Cogito ergo blogum

Last week about this time, I started a blog entry. I didn’t know where it was going, I couldn’t figure out what I was trying to say, and then I put the computer away to be distracted by something I could figure out. Crossword puzzle, anyone?

Now, here I am again.

Earlier this month, my sister and I assessed the state of our blog. I was concerned that I haven’t said anything new. I voiced my fear that I’m not interesting, that I’m stuck in the past, that my entries are not contributing adequately to the Blog World. And then in my paranoid tantrum, I screeched, “I don’t even remember why we’re doing this!”

Perhaps your next entry should start there, my sister suggested calmly. It wasn’t true. I did remember the impetus for the blog, but I am quite good at being dramatic and my outburst seemed to fit the moment.

This whole blog business began with a desire to explore the question “how did we get here?” The fact is I am daunted by the notion that we all end up where we are simply by taking one step in front of the other. There are decisions we make in our lives that we know are life-changers. Choosing my college, for instance. I knew that was a defining moment. I can’t help but wonder on occasion how different my life would be today if I hadn’t gone to the Midwestern university that prompted my move to Chicago after graduation, thereby determining my first major relationship, career path, friends, and so on.

When I think about how choosing one thing over the next, all the time, every day, has led me to where I am this very minute, I feel like rewinding my life and playing it back in slow motion just to see where I might have done something differently. Sometimes I wish there was a little flag next to what seems like a small decision, alerting me. “Pay attention to this one. This one’s going to matter.”

I’m not speaking about regret. I don't dwell on mistakes I have made. It’s more that I’m thinking of the wanna-be writer who makes a point to get up at 5 a.m. so he can spend an hour working on his novel before he leaves for his day job. I think about the woman practicing Tai Chi at 6 a.m. every morning outside my window. She reminds me that I, too, could get up before work and do something that matters to me. And then I consider how much earlier I would have to get up. Then I think about how much earlier I would have to go to bed, and conclude it’s just not realistic for my lifestyle. In a matter of seconds, I have dismissed a potentially desirable pursuit. See? A Choice.

I go through phases when I fixate on the possibility that one might miss their true calling. Consider the fate of the world-renowned concert pianist had they not had a piano to plunk away at when they were a toddler, garnering the attention of over-attentive parents. Would they instead have never known that they had it in them to be a concert pianist? Or would fate have intervened and thrown a piano in their path?

Never mind the pianist. What about me? Do I have a true calling, and if so, am I ever going to know what it is? Or worse: what if I don’t have a calling?! What if my uninspired means of employment is just going to have to suffice, because maybe there isn’t something better for me out there?!?

And now I spin into my Woody Allen in Therapy mode, which is clearly a bad headspace to be in.

I digress.

Let’s get back to the beginning of this entry. It seems I am not without things to say, nor am I done exploring my initial query. I definitely haven’t figured it out yet.

And so, I blog.

Dating: 1927 -

The other day, a friend’s phone rang and she asked me to answer it. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how. Yesterday evening, I arrived at another friend’s home to dog sit. I went to turn on the water tap, but it’s all hooked up to an alkaline machine and I could not figure out which buttons to push, what the digital number on the screen should read, or which faucet the water is supposed to be coming out of. Don’t even get me started on T.V.s these days.

It has come to this. The only phone, t.v. and water filter I can handle is my own. I sometimes long for simpler times. And yet, not everything has become more complicated. Dating, for instance, seems to have stayed just as complicated over the decades. Lying on my bookshelf is my grandmother’s diary from 1927. That year, Miss Lucile Flannery, was a twenty-four year old southern belle living in San Antonio, Texas. My grandmother’s dating life was quite full it seems. Allow me a few excerpts:

January 2^nd.

Ak! I could cry and cry tonight I feel so awful. Nelson and I had it out tonight. He finally told me I either loved him or it was a case of pure necking. When he said that…I nearly died! Told him I was never going to let him kiss me again.

January 3^rd

I had a date with a new one tonight. Paul is real nice and awfully funny in a droll sort of way but he didn’t make so much of an impression on me. I hope he asks me for another date though because he is a date.

January 6^th

Ah me. I had indeed a wonderful date tonight. Mr. John Joseph Burns. My heart simply fails me when I think of it. He took me to a movie and when we got home, didn’t say, “When can I see you again?”

January 16^th

Margery and I sat at home tonight without dates, but I really didn’t mind and I hope she didn’t.

February 27th

Tonight I have been crying and crying until I am exhausted. My faith in Nellie just crumpled up like paper. I feel like I hate all men! Everything has been so beautiful up to now but it's all ruined now.

March 20th

Nelson is the sweetest thing on earth. I love him.

There are many other tortured moments that year, with my grandmother crying enough tears “to fill a bucket” more than once. Most of this torture was tangled up in her love for Nellie, also know as Morris Robert Nelson, a pilot in the air service. Nellie, whom she would become engaged to later in November and to whom she would be married for over fifty years. Nellie, my grandfather.

1927 vs 2011? Not so different. It doesn’t matter whether we get to know each other over mahjong or pool, via letter or telegram or text. The questions and confusion remain the same. If he didn’t end his text with a question, is it okay to write back? I thought we sparked…maybe we didn’t spark? Did we spark? He seemed so present. Then he wasn't. What if? Would he? Did I? AK! Ah me!

And let me tell you, making it all that much more confusing is the plethora of advice that comes my way, sometimes requested and sometimes unsolicited. Flirt more. Flirt less. Be open. Not too open. Care more. Care less. You’re not ready. You’re too ready. Negotiating the world of dating is kind of like an obstacle course, only the obstacles are set-ups, single's tables at weddings, and mixed signals. If at all possible, avoid parties where you are the only single person and where the game de jour is The Newlywed Game, only… “Oh, sorry, YOU can’t play.” (This happened to me once. Really.)

Dating is not simple. Figuring out what others are thinking, or not thinking, is not simple. It wasn’t in 1927 and it certainly isn’t now. And I like the simple things in life. A phone I can figure out how to use. A good glass of wine with friends. Beach walks with Petey the dog. But the truth is, a good story doesn't usual come from simple alone. You need twists and turns and detours. And when you hit that unexpected dead end in a cul-de-sac, U-turn and try again.

- - - - - -

WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM: 1928

TO LUCILE NELSON.

DELAYED BY RAIN BE HOME WEDNESDAY MUCHLY DISAPPOINTED LOTS LOVE

NELLIE.