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Zeigarnikfrustrationitis

If I could add the German suffix equivalent of “itis” to the end of that word, I would diagnose myself with that disease.  Zeigarnikfrustrationitis.   Reflecting on the last 20 or so years of my life as a self-feeding person, I don’t think I have ever eaten just one half of anything that was not either promptly consumed by someone else, whisked away by a freak gust of wind or otherwise removed from my grasp by some insurmountable force or nature or circumstance.  

Of course, being aware of my own inability to leave something edible uneaten does not stop me from performing the rituals of pretending like I couldn’t possibly eat the entire thing.  Portions are sliced down the middle, forks are set face down on lips of plates, “Fair game” offers are made, bowls are pushed a safe distance away, eyes are averted, lids are snapped on tupperware.  But these gestures are merely disingenuous prayers that a freak gust of wind will intervene and prevent me from acting on what I know is not a good idea.

But as God is witness to the desires of my naked soul, as long as there is a whiff of leftovers in the air, I am a ticking self-control time bomb.  Social, hygienic and practical norms are no match for Zeigarnikfrustrationitis.  The Five Second Rule Police have a long standing warrant for my arrest, as would the FDA if they only knew how flagrantly I disregard their expiry dates. Call it nature or nurture or an alien mutation, but somehow I inherited the disposition of someone born into postwar middle America (or prison, or a desert island).  No thing shall go to waste!  Modern abundance and common sense and public decency be damned!  

The difference is, this psychosis doesn't stem from a fear of scarcity -- (there's no real concern of going hungry), but rather fear of excess. There must never be too much of anything. I must do everything in my power to use up everything that is available to me, lest the earth overflow! The same obsession manifests itself in areas other than food. (For instance, foregoing a full night’s sleep for three weeks straight in order to attend every possible yoga class during the 21-day free trial. Or refusing to to buy a new rug when certainly there must be a perfectly good used one somewhere on Craigslist.)  

I always assumed I was a lone and creepy werewolf under the curse of the leftovers moon, but with the naming of Zeigarnikfrustrationitis, I wonder if there might be others out there somewhere. (Which, for the record, doesn't necessarily make it any less creepy.) In case any of you are reading this right now, I’ve written a list of symptoms that will help you determine if you too might be suffering from this same disease:

• You dig overripe bananas out of the trashcan and use them to bake flaxseed crackers for your roommates.  You make yourself sick eating the crackers that are too burned to share and then make yourself sicker eating the ones your roommates didn’t eat after they tried the first batch.
• You have a hard time hearing words being spoken to you by someone who is casually allowing the waiter to remove their half-eaten dinner plate from the table without asking for a to-go box.
• The thought of coming home to leftovers in the fridge triggers a noticeable increase in heart rate.  (In extreme cases, you may be more excited at the prospect of a styrofoam box containing day-old dimsum than you are about the Prospect with whom you ordered it at the restaurant the day before.)
• When considering Mexican leftovers: stale tortillas are repurposed as chips and soggy chips are repurposed as tortillas.
• Mold is a call for minor surgery, not a death sentence.
• Water and a microwave are to a crusty baguette what Jesus was to Lazarus.
• Watching a clean up crew clear banquet tables of untouched horderves causes you more distress than watching footage of the Amazon rainforest in flames.
• You have declined social invites on the night before going out of town because you’ve made a personal commitment to eat all the perishable things in your kitchen before you go.
• You have used the question: “Would you rather throw out an entire pizza or eat a sandwich out of the garbage?” as a litmus test when selecting potential roommates.

If you identify with any of the above, you’re not alone.  Please join my Zeigarnikfrustrationitis support group.  We will have a potluck.  I will bring banana flax crackers.

How does that make you feel?

I had a jam jar of whiskey in the side pouch of my backpack and I grimaced down two gulps as I walked up to the front door of the house on Buckland Crescent.  Deep breath, relax, you are fine, this is fine.  In her email, Rachel had instructed to “Ring the doorbell at 7:00 pm.” which I thought was oddly specific and a little mafioso.  She didn’t say, “Just to confirm, your appointment is at 7:00 pm.”  Or “In case you have trouble finding it, the bell is on the left.”  Instead, she wrote a sentence that could have been followed by “Come alone, no wires.”  

