this version is more coherent than the last.
I got an e-mail today from my aunt to remind us that today (Sunday; I’m slightly behind because it’s after midnight now, but let’s pretend that the day we woke up for is the day we’re still in) is the 2nd year anniversary of the day my grandma died. While I can appreciate the sentiment–that we remember the life of our grandma–the day itself is nothing beyond a horrible memory of a really shitty day.
Let me give you some back story. When I worked for AEON, my last day was scheduled for April 20th, 2014. Usually, when foreign teachers leave in Japan, they announce a month ahead of time about their departure date. That gives them one month to say goodbye to students; since we usually saw students once a week, that gave the students time to prepare to say goodbye and adjust to the idea for a new teacher (as well as ample time to sign up for the goodbye party). All of our contracts are originally for one year, but after six months of a contract end date, you go in for assessment, and they can either offer you 1 year, 6 months, 3 months, or no contract renewal. The first time I went in, I was offered a year, and took 6 months. The next time, I was again offered a year, but took 3 months (though it turned out to be slightly longer). I was the first foreign teacher in awhile to renew, so many students had grown attached to me, and of course I felt similarly. Accordingly, I knew the last month would be a little difficult. That being said, I had time to prepare, and I often imagined what it would be like. The last week of work is dedicated to saying goodbye to students, and training your replacement. When I had first started with AEON, I really disliked the company, and I imagined with great satisfaction that last month. As the time drew nearer, I approached it with more of a morbid curiosity, because I had grown to know my students in such surprising ways–and the closer I got to saying goodbye, the more I felt the heaviness of it–but I couldn’t help but think of the reactions I would get as well.
One of my favorites (terrible to say) came the week after I made my announcement. I was teaching a Saturday Discovery class (for those who’ve worked at AEON, the picture is easily developed; for those who haven’t, here’s a quick-style assessment: Discovery is a middle/upper beginner level conversation class, and Saturday classes are usually full of business-people, compared to perhaps a Tuesday Morning Discovery class with 5 housewives). This particular class was one I had had my entire tenure at AEON, and it had almost always been overflowing with students (10 was usually the limit, and it forced capacity so often that it had split into two classes after about a year of teaching it). So the week after I announced that I would be leaving, I entered class and asked people about their weeks. One of the only women in the class, a middle-aged business woman, told the class, “It was okay- but…BUT…I had trouble sleeping.” When I asked her why, she told me, “Because YOUUUU said you were leaving.” I thought she was joking, and I started to laugh, but when I looked at her, tears were streaming down her face. I calmed her down a bit, but after class, she came up to me to ask about my future plans, and as soon as I opened my mouth, she started crying again.
Needless to say, emotions were running way higher than I expected them to–and combine that with the fact that AEON usually requires teachers to move out of their apartments a week before their contracts end, with the provision of a hotel for the final days of teaching. For me, that meant a final day of 4/20 (a Saturday), though I had to move out at noon on 4/15 (a Sunday–and don’t forget that I worked on Saturdays). I had been trying to pack a little every day the week before, but I found myself less successful at it than I needed to be (it’s hard to pack up almost 2 years of stuff, especially when you aren’t actually leaving the country for 2 months). So I finished work around 9:30 p.m. or so on Friday, then went home and tried to pack a bit. I was being a bit unsuccessful at it when I got a Skype call for my dad a little before midnight. This in itself was very rare; I hardly ever got Skype calls from my dad (I mean, I’ve lived in the UK since September, and I’ve yet to receive a call from my dad. In case you are wondering, this doesn’t upset me; that might seem more messed up to some people, but he’s not really the type to call, and neither am I). Looking back, I always think that should have been a warning sign, but I honestly felt no trepidation concerning the call. I just thought he remembered that it was my last week of work, and was calling to chat about it. The voice on the other end, however, was distracted.
“I have some bad news.” Now, I hadn’t felt any foreshadowing before this moment, but as soon as he said this, I knew what it was.
