18 and counting

Since defecting to Colorado in August I have been on 18 first dates. I have had coffee and conversation with dancers and teachers, doctors and baristas, computer geeks and office assistants. This experience has led to a better understanding of what I am seeking in a partner; knowing that I am able to thrive outside of a relationship but also that there is a particular strength and energy to be had from within a romantic relationship; and the growing realization that finding someone that suits me is no small feat.

On the seven hour car ride to the Durango Snowdown Hash in Durango, CO, Cum Scout, a fellow Denver hasher, and I spent the early hours of the trip wrestling with the topic of interpersonal relationships. I told him the story of my 18 first dates. He told me a story about a roommate who still talks about a relationship that ended five years back. Cum Scout and I agree that five years is too long to dwell on a former relationship; we refrained from judging the 18 dates. What ultimately came out of this conversation is a theory of dating that we've decided is the only way to go.

From knowing that the population of the Earth is 6.5 million people, we surmised that there are 3.25 million men and 3.25 million women. Subtract approximately 65,000 exclusively homosexual people from the total (seems like a small number to me, but that's another post), and there are 3.24 million men chasing after 3.24 million women. And then subtract those who are married, celibate by choice, too young or too old, live on the wrong side of the world, aren't dating, etc. ...

The millions that are datable can be divided up by having the individuals take the Keirsey Temperament Sorter type. Everyone falls into predominantly one personality category; so by using straight-up division (as opposed to statistical analysis which would be more accurate but more difficult) we determined that there are 20,250,000 people of each type of personality roaming the Earth. Subtract from that number the aforementioned non-datable folks, figure out your personality type and the type of personality with whom you are most compatible, and voila! Your dating pool.

So, I just need to find all of the available, English-speaking, Denver-dwelling ESFJs and date 'em one by one until I find one that suits me well. Brilliant, eh? I thought so. Now I'm off to this site to put my money where my mouth is.

Love song to Mount Elbert

I can't remember the last time I felt ill (and exhilarated and cleansed by) physical exertion, but as of Saturday my memory has been refreshed. The adventure began Friday night when I met Truman, Paul and Kevin in Golden from whence we headed to Jeremy's place in Silverthorne: the jumping off point for our winter ascent of Mount Elbert.

After collectively sleeping poorly, we headed out at 5:19am through the 19F air. One of the guys commented that we were one minute past our departure time for every degree above zero on the thermometer. Truman lamented our not running 40 minutes late. Indeed.

We left the parking lot at 7am to hike to the trail head. Two miles and a few layers later, we strapped on snowshoes and hit the trail. All was well until Kevin, who was breaking trail, stopped in a grove of Aspen trees and suggested that we were no longer on trail. The four guys put their heads together as I, admitting my propensity for getting lost, remained silent until spoken to.

(It was a few hours later that Truman also admitted his propensity for getting lost. Whether in denial about following into the wilderness in the snow one who so easily goes astray [me] or understanding his propensity for modesty [Kevin, Jeremy and Paul?], the lot of us ignored Truman's declaration and the guys continued to include him in the route planning. Given that we lived through the experience, following the directions of the self-professed directionally challenged one wasn't a bad decision, but one might question doing so again.)

My favorite part of the trip, as gauged by how much I laughed, was the, as Truman phrased it, impromptu luge we created down the slope of the Ridge-to-the-north-of-Elbert-we-think. If only there had a been a video camera at the bottom... I haven't laughed so hard in ages. It felt really good.

Considering the tacitly agreed upon aim of the outing -- to summit the mountain -- one might consider it a failure. Fortunately we (I say 'we' because I've already read Truman's account of the experience) had subgoals that were met. I aimed to snowshoe (check), enjoy myself (check) and meet cute, available boys (notice the lack of 'check'). Two outta three, and surviving a trip that made me physically ill, ain't bad.

Photo: Aspen trees with what is probably not Mount Elbert in the background. Sadly, I did not follow through on my instinct to charge the camera battery before leaving Friday, thus you're looking at one of three photos I took on this trip. The other two are here. But here are Truman's photos which do an excellent job of capturing the 'je ne sais quoi' of the trip. Although he did (mercifully) leave this one off...

