Dancing and Fighting

Happiness Project month #1 is complete. I trained for a triathlon and enjoyed it. I did feel satisfaction marking daily progress on a calendar and pushing myself to swim and run farther, and as most of these experiments show, I am more capable than the level to which I usually push myself.

Now on to the next project. This week I heard a speaker talking about having a bucket list. I don't have one of these. Mainly because I do what I want in the season. My preferences and goals change when the wind blows, and I tend to follow those impulses where they lead me. I have jumped out a plane, worked at a ranch, learned to white water kayak, and gotten my nose pierced. I was surprised when I did try to write a list at what my subconscious pushed me towards-- learn how to fight, learn how to dance. In that order.

I have skill at neither since they both require coordination. And they seem to go together in complementary opposition. Two kinds of embrace. Two physical exersions. Both paralleling human struggles and relation. I looked up ballroom dance lessons today. I have a connection in the jiu jitsu scene. I'm mentally preparing to be humbled.

Dreamy to Me

The Happiness Project talks about the importance of dreaming. I've given some thought to what I dream about without filters for practicality. And I tend to run 2 scenarios. 1. Marry someone amazing and have a wonder child. 2. Become a spy. It's kind of a dilemma for me. Now I'm asking myself if I want to attach to someone amazing or just actually be amazing on my own. On the first count, I've made the field harder for myself. I've dated 3 special forces captains. They are now the standard for manliness. I was with a friend from OCS the other week. Being only a Reservist in Intel, he seemed a little wimpy.

The second point gets more practical. In the near future I will have to decide to stick around here or apply to a program where my acceptance would guarantee deployment. Needless to say, I would not be a spy. Nor would I suddenly look like Jennifer Gardner. (sadly) I have to decide if it's more awesome to stay here as an air defender or put myself through the awfulness of more training and no assurance of being selected to try for deployment.

Odd that the option to stay very safe seems more mentally and emotionally precarious, while work harder, carry heavy stuff, and be humbled by challenge upon challenge is exciting in a way that makes me think I have training amnesia and have forgotten the suckiness of OCS. I'm hoping for a revelation that looks like a scene from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat.

Happiness Project First Project

This book has given me so much to think about. Really valuable stuff. My favorite project involved jotting down several people you admire and listing the qualities appreciate most in them. These are supposedly your nascent traits-- what is trying to be birthed in you. Once achieved, you move on to other traits. My most adored women tend to be smart, creative, loving, and skillful at negotiating gently and assertively in a work world of men. (Thank you Tina Fey, Paula Deen, Julia Child).

I have taken my first steps. I ordered a wall calendar to chart progress. This month features something I always said I would do and procrastinated about-- train for a triathlon. Oddly, I don't feel a need to compete in a triathlon, just train for one. I have searched out a training calendar, downloaded a list of songs I think will make me run faster, and ordered a race suit as I've found regular swimwear completely unsuitable for the simple task of lap swimming. Goal= train for a result.

Truth Serum

Alcohol may be under-appreciated and under-feared for it's ability to bring forth what's simmering right under the surface. There is no shortage of drinks here, and I've learned the hard way not to just watch for my number limit, but also to be suspicious of bartenders who think I'll appreciate their overly generous pouring. For better or worse, the following things were revealed this week:
1. I actually do not like "nice guys." I have consistently lied about this to myself. I like aggressive guys who want to win, who dress well, and who go for broke.
2. My downstairs neighbor was just in prison just before moving here and claims to be the most dangerous man on the Sea Wall. I find this oddly comforting, like a built-in security system. Unfortunately, his over-drinking this weekend led to a car crash, punching a hole in a wall, and trying to choke someone out. But he helped me carry my groceries up yesterday.
3. My only girlfriend here doesn't think women should serve in the military. This led to a tearful apology, spilling of guts, and other enlightenments.
I am told people tell me things because I have the right kind of face. By this point I think it may be because I'm just really hard to surprise.

