I am nearing a year. A year of America, a year of marriage, a year of living far far away from 90% of the people I love most. And I sailed past a year of unemployment over a month ago.
One whole year.
And here's the thing. The thing I breathe in and out with relief and thankfulness and more relief:
I'm happy.
Not just happy, I'm happy and I am in love. That quiet stillness that I found on a beach in cape cod almost a year ago has stayed with me. One year on and I love my husband and I'm happy.
Of course I'm not supposed to say I'm relieved. I'm supposed to act as though I knew all along that this would work and we'd be happy. But I am not a person that ever really knows anything, and there were quite a few massive variables at play. Things like us not having lived on the same continent in years and my frightening potential for being completely overwhelmed by homesickness. This whole year has been a massive exercise in trust for me. Trusting myself that I made the right decision to move and marry, trusting Jeremy that he trusted himself, trusting in God for strength and the ability to take the year one day at a time.
And now, one year on I can say that I know:
I know that J and I work, that when we argue we make up within the hour and that he can make me smile even on my darkest and mopeyest of days. I know that I'm resilient enough to live 3000 miles away from family and still be happy, even though I miss them every day. I know that missing people doesn't equal misery, that the fact of having people to miss is in a way a blessing. I know that I am stubborn enough to hold onto my accent, even if occasionally when asking for water or butter or informing J's grandma that the soup flavour is tomato, I have to begrudgingly drop 't's and alter vowels, just for the ease of being understood. I know that I can make friends and, through doing so, that I can still be myself here - with my funny accent and love of pashminas - that the 'spark' of 'me' is not lost in this big new world.
I know I can be ok.
A year ago today, I was one sleep away from moving to America, and I did not 'know' any of the above. I only hoped and trusted for it - based on the knowledge of years of loving Jeremy and knowing myself.
Thank God it all turned out OK.
Seriously.
Fraud
For the next three weeks I have the use of a car, which is good but it also completely negates all excuses for not driving on my own. I have driven on my own a bit, but only really on routes I already know well and only short distances. Today I drove on the highway to a previously unvisted destination. And I didn't die.
Yesterday I drove to the supermarket and bought groceries (I've completely forgotten what we'd say in lieu of groceries in England... is it just 'food'?).
Yes I know this is all very mundane, and when I demand praise from Jeremy for such things, he looks at me like I'm asking for praise for learning to tie shoe-laces or count to ten, but it comes with the weirdest feeling. I feel exactly like an adult in disguise. As if I've donned adult clothing and am moving around undetected amongst other adults, but really I know I'm only an impostor.
I'm wondering whether this feeling will ever rub off, or whether it's just going to get worse when I'm a home owner or parent. And when I get wrinkles and grey hair, is it just going to feel like a more elaborate disguise? I'm not saying I feel young in that 'you're only as young as you feel' sort of BS, I'm saying I feel incompetent and unworthy. A total fraud.
To make matters worse I got asked if I was a teenager today.
It seems the disguise isn't all that good.
Yesterday I drove to the supermarket and bought groceries (I've completely forgotten what we'd say in lieu of groceries in England... is it just 'food'?).
Yes I know this is all very mundane, and when I demand praise from Jeremy for such things, he looks at me like I'm asking for praise for learning to tie shoe-laces or count to ten, but it comes with the weirdest feeling. I feel exactly like an adult in disguise. As if I've donned adult clothing and am moving around undetected amongst other adults, but really I know I'm only an impostor.
I'm wondering whether this feeling will ever rub off, or whether it's just going to get worse when I'm a home owner or parent. And when I get wrinkles and grey hair, is it just going to feel like a more elaborate disguise? I'm not saying I feel young in that 'you're only as young as you feel' sort of BS, I'm saying I feel incompetent and unworthy. A total fraud.
To make matters worse I got asked if I was a teenager today.
It seems the disguise isn't all that good.
Mouse-trap.
Our apartment has mice. They're fairly polite - they don't come out and scare me or eat the bread we store on top of the microwave. They stay in one particular cupboard and only occasionally make noise enough to prevent me from denying their existence. I've been ignoring them because a) I don't want them to exist and it seems a good way to go about things and b) we're moving. soon. and I'm putting off all unpleasant jobs in this house until I no longer live here and don't have to do them.
