Fast Women

Here’s the thing: I walk faster than God. I am from New York, and we are a walking people, but even New Yorkers can’t keep up. Midwesterners barely realize what’s happening as I weave through their molassal sidewalk clumps. Mostly people find me freakish. And by that I mean, I get commentary.

I get four types of commentary. Friends, women and men: “I saw you on the street and tried to wave, but you were already on the next block!” (They recognize me in the blur of movement because I usually have a good hat.)

New friends or acquaintances, usually women: “Thank god, you’re the only one I don’t have to slow down with.” We speed and chatter and become better friends. *

Strangers, invariably black men, often older: Laughter and remarks, variants of, “Where’s the fire?!”, or sometimes just an astonished, “Damn.” These ones are my favorite. There are few regular occurrences that improve my day as much as unexpectedly having an occasion to joke around with strangers, which is why I have the best name in the world.

Acquaintances, invariably younger white guys — and this is not the gender-neutral form of guys: Competition.

They’ll hear me or someone else mention that I walk fast, and they’ll immediately respond, “I bet I can beat you to the end of the block.” Which, I bet you can; your legs are longer and I’m not a runner and it’s just that my natural gait happens to be faster than anyone’s I’ve ever met. But, dude, I find it remarkably self-revealing that this is your reaction, because I notice that it’s not that you’re like me and have a self-identity built partly on walking faster than a hungry hippo, which could justify a certain amount of defensiveness. Or even that you desire a friendly competition, in which we shit-talk each other’s walk and race and then feel fondly toward one another because what bonds you like a mutual shit-talk? Those things I would understand.

But no. That’s not what’s going on. All evidence suggests that, although you have no particular investment in walking fast, nevertheless, the idea that this woman walks faster than you offends you. You must show her up. Well.

I fly a lot through Detroit**, and this occasions a long walk in their crazy neon-lit tunnel between terminals. My airport principle is that you avoid the moving sidewalk because people are not well socialized to place themselves in such a way that you can get around them, so it’s faster to walk alongside where you have more room to maneuver.

So recently I’m strolling through that tunnel and out of the corner of my eye I see this 20-something white guy walking slowly on the moving sidewalk do a double take as I come up alongside and then pass him. And then I see him speed up.

Now, normally I do not engage these races, but something about this dude, or the neon, or the lingering resentment from having earlier had to interact with the TSA brought it out in me. So I sped up, subtly, at first. And he sped up. And then I did some more.

And we got to be moving very fast, him on the sidewalk with his head turning to stare at me, and me next to him and just ahead, much faster than I usually stroll but maintaining my stroll gait (you should feel like you’re loping) and gazing around at all the pretty lights, and this went on for quite some while before the tunnel was over. I pulled through the end (I also have walking stamina); I stepped out a few feet ahead of him and onto the escalator that carries me to my Vino Volo, where everybody knows my name and I’m always glad I came. And I never once looked at him.

Yeah, I’m fast.

* Shout-out to the guy who spent our walk analyzing why I am so fast. His take? My hips are super-twisty, which lengthens my stride and generates momentum. This seems plausible because I definitely do generate an unusual amount of momentum when I walk. I know this because when I walk with very slow people (sorry, Emily), my options are to exhaust myself walking slowly — which I presume means I’m walking in a very different way, ’cause that shit is tiring — or to direct the momentum upward instead of forward. So I bounce.

Also, can I just say that everyone makes fun of my crazy heavy backpack in which I carry everything I own (“Are you… going on an adventure?”) and which gives me an unfortunate resemblance to a fourth grader, but just imagine how much trouble we’d have walking together if I didn’t handicap myself. I’m doing this for you.

** My layover choices are unusually sensitive to the presence of a Vino Volo.

Good thing a dog doesn’t get stuck in that tree.

I gave my five-year-old cousin Luke — yes, that Luke — STUCK by Oliver Jeffers a few hours ago, and so far he has asked us to read it to him three times. He laughs uproariously and shares his opinions about the protagonist’s errors each time, and pointed out an awesome joke in the artwork that I’d missed. I am declaring STUCK a big success.

Just now Luke and his older brother were watching a video that involved teasing a cartoon dog and Luke became extremely upset that someone was being “mean to a dog.” In the midst of his enraged stomping off, he yelled, “Dogs helped us stay alive!” (The New Yorker a few months back says Luke is right about that.) To avert the tears that were forming, his dad offered Luke the chance to pick the next video. Brightening immediately, he said, “Let’s watch cat teasers!”

