Wednesday, November 17, 2010

My New Address

I was sitting on my porch this evening, imbibing the crisp fall air as my dinner digested, when I received a call from a 216 number. Some people screen their calls, and I think this is a bit pretentious, unless you are running from creditors, bookies, or the cops. Personally, I love the excitement of not knowing who is on the other end. Perhaps it is a long lost friend whose number had been erased throughout numerous phone changes or that random guy to whom I accidentally gave my number after a few drinks. Whoever it is, if they are calling, they deserve to talk to me. I answered, only to be met with the voice of a young college student requesting I give money to the John Carroll Blue and Gold Club... and that is why people screen their calls. Although not prevalent to my story, I did get suckered into donating money; I also requested that my money be funneled toward the tennis team fund, which, with the addition of my twenty five dollars, would probably increase two-fold.

The young gentleman informed me of his position and went on to ask for my information. Was I still residing at 12444 Woodin Road? (Although he did not use the word residing, as it has three syllables and is too robust for a freshman at John Carroll.) No, I was not. Giving him my new address, I recited the only other address I have ever verbalized, 4193 Wyncote Road, that small college street that once made the news for its exorbitant number of robberies. But no, that was not my address, either.

Earlier this week, I was visited by a dear friend from home. It was refreshing to see a familiar face and rewarding to reveal a glimpse of my new life to someone so close to me. It was also bizarre. As I rambled about my job, roommates, and miscellaneous Charlottesville adventures, I realized that he was no longer a part of these stories. Beyond that, no one was. Those whose company I have always cherished, and always will cherish, have become part of my past. They will, of course, be part of my future as well, but this particular adventure is one all of my own.

Perhaps it is because the holidays are quickly approaching, but I have been thinking about going back to Cleveland recently. I am very excited, and it will be wonderful to enjoy the company of friends and family. I will go out for dinner or a drink and it will be as if no time has passed. I will go to Grandma's on Thanksgiving and fight over who gets the turkey skin and inevitably eat way too much, no matter the pep talk I give my stomach beforehand. We will sit at home and watch hours of football, possibly breaking out the classic Navatsyk home videos. I will hug Caleb and Briella and hope that my absence has only made their hearts grow fonder, although I fear this adage only applies after a certain age. However, when I pull into 12444 Woodin Road, I will not be entering the driveway of my home. My home is 983 Pintail Lane. Honestly, I would not have it any other way.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Post-graduate Intramurals

I was told by a former student that the University of Virginia was ranked the "most active university" in America. I often wonder how these rankings are calculated, as the process seems a bit arbitrary. I would like to note that John Carroll University holds a ranking of similar prestige: it is the number one binge drinking Jesuit school in the nation. I decided to research these rankings the most reliable way, Wikipedia. Indeed, "In 2005, the University was named "Hottest for Fitness" by Newsweek magazine, due in part to 94% of its students using one of the four indoor athletics facilities." There you have it; what Wikipedia states cannot be denied.

Facts and rankings aside, I have discovered the wonders of Charlottesville sports, what I consider the equivalent of intramurals for professionals. My immersion began with softball, on a day when the RKG team was a woman short. After committing to play, I realized that not only did I have no glove, I had never thrown a softball in my life. I know what you are thinking. Anna, you are an athlete; I see you walking toward me and sometimes cower from sheer intimidation. True, I may have the thighs of a collegiate middle linebacker and a list of weight room stalkers who could attest to my work out habits; however, my hand eye coordination has yet to be tested.

I arrived at the field, and being my first game, I was relegated to catcher, where all you have to do is lob the ball back to the pitcher; even if a play at the plate should occur, the male pitcher will cover. While catching is not an integral part of slow pitch softball, I would argue that you are involved more than most. I think I played my roll well; I even yelled, "balls in, coming down." Of course, there were no balls in the field at this point, but I have always wanted to say that. I made conversation with the batters, and at one point, our pitcher asked me if I was going to get the umpires number- yes, he was sixty years old, but something about old men just makes me want to talk.