Buddhism vs. Hashing, Round 1

It started with the meditation, 'Worldly Concerns', led by Ani Karin on the CD of 'The Complete Lam Rim with The Foundation of All Good Qualities by Lama Tsong Khapa'. Wait. Actually, no. It started with my complaining to Julie about pain in my left foot, which she diagnosed as a stress fracture and prescribed rest (i.e. not running). Thus, I was searching for a way to manage the stress I typically release while running, which led me to the meditation practice I had all but abandoned upon leaving the Kopan Monastery in early May.

Despite my good intentions, the voice inside my head interrupted by a) taking on my mother's voice and warning me to be careful with lit candles (particularly with a cat around) b) pointing out that the living room of my apartment, which is 50 feet off of Colfax, is not an ideal place to get one's meditation groove on c) emphasizing that that I miss meditating with its sighs of relief and d) taunting me with my fear that Hashing and Buddhism are incompatible. And you, knowing little to nothing about both Hashing and meditation, say, "No kidding!' I coulda told you that!" But please, hold your comments until I've had a chance to explain myself.

First there's a schedule conflict; I often miss the Sunday evening meditation group at First Unitarian Denver because I'm at a post-Hash gathering. Yes, there is Hashing on Saturday. No, I don't attend because it's either in Fort Collins or Colorado Springs (=1+ hours' drive). Driving such distance in order to participate in an activity which I could start on my front stoop is, as much as I love running and Hashers, a poor use of gas in these economically and environmentally challenged times. So Hashing is geographically limited to metro Denver, which limits us to Sundays.

The next difficulty is a difference in philosophy. Hashing in metro Denver is first and foremost about drinking beer. Whereas the fifth precept of a Buddhist lay-person is to refrain from use of intoxicants which lead to loss of mindfulness (i.e. beer). You see the obvious conflict, yes?

Finally, and the kicker for me, Hash banter is typically much coarser than that in which I usually participate. Perhaps it's a safe, healthy outlet for frustration. Or perhaps I'm wracking up negative karma that's going to bite me in the butt in a future life. At this point, I am a two-faced Buddhist, but the alternative is to be a prissy Hasher. Or compromise by being mediocre at both. Where is my priority; to excel at being Buddhist or at Hashing? *gulp* Just by typing those words, I will be made to drink at the next Hash! And have violated Buddhism's 'middle way'. Gah! What to do?

Perhaps I'll start with some meditation...

Photos -- Top: The scenery on the snow shoe Hash in which I participated at the Durango Snowdown 1/20-2/1; notice the derth of snow. Middle: Snowshoe Hash on-out. Bottom: Snowshoe Hash beer check.

Love, how do I express thee?

My mom likes to tell me that some people talk about their love and others show their love. I agree with her and I believe it is more likely that a ‘show’ of love is more often forgotten than a ‘talk’ of love. So I thought to put together a photo and text representation of a lifetime of ‘show’ of love.

My dad’s parents are of the ilk that predominantly ‘do’ rather than ‘say’. For instance, I arrived in Montvale at 9:16pm -- fifteen minutes past my grandparents’ bedtime. Despite the late hour, Grandpa picked me up at the train station and Grandma greeted me in the kitchen by asking ‘are you hungry?’ and subsequently feeding me. In addition to the niceties extended to me, I was intimately involved with evidence that grandpa has been quietly 'showing' us his love for years.

The most obvious example is the bedroom in which I sleep while visiting; he, my mother reminded me, expanded his young family’s house to better accommodate his wife and three growing children. As the photos show, the addition included a laundry chute, built-in bookcases, special doorknob holder on-ers (actual purpose unknown), and, years later, a built-in air conditioner.

You'll have to take my word for it that he also made things a bit less crowded at a certain Bethlehem stable by extending the ground floor; keeps he and Gram’s myriad pill bottles organized in a wood box; and supports good oral health with a custom tooth brush shelf in the ground floor bath.