When I rang, I half expected her to peek out with shifty eyes from behind a chain-latched crack in the door and ask for a password.  So when she didn’t shake my hand, I was hardly phased.  She wore black knee-length shorts over black rose lace tights that tucked into black leather ankle boots adorned with muted tambourines of non-functional silver buckles.  

Her voice was mostly breath and the corners of her eyes winced in that Rene Zellweger smile-on-the-brink-of-tears sort of way.  “Katie?” she verified with a British staccato “t”.  

The first time you meet your therapist, are you supposed to be Dear Old Friend or Prospective Job Candidate?  I went for Shy Schoolgirl and averted my eyes once the handshake was apparently off the table. 

“This way,” she motioned to me from a safe and non-confrontational distance towards the staircase.  The room (her “office”?) had a Freudian chaise lounge, a headboard-less bed, a love seat, and two armchairs.  I attempted small talk about the weather as I off-loaded my backpack and scarf to the floor but it came out in the contrived tone of a girl complimenting the decor of a man’s apartment when he has invited her up at the end of a date.  “Love what you’ve done with the place… Cool refrigerator magnet…”  Word bubbles floating around the elephant in the room.  

When I sat down, Rachel uncrossed her legs, unclasped her fingers, and swooped her hands open like a modest chef presenting a row of horderves.  “So Katie,” in a throaty whisper, “why are you here?”

How this question caught me off guard I have no idea.  What else could she have possibly asked?

Me - Nervous laughter, darting glances, incoherent hand gestures.

Her - Forward lean, concerned and furrowed brow, active listening.  

Me - Suddenly very warm, taking off my jacket.  “Well I moved here a few months ago — not that that has anything to do with anything — but I’ve had some things on my mind — haha, obviously — but I guess I wasn’t sure if, well I suppose it’s all very subjective so…”

Her - Slow nods, empathetic pianissimo sighs.

Me - “I think I derive a lot of my self-worth from solving problems.”

Her - “And how does that make you feel?”  Not a drop of irony.

Me - “How does what make me feel?”

Her - “Deriving your self-worth from solving problems.”

To be honest, she was the cheapest option I’d seen.  And I don’t know what I expected.  Not even a £70/hour shrink possess a magic wand to organize the Picasso’s reinterpretation of a melted Dali clock that is the gear wheels of my brain.   Rachel was doing all anyone could do — that is, nod and wince.  Therapists don’t claim to be fixers, they are sounding boards.  They are treadmills that can, if one requires the assistance, guide mental steps in a forward motion.  But you still have to run.  

Of course I knew that.  But apparently I did not because every time Rachel repeated my sentences back to me in question form, I felt another ounce of despair plop down on my shoulders.   The dawning of the reality that you are the sole pilot of your psyche feels like a tide pushing your life-raft-for-one off to sea.  “You can only save yourself, Anakin.” (Or something like that.)  

“Time seems to be a recurring theme of concern for you.”  

“Yeah… I guess sometimes I can get sort of obsessed with saving time or trying to be super efficient…” 

“Ahh.  Hmm.  And,” her eyebrows arched as though she were connecting a web of profound discoveries, “here we are at the end of our time.”  Sad smile. 

Well played Rachel, well played.  She suggested that next week we do some more “unpacking” — her hands wound around each other like an open-palmed version of basketball referee calling Travel.   But she didn’t realize I was already adrift and her desert island shores were shrinking ever smaller on the horizon.   I’ll have to paddle my own raft from here Rachel!  Ahoy…!  

I paid in cash and saw myself down the two flights of stairs and out the front door, feeling a strong urge to do something uncharacteristic.  I wanted to commit a petty crime or buy something useless and overpriced, as if that would prove to myself that I am the master of my own destiny.  Four off-license shops and one stolen datefruit later, I ended up in a cottage pub that was completely empty except for a pair of hoodied Asians sitting next to an elderly woman playing smooth jazz from her personal speaker.  The woman was gradually increasing the volume until the bartender asked her to turn it off, to which she declared, rising dramatically from her seat to a rearing 4’11 stance, “Bloody hell!  They kiss in heaven too but they don’t talk about it!!”

So I suppose I could be crazier.

And I quote: “What level of wretched soul is so tortured as to not appreciate the great classics!! I shall speak to the governor in the morning!”

Sandwich

“‘Ello miss, where abouts ah you cumin’ from?” asked the cop. 

“London,” I said.

His eyes slowly veered to my bike and then back to me.  “On the M2?”