there is no love, only proof of love. soliciting ideas

I've been reading the happiness project and contemplating starting my own little project. The obstacles I'm currently working around:
- I must be available anytime night or day to be at work. I work 12-14 hour days.
- I have no intimate partner or close circle of friends on the island. Female friends are very hard to come by here. My roommate is mute and today does not respond to hello.
On the plus side:
- I have financial resources I can expend on the project.
- There is no one I have obligations to at home for improving their happiness.
- I already have the following in good order: physical health, job, intellectual pursuit

So the following are candidates for improvements that need action steps.
1. become more confident/aggressive- only idea is to take a martial arts class
2. be less critical. accept people exactly as they are
3. be less shy outside of work and more open to strangers- I did meet and go out with strangers last night
Creative friends-- let me know if you have suggestions. Have you undertaken any of your own challenges in this arena?

God's Waiting Room

Lately I find myself sitting outside in God's waiting room. It is a place without prayers or pleas or noise or appointments. It's just sitting around with my hands folded in my lap or reading a magazine. Waiting for some news. Doing nothing proactive. A good friend this week had an appointment for me. She sent along a really deep, thoughtful prayer she said on my behalf. Which is good. Because I don't think I'm supposed to ask right now. I'm just supposed to sit here and drink coffee until my submissions to the inbox are reviewed.

We all say when you pray you should move your feet. These feet have taken me all over the place. High places where I was spouting rainbows and sunshine to discouraged people. Low places where my heart was shrunken, little, and timid. So I'm sitting here waiting for the next operating instructions. Being as comfortable as anyone can be in a waiting room.

becoming an islander

The heart of a native Chicagoan still beats within as I fuel the day with coffee, check the morning news religiously, and on a good day can still work a room with as much forced charm as an introvert can muster and cheese their way through. The life of a Colorado hippie has weathered me to opt for almond milk, read instead of watch TV, and listen, swaying to acoustical wonders. But I'm also becoming a little more of an islander every month here.

I was realizing this when I spent an entire afternoon in a bikini without self-consciousness. This feat has never before been possible as I would have sucked in my stomach and folded my arms protectively around my fleshy middle. Here it's just too hot, and I can see everybody is a little imperfect. I've traded wine for iced vodka drinks, and a very nice shoe collection for flip flops always.  I own a bike with a basket that has earned the status of living indoors to prevent the rust that forms almost instantly here.

Attempts at hair fixing are mostly in vain here as the humidity forms it's own curls, waves, and shapes. The Saturday plan is always lay on the beach or by the pool. The outfit is always sundress or strapless shirts. And I have found myself using the ubiquitous island phrase I think maybe... as a gentle preview to introducing opinions.

Favorite Things

Oprah has her favorite things. I have mine. Mine are cheaper. They currently are:

Freeze dried strawberries (Thank you Lightbulb!)
Balega running socks
Neutrogena Anti-Residue Shampoo
Trish McEvoy Mascara (okay, not cheap but gifted from future sister-in-law)
Salty Dogs (vodka and grapefruit juice with salted rim)
Combos Cheddar Cheese Pretzels
Victoria's Secret Orange Sapphire Body Spray

I'm just recording this as my little time capsule. Shopping is a little more thrilling here because there's only one regular store-- the PX. Local stores are very expensive and Japanese sized clothes. This means I buy their dresses, which become mini-dresses with 3/4 sleeves.

It was a week of personal successes-- ran a flawless rifle range and performed my first air battles with my full crew, whom I now have great faith in. It was also demoralizing as my boss keeps criticizing me and NCOs don't respect me because I've been too tentative with them. I am also too old to date anyone as I was reminded when a young LT was hitting on me, friended me on facebook, and stopped texting. The wonderful thing about Army life is that people move frequently. My boss gets replaced in January. I'll start off more confidently with new NCOs. Any maybe, maybe a few officers in their 30's will land here. Fingers crossed!

