1813 Versus 2013

So, I'm reading this book-- "Me and Mr. Darcy" by Alexandra Potter. Long story short, it's about a woman who is my age, who works in a bookstore in New York City and holds every man she dates up to "Mr. Darcy" standards. It's a fluffy little paperback, which has been fairly enjoyable, save for the fact that the author completely (and purposely) plagiarizes one of the greatest love stories ever written. Oh, that and the fact that she justifies the idea of weighing every real-life man against the one guy who drips with more swagger than any other fella in literature (sorry, Christian Grey), which is only mildly unrealistic (rolling my eyes). The man does not exist (saaaaaaaadly). I've looked. Okay, I haven't-- but maybe I ought to. The most reliable man in my life weighs roughly twelve pounds, is hairier than the dickens, and has an under bite that is only exaggerated by a slight snaggletooth. Something tells me I need to aim a little higher than that.

What does this have to do with this particular blog? Well, here is this character-- Mr. Darcy-- this "ideal man"-- and he is brought before his audience in a time when courtship was incredibly different than it is today. Letters, not e-mails. Poetry, not texts. Men actually came to your house-- they didn't just "show up" someplace because they saw you "check in" on Facebook. And back then, you could go months without corresponding or even seeing them. You may even live a day's travel away from your love interest. Seems kind of tragic, actually, but I guess that's because it goes against what we are accustomed to here in the 21st century. Thanks to technology, we are a society of little (if any) patience (or privacy).

So, my question is: Does technology make today's relationships easier, or harder?

Computers. iPhones. Social networks. Do they hurt or help us? Honestly? Stop to consider it (because I certainly have), or I wouldn't have started scribbling this down in a worn-out spiral notebook, drinking a bottomless cup of coffee at 10:30 p.m. (which, from the taste of it, came from the restaurant's dinner rush). Whatever. I am a resilient breed. Nobody ever died from hours-old Folgers (or have they?....) Okay, sorry. You know how it goes with me sometimes-- I fly off somewhere towards Never-Neverland-- "second star to right and straight on til morning,"-- but I'm coming back around now. Ready? Awesome. Here we go.

Convenience. We thrive off of it. Instant gratification. We pay our bills online. We use GPS, and its creepy, condescending, phone-sexy voice to guide us to new destinations. Hell, we don't even have to get out of our cars to get a meal. Gift cards enable us to put as little thought as possible into giving a gift. E-cards eliminate the experience of actually mailing something to someone. It's all pretty sad. Sure, it saves us time, but whatever happened to good, old-fashioned effort?-- In regards to anything? The level of "convenience" that has come about as a result of all of our technological advancements has, without surprise, filtered down to the dating scene.

Online dating-- and heaven forbid-- speed dating.  The name alone implies convenience and (in my opinion) complete and utter laziness.

       Hi. My name is So-n-So. I am going to spend a whopping 120-seconds assessing

       whether or not we are "meant to be", because I am really just too busy and

       self-involved to spend more than two minutes getting to know you.

I have never done (nor would I ever do) the whole speed-dating scene, so it may seem unfair for me to attack the process, but come on. The concept just kills me. It's plain lazy. Mr. Darcy would have never tried speed-dating. Ever. Elizabeth Bennett would've scoffed at the notion as well (although her idiot sisters would've pounced on the idea). Back in those days, men (and women) took their time. They invested time and thought when it came to courtship, and as a result, we have these tales of real romance that have stood the test of time. I realize that these are fictitious accounts of Jane Austen, but this type of dating was customary for the time, and here we are, a couple of hundred years later (Pride and Prejudice actually turns 200 this coming year), still starry-eyed and dreamy over the Darcy/Bennett romance, wishing it would show its face in present day form.

Fast-forward to (nearly) 2013, and you can practically hand-select your date from a computerized list of faces and names that "meet your criteria". Non-smoker. Loves dogs. Active. Enjoys the symphony and long walks on the beach.-- and all that crap. Really? Am I the only one who is saddened by this? I have had several friends defend the process, and even know couples who met online who are now married and have children, but I remain unconvinced. You are asked to fill out a "profile" about yourself. What is this? A job interview? It should be more natural, and yet, because it is "more convenient" we have begun to literally manufacture relationships through these processes. We have made romance synthetic. It has become plastic. Certainly not what Jane Austen had in mind, and yet women wonder why they can't find their "Mr. Darcy".-- because he doesn't have an online dating profile, that's why.