“Grandma’s passed away.” There hadn’t been hints, or signs, or whatever usually precedes death. He went on for about 30 seconds to say that she had died very peacefully, but just as abruptly as he had called, he hung up. This is the part they don’t tell you about when you are imagining traveling or living abroad or whatever other exotic thing you think about doing when you’re grown-up; they don’t tell you about how shitty things happen in the middle of the night, and then you are left so aware of your alone-ness. They don’t tell you about the times when you’re independence becomes your isolation. I tried reaching other family members, but Skype provides only so much accessibility. When I tried to imagine who I could call in Japan, my mind went blank. The people I wanted to call were no longer there, and I think that was the hardest part for me–not having someone to go to.
I had to get up and teach 10 hours later–the busiest day of the week. Not only that, but I had made plans weeks before to have dinner and karaoke with one of my Saturday classes–I thought for sure I would walk in the class and explain why I needed to cancel, but when I got there, I couldn’t find the words. I thought maybe I could reschedule the party, but then I realized there weren’t going to be other opportunities, because my time was ticking to a close.
I ended up going out with my class, and then I had to stay up most of the night packing. Even that wasn’t good enough. My manager had to come help me, and it basically got to the point where I had to turn my back to him and let him do his thing, because he began to indiscriminately throw things away. That week, and the week (weeks?) that followed were some of the heaviest of my life.
So I think of this day, April 13th, and I don’t think of happy memories. Death dates are not happy memories; for me, at least, this particular day doesn’t spur on pleasant recollections of the good times. It is a pinpoint of a period of unshakeable solitude. I’m painting a picture that only spanned two days, mind you; when I look back at pictures from those days, I think, “For a 25-year-old holding herself together in a foreign country at the end of a long journey, you did alright.
Also, when people tell me they are jealous of my experiences, I usually think something along the lines of, “No, you’re jealous of some romanticized concept you very temporarily imagined to be my experience.” I’ve had a vast amount of experiences; some fantastic, some terrible, but you can’t pick and choose.
Another day, another destiny.
More random coincidences! On Sunday night, I had a dream that I was back in Japan for a visit, and I saw my old Frontiers class at the train station as they were on their way to a party. For non-Aeon, Frontiers is (perhaps was, at this point) a class of advanced speakers, usually people who had studied/worked/lived abroad. The particular class I dreamt about was one of my longest running classes, with many members having been in the class for years. As a result, they would have parties every 2-6 months or so; which I usually joined when I was there.
Fast-forward to the next day, Monday morning, when I received a friend request from one of my former Frontiers students. I sent him a message remarking upon the coincidence of the dream and friend request. The really weird part was that he replied saying that the Frontiers class had actually had a party the night before (bum bum BUMMMMM!). (Also, the student wrote that another student mentioned that she keeps in touch with me on Facebook, and recommended he do the same. So apparently he went home and started one right away. Awwww!)
Also, I saw this article on Buzzfeed; it seems to be a bit accurate. Not for me, of course, because I don’t really care as much about English Literature as my fellow students, but I do see connections.
P.S. I am pretty much through with the star-notes, as they mainly started in order to be super-ridiculous, but they have gotten a bit tiresome (if you get confused reading them, imagine how I feel writing them). A lot of you will be breathing (reading) easier, I believe.
I got this for you.
Bonjour, mon frere! I’ve been promising pics or it didn’t happen, so it’s happening! And since pictures are worth a thousand words, I’ve composed this 13,000 (and some) word essay. (Do you suppose Fine Arts students can get away with this defense when composing their dissertations?) These are supposedly unique from the ones I put up on Facebook, but who knows; I’ve been known to be crazy. There will be a captioning contest; winner gets a high AND low five.
And now, in reverse chronological order, for your viewing pleasure:
OXFORD
AMSTERDAM
Amsterdam reminds you…just say ‘nein’ to lust.