I love that kid. Let’s hope tomorrow’s presents (for these kids) and the next day’s (for my niece) are as successful.

Wednesday Words: Oh, what a surprise — my problem is I talk too much

The difference between a brilliant punster and a groan-inducing punster is mostly a matter of how high the threshold is set for public utterance.

– Matthew M. Hurley, Daniel C. Dennett, and Reginald B. Adams, Jr., INSIDE JOKES: USING HUMOR TO REVERSE-ENGINEER THE MIND

Generation Gap

Back in late June, I was talking to my friend Adam, who was going to see his nieces, ages 11 & 13.  They were passing through NYC on their way to summer camp, and Adam wanted some gift ideas.  Now, my memory of summer camp is that the best thing one could possibly receive was a food package, particularly if that package contained ramen noodles, Easy Cheese, and candy.  But that concept was rejected out of hand, so we moved on to books.  Adam went through a list of books he still had from back in the day, and I yay’d and nay’d and pondered age-appropriateness (which has never been my forte).  Paula Danziger? Totally.  Bridge to Terabithia? Probably read it in school.  Lord of the Rings?  Oh right, the movies.  Sylvia Plath?  Mmm, maybe wait a few years for the teen angst to bloom more fully.  Anyway, I was having fun, but Adam eventually decided to bring several options and let them each pick one out.

The report the next day? The 13-year-old heartily recommended that her younger sister take The Giver.  To which the younger sister replied, “yeah, well – I have a kindle.”

And then I felt old and out of touch.  Because that had not even for a second crossed my mind.

It’s personal.

Today I enjoyed reading the n+1 personals. My favorites are THE GIRL WHO WASTES HER TIME DETECTING EMOTIONAL NUANCE IN ARROGANT INTELLECTUALS and THE SEMI-PUT-TOGETHER UPTOWN BOY, but I’m rooting the hardest for THE ACADEMIC LADY, because being a woman in philosophy ain’t easy.

Were I on the n+1 market, which I’m not, mine might go like this:

THE WOMAN WHO ISN’T A GIRL OR A LADY

I do things with statistics and write about it for a living. It’s a great life where those who mind that I dress badly mind quietly. Someday I want to have a dishwasher and a dog. I already have a canoe. I’ll always want to share food at the restaurant, but if you eat the thing that I was saving, I will hunt you down first and then come after your loved ones. I know how to chair a meeting and I strive to use this power for good. My house is always a mess. It’s worse than you were imagining when you read that line. I am aware that ostentatiously close female friendships are part of the performance of being a girl, and this awareness does not make me value them less. I like pink and Pink. I will beat you at card games. I will gloat but never cheat. You don’t have to read all my favorite books, but you might have to listen to me explain at great length why I love them, where ‘might’ means ‘will definitely.’ I’ll repeat myself; I’m sorry. I can be the low-brow to your high-brow. In less than a month I’ll be able to do 100 pushups. I believe in humanity, its dignity and equality and all its possibilities. I have a problem with the internet. I laugh easily and loudly, and then I get angry that men are considered funny if they tell good jokes, and women are considered funny if they laugh at men’s jokes. I tell jokes. Pay attention to me. I used to be afraid of spiders but I’m getting better. I have written a long paragraph about myself and said nearly nothing about you. That’s because I don’t know you yet. I am enthusiastic. I am available for coffee.

…I’m thinking it’s a pretty good thing I’m not on the n+1 market.

Onwall personal ad

Pop quiz: Whose n+1 is this?

THE BOY WHO CAN HEAR YOU OVER THE MUSIC

I’ll pick you up anyplace anytime, but the stereo is mine. It might be Afrobeat. It might be techno. It won’t be Ke$ha: that’s not OK.

…No. It isn’t. It’s appalling.

…I might be a little judgmental. I might be a little angry, but it’ll be OK. I don’t care what anyone else thinks; I just want to know what you do. I’ll listen.

I guess I have to withhold tagging this post until someone gets it in the comments. Now you write one!

Advice to Men

I mentioned before my grandmother’s strong reaction to my dad’s mustache. As was probably inevitable knowing my grandma, said reaction has now been immortalized in a poem.

Advice to Men

Tell me this!
Are men beset with facial gashes?
Is this why they wear moustaches?
All their glamour’s disappeared.
Who wants a kiss that’s mustard-smeared?