God's Inbox

The 2 gift items I get repeatedly and struggle to use are journals and white wine. I seem to remind people of these things, and I intend to put them to good use. Unfortunatey. I don't have a bent towards neatness or high organization. Journals get written in once, my ideas go down on the back of library book receipts, and clutter builds that results in journals getting tossed. And that sweet white wine that tastes like melted lollipop gets served to guests while I pour another red.

This morning I finally got around to replacing those old journals and created an email account for God. Given the variety of addresses approximating God's Inbox, I don't believe this is a popular idea. I find I want to write to God all the time but end up writing to my sister or a friend instead. There is something satisfying about seeing an end result, and knowing that tangible proof of requests exists. I could sort them by people. I could delete the worst of my ideas. Unlike my paper logs, I will never spill coffee on it or leave it by a window when it's raining.

If you want to write in, it's God.inbox@yahoo.com. But I imagine you have a beautiful library of journals organized by year, written in with purple ink, and tied up with ribbons.

new sister

My little brother got engaged this morning. This comes after a year and a half of contemplating this decision. This is good news because 1. I will now have a little sister. 2. I will return to the States (D.C. area specifically) sometime in the next year for the wedding. I've only met Abby once, but I suspect as in other families I will be closer to her eventually and mostly know my brother through her as the official spokeperson and PR for the couple.

There is a bit of dread at having to return to the State for a wedding because I won't be located around my friends, and I will be the weird older sister who is unmarried with no date, unfashionable (Abby is a D.C. interior designer and fashionista), and lastly working in a dominantly male profession, I suspect I may be perceived as a lesbian. (am tempted to play this up).

Meanwhile, back at beach my friend Tony was asking yesterday if he could grab my ass (friends thought it was very respectful of him to ask) and calling to see if I wanted to spend a romantic evening at his place watching TV. He also invited Brazilian strippers to the party who arrived in thong bikinis.

I warned my brother that as a guest at his wedding I'm destined to find myself hanging out at the bar and mingling with his least mature, most intoxicated friends as this is the world I know.

I've Got No Strings

So imagine I posted a cute little picture of Pinocchio here since my blog isn't cooperating with my photo posts of late. Or a picture of a Danielle Steele novel. They would be telling you the same thing. While my job feels like a 14 hour day choke collar, when I'm on leave I'm a free bird. So I booked a flight tonight to Barcelona in August. I will meet up with a wealthy Manhattan investment banker/jazz musician there who I met in OCS (he's a reservist). We will probably wear white linen clothes and ride horses barebacked on the beach. We will drink red wine.

The only thing that makes it less romantic is that I'm not in love with this man, but that makes the expectations very manageable. And since this is me, he's not exactly standard issue. He's a half Black, half Jewish son of a classical musician and a jazz musician. Grew up poor. Put himself through NYU. Works on Wall Street and is trying to deploy to Afghanistan. Used to be a Seventh Day Adventist.

My week in Spain won't like read like Danielle Steele, but I should return with awkward, disjointed, Pinocchio-type accounts of Barcelona.

God's Guest List Part II

I can tell you who is not on God's guest list for me-- Christian women. I had planned for weeks to attend a women's bible study at the island's hipster church tonight where the artistic, creative dressers go. I never get done with work on time, but for weeks I thought I could make this Tuesday happen since we were supposed to get off early every day, and basically have a fun week. Then I got called in to work at 5:00. And my commander made me sit on the couch to talk (which really only involves listening on my part). It ended up being another dinner on post with my trusty sidekick Brett. 24-year old men are mostly God's guest list for me. I made great strides with that demographic by hanging out at a bar with them from 11:00 a.m. Sunday to 10:00 p.m. (I did take breaks).