“Is this the M2?”

“Were you or were you not just cycling along the motorway?”

Up until that question, I thought this was a police-officer-rescues-damsel-in-distress situation.  

“I’m actually a little lost.”

“Where r’you frum miss?”

“California.”

“And are you allowed to cycle on the motorways in California?” Eyebrows arched. 

I blinked.  

“Or I suppose you’d call it a ‘highway’, wouldn’t you?”

I moved my head in sort of a shake/nod, not sure which rhetorical question I was supposed to be answering. 

By that point I had been riding for over seven hours.  I wanted to ask the cop, “Do you think I am here on purpose?  Do you think I intentionally came out here for the pleasure of tensing every muscle in my upper back so that I can keep my front wheel on the two inches of asphalt between the ribbed white stripe and the gravel shoulder while semi trucks blow by me at 90 miles an hour?”  But I was still half-heartedly hoping to convey more of the Damsel character than the Lawless Rebel, so I held my tongue. 

“And where exactly is it that you’re trying to go miss?”

“Sandwich.”

His eyes veered again, this time to the left as if to look for another person who I must have been speaking to.

“You fancy a sandwich?”

“Well…” How to explain? “I was going to have a sandwich in the town of Sandwich.”

He let out a short exhale through his nose, pulled his hands out from his pockets and clapped them together with a little rub, clearly bored of trying to extract any coherent sentences from me.  “Well that’s a whiz-bang bike you’ve got there but m’afraid you can’t ride it on this road any further.  They’ve got plenty of sandwiches in Canterbury just up the road there.  You can take the next exit.”

He didn’t understand.  I was on a mission.

While my friends and coworkers were planning trips to Paris and Rome and Barcelona for the three-day weekend, I had become fixated on the idea of a pilgrimage to the small town of Sandwich near the southeastern coast on England.  The trip had all the makings of my ideal holiday: biking, scenery and sandwiches.  This is the type of adventure I would dream up for any occasion, but there were two additional big motivations for this journey:

1. I just bought a new (to me) bike on Ebay.  A beautiful aluminum frame, carbon-fiber fork Peugeot road racer.

2.  Due to technical difficulties involving setting up payroll here in the UK, I had exactly £57.32 in my bank account.  Paris and Rome were thus nixed from the menu of options.

On Sunday morning, dawn and excitement woke me before my alarm had the chance to.  By 7:30 A.M. I was zooming through the sleepy streets of London, literally heading for the hills.  By 9:30 A.M. I was coasting along the sloping English countryside, literally singing in revelry of the sunshine and stone castles and wild berries and storybook bunnies hopping across grassy knolls.  Eiffel Tower be damned!  This was vacation.  

This is what happens when you take photos while biking.

Ms. Google Navigator (who, on my new phone, speaks in a British accent) had me zigging and zagging in an attempt to find supposedly “bike friendly” paths.  I ignored a few of her suggestions for seemingly obvious straight-forward routes until I passed a sign that said “LONDON” with an arrow pointing in the direction that I was riding.  (The operative word in the former sentence being “seemingly.”)

I dismounted and pulled my phone out to have a look.  After some pinching and zooming, I saw that I had basically gone in a 15 mile circle.   But I was not dismayed!  “It’s about the journey!” I told myself, taking in a 360 view of the fairytale landscape.  I noticed a farm cottage at the bend of the road and, in a brief moment of weakness, wondered if maybe I should just go have a sandwich there... But then I slapped myself and my navigator back to our senses and back on track to Sandwich.  It was also about the destination.  I vowed to obey all of Ms. GN's instructions, no matter how silly they seemed. 

But then I hit a dead end.  I pulled out my phone again and looked down at the screen to see the blue line going straight forward.  I looked back up ahead and, upon closer inspection of the gate blocking my path, noticed a single track dirt trail leading into a forrest.  The thought of riding my new Peugeot on a trail felt like setting an infant down on the floor of a night club.  But to turn back would mean potentially another 15 miles of backtracking and, by that point, of the three objectives of my trip, I felt I had satisfactorily checked the Scenery box and was eager to get on to the Sandwiches bit. 

The dirt path eventually lead to a paved road (Glory hallelujah!) which eventually lead to another dirt path (Damn it all to hell.).  There was a gas station at the juncture and I went inside to ask the cashier if she knew how long it would be before the trail was paved. 