And that, of course, brings up the beard.
An attachment ladies all find weird
That gives them pause.
We’ll overlook their facial flaws…
A beard is just for Santa Claus!
The men we love all take the trouble
To shed thier daily prickly stubble.

Here’s advice I give you free.
Be it side-burns or goatee,
To romance, whiskers aren’t the key
Take me,
I crave no jewels, no gold, no loot,
Just a man who’s not hirsute!

[Note: I restricted the poem to only one form of typesetting emphasis, but I will note that the original made nice use of underlining, italics, and bold. I may have lost some subtlety in emphasis here. But I think you all can pick up the message. Men, get out your razors.]

I enjoy being me.

And talking about being me.

The gift of loud.

I don’t so much buy presents… except for the kids in my life. Once they’re seven or eight, I have no problems: so many books I know and love already, and of course I welcome any excuse to find more great ones. Best of all is when the child’s tastes run to slightly different genres than I usually read, so I’m forced to read up… I first read China Mieville’s UN LUN DUN and Nancy Farmer’s THE EAR, THE EYE AND THE ARM when testing them for my cousin Alex. (Both passed.)

But when it comes to littler kids, I’m at a loss. I don’t really know what’s age-appropriate, and I don’t know what’s so famous that they’re likely to have it already. Luckily, I now have a blog. And with a blog comes links. My savior this year? 100 Scope Notes’s Best New Books category. Holiday success.

The most gratifying gift-giving moment was undoubtedly due to my cousin Luke’s — Luke of Mean Elizabeth fame — preschool apparently having taught him appropriate responses to receiving a present. As soon as he ripped the paper off of JEREMY DRAWS A MONSTER, he yelled, “It’s JUST what I ALWAYS WANTED!”

As opposed to my niece Sylvia of the same age, whose perpetual response ran more to looking hopeful and asking, “Are there any more presents for me?”

Sylvia also took the time to read several of her favorite books to me. Since she doesn’t read in the traditional sense, this involves her telling me a story based on the pictures and what she remembers from past readings. In her telling, a common feature of stories seems to be their emphasis on YELLED NARRATION.

My other interaction with small children this holiday season was when Emily and I went sledding in Prospect Park. (I’ve recently learned to sled and have now become a sledding fiend. I wanted to take Sylvia out yesterday but the snow had dissipated.) We took it upon ourselves to teach them some valuable lessons about the importance of moving off the hill once your turn is done, lest two shrieking women lying on top of one another in an inflatable bialy run you down. I’m not sure whether all their parents were as grateful as they should have been for our didactic efforts.

It’s clear I got the family tact.

My grandma was in fine form this Thanksgiving.

My dad has a new mustache, and as soon as she saw him, she said, “Now, X*, do you want to look older or younger?”

My dad, who is 62, considered all the various sarcastic responses he might make, but eventually settled on the straightforward answer that he’d like to look younger. To which she immediately responded, “Well, I think your mustache makes you look ten years older!”

Oh, Grandma.

(She didn’t drop it all weekend, either.)

I shouldn’t laugh too hard — although, let me tell you, I did — because I am so unbelievably tactless myself. Like, when I met my boyfriend — who needs a Blog Name, by the way — he hated most vegetables, including delicious ones like spinach, because he grew up eating them boiled to shit. And so what do I do when we’re eating spinach one time with his lovely mother? I very innocently explain how I had to convince him to eat spinach, since he grew up eating it prepared in the most terrible ways!

Seriously, folks. It never crossed my mind that the person I was speaking to was the one who did that terrible preparing.

His mother was really amazingly nice about the whole thing.

* I’m leaving my dad’s name out of it because his first name is extremely unusual and should someone ever google him just with that — which would definitely work for finding him — I don’t think he’d want them turning up this story!

“Why are there so many Elizabeths?”

One of the high points of this Thanksgiving has been getting to see my oldest cousin’s children more. Nico, 6, and Luke, 3, are super cute. And Nico loves me. Luke? Well… he wasn’t so sure.

On Wednesday night he waddled up to me and said, “There’s a mean Elizabeth in my class.” Then he stared at me accusingly for a moment before picking up his dump truck and pushing it around, muttering, “Mean Elizabeth.”

Thanksgiving Day when I passed him in the hallway he said plaintively, “Why are there so many Elizabeths?”

I think I was eventually able to win him over with my willingness to pretend we were in a space boat, but man. What could this Elizabeth actually have done to him???