Perhaps defense is not my forte; my Manny Ramirez-esque career would have to manifest itself at the plate. I grabbed the aluminum bat, assuming that I could step to the plate, harken the intimate knowledge of hitting I had gathered from years of listening to my father yell at his little league team, and hit a homerun. If there is one aspect of baseball I understand, it is rotating the hips. The pitcher wound his arm and the ball floated toward the plate; I believe I was a bit overzealous and did not wait for my pitch- although I am not quite sure what my pitch is. I did make contact; however, the ball barely dribbled to second base, and it was an easy out. The next at-bat, I made solid contact, but the shot went directly to the pitcher. Now I can sympathize with my brother who seems to hit the ball well, but to someone. Why are the fielders out there, anyways?

Clearly, the aluminum was not working; it was time to mix it up. Not realizing the physics that go into manufacturing bats, I picked up a wood bat, thinking that it could be my charm. This was met by an outcry of protest from my bench: "Anna, you do not have to use the wooden bat, you're a girl." Well, I was about to prove the sexism of slow pitch softball wrong; my co-workers had yet to see the capability of these thighs. I took a deep breath, reminding myself to keep my eyes open as the ball crossed the plate, turned on it, and swung. Indeed, the ball dropped into short center field, and I arrived safely at first base.

This was both the beginning and end of my illustrious intramural slow pitch softball career, at least for now. Perhaps feeling the pressure of sexist stigmas, I reverted to the aluminum bat; I ended the two game season 1-6, a .176 batting average. Solace can be found in the fact that even the best hitters in the major leagues only convert 30% of the time; in this light, I am comparable. Further, it is safe to say I was the first girl to record a hit with a wooden bat on a Wednesday night when the temperature was between fifty and sixty degrees and there were sixteen clouds in the sky. Yes, like all athletes, I am in possession of a record.

My next athletic endeavor was flag football. Now, I can throw a football; in fact, I can throw a football pretty well, with a beautiful sideways spiral. Unfortunately, since the ball only goes ten feet, I am of no use at quarterback. Defensively, I have one major problem- the flag. Yes, I can catch someone; I can even beat them in a foot race. However, pulling the flag is a different story. I will blame this on my eyesight that is less than crisp, therefore, inhibiting a clear vision of that yellow flag whipping in the wind. Obviously, I could remedy this through contacts or glasses, but here lies another problem. I failed to reorder contacts three months ago, and have yet to muster the will to pay sixty dollars for sight. Glasses are a logical alternative, but since I currently have a zit the size of a small mountain where the bridge lies, I would like to avoid any potential build up of sweat. So my laziness, cheapness, and vanity all put me in a position where I am grabbing like a pathetic puppy jumping for cheese, napkins, or any such table scraps; inevitably, I fall to the ground as my opponent sprints away gracefully. I then find myself chatting with the ref about the injustices of the college football bowl system as slants and routes are run around me. At the end of the game, I became distracted discussing Ohio State football and missed our team's love and happiness cheer. I really like love and happiness, too, and what if I just missed my opportunity to attain it?

My favorite aspect of sports is one can always derive a lesson, and I do believe intramural sports taught me a bit more about myself. When someone is less than two feet away from me, I feel compelled to engage in conversation, no matter the circumstance. This is why my best success comes in a sport where the opponent is barely within shouting distance. I think I will stick to tennis with the elderly. Plus, there are plenty of men over sixty I can talk to after the match.

Monday, November 1, 2010

My Soul Mate

Vulnerability is a common human experience. I consent that conquering the fear of vulnerability is rewarding; however, it remains my least favorite human experience, next to death and my yearly trip to the dentist. Throughout my life, there have been many instances of inadvertent vulnerability; generally speaking, my pride suffers little due to embarrassment, harassment, humiliation, and the like.

However, in relationships, I do not often choose to make myself vulnerable. I may have an uncanny imbalance between hopeless romanticism and cynical skepticism. There are numerous theories that have been developed about why this is so after two bottles of wine and a bag of Redvines; these range from fear of failing, to fear of commitment, to fear of rodents and winged creatures. Suffice it to say, I remain aloof.