“Couldn’t say for sure dear, but I reckon it’d likely be dirt the whole way, wouldn’t it?”

I still had over 40 miles to go.  It had been four hours since my breakfast of two granola bars.  My phone battery was in the red.  I was officially dismayed.  I perused the aisles of the gas station, contemplating what I needed to lift my spirits (for £3 or less).  Since moving to the UK, my go-to comfort food has been the prepackaged sandwiches that they sell in the 24-hour shops for £1.50.  On sad and rainy London nights, those little triangles taste like sweet processed escapism.   This gas station had them in all the classic varieties — pickle and ham, egg mayo, salmon and cream cheese, chicken and stuffing.  I took one from the refrigerated shelf and set it on the counter but then, with a sudden guilty jolt, turned around and put it back.  It just wouldn’t be right.  I would have a sandwich in Sandwich or no sandwich at all.  I bought another granola bar and got back on my bike.

That is how I ended up on the motorway.  Which is how I ended up being “redirected” to Canterbury.  Which is how I ended up taking a train the last 15 miles of my journey into Sandwich.  (Which, to be honest, I didn’t mind because by that point I felt I had satisfactorily checked the Scenery and the Biking boxes and was absolutely desperate for a sandwich.)

When I first set out, I envisioned making it to Sandwich and taking a selfie biting into a sandwich in front of the town sign.  Facebook.  Instagram.  All the filters. Hashtag #epicfoodpuns.  But by the time my black pudding and mango chutney sandwich arrived within reaching distance of my paws, it was a miracle that I managed to take any photos at all. 

Literally shaking with excitement for the sandwich

 I only wish I had hidden camera footage of drop-jawed faces in the room, watching aghast at the human-esque wolf in the corner of the pub devouring the entire massive sandwich in less than three minutes.  Sandwich supposedly has a population of 4,985 (I suspect it’s closer to 498), so I would not be surprised if the tale of my anonymous arrival, bestial behavior and mysterious disappearance is evolving into an urban legend this very moment. 

From Sandwich, I made my way to Walmer — a manure-scented town a few miles south — where I couch surfed with the two loveliest humans in all of Britain: Frank, the former architect and Lynn, the firecracker empty-nester.  The pair of them ushered me and my accompanying cloud of dust into their home and immediately started fussing over me to have a shower, a hot tea, a biscuit, a glass of wine, a bowl of soup and a bagel with plenty of protein on top.  (It had been over an hour since the wolf incident so I was ready for dinner #2.)

“I just cannot believe you’ve come all the way from London on a push bike!  To think if my Lucy ever did something like that I would die of a heart attack!  Have you called your mother and told her you’re alright?”  Once I was suitably warmed and fattened up, Lynn and I discussed antioxidants the health benefits of hydrogen peroxide, Frank chiming in timidly from behind his crossword with witty asides.   By the time I tucked myself in to bed under the sound of seaside rain on the rooftop, all the SNAFUs of the journey had been long forgotten.

The "couch" I surfed.

I had thought I would ride down the coast on Monday, but it was pouring down rain and Lynn had TiVo-ed a program called "Blueberries - A Superfood?" so I opted to spend the day in Walmer.

At a cafe in Dover with Frank and Lynn.

That evening, after Lynn had saddled me with a travel bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a hand-sewn pillow of lavender and a small bag of dates, I road my bike to the station and took the train back to London.

The Rebound

I recently went through a breakup.  With my running club.  We had a good thing going — weekly track workouts followed by cheap beer, weekend getaway long runs in the mountains, the occasional karaoke night, long walks on the beach at sunset…  West Valley TC wasn’t just the track club next door.  We had something really special.  

My first days in London were spent running alone through busy city parks, listening to 90s playlists on shuffle, wondering what workout my teammates were doing that day and imagining them drinking $2 Tecates at the Mucky Duck without me. 

But a girl can only wallow in heartache for so long.  After about a week, I did what any modern lady would do when she’s on the rebound — I went to the internet.  Single White Female seeks Co-Ed Runners.  Must love trails, intervals workouts and beer.  Not that I was desperate, but the first search result of “Running club London” showed a workout posted for that Tuesday and I looked no further.   I left work early and went straight to the track.  