Reflect and reconsider-- there are women who want to spend time with me. The new private who was a foodservice worker and has 3 kids in the states. The Iraqi lady who does my eyebrows and was an interpreter, and the special forces wife who talks bad about other woman but is more than friendly to me. Church is not looking like my community, but I may have been invited to hang at jiu jitsu on Saturdays where they need more females. Good bye hugs and sob stories. Hello headlocks and flip cup.

Hiding in Typhoon Lagoon

I am currently in hiding. I'm supposed to be running errands. It was my excuse not to drink at my friend's promotion party this morning. Also a good excuse to get this break from mingling since I need to go back for a 2nd kegs-worth of party. They all but pushed me out the door to run said errands because they want me back there drinking with them. This weekend I have heard about manscaping, weighed in on the question of whether men should shave their chest hair, (No!), and seen the guys compete in the trickiest types of pull-ups they can do. Last night it was a hypothetical competition between 2 guys both claiming their sperm was more powerful and more likely to impregnate someone. I'm mostly an observer here, but it's a good show.

The first typhoon of the season is supposed to hit tomorrow. This meant staying at work Friday until 1:45 a.m. Saturday. Then two hours yesterday meeting with police about a theft we had, plus attending the Army ball.  I'm really hoping this storm comes through for us. I need the company of books and a little time away from work to literally and figuratively let my hair down. Please bring the rain.

Needing Swagger

I should have quit while I was ahead. I had a perfectly nice dinner with the guys. Curried chicken in coconut rice, cucumber salad, strawberry ricotta cups, and vanilla vodka tonics. All enjoyed in my baloncy overlooking the sea. Good conversation. But the good guys were pretty done after a bottle of wine and a bottle of vodka. And I was still awake. And then the Big Bros called me to meet them at the bar just down the street. And they were wolves in wolves clothing.

Tommy- thinks I should wear stilettos and hoop earrings and walk with more swagger. Kept asking me to go out and take a walk under the stars and make out with him. (between checking out the bartenders' asses) (between asking me if I liked my hair pulled, ughhh...)
Ned-- thinks I should work more on my biceps and steaming vegetables his way and let it slip that they were all trying to pick up anyone they could get.
Collin- Trying to get my friend to sleep with him. Asking me if I would take Tommy home with me. Telling me I was rude for saying no.

I'm pretty sure the best company in the bar was the owner's pit bull. I'm trying to walk this tightrope and not fall on either side of complicicty or bitchyness. The result is reserve and fleeing the scene early.

Getting On Board with God's Guest List

I often think of the parable of the wedding banquet when I'm in an invitation funk. This guy was hosting a wedding reception and invited all his friends to come. He had gone to huge expense for the guest list, and it would have been a great night. But they were too busy playing video games, watching TV and shopping. So he rolled the invitation on out to strangers who were mostly delighted to have been chosen. All except for one guy who wouldn't get on board with the dress code and tried to show up in his jeans, favorite shirt, and "comfy shoes." He was thrown out. The poor host can't find anyone who wants to say yes and celebrate. He's surrounded by people who would rather stay home in their sweat pants than really live.  (Matt 22)

I keep trying to believe that I will end up surrounded by exactly the people I'm supposed to be with, having the conversations I'm supposed to have. Just being present and showing up in the right outfit for where the yes is. Right now my yes comes from the young male LTs who aren't with the "in" crowd. The one Christian girlfriend on the island is too busy drinking to do our book study together. The guy who's a kindred spirit left for a month without having time for a planned last meal. So I'm buying the ingredients for curry and moving down the list to the gay couple in my neighborhood-- have plans, the bros I work with-- admit I cannot stomach a night of sex and booze talk, and on to the new LTs who just arrived and have offered to show up with hummus. God, help my heart to show up in its best hostess apron and love exactly who was supposed to arrive at my doorstep. And to remember these are the people who are saying yes to being loved.

Sweetness

I was reading "Craving Grace" when I came upon a terrible idea. The author gave up sweets entirely for about 6 months. She was angry at God and wanted daily reminders that God was her sweetness. I read this, and initially thought she was another crazy fundamentalist trying to be too pious. And she was making things harder than they needed to be. And she was a tad uppity for announcing devotion to super-lent. And maybe she wasn't enjoying the ice cream God had so lovingly made available.