That is until yesterday when Jeremy produced mousetraps I didn't know we had and decided to catch them. What follows is an instant-messaging conversation and the drama that ensued.
me: I think we may have just attempted to trap a mouse...
Jeremy: what do you mean?
That is until yesterday when Jeremy produced mousetraps I didn't know we had and decided to catch them. What follows is an instant-messaging conversation and the drama that ensued.
me: I think we may have just attempted to trap a mouse...
Jeremy: what do you mean?
me: I heard the trap go.And I don't want to find out
Jeremy: oh yeah? I emptied it this morn
me: serious? ugh
Jeremy: yeah
me: please PLEASE can we make an offer this week?????
Jeremy: theres a plastic bag with a mouse outside teh door. Ha.
me: nice
... (10 minutes or so pass)
Jeremy: did you check the mousetrap?
me: nope. Because if I check it and it has a dead mouse in it, I'll have to do something about it and I really
don't want to
don't want to
Jeremy: you just lift the spring
me: right but there's a dead mouse underneath it. I don't like dead animals much
Jeremy: me either
me: no but they're yours.
Jeremy: why
me: I'm not sure but they are
me: I didn't set the traps
Jeremy: I did because of you
me: no you did because you got fed up of losing chickpeas.I was perfectly happy pretending that I didn't know they were there but now there's a dead one so I can't do that anymore.
The conversation ends there but in my head I know that there's a dead mouse in the chickpea cupboard. There are cans and stuff in there too, but I'm guessing the mouse was mostly interested in the dried chickpeas, of which there are many. I steel myself and go and look in the cupboard. Sure enough there's a mouse in the trap. What I wasn't prepared for was quite how mouse-like it looked, or how big its eyes were.
What follows is a comedic and stereotypically female response involving rubber gloves, a phone call to Jeremy, tears (of sadness for the mouse, illogical fear for me and hilarity, all rolled into one) and much hopping to and fro. I cover the mouse with a shroud (made of kitchen towel) so that I don't have to look at it and attempt to release it from the trap and into its grave (made of a plastic bag outside the back door...Jeremy's earlier mouse is also in it so it's fast becoming a mass grave). Cue more hopping, heart racing, tears and one bit where I thought it wasn't completely dead and dropped it on the floor. Eventually I get it together and deposit the mouse into the bag and wash my hands about 10 times.
I do not reset the trap.
An epiphany of sorts.
Today, as if from nowhere, I realised something about myself that most of you probably already know.
I am impulsive.
This came as a surprise because in so many ways I'm not at all impulsive. When asked at a party recently whether I would prefer to 'burn out or fade away' (no context given then so none given now), I immediately chose to 'fade away'. Burning out sounds far too tiring and potentially sudden.
My idea of impulsive people is one of rash devil-may-care (not sure what that means exactly but it seems appropriate) attitudes. People who don't take extra pairs of shoes out with them in case the heels end up being the insensible choice they know them to be. People who aren't afraid of flying, who don't purposely travel at the back of tube trains (because a sensible terrorist wouldn't strike there). People whose favourite activity of all time is not reading.
But the evidence speaks for itself.
When it comes to big, life changing, should-really-spend-some-time-thinking-about-this decisions, I make them in an instant.
Go and visit man in America I've known for 5 days? Naturally
Embark on long-distance relationship when all evidence points to them being painful and, ultimately, disastrous? OK
Do Masters as a way to live in America? Sure thing (this was literally decided in an airport when saying goodbye to Jeremy)
Marry American and move whole life over there with no guarantees of employment or, well, anything? Easy (well, not easy, as you'll know from all my moaning, but the decision was made pretty quickly).
I think I've proved my point. In almost every area of my life, where big decisions are concerned, I listen with my heart. Move with my heart. And when my head catches up I ignore it until my heart makes the argument and wins it around.
Recently this has been a little problematic.