I saw spandex.  I saw IT bands being stretched and heavier trainers being switched out for lighter ones.  I saw two ponytailed women jogging clockwise in lane six and I let gravity take care of the rest.  Once I was in their orbit, things moved fast.  We did 800 meter repeats together with the rest of the team, we started talking about the weekly workout schedule and, before I knew it, we were talking about upcoming races and how I might fit into the team scoring.   And then the clothes came off (at a swimming pond after the workout).  I was a goner.  Head over heels.  I started imagining our future together, dawning their jersey, maybe we would even sing karaoke together one day.  

In the changing room, one of the women named Emma found a ribbon with their team colors.

“Look!” she said, and handed it to me.  “It’s a sign.”  It was meant to be.  I whistled the entire bike ride home, giddy and infatuated.  I emailed Emma as soon as I got back with all of my contact details, multiple exclamation marks and a smiley face.  Read: We are going to be best friends forever.  

I met them again on Sunday morning for the long run.   Our reunion was not quite as magical as I had hoped.  No one seemed particularly excited to see me — at least not as excited as I was to see them.  The group started running without acknowledging my presence at all and I tagged along, a little puppy trying to jump up into any conversation where I could sniff event a whiff of relatability.  

“Oh, you’re running the 1500 this weekend?  One of my old teammates was a really fast 1500 meter runner…”

Something had changed.  Where was the spark?  Was it something I said?  All my enthusiasm bubbles slowly fizzled into self-conscious foam and then simmered into an acidic judgementalism.  Suddenly everything they said sounded preposterous and notedly non-funny.  Who cares about your track times from three years ago?  Also, why isn’t anyone taking their shirts off?  It’s totally sports bra weather!  You call this a long run?  We’ve only gone eight miles!  You call this hilly?  That was a knoll.

And just like that, the flame was snuffed just as quickly as it had been ignited.  

Back to the internet.  The following Tuesday, a rival team had a workout on a different track.  I emailed Emma and said I would be working late so I wouldn’t be able to make it.  The new team ran 600 meter repeats and after the workout, they stretched!  Then they did a core strength routine!   I was head over heels all over again.  Just as I was giddily whistling my way out of the track to go home, one of the girls called out to me, “Hey! We’re going to the pub if you fancy!”  Hook.  Line.  Sinker.

The new team had a long run on Wednesday.  I counted down the hours at work until 6:00pm.  When I left the office, I opened my gym bag and my heart sank — I had forgotten my shoes.  I couldn’t go to practice without shoes.  But I couldn’t not go to practice.  That would be like a guy saying he had to bail on a second date because he forgot his wallet.  It would send all the wrong signals.   

So, despite the fact that the last time I was in Europe I was suckered into buying, not one, but two pairs of over-priced running shoes, and despite the fact that I purchased not one, not two, but three pairs of hideous lime green Sauconys for the sole purpose of avoiding having to buy shoes in the UK, and despite the fact that I have never been capable of deciding on a new pair of running shoes without at least four hours of due diligence research, on that Wednesday, I went straight to the Asics store, walked in the door, and bought the first pair of size 7.5 lightweight trainers that I saw on clearance.  The things we do for love…

The long run was just over 10 miles and included three decent hills.  I had several pleasant conversations with men and women in the group and I couldn’t help but notice certain promising signal words: “half marathon,” “hill sessions”, “relays”, “cross country nationals.”  This must be The One. 

About six miles in, coasting down a remote section of single track trails, two girls appeared out of no where and came flying past our group.   I looked up as they passed to see the unmistakable swinging ponytail of Emma and the other girl from the first team.  In a city of over a dozen parks and more than 150 miles of trails, what are the chances?   My faced flushed with cheater’s blush.  Had they seen me?  If so, why didn’t they say anything?  Were they spurned? Was the sprint pass supposed to be a counter slap in the face?

I saw them from afar a few more times that evening, always ducking behind trees and hiding my face in water fountains to avoid the it's-not-you-it's-me conversation.

After we finished the long run (and I managed to successfully dodge the awkward bullet with Emma), I went to the pub again with the new team. There was no Tecate and most certainly nothing available for £2.   There were no hops in the beer either but there was enough dry British sarcasm to make up for the lack of bitterness in my ale, so I was satisfied.  There’s no ring on my finger but I think I’m in for the long haul. 

The Rug

I have a knack for using my body and bike in the way that ants use their exoskeletons to transport oversized and complexly-shaped items for nest-making.