He also didn't strictly correspond through e-mail. Think about it. Without much time or thought, you can tap-tap-tap, click "send", and satisfy your communication requirement for your relationship. The object of your affection can be the recipient of your thoughts and feelings as often as you would like. As a result of this, yes correspondence may become more frequent, but does it also have the tendency to become less meaningful? In Darcy's day, he didn't have the opportunity to pop off an e-mail on a whim. No, he had to take time to think about what he wanted to say, in a letter (no backspace key, mind you) and God knows, with as painstaking as it is to use a quill and parchment, that guy sure as hell didn't want to have to start the whole letter over because he changed his mind about what he wanted to say. That would suck. No, back then, people had to exercise real thought and sincerity in how they pursued relationships. No two-line e-mails. No "LOL"s. No empty text messages. Sentiments were heartfelt and the recipient knew it. I am not saying that e-mails and text messages don't help us to some extent when it comes to building relationships-- they do. There is a certain element of safety and confidence that exists when you have a digital barrier in place to protect your pride. There is also less agony in awaiting a response than back in Austen's day. Imagine waiting a month to hear from someone? Given how we live, we get antsy if we have to wait an hour for a response from someone. Love and commitment and attraction were truly tested back then-- a sort of "survival of the fittest" approach. If you could hold out and be patient, you could be rewarded with something lasting. Talk about resolve-- it adds a whole new layer to the concept of "pining for someone" (geez, I love that word-- too much). Instead, we have a world filled with quick, easy, impersonal contact, and it makes me wonder if it contributes to the fact that real love stories seem to be becoming an endangered species.

Now, there are many who would argue that, without modern-day technology, it would be next to impossible to actually meet someone these days. Today's society is one of chaotic, fast-paced lives. I am not entirely disagreeing with that. Technology does help, but what takes place between two people, beyond that point, as a result of technology, troubles me. Yes, all the digital socializing enables us to make that initial connection, but what does it do for us in regards to maintaining that relationship, or cutting those ties? You know what I'm talking about. You part ways with someone, but you are still strapped to them in some form or fashion, because of social media. Their lives are still thrust in front of you on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. They are able to trash-talk you to the world, and you are able to read it. Or, they can move on with someone else, and you are able to see that, too. Your connection to that person lingers on, long after you have parted ways, because they are instantly accessible to you, and you to them. In the days of Jane Austen, they did not struggle with this issue, or at least probably not as much. I am sure that once-couples probably crossed paths in town, or at the occasional ball or social gathering, but for the most part, I would be willing to bet that the longer someone was "out of sight" the more quickly they became "out of mind". No such luck today, unfortunately. Even with every "unfriending" or "blocking" feature we put into place, we are all still out there, tied to each other through mutual contacts and digital social circles. There is no escape, unless you have a heart of stone and are willing to turn a blind eye to it all, which, let's face it, most of us are incapable of doing. If only we still lived in an out-of-sight-out-of-mind sort of world where technological windows did not exist. We would be able to move on from past relationships far more efficiently, and in a more healthy fashion, thus leaving us open to the real love story that just might be waiting for us around the corner.

This isn't a technology-bashing blog. I mean-- I'm sitting here clicking on a laptop, able to broadcast my random train of thought to the world, because of technology and social media. But when it comes to relationships, and getting back to the root of what makes them last, I think that technology, while initially helpful, hurts us in the long-run. It prevents us from achieving a certain level of intimacy that is essential for making that Austen-esque love story that makes us jump up and down and do our "happy dance" over that certain someone (when they aren't looking, of course), possible. Real connections don't last as a result of digital correspondence. They endure because two people make an honest and balanced effort to connect and to build something, whether it is in friendship or romance or something else entirely. Anybody can hit "send". Anybody can "LOL". Anybody can "like" your post on Facebook. Is that what we really what we want to invest in or count on? Really? Connections that barely skim below the surface of who we are? I don't. Perhaps that is why I find so much enjoyment in sitting and watching people have face-to-face social interactions. It renews my faith that maybe there are still people out there who believe in what I believe in-- authentic human connections that survive beyond and beneath the surface of all the technological "conveniences" that, over the span of time, aren't really conveniences at all.