Because Jeremy is the opposite. When it comes to the small everyday things that I'm careful and sensible about, he's as headstrong and carefree as you like. He'll travel on any carriage of a tube train without a passing thought, thinks airplane turbulence is 'fun' and enjoys scuba diving at night in deathly cold temperatures. And on the small things he doesn't think twice - he throws himself into his hobbies with abandon. Bread baking, beer brewing, cheese making, vinegar fermenting. All things that I'd be cautious about because they take up so much time / the equipment costs money / they smell bad , he doesn't give a second thought. But on the big things he takes his time. Chews things over. Considers, weighs, deliberates.
I suppose you could argue that he's made the same decisions as me. He too long-distance-relationshipped and married a foreigner (one who practically wrote into the marriage vows a future move to her homeland). But he did so carefully, with thought. I made up my mind in an instant, Jeremy took, well, longer.
The reason it's been problematic of late is because we are house hunting. And we've found a house. A beautiful, party-perfect, walking-distance-to-shops-and-restaurants house which is not in danger of being consumed by a mud-slide and which doesn't have a septic system that will need replacing in a year. And there's granite in the kitchen and beams on the ceilings and a deck.
So you can guess my decision making process on this matter.
And Jeremy's.
Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately, depending how sensible you are), Jeremy is the one with the power in this decision making process. And by power I mean he's the one who's managed to save more than 10 pounds (that's coinage, not weight) in his life. And I do understand that when you've saved enough to buy a beautiful house, you might want to be careful and considered in how / when you part with those savings. You might want to understand the process and be fully aware of all potential pitfalls.
I understand, but it doesn't stop me from jumping up and down with excitement / impatience, waiting for his head to catch up with my heart.
And yes, I also accept that it's a bloody good thing he's the one with the savings power, because I'd have probably bought the house before this house. The one with the septic system and a hill ready to avalanche into it at the next rainstorm.
I am impulsive.
This came as a surprise because in so many ways I'm not at all impulsive. When asked at a party recently whether I would prefer to 'burn out or fade away' (no context given then so none given now), I immediately chose to 'fade away'. Burning out sounds far too tiring and potentially sudden.
My idea of impulsive people is one of rash devil-may-care (not sure what that means exactly but it seems appropriate) attitudes. People who don't take extra pairs of shoes out with them in case the heels end up being the insensible choice they know them to be. People who aren't afraid of flying, who don't purposely travel at the back of tube trains (because a sensible terrorist wouldn't strike there). People whose favourite activity of all time is not reading.
But the evidence speaks for itself.
When it comes to big, life changing, should-really-spend-some-time-thinking-about-this decisions, I make them in an instant.
Go and visit man in America I've known for 5 days? Naturally
Embark on long-distance relationship when all evidence points to them being painful and, ultimately, disastrous? OK
Do Masters as a way to live in America? Sure thing (this was literally decided in an airport when saying goodbye to Jeremy)
Marry American and move whole life over there with no guarantees of employment or, well, anything? Easy (well, not easy, as you'll know from all my moaning, but the decision was made pretty quickly).
I think I've proved my point. In almost every area of my life, where big decisions are concerned, I listen with my heart. Move with my heart. And when my head catches up I ignore it until my heart makes the argument and wins it around.
Recently this has been a little problematic.
Because Jeremy is the opposite. When it comes to the small everyday things that I'm careful and sensible about, he's as headstrong and carefree as you like. He'll travel on any carriage of a tube train without a passing thought, thinks airplane turbulence is 'fun' and enjoys scuba diving at night in deathly cold temperatures. And on the small things he doesn't think twice - he throws himself into his hobbies with abandon. Bread baking, beer brewing, cheese making, vinegar fermenting. All things that I'd be cautious about because they take up so much time / the equipment costs money / they smell bad , he doesn't give a second thought. But on the big things he takes his time. Chews things over. Considers, weighs, deliberates.
I suppose you could argue that he's made the same decisions as me. He too long-distance-relationshipped and married a foreigner (one who practically wrote into the marriage vows a future move to her homeland). But he did so carefully, with thought. I made up my mind in an instant, Jeremy took, well, longer.
The reason it's been problematic of late is because we are house hunting. And we've found a house. A beautiful, party-perfect, walking-distance-to-shops-and-restaurants house which is not in danger of being consumed by a mud-slide and which doesn't have a septic system that will need replacing in a year. And there's granite in the kitchen and beams on the ceilings and a deck.