This is because I nest-build almost exclusively with nest items that I find on Craigslist.  (Or, here in London, Craigslist + Gumtree + Streetbank.)

I simply cannot bring myself to pay full price for a brand new nest item when I can feel in my heart (and see online) that somewhere out there (within biking distance) there is someone who is desperate to get rid of precisely the thing that I need.  It is a closed loop of supply and demand that is more satisfying than the sound of a lid snapping on a tupperware that is just the right size for your leftovers. Or at least equally satisfying.  

It's not even a question of budget anymore.  If I totaled all the time spent searching, contacting, coordinating, haggling, and address-hunting with Craigslisters, it would easily be triple the amount of hours I would need to work for any internet Ponzi scheme in order to make up for the 10% I’m saving by not getting all my housewares delivered directly from IKEA.   But the thought of perfectly functional lamps and picture frames and full-length mirrors being mercilessly condemned to landfills keeps me up at night.  (Unless I have my eye mask, in which case I am out like a light.)

Yesterday, I wanted a rug.  As destiny would have it, yesterday, Craigslister Olga of Miles End, London, wanted to get rid of her rug.  A triumphant horn sounded in the heavens.  

I finished my run at 11:30am and I had plans to meet a friend at 2:00pm and Miles End, according to Google, was only 41 minutes away.  Cue: triumphant horn #2.

The full celestial chorus broke out in song when, at the exact moment I realized that I was starving upon arrival to Olga’s house, I saw that she lived above a supermarket which, not only had a convenient ATM out front, but also sold delicious* prepackaged egg sandwiches for £1.  All the stars were aligning; this day had surely been blessed.

(*Actual level of deliciousness may have been influenced by extreme levels of hunger.)

Olga was not, of course, a serial murderer.  (Seriously people, that happened like one time, can we please stop being paranoid about it?)  She, of course, had the rug.  She said, “Here you go.”  I said, “Thank you.”  And, when she stood in the doorway looking from my bike helmet to the five-foot rug and then back at my bike helmet, I said, “This might take a minute.  You don’t have to watch.”

And Olga closed the door.

At my disposal:

• 1 drawstring bag
• 1 extra shoelace
• 1 mini carabiner
• 1 jacket
• Set of keys on a keyring
• 1 crumpled egg sandwich box

There are a few important factors to bear in mind when Ant Hauling. (These factors, by the way, I do not claim to have deduced from reason, but have learned from firsthand personal experiences involving lamp shades, wine cases and shelving units.):

• Object must not obstruct vision or cause the helmet to tilt in a way that might obstruct vision
• Object must be situated in a position narrow enough to fit in between cars when lane-splitting
• Object must not sway weight in any direction enough to cause loss of balance
• Attachment of object must not restrict airflow around the neck

On my way home, I cast sideways prideful glances to cars and fellow bikers, keeping my ears piqued for a pedestrian to exclaim from the sidewalk, “Wow! Look out that girl hauling that rug!  How did she manage to attach it to herself so efficiently?”

Yes, I took a selfie while biking with a rug and listening to Google navigator give directions.
No, I was not able to capture the full complexity of the strapping arrangement.  

If the passerbys weren't expressing their awe, I still heard the angel choir singing of my heroism all the way down Miles End road until, at one point, I started to feel a strange sensation in my right thumb.  Or rather, I noticed that I wasn’t feeling any sensation in my thumb.  I shook my hand floppy and managed to summon a few tingles, but before that I hadn’t realized how much the drawstring was pressing on my right shoulder.  

A couple minutes later, the only sound to be heard was the voice I often equate with the voice of God -- Mrs. Google Maps Navigator.

“Continue straight on CANNON ROAD for a half mile, then turn left.”

The numbness had spread throughout my right hand which I was giving the floppy shake out at every safe opportunity (although this did not seem to be increasing blood flow much).  

“Turn left.  Then, turn left.”

That doesn’t make sense lady, there is no left here.

“Continue on to WHITECHAPEL.  Then, Make - a - you - turn.”

No, I’m not doing that.

“GPS signal lost.”

Marvelous.

When the tingling rose all the way to my right bicep, I wondered if I should pull over.  But I carried on, flopping my entire arm out to the side, no longer concerned about what the general public must think of the girl with a massive rug strapped to her back, making U-turns on her bike while performing a one-sided Flapping Funky Chicken dance.