But as the week turned into weekend I had a little of my own bitterness to swallow. Another break-up to add to my monumental pile of failed romances. A boss who made us stay at work until 11:00 last night watching him read slides as he made painfully unimportant changes (think 1.5 hours on changing the directions arrows on a route map).Getting chewed out for asking if we could leave. Wanting the consolation of a friend waiting in vain for me with wine instead of the guys at work laughing at me over the break-up. Having my credit card number stolen.

The bitterness tasted terrible. I found myself craving a little more real sweetness too and wanted to feel it in my heart more than on my tongue. So I said no to sweet yesterday and no today out of true desire. I have no commitments or timetables-- just hanging on for what I crave the most right now.

I also recently read, "One Perfect Word," which offers the project of finding just one word in the bible to focus on for the whole year. The one that came to me was "tender." I think searching for this sweetness is a piece of the puzzle.

What Goes on in Room 712

While I don't love traveling alone, sightseeing alone, or dining alone, I admit I love staying in hotels alone. There is no greater excuse to indulge in whims and quirks than having your own key in an anonymous city. Especially when you have a roommate at home to keep you normal-ish. I confess to the following:

- spending an inordinate amount of time shopping in the juniors section of the Post Exchange. Yes, I know am too old for this. No, that doesn't dissuade me in the face of good deals and solid jersey skirts.

- visiting the library to read People magazine because I like the pretty pictures but don't find enough content to read for more than 15 minutes

- buying a salad and a cookie for lunch. Only eating the cookie.

- deciding the P90X yoga video that runs 1 hour and 30 minutes is very boring and only doing 45 minutes both times it has come up in the sequence. Still realizing that physical discipline is about submission.

- purchasing a bridal magazine on my day of daydreaming. picking a favorite dress and deciding that bridesmaids, bridesmaid dresses, and color schemes are unprogressive and lacking creativity (if anyone is reading this who opted for the former, please forgive me-- everyone else heartily approves:)

- buying a new camera because I lost the computer connecty cord of my Xmas one, and my sister guilted me about not sharing views of life in the Pacific. I have successfully taken zero photos because photos aren't very interesting to me unless they represent novelty.

- coming home with sad, broken hair from after followng an impulse to get a dye job at the hotel salon that was terrible and resulted in 2 and a half hours of damage repair after a desperate plea to the hotel manager. It is now the color of Julianne Moore's and the touchable consistency of straw.

So it's probably about time I return to practical life. My glamourous habit end tomorrow. Thank God alcohol is not a big temptation to me because my impulsivity runs strong enough on its own.

The Company of Books

I've opted out of writing lately because I don't have time. I've been working 12-14 hour days, trying to squeeze in workouts, and living such a physical life that there's been no leisure for reflection. I got a much-needed hiatus when I was given last minute notice, and shipped off to Korea for 2 weeks of chemical-biological-nuclear-radioactive defense training. It doesn't sound like a breezy topic, but living in a hotel room alone with a mere 5 hours of class a day has been such a welcome change that I just want to stay here and not graduate tomorrow.

The only little glitch is that I'm alone here. No friends at my hotel. My soldiers are in barracks on the other side of the base. Which has given me time to time and made me seek out the companionship of books and stories. I read Craving Grace these last few days and found the friend I needed. I read Jennifer share about the long prayed-for romance in her life, and the rancher she's going to marry. I catch up on the stories and reflections that Stephers shares from life back home. I think maybe because I don't have Christian community here, I ought to write something back in case someone else needs a friend in words.