So you can guess my decision making process on this matter.
And Jeremy's.
Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately, depending how sensible you are), Jeremy is the one with the power in this decision making process. And by power I mean he's the one who's managed to save more than 10 pounds (that's coinage, not weight) in his life. And I do understand that when you've saved enough to buy a beautiful house, you might want to be careful and considered in how / when you part with those savings. You might want to understand the process and be fully aware of all potential pitfalls.
I understand, but it doesn't stop me from jumping up and down with excitement / impatience, waiting for his head to catch up with my heart.
And yes, I also accept that it's a bloody good thing he's the one with the savings power, because I'd have probably bought the house before this house. The one with the septic system and a hill ready to avalanche into it at the next rainstorm.
Uniform
Jeremy has accused me of using this blog as a moaning forum. He's probably right, but it's light-hearted moaning.
On that note, let me talk to you about cold.
This week has seen temperatures drop to record lows. We're talking -15 degrees C and landlords phoning up to tell us to keep taps(faucets) running throughout the night so that the pipes don't freeze and explode. We're also talking waking up to an apartment that's 12 degrees C.
No, don't call domestic abuse hotlines on my behalf, it's OK - I don't mind the heating being off over night and yes I do turn it on the second I manage to summon the will to exit my electric-blanketed bed.
But despite heat, there is still a chill in the air and consequently I have developed a uniform of cold resistance that I don upon waking.
This consists of:
Fuggs - because I can't afford real Uggs and I only wear them inside anyway...although I think they are responsible for the million electric shocks I've been getting whenever I touch anything, including soup.
Pyjamas / leggings / jeans - in that order, depending on how dressed I decide to get that day.
Chunky socks and / or legwarmers - worn over bottom of trousers to prevent drafts.
A million T-shirt type layers - no explanation necessary.
Massive jumper (sweater) - ditto on the explanation.
Scarf - because my neck is always the first thing to get cold.
Fingerless Gloves - aka homeless-person-gloves... although my reason for wearing them is so I can type. If I were a homeless person, I think I'd be wearing finger-full gloves.
Snuggie / Blanket - the Snuggie is a new addition and I only actually put my arms through the arm holes in emergency situations or for comedy value. It's supposed to be worn like an oversized and overfluffy hospital gown, complete with a pocket for the remote, just incase you're too cold or comfortable to reach for it on the coffee-table. However I prefer to wear it like an oversized wizards cape, with a tiny hunchback (from the remote pocket).
Hat. Also only worn in emergency situations. But they can and do happen.
And finally the all important hot water bottle. On hand for emergencies and bed-time. I was amazed to discover that Americans seem to have misplaced the knowledge of this time-honoured warming device. I thin kthis has a lot to do with their ignorance of the super cute teddy-bear-esque covers you can buy to go over them. I am hearby starting a campaign to bring them back in all their teddy-bear covered glory.
So there you have it. The Boston Winter Uniform for all sensible human beings (that don't have to go to work). The only thing I'm missing so far is a nose warmer. I don't know if these exist but they should, because my nose is eternally chilly.
HA! I just did a quick google search and they do exist. I think I may be risking my marriage if I were to include this in my uniform though. And my self respect.
On that note, let me talk to you about cold.
This week has seen temperatures drop to record lows. We're talking -15 degrees C and landlords phoning up to tell us to keep taps(faucets) running throughout the night so that the pipes don't freeze and explode. We're also talking waking up to an apartment that's 12 degrees C.
No, don't call domestic abuse hotlines on my behalf, it's OK - I don't mind the heating being off over night and yes I do turn it on the second I manage to summon the will to exit my electric-blanketed bed.
But despite heat, there is still a chill in the air and consequently I have developed a uniform of cold resistance that I don upon waking.
This consists of:
Fuggs - because I can't afford real Uggs and I only wear them inside anyway...although I think they are responsible for the million electric shocks I've been getting whenever I touch anything, including soup.
Pyjamas / leggings / jeans - in that order, depending on how dressed I decide to get that day.
Chunky socks and / or legwarmers - worn over bottom of trousers to prevent drafts.