This weekend, I am proud to say, I took a small step toward putting oneself out there, although I will never be certain where "there" is. Perhaps it is the infinite abyss described in Garden State, or perhaps it lives in the common, mundane situations of every day life. Laying such musings aside, and accepting that "there" can be frightening, to really understand the story, we must begin with my notions of soul mates. I do not hold there is one person for all, or that destiny binds two people for eternity, but I do like to believe in soul mates. I have yet to form a concrete definition, but I enjoy Elizabeth Gilbert's opinion that, "Soul mates come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave." She of course goes on to elaborately expound on the challenges of living with soul mates, but for personal purposes, this definition will do. There are a few people I consider soul mates, ones with whom my relationship has lasted years, and others who have walked in and out before a true relationship can be formed; all have impacted me.

How did I meet this particular soul mate? Fret not, it was not some ridiculous way such as listening to his coffee order. I heard him singing. Laying aside the fact that I could instantly fall in love with anyone who shares my affinity for mumbling songs in public places, he happened to be singing the Scientist, by Coldplay. If you have not heard the Scientist, it is a moving song and the reason I began listening to the band a year ago. You may be surprised that I just started listening to Coldplay a year ago, but one must keep in mind that my tastes in music are roughly eight years outdated. Although it could appear obvious as to why this makes him my soul mate, for inquiring minds, I will explain. Again, I fear the explanation has very little depth; I had been raving about the song the day before, and it is one of my all time favorite songs (along with Wyclef Jean's "Staying Alive" and Leona Lewis' "Bleeding Love"). Anna, meet soul mate.

I realize this story is romanticized; it is entirely probable that I simply formed this crush for motivation to blow dry my hair in the morning. The details of the relationship can be spared, because they are few and far between. There were smiles exchanged, witty comments and emails passed, even a beer toasted. Unfortunately, as is the case with most crushes, it was not to last. As quickly as he appeared, sporting his worn hat, a sweet smile, and a boisterous laugh whose gusto was matched only by my own, he was leaving. Yet, his departure meant we would grow a bit closer, as I was receiving his responsibilities. This was the classic worker/trainer relationship with a Navatsyk twist, meaning that I asked the most inane questions imaginable and prayed a smile could redeem me. I do not know if the smile worked its magic, but when our time drew to a close, he was gracious enough to say that I was the most active/interested trainee- although that does not mean I was not also the least competent.

Whatever his opinions, I wanted to see him before he left. Not to confess my love or to tell him I wanted to follow him as Ruth did Naomi, or even to suggest we try a Drew Barrymore/Josh Long and "go the distance." I just wanted to see him. And here, before me, stood my Goliath. If I did want to see him, I would have to put forth an effort, pick up the phone, and call. At this point, I will resist the urge to digress into a pontification regarding the break down of human communication caused by the onslaught of technology. Regardless, after a motivational speech and a shot- don't judge me, I ignored the butterflies and called. Thankfully, I received the answering machine and left a thoughtful, witty message (that I had recited to myself about one hundred times in preparation).

Now, it was out of my hands. Whatever the response, I had made myself vulnerable, something that had not been done in a very long time; it felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulder.

That very weight returned the next day, when I saw that I had received a voice mail. Silly, perhaps, but I am quite sure that everyone has moments in which they are anticipating rejection, no matter how slight and insignificant, and they are never pleasant. Instead of avoiding the message for three days until he was gone (which I seriously considered), I took a deep breath, listened to the preceding messages regarding my absence at the weekly AARP tennis match, the necessity of Drano in our shower, and the message from my last date (which, interestingly enough, made me swear off dating for the near future). Would the anticipated message ever come? This is why you do not let your voice mail fill. Five messages later, I heard his voice. He was busy this week. Shoot. But wait... he could eat dinner tonight. He accepted my invitation.

We went to dinner, and it was lovely. I ordered ribs, which are risky enough when you have napkins and utensils, but the lack thereof makes it much more adventurous. We discussed boxes and moving, shoes, zombies, sports. When the waitress came with the ticket, I did reach for my wallet out of obligation, but when he offered to pay, I did not protest too emphatically. He walked me to my car, we wished each other the best of luck, realizing that interstate mingling is not very practical, and hugged.

I think I will resume my dating hiatus, and my work wardrobe may digress from a t-shirt and blow-dried hair to a t-shirt and ponytail. Will our paths cross again? Perhaps. I hope they do; I will then buy him the dinner I promised. Presently, I am happy with the reward of embracing vulnerability, if only slightly. Unknowingly, he revealed another layer of myself, and for that, I am grateful.