I tip my tiny car to you.
SUZY IN BATH AND WALES
(Awful, awful title; perhaps makes her sound scandalous and like a prophetess succeeding Jonah)
“I’m in bath, teeheehee!”
“Meh.”
And back to Oxford.
Excuse me while I whip this out.
Howdy pardners. Today’s blog is brought to you by Elderflower Edinburgh Gin. I have thoughtfully broken this bad-boy up into loving sections again; as always, feel free to only read what appeals to you (honestly, if you stopped at the title, I wouldn’t be offended)(as long as you never mention it to me).
Reflections on Places I’ve Been
This past week* was the third year anniversary of the Tohoku Earthquake/Tsunami. You refer to the name of the event depending on what part of Japan you lived in when it happened; if you were in Tokyo, the surrounding prefectures, or more western, then you refer to it as the earthquake. If you were more eastern Japan, you refer to it as the tsunami. I recently came across my old Japan blog, and you can read this post to find out about my experiences of that day.** If you go, warning: that blog is a lot more dry (oh dear; I realized much later that this could be taken as a tsunami pun; IT IS NOT A TSUNAMI PUN). Ironically, it was writing about the earthquake that led me to quit that blog, but that’s another story for another time. ***
[*This goes to show you how bad my lag time is between writing and posting.
**Here’s a little Japanese lesson for you: as you already know the Japanese for tsunami, the word for earthquake is “jishin” (地震). This can get confusing though, as the word for confidence is also “jishin” (自信). One I heard because Japan has too many of them, and the other because many Japanese people have too little of it (and they like to remind you of both those facts).
***On St. Patrick’s Day, there was apparently an earthquake in California, according to every single person on my FB newsfeed who lives in CA. I aw a video of the news program that was filming as it hit, and let me tell you, fellow Californians: I’m not impressed by what gets you riled up. If it causes a massive tsunami, destroys buildings, creates a nuclear meltdown– or heck; just goes on for longer than a minute, then you can take to the newsfeed in alarm. Earthquakes in CA never bothered me. After 3/11, I experienced phantom aftershocks for at least six months after the incident. I would feel the shaking, and I would have to glance around my apartment to determine if anything else was moving.
Also, since writing this, there has been a slightly larger earthquake in CA, which is similar in size to what I felt (as the size gets smaller as it moves away from the epicenter), but from what I’ve been told, it was much shorter in duration.]
Relating to Places I’ve Been Cyber-wise
Speaking of traumatizing…my flatmate recently signed me up for Tinder. Tinder has been an ongoing debate between us since I found out he was on it; I’m not really into the idea of using technology to meet people, but he would swear it wasn’t all about hooking up (sure; for him it is, but he insists it’s not that way for everyone). He really started pushing it after I told him about my rejection fears after…the incident (if you don’t know, don’t get excited; it’s nothing wild), as well as when I told him I’m not that confident around guys. Last Friday he insisted that I go get my iPad so that he could sign me up. (The main reason I think he wanted me to sign up was so I would stop asking him how Grinder is going). I acquiesced, and soon became a member of the “swipe to like” community. Sure, I had my doubts–it seemed shallow, tedious, and a bit sad (and I also have a paranoia that I am going to run into all these people that I see on the app), but he assured me everyone was doing it, and you all know how much I love to be peer pressured. (I also think that if you are going to pass judgment on something, you should try it first. Unless it’s something illegal, like murder. You don’t have to try out murder before passing a judgment on it).