Bits from someone trying to think again: 1. An author gave me the permission to dream. I spent a day doing that without editing or being realistic. With a magazine and candle and cheap spa masks. That was a good day. 2. Trying to have a perfect body is exhausting. I will never have enough time or money or access to weird ingredients. It's better to idealize someone liking my body the way it is (and keep doing P90X). 3. Grace is so tricky because we can't control it by being good or striving after it. It just happens. 4. No random nice man I date can fill the hole of wanting a Christian man. This makes me feel incredibly ungrateful and inept and powerless. I want to want what's available. 5. Hazel may need her own facebook page because facebook is so helpful but also voyeuristic and freaky.

how white I am

Today was one where I had to confess to missing everything large and American. I tried to drive to meet someone and got lost on the nameless streets. There is no GPS here. No street signs except the major few roads. I had to back out of an alley going downhill with only about 4 inches of clearance on each side. Tonight I got stuck in a parking lot, having to wait for other people to move who were blocking me in because there is so little available parking. I wanted my food to taste like ketchup, bbq sauce, and salsa, not like soy sauce. I wanted to drink a glass of wine and still be allowed to drive.

This week was fights with my boss, not being one of the guys, the guys who were attracted to me falling off the radar, and doubting my decision about a roommate. As soon as I iron all of those things out, I will again celebrate living on the sea, the hot coffee I can get from vending machines, the polite people, and the great noodles. Maybe next weekend.

On not fitting in with boys

The makeup of the population I work with can be roughly divided into 4 categories-- the little bros, the big bros, the beta fish and the family men. Little bros spend all their time drinking and picking up Japanese women. This is like shooting fish in a barrel since the women love officers. When we all go out, the women sit silently behind their date for the evening. Then they go home and have sex. Awkward for me. A good time for them. The big bros have been up to the same antics for long enough it's grown tiresome, and they have actual hobbies. They will talk about more than picking up women. They miss American women. Good to hang out with, but they're still hard-drinking bros. The beta fish don't go out. They stay home and have relationships with their gaming systems. They dream about picking up Japanese women but are afraid to venture out since their social awkwardness is ridiculed by the bros.

Meanwhile, I am hard at work maintaining my own awkwardness. Little bros don't hang with me because I'm too old and have nothing to add to their conquest conversations. Big bros flirt with me but shouldn't get involved with me because we work too closely together. Maybe I should accept that I'm a beta fish hanging out with bros and start learning how to game.

Hazel Goes Abroad

I have officially spent my first week in Okinawa which was a blur of jet lag, Japanese characters, and the typical endless check list a new duty station requires. I'll have to start this chapter by recounting my first cultural experience looking for an apartment with my roommate.

Mickey was an 80-year-old real estate agent who called me for a showing. We knew we were in for an experience when we stepped into her car which was completely plastered in knick-knacks and beanie babies taped to the dash, random trash, & remains of spilled beverages hosting a small family of ants. She ran around the car in her leopard-print heels to elevate her past her 4 ft 3 in stature to take off for the "mansion" she wanted to show us. Mansion in Japanese seems to translate to cement ghetto, wood-paneled apartment with a hand sink in the shower and lights that have been turned off. On to the next place.

We were driven around for about 25 minutes before she understood that no, we were not in the navy, and no, we did not work at Torii Station. The 2nd location was a miraculous change from the "mansion." A beautiful sea-side duplex with a large balcony on a quiet street. Before we made any decisions she had already determined we were destined to live there, took down the for rent sign, and called the owner to come join us. Deciding to entertain us in the meantime, she demonstrated that she was a dancer, a singer, and got down on the floor to show us she could do half of a backwards somersault and touch her toes. Last night she insisted on taking us to dinner, and I believe we may have been invited to her son's wedding. Favorite Mickey quotes:

To gate guards: "I have pretty girls in car. You see? No you come closer to look!"
On the recent show she attended: "I didn't know. Was strip show. These guy- much bigger than men here."
On us liking her origami plastered office: "you like? It's okay. I make house decoration for you."
On marriage: "my husband, he ask me for money. he have extra, give back to me. this happy marriage."