The Ugly Question

So.

Anyone who knows me knows that I rarely (if ever, actually) discuss anything truly serious on this blog. It has always been littered with comical tales of single parenthood, and whimsical, day-dreamy notions about romance. Even my Facebook page does not delve beyond my goofy inner-monologue and coffee addiction. Light. Fluffy. Geared towards anyone desiring a grin or a giggle. That's pretty much it.

I rarely touch on the subject of my job on Facebook, and have never done so on this blog, because with all of the confidentiality clauses and what-not, the stories of my work day must, understandably, remain protected (which is a darn shame, because man, have I got stories). Friday, and the indescribable events that transpired in Connecticut, changed all of that.

I learned of the news during a quick break in my work day. I like to check Time or MSN on the computer, to get my daily news scoop, because I do not watch television (honestly-- the antenna is not hooked up-- I haven't watched network television in almost two years). So, I was horrified, as I sat inside of an elementary school, to learn that another one, across the country, had just been gunned down earlier in the day.

For those of you who only know me through the post I made on Facebook, this is my third year as a paraprofessional for an elementary school in Oklahoma. I love my job. Love my job. I am a 34-year old single mother to three kids, ages 8, 8, and 6. They attend the same school at which I am employed. You may be wondering, "Okay. Seriously. Why are you telling us this?" Well, the fact that I work at the same school where my children attend class is what started that Facebook post in motion.

I am a pretty calm person. It takes a lot to get me stirred-up. However, as more details filtered out of Connecticut, and out onto the internet, a gut-wrenching feeling came over me.

My children are on this campus. My children. What if this happened here? What if I couldn't get to them? How could I get to them? Wait... You couldn't get to them. You have students to take care of. You couldn't leave them. They are your responsibility. Their parents would need you. They depend on you.

It was the most horrible, nauseating feeling I have ever experienced as a parent. Ever. I felt like I was "choosing" other peoples' kids over my own. I felt guilty. Helpless. I didn't want to trust someone else to protect my kids. Those are my kids. My babies. Nobody could ever protect them as well as I could. Nobody. I'm their mom. They're my babies.

I was confronted with the reality that I would have to have faith that my childrens' teachers would protect them at all costs. All costs. Anyone who is a parent knows that we all feel like we know what is best for our kids-- that we could protect them or provide for them, better than anyone else on the planet. It's like biological parental law. Even though I know my kids' teachers (and know them well), I fought with myself all day, telling myself, "You have to trust them. You have to. There is no choice."

Coming to this realization forced me to consider what all of the parents outside of the school system do every day, in regards to their childrens' education. They put their child on the bus, or drop them at the school's front door, believing that they will go inside, connect the dots of their school day, and come back home again. Prior to Friday, I had never really stopped to consider that these parents must either have an enormous amount of trust in us, or that they just don't give it much thought. If one thing is certain as of Friday, I believe that the trust is there, and now the thought is there, too, and this realization created a deeper sense of responsibility within me, in regards to my students.

Of course, I am not the only staff member on campus who has children who attend school there. Lots of us do, and I know we were all thinking and feeling the same thing. We all looked sick. Pale. Bleary-eyed. Distracted. There was an unspoken glance of understanding exchanged between all of us as we passed each other in eerily-silent hallways. We were all thinking about our kids. Biological and student alike.

We were all asking ourselves the question, "What would I do if?...." It hung in the air like a ghost.

Later in the day, I passed by my son's class, as they were waiting in the hall to take a bathroom break. His teacher and I are good friends, and we both just looked tired. However, there was my son, full of  "sunshine and rainbows", beaming up at me, waving his hand frantically by his hip, trying to conceal his excitement that "Mommy was walking by". As I passed his teacher, I whispered, "God. I just want to hug him. I want to hug him so bad," to which tearily squeaked out the reply, "You can." I held back, telling her I would cry if I did. The boy's in third grade. He didn't need his mom turning into a puddle in front of his friends. I kept walking, fighting off tears as I did.

