I didn’t need to look down at my feet to know what had just happened. There’s no sensation more distinct, or worse, maybe, than being stuck—not the stuck-at-the-train-station-because-my-friend-forgot-to-pick-me-up stuck. The sticky kind of stuck.
The day before, I had arrived home to find evidence of two horrible pieces of information:
1. someone had been in my apartment.
2. my building has a rodent problem.
The evidence was four MouseCatcher sticky pads placed throughout my apartment, mostly in the kitchen and bathroom, and one mysterious black box with a hole in it, wedged between my refrigerator and cupboards, which I guessed was placed there for the same reason as the adhesive sheets. Other than a shudder that I might have to find these pads occupied some day, I didn’t yet think too much of these methods of rat-killing.
Sure enough, while rushing to grab a glass of water during a commercial break from "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" a day later, my bare foot made contact with one of these pads. After a moment of panic that I was going to lose a 3 x 4 rectangle of skin, I discovered that these things peeled off of human skin without too much trouble. “Hmm, I hope that mice stick better to these than I do!” I thought.
As I imagined some little mongrel immobilized on my kitchen floor, I began to realize what a horrible way to die this would be: starving to death, unable to understand why your feet just wouldn’t move from the floor, maybe with a corn flake just inches away. I feel panic and terror when I wake up with a numb arm, and I can explain that feeling. Suddenly this seemed the most inhumane way to kill a creature, albeit an unwanted roommate.
I reluctantly placed the sticky pad back under my sink, thinking how the old-school spring traps, a quick blow to the neck as you taste your last meal of cheese, were a much more humane option to intruding mice. “Yet,” I thought, slipping on flip-flops, “Not quite as humane to my toes.”
Monday, June 16, 2008
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Independence day
In high school, I had something of a reputation for being a feminist. Particularly clever students would subtly coax me into an angry soapbox rant and finally laugh, revealing their mocking intentions, once I had worked up a sweat. I would say things like, "I'll never get my ears pierced; why would I puncture my body for the sake of society's idea of beauty?" and "Mr. __, why didn't you ask any of the girls to help you carry those heavy textbooks?" I wanted a career and no kids, travel, cultured friends, and respect, maybe a husband, as an afterthought. I was so confident in my future and in my ideals.
I think 17-year old Allison would be a little disappointed in her future self. There's still plenty of that feminist-minded self in me--I still prickle at the phrase "career woman"--but the dream has changed, of course. I try to remember what I wanted to be when I was a teenager: was it a writer? a curator? an editor, maybe? What would "Alli" think of Allison-as-receptionist, I wonder. And what would she think of my paycheck, especially if we were to compare it with that of her boyfriend's, who made at least twice as much at his first real job. What a rude awakening to the feminist dream.
I can't really blame society. I could have been a software developer. But I wanted to "be whatever I wanted to be," that old promise of youth. I should have made up my mind that what I wanted to be was rich and successful and necessary in comtemporary America. America doesn't need any more writers or art museum staff, and they especially don't need inexperienced college graduates being whatever they want to be.
When my boyfriend takes me out to his friends' parties and weddings, I already feel myself morphing into the little housewife. His friends have learned not to ask me how work is, because they know I will look down awkwardly and murmur "it's fine," my cheeks burning because I don't have my career yet and I'm not really pursuing it and shouldn't I be ashamed of that?
So Alli has that to look forward to: learning that it is difficult to get her foot in the door, that networking is a necessary skill, that she's going to have to slave away for at least a few years before her dreams start coming true. Alli also needs to be aware that she will fall in love, which is 95% a wonderful thing.
Last week, with boyfriend out of town for work, I expressed my loneliness to my mom, who responded, "Yeah, when Dad and I lived in Ann Arbor [while Dad was working towards his PhD] I really didn't have any friends there. I remember feeling lonely, too." My sister went through this phase, as well. Seems like a lot of people deal with this I-have-a-boyfriend, I-can't-make-friends problem. What an unexpected feminist bump: social dependence on a man.
On day 4 of boyfriend withdrawal, I was so antsy I finally did something I didn't think I was brave enough to do: I went to a movie, on Friday night, by myself. Appropriately enough: Sex and the City, a flick I wasn't really dying to see, but I needed something fun to do. I thought I might be depressed by the sea of girlfriends surrounding me in the theater, but it was the opposite. I felt contented, at peace, happy to have found the courage to do something without a friend or boyfriend on my arm. It reminded me of that joy I discovered my year in Boston, taking a train by myself to a museum, or in Spain, er, also taking a train by myself to a museum. I love the freedom that having 20 dollars and a decisive mind can bring me. I'll make friends, eventually. Right now I'm enjoying my own company.
I think 17-year old Allison would be a little disappointed in her future self. There's still plenty of that feminist-minded self in me--I still prickle at the phrase "career woman"--but the dream has changed, of course. I try to remember what I wanted to be when I was a teenager: was it a writer? a curator? an editor, maybe? What would "Alli" think of Allison-as-receptionist, I wonder. And what would she think of my paycheck, especially if we were to compare it with that of her boyfriend's, who made at least twice as much at his first real job. What a rude awakening to the feminist dream.
I can't really blame society. I could have been a software developer. But I wanted to "be whatever I wanted to be," that old promise of youth. I should have made up my mind that what I wanted to be was rich and successful and necessary in comtemporary America. America doesn't need any more writers or art museum staff, and they especially don't need inexperienced college graduates being whatever they want to be.
When my boyfriend takes me out to his friends' parties and weddings, I already feel myself morphing into the little housewife. His friends have learned not to ask me how work is, because they know I will look down awkwardly and murmur "it's fine," my cheeks burning because I don't have my career yet and I'm not really pursuing it and shouldn't I be ashamed of that?
So Alli has that to look forward to: learning that it is difficult to get her foot in the door, that networking is a necessary skill, that she's going to have to slave away for at least a few years before her dreams start coming true. Alli also needs to be aware that she will fall in love, which is 95% a wonderful thing.
Last week, with boyfriend out of town for work, I expressed my loneliness to my mom, who responded, "Yeah, when Dad and I lived in Ann Arbor [while Dad was working towards his PhD] I really didn't have any friends there. I remember feeling lonely, too." My sister went through this phase, as well. Seems like a lot of people deal with this I-have-a-boyfriend, I-can't-make-friends problem. What an unexpected feminist bump: social dependence on a man.
On day 4 of boyfriend withdrawal, I was so antsy I finally did something I didn't think I was brave enough to do: I went to a movie, on Friday night, by myself. Appropriately enough: Sex and the City, a flick I wasn't really dying to see, but I needed something fun to do. I thought I might be depressed by the sea of girlfriends surrounding me in the theater, but it was the opposite. I felt contented, at peace, happy to have found the courage to do something without a friend or boyfriend on my arm. It reminded me of that joy I discovered my year in Boston, taking a train by myself to a museum, or in Spain, er, also taking a train by myself to a museum. I love the freedom that having 20 dollars and a decisive mind can bring me. I'll make friends, eventually. Right now I'm enjoying my own company.
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