Oh, I was born to live without you...
But, I'm never going to understand,
never understand- Vampire Weekend, Everlasting Arms
-+-
While I haven't been updating as frequently on Xanga lately, I've actually successfully become better at updating a couple of my other social media venues. For example, you can check out my Twitter if you long for even more updates on Christa's life!
-+-
I am at a good place in life. I can tell myself that I'm no longer a fragile person -- whether or not that's actually true, I don't know. However, I know exactly how brittle I used to be, and I'm not that girl anymore. That's for sure. And that's a relief.
I do, however, share in my fragile moments. Today was a fragile moment. Not for any spectacular reason -- I was just sleep-deprived. Maybe hormones, too. Stressed by expectations and failures. By disappointment. In any case, whatever it was, the cumulative discomfort was to the point that I was vulnerable. Susceptible to emotion. My boss gave me the usual lecture, that I usually face with my chin up. Today, I was too exhausted. I was getting upset. I felt my eyes wanting to well up, but I fought those tears like a motherfucker. What is happening? I am not this fragile. But I often lack self-awareness. My body knew, even if my mind tried to deny it.
I am not this fragile. But this moment definitely was.
In my fragility, there was a ghost that came back to haunt me. A moment that came back to bother me. Today, it managed to affect me so much that I was upset as I pipetted my qPCR.
(Note to self: I suppose I do tend to cry more when I'm sleepy!)
My frustration is directed towards one person, but I don't think it is worth communicating it directly to him. I honestly don't know if he would understand. So instead, I'll attempt to get it off my shoulders to the world, to no one in particular.
In the past year, there have certainly been moments where words and actions have hurt me. Yet, although it happened almost a year ago, there is one surprising, specific exchange that bothers me to this day. One that freshly offends me and hurts me each time that I think of it. I never would have anticipated it at the time, how it would still bother me months afterwards.
At face value (or even deeper than that to anyone other than myself) it's actually really dumb and minor, and maybe shouldn't bother me so much. But it does, and that's the reality of it.
First, I'll share what the dialogue was:
It was May of last year. I handed him a button from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I explained, "The entire time I was at the Met, I spent a lot of time staring at the floor, looking for admission buttons that people dropped so that I could collect them all."
"Oh," he smirked, "so you're giving me trash that you found on the floor?"
I felt my stomach sink with personal offense. I elaborated, "No, I went to the Met specifically because of these buttons. They didn't have them at the gift shop -- I looked everywhere -- when I realized I could find them randomly when other people lost them..."
He reiterated, clearly feeling witty in his sarcasm, "Then you're just giving me a hand-me-down!"
Every time I come across Met buttons that I found during that trip, I now think of that moment, where he called my Met buttons trash. Every time, it bothers me like a grudge. It bothers me more like a dagger than a thorn.
But why? It seems so minor. Why would I be so bothered by this?
I need to explain.
It's a backstory that I've told few, but it's a backstory that's very dear and personal to me.
When I was growing up, I idolized my mother's fine china cabinet in the dining room. The cabinet was full of taboo treasures that I wasn't allowed to dine with -- beautiful plates, cups, and whatnot. It wasn't the whole nine yards that you see in other homes (for example, one plate was a Collector's Plate from Disney's Hercules) but it was charming, and I grew up admiring it.
One day, as a little girl, I went to the thrift store with my dad, and found a beautiful mug set. It was two perfect, matching mugs in a little brass-colored box. They were decorated with various colored circles, each circle adorned with an embellished "M." Tucked in the box was a little piece of paper, describing the story of the mugs: at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, a colorful piece of metal was used as an admission ticket. Over the course of decades, these M-adorned metal buttons became iconic of the Met. These mugs were a celebration of that icon.
(The buttons!)
Even though I had never heard of the Metropolitan Museum of Art before, it was love at first sight. I pleaded with my dad for this mug set, and he bought it for me. In the midst of all my childhood playtime, I took care of these two dear mugs in their little brass-colored box. For years, I never told anyone that I had these mugs. I didn't discuss them with anyone. To me, they were my equivalent of my mom's fine china cabinet. These two colorful mugs -- they were my fine china. This cardboard was my mahogany cabinet. When I held that brass-colored case in my hands, I truly felt like I was holding treasure.
(My mug!)
As I was growing up with my treasure of two mugs, I had a dream. There were two cups in my little box, and I decided that when I met "The One" -- that boy that I would someday meet and be my happy-ever-after -- I would give him one of my mugs. It was my version of a fairy tale: to meet the boy that I would give my second mug to.
On my one-year anniversary with Phuc, I decided that it was him. By this time, he knew my story about the Met Mug, and how I was saving the second cup for that special person. At the park where he first asked me to be his girlfriend, I gave him the second mug. You should have seen his face when he opened that gift, and found that second mug, realizing that I was passing it on to him. He knew how important that gesture was to me. His face was absolutely glowing, overcome with shock and gratitude. He knew that to me, that was among the most ultimate gestures of romance that I could ever give.
At the time, it seemed like a safe call. After all, we dated for almost six years. The last time I ever saw him in Davis, I still remember him actively using his Met Mug on his desk as a penholder, so that he could look at it everyday and think of me. The entire time we were together, he understood the importance of my Met Mug to me, and I appreciated that more than I ever expressed to him.