What followed were some very bizarre coincidences; if I believed in fate, this would be the time when I would say it was sticking its hand in (fortunately I don’t, and can write it off with a light hearted guffaw). On Friday night, I went out with some course mates; before going out, we did the obligatory groups shots (I re-read this and figured I should clarify: pictures, not alcohol). One of the girls posted the pics on her page. Saturday, I start actually browsing Tinder; due to my guilt about the shallow judgement of human beings that Tinder forces on you, I swipe “like” on the majority of pictures (except if the guys had beards. I’ve got to draw the line somewhere). If the other person has swiped “like” on your pics as well, then you are matched and can message each other (because of my slowness to play the “game”, so to speak, the program always shows me right away if I’ve been matched with someone–which I always am. It’s a little tiresome, actually; apparently everyone has the same Tinder guilt).*
So I get this guy who I almost–almost–reject, because he was just a bit older than I would have liked. But I don’t, because he’s not beardy, and I get a message from him saying that he saw my pictures on a friend’s newsfeed earlier that day, and had messaged her to ask if she would introduce us.** We message a bit. Monday morning, I head to the library–early enough that I don’t feel like getting properly ready, so I just toss on some sunglasses. I get to the top of the hill, and I see this fellow on the other side of the street who looks eerily similar to my Tinder buddy. I immediately look away, as if I never noticed him in the first place. I write it off to my paranoia, until later that night I get a message from the guy asking if I was wearing fancy sunglasses that morning. Apparently, he is still interested in meeting me even after seeing me in that state, so he can’t be all that bad.
[*Did you like that subtle, faux-humble reference to the fact that I’m super Tinder popular?
**No offense to myself, but my first reaction was, “You saw this group of girls and decided it was ME you wanted to meet?!?”]
What is bad about Tinder is the amount of time some people want to put into it. This is the problem that I think comes with the instantaneous communication ability that technology provides; what with texts, FB messages, emails, and all the other options, people expect a ridiculously small reply time. If there is a discrepancy between the way people see communicative abilities, an awkward tension is created. This often happens with me when I encounter people who see texting or FB chatting as equivalent to a face to face communication, along with all the mores of traditional communication applied to it. That’s just too invasive and artificial for me, as well as too damn time-consuming. Unless we are great friends, and I really like you, I don’t want to be messaging someone 20 times a day. So yes, to summarize, I am already very bored with it.**
[*You’re probably wondering, “Do you have great friends who you don’t really like?”, and my answer is, “You’ve just got to be open to these sorts of possibilities.”
**I’m bored with it, but I’ve still been on a Tinder date. Not with Mr. Coincidence**** either. The anticipation leading up to these things is the worst; I guess I’m just really afraid of being tricked into dating someone (a fear I mentioned in a previous post).***
***Since I’ve started writing, the number of Tinder dates has increased, though I’ve pretty much stopped playing. (*)
****While this was true before, it’s not now. Let’s just say I still don’t believe in fate.
(*)Except when I’m really bored. And if you judge me for it, Mr./Mrs. Fantastic Flirt, good for you; you’re probably an excellent person.]
Things Not Related to Tinder
Gym time! Recently, some friends of mine joined the gym, and have since been tricking me into joining them for tough workouts. They were like, “Come join light yoga for seniors!” and I was like, “Perfect! That sounds like it’s just around my skill level.” Then I show up, and it turns out it’s a class called “Killer Kaosity: King Level.” Okay; so it was boxing. But I’m sure the result would have been the same. Now some of the reasons I don’t like group lessons is because 1.) I’m not very graceful, 2.) they always seem to be done facing a wall of mirrors, and 3.) put 1 and 2 together and add witnesses. I mean, I’ve tried Zumba before, and I’m pretty sure it’s Portuguese for “White middle class women aren’t exotic.” I just become super-aware of how awkward I look, so I spend the whole class trying to avoid making eye contact with everyone in the room, including myself in the mirror. But after my friends joined, and I chanced a brief monitor of their progress, I realized that most people look ridiculous as they are jumping around and bouncing their flabby bits. So now, I spend the majority of class times just giggling to myself.*
[*Except for yoga. You can’t giggle through yoga, because you’re supposed to be all calm and crap, and then if you’re doing something wrong, the instructor comes over and touches you until you get it right (not in a creeper way, but in a helper way, obvi). Can you imagine how embarrassing it is to start giggling while your instructor is directing your sit bones? Can you? Can you? If you can, then you will know how I feel when I started giggling as the instructor started directing my sit bones.* Also, today in class, the girl next to me was attempting a shoulder stand pose, but she lost her shit** and kneed herself in the eye. It took her awhile to regain her strength to move her leg, and so she just had to stay there, knee resting against her eye socket. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you don’t giggle in yoga.]