At long last (maybe ten minutes), as if illuminated by a divine sunbeam, I saw The Drunken Monkey -- a dim sum restaurant I recognized! I was close to my house! The clouds opened to the resounding trumpets once again, playing a version of Handel's Messiah with the words changed to "Drunken Monkey! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"   Another ten minutes later and me, my rug and my dangling corpse arm rolled up to the front of my apartment building. I lifted the weight of the rug with my left hand from behind to ease the burden on my right shoulder and the joyous circulation flowed in all it's excruciatingly tingly warmth.

Tonight I will sleep soundly (with or without my eye mask), next to my rescued rug, dreaming of the hair dryers and curtains I might save from garbage damnation tomorrow.

London Week 1

Moving to another country is sort of like drowning.  Your initial reaction is to panic and start thrashing everywhere in wild hope of grasping some line of control.  There are duvet covers to buy and closets to organize and things to plug into things that plug into funny shaped outlets and not nearly enough seconds in a day to catch a breath in between.  But at some point there is sweet surrender.  The thrashing stops and suddenly you realize that, if you breathe slowly, you will float.  Not only are you not dying, but you are just fine.  Turns out the current flows on whether or not you are accomplishing all the things you supposedly absolutely needed to do.  

So, despite the fact that I still don’t have a proper bank account or a proper phone or my own towel or tube of toothpaste, I can still say that I’ve done all the things the universe needed me to do during my first week in London.  Not the least of which is learning to speak British by using words like “proper” in common sentences.  I also incorporate phrases like “lorry load” and “by dint of” when I can.   And, obviously, I say “cheers” at every possible occasion.

I learned that gurchins are pickles and pickle is chutney and a marrow is a giant courgette which is not, by the way, an eggplant.  I have no idea what piccalilli is but it is delicious and something like a chutney spread.  I have no idea what marmite is but it is disgusting and also some sort of spreadable paste.   Jellied eel is not a British term for for another kind of chutney -- it is literally eel that has been jellied.  And it is delicious.

                             

Eel with Vinegar

Aaron and Charlie are females, Sasha and Shannon are males.  
“To Let” is “For Rent”, not to be confused with a public restroom sign that’s missing a letter.

San Francisco Toilet

London To Let

I believe a “stupid cow” (pronounced “shtewpid cow”) is either someone who is still in the crosswalk when the light turns red or potentially another way of saying “blonde American girl carrying a giant box across the street and blocking the way of a cab driver who is in a hurry.”  It was difficult to tell from the context.

I got lost on average 100% of the times I stepped foot out the door, which is pretty impressive for someone with a GPS-enabled device.  I conducted a PhD level research investigation comparing stock, quality and prices of several local grocery marts.  And, even with the little “you’re drowning!” voice in my ear buzzing about emails and hours of sleep, I managed to watch every World Cup game, spectate a cross-country meet, drink at least two dozen different British beers (of which four were actually decent!) and play a little guitar/ukulele.

I’ll get around to the rest eventually...  

Farewells

“Dude.  Where the heck are you?”

No reply.

It was 5:05pm and my boss promised that our meeting would start at 5:00pm sharp and last no longer than five minutes.  He said it was urgent. 

But I knew it could not possibly be more urgent than the reason I was in a rush to leave: it was my last track practice before my move to London (where there is no such thing as track practice with post-workout $2 Tecates).  I’ve compared Tuesday track practice to Sunday mass and I would have a hard time disputing anyone who might accuse me of having a cultish obsession with going.  My teammates are my brethren and Tuesday was my last chance to say goodbye.  Explaining to my boss why I needed to go to practice would have been like a toddler explaining to an adult why he needs to sleep with his binky.  It’s just mine and I love it and you’ll never understand.  So I didn’t mention practice but I had made it clear that I needed to leave for an extremely important appointment. 

While he blathered on about the key differences in US vs EMEA markets and other notedly un-urgent nonsense, I was not-so-subtly packing up my things from the conference room and mentally mapping out possible shortcuts I could take on my bike route to the track.  He was still talking when I actually walked out of the conference room, nodding in agreement to what I hoped were his concluding remarks and thinking, I can take the sidewalk up 3rd street, cut over at Harrison and —

“SURPRISE!!”

iPhone cameras.  Applause.  A giant “Bon Voyage!” banner.  A full catered banquet of tacos.  Thirty Ta-da! faces beaming at me.