I fight off tears just sitting here typing this.

I remember where I was when Oklahoma City got bombed. I was in my English class, my junior year in high school. I remember where I was when the World Trade Center was hit. I was recently engaged and in my first year of grad school. I remember where I was when the tsunami hit South Asia. It was the day after my boys' first Christmas. Now, I will remember this. I will remember seeing my son in the hallway, grinning from ear-to-ear outside of the boys' restroom, and me wanting to hug his neck like crazy.

As the day went on, we were all informed of heightened security measures. Parents were contacted. The end of the school day couldn't come fast enough. Students got extra hugs as they walked out the door-- the students that had not been checked out early by their parents, that is. When it was all said and done, you could see small groups of staff, pooling in the halls, as if we were all gathering breath from each others' presence and understanding. We could exhale what we had been holding in. All. Day. Long.

Please understand that I am not trying to over-dramaticize the atmosphere that existed in our school on Friday, or in any way try to compare it to what those at Sandy Hook Elementary were feeling that day. There is no comparison. In order to understand why I made my post on Friday, it is important to know what I saw and felt, and what inspired it.

Oddly enough, I left school a little later than normal on Friday, and took my babies home, grateful for once to have all three of them in the backseat, bickering with each other. Although I was hoping to get through the weekend without having to discuss the tragedy with them, those observant little monkeys noticed the flags at half-staff, and choosing my words very carefully, I let them know that something bad had happened, and that a lot of people died.

Please. Please do not make your mother talk about this anymore. I can't make you guys understand, and I am sad that, one day, you will understand, and then you will feel the way I do now.

My youngest (my daughter), ever the fan of "good versus evil", was the only one asking questions:

Did they catch the bad guy, Mommy?

Yes, honey. Yes they did.

What happened to him?

He's dead now, honey.

Did the police kill him?

Honey, I don't know. What do you guys want for a snack when we get home? (Please, please let me change the subject).

We got home, and I wanted to collapse. They gathered their snacks and ran upstairs to watch a movie they had picked out at the Redbox, and I proceeded to unpack their backpacks, pet the dogs, and consider what to cook for dinner. Despite my attempts to shove it all aside now that I was home (no television to remind me of it all), I couldn't. I needed to purge.

I do not enter into political or religious debate, with anyone. Period. When I need to express myself, I write, take pictures, or paint. I felt like writing something. However, sensitive situations such as these require a lot of care and tact, and I tend to shy away from drama. I am not going to post pictures of angel wings with victims' names attached. I am not going to post about gun control. I am not going to post about religion in public schools. It's just not who I am. So, this is what I wrote:

So, I rarely "soapbox" on FB, but the whole ordeal in Connecticut has brought a lot of perspective in regards to what my co-workers and I do all day. To parents who aren't educators, this may be hard to understand.

Five days a week, we teach your kids. That means we educate your kids. Play with your kids. Discipline your kids. Joke with your kids. Console your kids. Praise your kids. Question yo...ur kids. Beat our heads up against a wall about your kids. Gush over your kids. Laugh with your kids. Worry about your kids. Keep an eye on your kids. Learn about your kids. Invest in your kids. Protect your kids. Love your kids.

We would all take a bullet for your kids.

It's nowhere in our job description. It isn't covered in the employee handbook. It isn't cited on our contracts. But we would all do it. So, yes-- please hug your kids tonight-- really, really tight. But on Monday, if you see your kids' teacher, please hug them, too. Thanks.

 

I write what I know, and what I knew on Friday was that, upon hearing about what happened in Connecticut, we all added "soldier" to our stack of hats we wear throughout the school day. None of my co-workers said those things to me on Friday. None of them had to. It was written on our faces. We had all been confronted with the question of, "Are you ready to take a bullet for your students?" It isn't a fun question to ask yourself. It's just not.