A million T-shirt type layers - no explanation necessary.
Massive jumper (sweater) - ditto on the explanation.
Scarf - because my neck is always the first thing to get cold.
Fingerless Gloves - aka homeless-person-gloves... although my reason for wearing them is so I can type. If I were a homeless person, I think I'd be wearing finger-full gloves.
Snuggie / Blanket - the Snuggie is a new addition and I only actually put my arms through the arm holes in emergency situations or for comedy value. It's supposed to be worn like an oversized and overfluffy hospital gown, complete with a pocket for the remote, just incase you're too cold or comfortable to reach for it on the coffee-table. However I prefer to wear it like an oversized wizards cape, with a tiny hunchback (from the remote pocket).
Hat. Also only worn in emergency situations. But they can and do happen.
And finally the all important hot water bottle. On hand for emergencies and bed-time. I was amazed to discover that Americans seem to have misplaced the knowledge of this time-honoured warming device. I thin kthis has a lot to do with their ignorance of the super cute teddy-bear-esque covers you can buy to go over them. I am hearby starting a campaign to bring them back in all their teddy-bear covered glory.
So there you have it. The Boston Winter Uniform for all sensible human beings (that don't have to go to work). The only thing I'm missing so far is a nose warmer. I don't know if these exist but they should, because my nose is eternally chilly.
HA! I just did a quick google search and they do exist. I think I may be risking my marriage if I were to include this in my uniform though. And my self respect.
procrastinating in unusual ways.
So I'm busy applying for jobs while it blizzards outside. The snow and I aren't great friends at the moment, but I'm campaigning to go sledging (sledding) tomorrow at an attempt at reconciliation.
Job applications. (Boo hiss). For the first time in my life though I'm using job search as procrastination tool. Something I can do and pretend to be productive when I really 'should' be doing something else.
What I 'should' be doing (and Jeremy would probably favour my procrastination activity, hence the inverted commas) is writing.
Deep breath.
For the past 6 months or so I've been writing a book. A story that may or may not adopt the form of an actual book. I feel ridiculous admitting that. It feels like admitting I'm auditioning for the X-Factor, following a long-held belief in my talent for singing. I should say here that while I do hope for fame and fortune (and by fame and fortune I mean a book on a shelf in a shop somewhere. I'm not hoping to be the next JK Rowling), I'm also realistic enough to realise that it's highly unlikely. I should also say that it's targeted at 14 year olds. No Ian McEwan or David Mitchell genius here. Oh and I definitely haven't spent every waking minute of those 6 months writing. The vast majority have probably been spent on facebook and watching various American medical dramas.
But either way it's true. And it's provided me with sanity- a sense of productivity, of non-worthlessness - while I've been busy being unemployed. And it's finished. Finished in the sense that it's got an ending. Not finished in the sense that I can stop working on it. Because after 'finishing' comes editing, which turns out is harder than writing in the first place. I feel like I've been posed a complicated maths problem that's niggling away in my head every waking minute. I have plans of attack, but very little attacking motivation. Or perhaps attacking ability.
So instead I'm applying for jobs, while sitting on the couch watching re-runs of 'House'.
(When is Hugh Laurie going to realise that he's just regurgitating the same episode every week and go back to speaking with an English accent and being hilarious?)
I suppose it's a fairly sensible procrastination technique - so that when I don't become a successful writer, I at least might have a job interview or two. Except I don't stand a chance if I don't cut the crap and start editing...
I'll start next week.
Ditto for the post new-year diet.
And exercise...
... although probably not exercise.
Job applications. (Boo hiss). For the first time in my life though I'm using job search as procrastination tool. Something I can do and pretend to be productive when I really 'should' be doing something else.
What I 'should' be doing (and Jeremy would probably favour my procrastination activity, hence the inverted commas) is writing.
Deep breath.