When he broke up with me, I pondered what ex-girlfriends ponder: what happens to the gifts that I gave him? Finally, almost a year after we separated, I decided that all I wanted -- all I wanted -- was my Met Mug back. That Met Mug was supposed to be for my soul mate, and if it wasn't him, I wanted it back. That's all I wanted back. In a moment of weakness, I wrote him a letter. All I want is my Met Mug. Please give me back my Met Mug. I don't care about anything else. Please just give me back my Met Mug. I never got a reply. I never got my Met Mug back. I would never be able to give my second mug to "The One." As time passed without reply, it became increasingly clear to me. My dream was ruined. That second mug would never go to the right person. My treasure was doomed as Phuc's trash.
It took a while to get over that fact, but my Met Mug never lost its significance. I still have one mug from the original pair, and it's currently in my cupboard here in San Diego, right now. I don't own that brass-colored box anymore, but I still own that little piece of paper that describes the tale of the mugs.
When my sister first went to New York City, she came back and visited me in Merced. Knowing my story about my mugs, and of my heart-wrenching loss of my second mug, she gave me a pair of mugs from the American Museum of Natural History in New York. As I opened her gift and realized that she gave me two mugs, I realized its significance instantaneously. She was giving my dream life again. I sat there, mugs in hand, weeping with joy. My dream was alive again. Typing this paragraph, in fact, has brought me to tears (and I napped before I wrote this, so it's like... for real). I am now saving that second mug for that special someone. My dream is alive again. That is beautiful, and I have my sister to thank for that.
When I went to New York City after my college graduation, I finally was able to cross "Visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art" off my bucket list. When I was getting ready for the museum, my sister teased me for how I got really dressed up to look nice for the museum. Yet, when we arrived at the museum, I explained that I had absolutely zero expectations for the museum itself, and was pleasantly surprised by how grand it actually was. Truly, all I knew about the Museum was, "This is where my mugs came from." And that was enough to spend my life wanting to go there.
As we went through the museum, my sister asked me if there was anything in the museum that I definitely wanted to see. My answer was simply, "The gift shop." I wanted those iconic buttons that shaped my childhood, that shaped my perceptions of treasure and romance. By this time, I made many dear friends at Merced, and I wanted to give them each a button from the Met as a souvenir. As the mug symbolized my ultimate gesture of romance, I wanted to give my friends individual buttons as a graduation present, to similarly symbolize that I deeply treasured their friendship. However, I wasn't aware that those buttons are available only as admission buttons, and learned that the hard way as I unsuccessfully sifted through the gift shop.
I bought a pack of button-inspired magnets as a consolation present, but luckily, we decided to come back to the Met a second time during my graduation trip to NYC. Now that I was aware that the Met buttons were strictly available only as admission buttons, my eyes began to skim the ground for buttons that were dropped by past museum patrons. I was extremely lucky in this venture -- I found buttons of various colors and created a hearty collection of abandoned admission icons. My sister ripped on me for my behavior at the museum -- I would ignore all of the art and instead focus on the floor, looking for buttons to give to my friends.
When I returned to Merced with a treasure chest (i.e. ziploc bag) full of little Met buttons, I was elated to share with everyone back home. I gave them each a magnet button from the pack I bought from the gift store, and an admission button from my grand adventures of button-searching.
Then I handed one to him.
"Oh," he smirked, "so you're giving me trash that you found on the floor?"
The worst part is that he already knew my story about my Met Mugs, and my reaction to my sister's present of AMNH mugs. So even when he made his remark, he knew what the Met Mugs meant to me. He should have known better.
Yet, when I handed him a green Met button that I lovingly rescued from the floor of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, he didn't choose to acknowledge how much care and value went into this ghetto little piece of metal that I was handing to him. Everyone else politely said, "Thank you," and even though their faces reflected confusion and "uhhh... okay... thanks i guess," at least I knew how powerful a gesture it was, and that unspoken celebration of friendship was huge for me.
He took my treasure in his hand, and he denounced it as trash.
By this time, I had a yearlong crush on him, but that was the moment that I could never see him the same way again. If he couldn't understand how important that stupid, minute, useless little souvenir button was to me, then he wasn't meant for me.
Nearly everything else, everything else that has happened over these past several years, I have been able to eventually let go of. Over the past few years, I have been abandoned, I have been insulted, I have been led on, I have been used. But, I have managed to mend those wounds and learn from those painful experiences. I have been able to move on. However, as I sift through my things and randomly find little extra buttons that I kept from that incredible trip to New York City, I keep remembering the moment that he took my present in his hand, and called it trash.
This thought always bothers me whenever it comes to mind. Even months later, it has never failed to keep bothering me. But today, in my moment of exhaustion and emotional vulnerability, it felt more like a dagger in my heart. Today, I fought back tears at the lab bench, deeply and freshly offended by this remark made months ago.
Tomorrow, I would like to say I will come into lab refreshed and rejuvenated, but lul I spent quite a bit of time writing and venting this blog post.
But my load feels a little lighter now, and I'm thankful for that.
Good night, world.
Disneyland is so awesome. Brings people together. And the Space Mountain ride is just the experience of a lifetime. And the Peter Pan ride, OMG!