So, when I told my grandpa ‘I love you and Grandma’ when he and I parted at the train station at 4am in the morning, I was not surprised when he said ‘oh, that’s nice.’ But I know the truth; it surrounds me every time I cross their threshold.

Coloradoan in New York

I spent the week straddling Christmas in New Jersey visiting my extended family; I saw 'em all. Even with all that visiting, this trip was a little different; I took some time for myself and went into New York City (for all of the years I've been going to New Jersey, I've been to NYC four times, and three of those times had nothing to do with family!)

Despite the odds stacked against us, and with the help of mobile phone technology, my cousin Mark and I met outside the Borders 'round the corner from Penn Station. As I started discuss the day's itinerary, he whipped out a small map book and I thought, I'm all set, he knows what he's doing (foreshadowing, dear reader, foreshadowing). First stop: Rockefeller Center.

We decide to walk from Penn Station (near abouts 7th St.) to Rockefeller Center at 50-something street -- about 2.5 miles. What would normally take 'not so much time' took 'lots of time' thanks to the myriad people between us and our destination. If I was to reframe this experience (as Foster and Hicks suggest in their book, How we choose to be happy: the 9 choices of extremely happy people), the walk provided opportunity for extensive agility training with complementary personal defense instruction.

As is fitting when one is near it, we gawked at the Rockefeller Center tree; whispered our amazement inside St. Patrick's Cathedral; and attempted to peruse Macy's store windows, but gave up (masses of people + hungry Jen = no Macy's windows). For lunch, I decided we'd go to Greenwich Village since I'd never been. Easy, right? Just hop on the subway and head...

Uptown. Turns out my confidence in Mark's navigational ability was a bit overblown; he had correctly navigated us to the subway, but to the uptown instead of downtown platform. We managed the subway direction mix-up, and the subsequent walking direction mix-up, reasonably despite our hunger and got to Corner Bistro for great beer and l'inner (lunch + dinner).

From there, we wandered for an hour in search of a subway station. In our travels we found Central Park, squirrels, and a tourist taking pictures of squirrels. Of all the interesting things the city provides for photographic exercise! Squirrels! Ridiculous.

Arrived at the Mahayana Buddhist Temple in Chinatown just as the temple was closing, although the staff graciously allowed us to wander about the gift shop. Turns out this temple abuts the fly-by-night operation (it's actually a well-established company, but after one of the buses caught on fire on the interstate it lost esteem in my mind, which is reflected in my careful wording) of the Fung Wah bus company, which I had had the pleasure of riding from Boston to New York and back for one of the aforementioned non-familial excursions. Good memories.

From takeoff to landing and back again, the entire trip east was a personal public transportation navigation feat. I flew into JFK, which meant I had to take four trains operated by three different transportation authorities to get to my grandparent's abode (handicapped by leaving my detailed transportation information in Denver). Add to the list figuring out the Metropolitan Transit Authority subway system, and I'm darn impressive. Then again, navigating an underground train system run by one agency that publishes maps and schedules is considerably easier than navigating a piecemeal ground transportation system in a country where one neither speaks nor reads the language and there are no signs marking the bus stops. No wonder the MTA seemed easy this time where it was confounding prior to Nepal.

TSA is here to stay

DIA was buzzing this morning when I arrived by skyRide at 0930 for my 1140 flight to New York/JFK. Looking down over the security checkpoints, the situation seemed grim; the line of passengers flowed out of the cordoned-off chute and down the hall. On the upper concourse, there was an official-looking woman directing folks to security at the “other end” of the terminal, which, she claimed, was moving faster. I headed in the direction she indicated (east, I think) past families breakfasting, couples kissing long goodbyes, and a woman struggling to corral her two children and football-sized dog.

The forced-voluntary morning constitutional was surprisingly brisk as TSA workers cranked us through the ID check and spit us out in the metal detector line. It was in this line, while removing backpack, jacket, and shoes from my person and laptop and quart-sized bag of liquids and gels from the backpack, that I noticed the advertising lining the trays that cart travelers’ belongings through the x-ray machine. The advertisement in the top tray was for Zappos; I remember thinking, how appropriate, that’s where I’m gonna put my shoes. And also, uh oh, these trays have been pimped out; TSA is here to stay.