I spend 90% of my existence surrounded by children, ages 4-10. It's awesome, and we all get to be a bit of a kid ourselves when we work with them. I wish to God we lived in my son's world of sunshine and rainbows, where everyone has a puppy to play with, takes hot air balloon rides all day long, and eats ice cream for dinner. I really do. But we don't. We live in a world where someone can destroy our bubble without any real rhyme or reason.

I did not write what I wrote in order to bring attention to "teacher appreciation". The whole idea is just tacky and selfish, and I am neither. I, for one, have never felt under-appreciated at my job, by the parents or the staff. I asked people to hug their kids' teachers. That's it. Why? Because on Friday, our job description met an unspoken change. We were confronted with that ugly question, and I felt like we not only needed the emotional support, but that it would help all of us to know, through a simple hug, that the parents trust us with their kids, regardless of the circumstances.

And yes, I hugged my son's teacher on Monday morning. Hard.

Pairs

Pairs. It's interesting how coupling appears all throughout nature, and in mathematics. The twin prime conjecture. Yes, well, it explores pairs of numbers-- numbers that are only divisible by themselves. 3,5... 5,7... not 7,9 because 9 is divisible by 3. Then you have 11,13... 17,19, and so on, and what was discovered, what often occured were pairs that were separated by one number in-between. --Jeff Bridges "The Mirror Has Two Faces"

Couples. They are everywhere. Mathematics. Musical duets. Bookends. Salt-and-pepper shakers. Peas and carrots. Scales of justice. Right and left. Good and evil. Bra and panties. (Okay, that one doesn't always exist, but it should-- for some people more than others).  And so forth. Over the course of the last several years of my life, I have taken a much more conscious look at the pairings around me. People I know. Total strangers. In all seasons of their lives. All situations. Young. Old. Opposite-sex. Same-sex. It really doesn't matter. I watch. I listen. I notice. I absorb. I learn. I become inspired. The funny little dance and dynamic that is couplehood, attempting to understand how and why it all works. Even with as complicated as I know it all to be, from the outside looking in, it all seems so... easy.

It got me thinking:  Amongst adults, are there actually more couples than non-couples? In my day-to-day observations, I would venture to say, "Yes," although I do not know that to be a statistical fact. I refuse to Google it. (It would probably be completely inaccurate anyway). In this crazy, fast-paced, ever-changing world in which we live, is it really that easy to "find someone"? By all appearances, it would seem so.

Seem being the key word. When it comes to this "over-abundance" of couples, how many of those people are truly happy with each other, or are they holding onto that person out of fear? Fear of being alone. I am a firm believer that human beings are biologically-wired for pairings. Sure, we all experience periods when we want to fly solo for one reason or another, but at the heart of who we are as human beings, being alone is sometimes the worst fate with which we can be faced. We seek to be matched.

The cynical among us could pawn this off as desperation or loneliness, but even in my most cynical moments (and there are many), I would disagree. We crave balance-- someone to tame our extremes, or bring out the very best in us. There is nothing pathetic about human nature. It is a beautiful and fascinating thing. We grow up believing that there is this person out there "waiting" for us-- the one. I would love to know who started that little rumor. According to one of my favorite films, it was Plato who said:

...We began as circles. When we strived to be like the gods, we were punished by a thunderbolt that struck us and cut us right down dead center in half. We scattered to the ends of the Earth, searching and searching for our other half. Now, what Plato was saying is that, if we just stop, and go with the flow, and follow our destiny, it'll lead us back to each other. --Marisa Tomei "Only You"

Don't get me wrong-- I am a big enough sap to at least entertain the idea of a soul mate. I love the idea of it; it's romantic and powerful, but is it reality? I suppose you could ask those people who claim to have found The One and they would say, "Yes." In all fairness, the single and bitter among us would probably say, "Hell, no." Now, regardless of my affinity for this movie, I am reluctantly on the fence when it comes to this philosophy of a pre-destined coupling. This is when the cynicism born from my life experience, and my stupid hopeless romantic side ruthlessly punch each other in the face. Honestly, as a single person, I think it is far too intimidating to attach myself to the concept that I am supposed to successfully locate this "one" person amongst the roughly 7-billion on this lovely little blue planet we call Earth. That would be like a real-life "Where's Waldo", on crack. And yet, I cannot deny the fact that we are designed to be paired, so perhaps there is some truth to the idea, however whimsical (and impossible) it may seem to be.