I also went to a North American club activity recently. I was doing really well in the mingling aspect until my American friend came over and told me that he is like a mollusk who says, “Hm, here’s a nice boat; I think I’ll settle in here for awhile.” ALSO, this was the first time I’ve ever been ID’ed in a British bar. And of course, before I headed out that evening, I thought, “You know, bringing a purse seems unnecessary. Heck, even my wallet feels a bit too cumbersome. Why don’t I just stick some bills in my pocket? That’s good enough.” Which meant that I didn’t have the necessary proof to purchase my beverage, and they shoo’ed me away from the bar, leaving me with a gaping mouth and a thirsty throat. I went back to my group, where my friend/event organizer told me that the staff had even come around to the sitting area to check IDs. A different girl offered to buy the drink for me, as if I was a sneaking teenager, and of course I said yes. But as she went off, I felt a little worried, and so I ran back to my apartment to get my ID. I came back and immediately headed for the bathroom (all that running around and excitement was a wee bit too much for me), where I was intercepted by a staff member who was like, “Oh, excuse me, but do you happen to have you ID on you?” I answered that I had left it at the table, to which she replied, “Oh, okay, sorry; it must have been a different person then.” THEY HAD A WATCH OUT FOR ME! I felt like a juvenile delinquent on parole.
Things Related to Where I am
To make this post slightly more Brit-focused, let me bring up the topic of language again. Brits often like to talk about how Americans making a mockery of English,*** which is just a rich example of collective selective memory (that’s a mouthful)****. English–in the sense of both the people and the language–butcher other languages in the process of vernacular formation. For example, Americans, how do you suppose Brits say “lieutenant”? Oh, did you guess “lef-tenant”? No, you didn’t, because that’s crazy. I had a lecturer bring this difference up a couple of weeks ago, and I had no idea what word he was trying to get at. Afterwards, when I’ve brought it up with Brits, they are always quick to say, “Well, that’s the correct way.” And I’ll say, “Oh really? And tell me, do you also say ‘in “lef” of’?” If people bring up this sort of topic as a joke, I don’t mind–but when people say things like this seriously, it makes me question their perception and understanding of language development.***** British English isn’t more correct than American English; as most languages are wont to do, they have developed/are in the process of developing in different directions as a result of geographical separation.
Also, considering how small the UK is, there are some major accent variations going on here. So Brits, if you want to start correcting American English, why don’t you guys get your act together first???******
Also, thanks Gym for informing me that Star Jump = Jumping Jacks. I was really thrilled to be doing a 4th grade exercise again.
[*No, yoga; you will never convince me that sit bones are real bones.
** OH GOD, NOT LITERALLY.
***Apparently, most Brits think they are being original when they bring up this old joke.
****That’s what she said.
*****From my Mac dictionary: “In the normal British pronunciation of lieutenant, the first syllable sounds like lef. In the standard U.S. pronunciation, the first syllable, in contrast, sounds like loo. It is difficult to explain where the f in the British pronunciation comes from. Probably, at some point before the 19th century, the u at the end of Old French lieu was read and pronounced as a v, and the v later became an f.” I’m not clear on whether it refers to the British read of French, or the French pronunciation in general, but the French speakers I’ve asked pronounce it closer to the American style.
******JK. Please don’t change a thing about the way you talk. Even though Brits don’t like the way Americans speak, the feelings are not reciprocated.]
whereisjillian 