For the past 6 months or so I've been writing a book. A story that may or may not adopt the form of an actual book. I feel ridiculous admitting that. It feels like admitting I'm auditioning for the X-Factor, following a long-held belief in my talent for singing. I should say here that while I do hope for fame and fortune (and by fame and fortune I mean a book on a shelf in a shop somewhere. I'm not hoping to be the next JK Rowling), I'm also realistic enough to realise that it's highly unlikely. I should also say that it's targeted at 14 year olds. No Ian McEwan or David Mitchell genius here. Oh and I definitely haven't spent every waking minute of those 6 months writing. The vast majority have probably been spent on facebook and watching various American medical dramas.
But either way it's true. And it's provided me with sanity- a sense of productivity, of non-worthlessness - while I've been busy being unemployed. And it's finished. Finished in the sense that it's got an ending. Not finished in the sense that I can stop working on it. Because after 'finishing' comes editing, which turns out is harder than writing in the first place. I feel like I've been posed a complicated maths problem that's niggling away in my head every waking minute. I have plans of attack, but very little attacking motivation. Or perhaps attacking ability.
So instead I'm applying for jobs, while sitting on the couch watching re-runs of 'House'.
(When is Hugh Laurie going to realise that he's just regurgitating the same episode every week and go back to speaking with an English accent and being hilarious?)
I suppose it's a fairly sensible procrastination technique - so that when I don't become a successful writer, I at least might have a job interview or two. Except I don't stand a chance if I don't cut the crap and start editing...
I'll start next week.
Ditto for the post new-year diet.
And exercise...
... although probably not exercise.
Snow.
"Whaddya mean you're stuck here?"
Jeremy says as I look out the window morosely, seeing yet another layer of snow falling down to further complicate any path I might want to take to anywhere that isn't our apartment.
"I mean, unless I want a full on expedition out of here then getting anywhere is pretty tough"
"Nah. Stop being negative. Snow is awesome."
I disagree. Snow is only awesome when you're at the top of a hill, sledge in hand, ready to whizz your way to the bottom. The rest of the time, snow is inconvenient, wet and cold. And everywhere. In the past two weeks we've had about 3 feet of snow. None of which has melted, all of which has been ploughed so that the roads are lined with snow-walls. Any attempt to walk along the pavement (sidewalk) is thwarted by intermittent snow walls and the fact that home-owners are responsible for the pavement outside their house and therefore the quality of shovelling corresponds to the errr quality of the homeowner.
Jeremy and I leave it all up to our landlord, who has a snow-blower so it's all fine
So, here I am, a newly anointed driver who as yet has only summoned the courage to drive across town to Walgreens and who definitely does not possess the courage to drive on/in snow (nevermind the fact that my husband has taken the car to work) and unless I'm prepared to snow-shoe my way into town (which I'm not), then I'm stuck here.
Oh and it was 57degrees in the apartment when I woke up this morning.
On the up-side I got given a 'snuggie' (blanket with arm holes and a curious pocket which I think is meant for the remote) for christmas.
Does it get any bleaker than this???
Jeremy says as I look out the window morosely, seeing yet another layer of snow falling down to further complicate any path I might want to take to anywhere that isn't our apartment.
"I mean, unless I want a full on expedition out of here then getting anywhere is pretty tough"
"Nah. Stop being negative. Snow is awesome."
I disagree. Snow is only awesome when you're at the top of a hill, sledge in hand, ready to whizz your way to the bottom. The rest of the time, snow is inconvenient, wet and cold. And everywhere. In the past two weeks we've had about 3 feet of snow. None of which has melted, all of which has been ploughed so that the roads are lined with snow-walls. Any attempt to walk along the pavement (sidewalk) is thwarted by intermittent snow walls and the fact that home-owners are responsible for the pavement outside their house and therefore the quality of shovelling corresponds to the errr quality of the homeowner.
Jeremy and I leave it all up to our landlord, who has a snow-blower so it's all fine
So, here I am, a newly anointed driver who as yet has only summoned the courage to drive across town to Walgreens and who definitely does not possess the courage to drive on/in snow (nevermind the fact that my husband has taken the car to work) and unless I'm prepared to snow-shoe my way into town (which I'm not), then I'm stuck here.
Oh and it was 57degrees in the apartment when I woke up this morning.
On the up-side I got given a 'snuggie' (blanket with arm holes and a curious pocket which I think is meant for the remote) for christmas.
Does it get any bleaker than this???
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