Before I could even make the palm-on-heart “You really shouldn’t have” gesture, I was being presented with presents and a card signed by all of my coworkers.

“Speech!  Speech!  Speech!” They gleamed. 

My palm instead went straight to my forehead for the “Oh sh*t” gesture and I smiled the squinty-eyed guilt grin of a child unwrapping a book from his grandma for Christmas.  “Wow, this is so nice… But the thing is… I’ve gotta go…”

“We know!  That’s why we’re here!  We’ll miss you!”  They glowed. 

“No, what I mean is… I actually have to leave right now…”  They dimmed.  I cooked in the simmering awkwardness of the collective confusion and disappointment for a few minutes and even managed to eat half a taco and say a few thank you's.  Then, while everyone was sufficiently distracted piling food on their plates, I slipped out through the hallway.

The thing about moving is that it is an inherently unbalanced event.  A person is expected to take the world they have built up, one piece at a time, over months and years and then deconstruct the entire thing in a matter of days.  Collateral damage is inevitable.  You spend the few pre-departure weeks floating between procrastination and denial, telling yourself it’s more important to enjoy your last days with the people you love than to waste precious time fretting about the logistics of canceling Comcast subscriptions and fitting sentimentally valuable coffee mugs into your duffle bag.  

And then suddenly you have 72 hours before you leave the country and there are still three cabinets full of old mason jars.  

I got back from practice on Tuesday night with a nice $2 Tecate buzz and started doing the math.  I could fit maximum 10 jars in my backpack.  Once I factored in the miscellaneous pots, plants, fishbowls and other sundries that had -- at some unknown moment in the past two years -- furtively sidled into my ownership below my radar, I had a at least 15 backpack loads of stuff to get rid of.  The donation center was only a few blocks away but 15 round-trips would take at least an hour and the center closed at 7:00pm.  Fantasies of arson began to play in my mind’s eye.  Just as I was cackling at the thought of my laundry purgatory lamp shade going up in flames, another idea came to me.  And by 6:45pm the following night, my apartment was essentially empty.

I have three websites to thank for this spring cleaning miracle: Pinterest, Craigslist and Songza.  I thank Pinterest for making masons jars 2014’s trendiest dish.  I thank Craigslist for the creation of the “Free stuff” category.  And I thank Songza, for providing the bumpin’ “Moving Out” soundtrack that I played while enjoying a cold beer and a bowl of popcorn, watching dozens of thrilled strangers raid my trash for treasures.

They came in droves.  Little Asian ladies packed roller suitcases to the brim with spices, half empty bottles of olive oil, and mini cans of ginger ale that I never got around to using to make whisky-gingers.  The hipsters didn’t care that the mason jars still had polenta and Craisins in them — they gladly shoved them into their burlap backpacks, along with with my yoga mat and foam roller and crusty paint brushes.  I made everyone who found something they liked also take something they didn’t like (e.g. the printer, the paperback books, the leather boots) and, like a picnic attacked by an ant swarm, the only thing left after they all scuttled away were some pickles and a few plastic bags. 

At one point, I had ambitions of hosting a send-off party for myself on the 4th of July.  But when I no longer had any dishes or paper towels or ginger ale to mix with the whiskey (which I later realized had also been snagged in the raid without me noticing), the prospect of throwing a party felt unreasonably complicated.  And the prospect of generating any more trash on this earth felt downright sinful.  

So instead I opted to skip town on my last day and go spend quality friend and family time in Marin.  No to-do lists, no errands, no cleaning, no stress-eating raw tortillas from the fridge while rearranging contents of suitcases.  Just bikes and trails and dogs and wine and drunk-eating Ben and Jerry's Milk and Cookies straight from the tub.  

I saved the trip to Comcast for the 11th hour, expecting the worst.  It was, as predicted, the worst.  (The story is not even worth telling, but I’ll share the photos of the good bill-paying citizens of San Francisco, commiserating in our mutual loathing for this country’s scummiest company.)

At 2:30pm, I closed the gate on Sumner street for the last time and attempted to inhale all the air of home, like I could somehow vacuum pack my deconstructed world into my chest so I wouldn’t have to leave it behind.  But, just like my red hoodie and my trombazoo and my stuffed E.T. wouldn’t fit in my suitcase, the breath was overfilling my lungs.  I exhaled.  Then I got in the car and drove away.