So, for the sake of argument, let's just say that we really are destined for someone. Then, I will ask the inevitable question of, "Why?" Well, perhaps the question really should be, "Why do we want to believe in something like that?" Personally, I think it comforts us to latch onto this philosophical promise that we won't end up alone-- that eventually, it will happen for us, just like it has so "easily" fallen into place for everyone else. And make no mistake-- we are promised-- by our families, our friends, our chosen theologies, films, songs, literature, and the list goes on. Is it fair? Sure, it is. We are wired for this. We would want it, even if we weren't promised. Why?

Because we need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet. I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything-- the good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things. All of it. All the time. Every day. You're saying, "Your life will not go unnoticed, because I will notice it. Your life will not go unwitnessed, because I will be your witness." --Susan Sarandon "Shall We Dance?"

Well, sorry Ms. Sarandon, but as I previously-stated, it's closer to 7-billion people, sweetheart. Get your facts straight. Lord, what are they paying the people who write these screenplays, anyway? Do I think that we seek to be paired out of a desire to simply have our lives validated in some way? No. However, there is something reassuring in knowing that there is at least one other person in the world who recognizes you-- and not just another person who can identify you in a police line-up or on a coroner's table, but someone who really knows you, almost as intimately as you know yourself-- that you aren't just drifting along in life, invisible. It is a connection-- our one real, solid connection to the world. An anchor. A sturdy chain amongst the thin, fraying, and often temporary threads that tie us to most of the people around us. Or, at least that is how it should be.

So, how do we make this happen? What's the secret? Well, I can tell you one thing-- it isn't by rhythmically bobbing your head to David Bowie while munching on a cookie in a coffee shop, crumbs all over my notes, like I am doing at this current moment, (although the "one" who awaits me would have to find such behavior completely endearing, because it is a habit that occurs on an all-too-regular basis). Seriously, though, how is it that this over-abundance of couples exists? How did they go from being a "me" to being an "us"? In "You've Got Mail", Tom Hanks' father is gearing up for his third divorce, and discussing his post-marriage game plan with his son. It becomes very clear that father and son have very opposing views on relationships.

I just have to meet someone new, that's all. That's the easy part.

Oh, right, yeah... a snap to find the one single person in the world who fills your heart with joy.

Even with as much as I like to see the world through rose-colored glasses, and would like to believe that every couple out there is giddy, head-over-heels, stupid in-love, I know that there are countless couples that I watch who came upon each other "easily" because they do not truly believe in, or want to invest the time to find, their "perfect" match. They are the ones who are with each other out of that aforementioned fear of being alone. They are the ones who would rather be with anyone than live a solitary life, even for a second. They are the ones who have a new "love" in their lives within 24-hours of their last break-up. They settle. ***Gasp*** I despise that word. These people make me sad. Sure, it is harder-- even brutally-painful at times-- to invest some effort and patience (and sometimes sacrifice some pride) in order to "find the one single person in the world who fills your heart with joy," but my goodness, we only get one shot at this life. Why waste it on something less than joy, and lots of it?

So, I will continue to quietly notice the pairs around me, trying to gain some insight into the inner-workings of it all. I will remain inspired by the couples who clearly refused to settle, and frustrated by the ones who did. I will keep drawing different perspectives from various romantic comedies and how they parallel my own observations and experiences. I will continue to sing "I Know Him By Heart" to my daughter at bedtime, doing my bioligical duty of pushing that promise forward, with the hopes that she will keep it in mind, and remember not to settle for anything less than true love. I will continue to root for the stupid, hopeless romantic side of my brain to conquer its occasionally-tempting fatalistic opponent. I will be Plato, and continue to see the world in pairs-- both matched and unmatched-- so that when that other prime number-- that other half-- that witness-- that one single person shows up on the radar, I haven't become so jaded that I pass him by.