Perhaps this was obvious to everyone else, but it hadn’t occurred to me that domestic travel would forever more involve limiting oneself to 3oz of any gel or liquid personal care product and then producing that product for inspection on command. That air travel would always be preceded by partially undressing in front of lines of strangers and doing a catwalk through a metal detector. I thought some day some fearless leader would receive the OK from an all-knowing source, air travel would be declared safe, and air travelers would no longer be subject to the aforementioned pre-flight indignities. But then I saw the advertising in the trays.

In what were once clean public spaces (no, really, let me show you a photo of a main street in Kathmandu) of the US, advertising has been slowly appearing. Bus shelters, public restroom stalls, most means of public transit, and even the backs of grocery store receipts now sport advertising. These institutions have been around for my entire memory; if these pillars of day-to-day life are worthy of sporting brands, what does it mean that the (relatively) new TSA trays are also worthy of touting commercialism?

It means that my dreams of a future of flying a domestic route security-free have been dashed, smashed, and smithereened into advertising oblivion. These trays, embodying the dangers of North American airspace post-9/11, have been quietly incorporated into society in the same manner of such long-lived and upstanding institutions as grocery receipts, bus shelters, and public toileting facilities! These trays have been slathered in commercialism in half the time it took more ubiquitous institutions to become slathered.* Why were they so readily assimilated? Is it heightened awareness due to proliferation of The Container Store that made them seem innocuous? Is it American's ongoing fascination with closet organization systems? Or ramped up promotion of the ultimate organization system – the alphabet?

It will take a team of social scientists years to parse out this cause and effect relationship. Meanwhile, formerly pristine public spaces will fall to media advertising everything from airlines to Zappos. And whom do we have to thank for this? This is another of society’s ills that can be attributed to al-Qaida and Osama bin Laden. Damn them.

*I have no evidence for this except memory, which can be questionably reliable.

What's quickly becoming my annual holiday newsletter

Below is the text of my holiday newsletter; I have mailed it to some, but I can't get cards out to all y'all, so those of you who are web-savvy are just going to have to make do without a pretty missive from me in your mailbox. If you're really good, maybe you'll be on my mailing list next year ;)

December 2008

Hello hello!
Last y’all knew I was on my way to Nepal. Well, I successfully navigated the other side of the world and am back to tell the tale; I met good people, started running with the Kathmandu Hash House Harriers (a drinking group with a running problem), and have a confirmed case of the travel bug. Alas, I have been very busy searching for a job, volunteering, and moving so there hasn’t been time to plan my next international adventure: I’m aiming for Ethiopia during Lent, as that’s when folks abstain from meat in an otherwise carnivorous society.

Meanwhile, I (finally!) moved to Denver in August. I have settled into a one-bedroom place in a 16-apartment building just off of the notorious Colfax Ave; I live on a good strip of the road, though across the street from a bar with poor taste in music. I don’t know any of my neighbors, but have connected with lots of new folks through running. I swing dance ‘bout twice a week and have renewed old friendships and forged new ones in the dance community. And at least once a week I plant myself on Julie’s couch to knit and get my TV fix (I don’t own one).

While looking for work I have been donating my time to the Grant Avenue Street Reach Soup Kitchen, where I bus tables and make coffee, and Planned Parenthood of the Rocky Mountains. The work at PPRM is particularly challenging, as I must draw boundaries between being trained an NP and working as a volunteer, but I love talking about reproductive health and feeling efficacious and appreciated has done wonders for my morale.

Speaking of morale, being an unemployed nurse practitioner that loves her work is frustrating; there’s no one to help! I have had six interviews in the past five months but am still seeking the right job for me. I think I am getting closer; Thursday I was told that my professional goals are a good fit for the position for which I was interviewing. Cross your fingers for me, eh?

(You know this part...) For news on a more regular basis, with witty commentary to boot, check out my blog at www.tallpalegrrl.blogspot.com

Be safe and healthy!

Love, Jennifer