"Ring" (Inktober 2019 Day 1)

Kevin and I have just about made it to the top of Mandalay Hill in Mandalay, Myanmar. It's 1,729 steps. We've been at it, slowly, for a couple of hours.

The temple is my idea (or so I think).

On the plane ride up from Yangon he hands me the Myanmar guide book, opens to Mandalay, and asks me to find something for us to do that evening.

I read about the sunrise views from the top of Mandalay Hill, how the young monks like to go there each evening to practice their languages. Yes, it is to be reliably tourist trappy, but this is the middle of summer: the off, rainy season in Myanmar. We end up feeling practically alone.

We pass a hundred little homes improvised into the hillside on the way up, all with children and/or animals moving freely in and out-of-doors.

There are various pagodas at landings, hundreds of steps separating them. We stop at some for a rest. Past others, we continue without pause.

Kevin is quiet much of the way. So am I. It is hot and we are sweating. But the climb is not unpleasant. The space feels somewhat sacred, despite the loud and ordinary activities swirling around the families we pass. We are taking in the sights. We are taking in the atmosphere.

When we finally reach the summit, Kevin and I part ways for a moment. He heads down a walkway that juts out from the summit landing. I stand near the railing and gaze at a group of young monks who are looking out at the beautiful valley below.

When Kevin rejoins me he looks more serious than I've ever seen him. He opens his mouth to talk, and his voice is shaky; his eyes are watering. "I have to tell you a story," he says. "When I was here in 1998..." he starts.

My mind goes to these three places in 2.5 seconds:

1) Kevin impregnated a woman when he was here in 1998
2) The reason he brought me here was to meet his (other) son
3) His son is coming with us back to the United States

I brace myself, waiting to hear the details of this imagined story come from his mouth.

"When I was here in 1998, we came up here to Mandalay Hill..."

WHAT?! I'm thinking. During this entire 2-hour climb he never once mentioned having been here before.

"When I saw the view from up here, I told myself that if I ever proposed to a woman, I would want it to be right here."

He gets down on one knee, pulls a ring box out of his pocket (WHAT?!) and asks me to marry him.

I say yes.

Kevin and the young monks, moments before his proposal.

***

I think this is one of the most romantic stories I've ever heard. I can't believe it actually involves me.

Kevin had planned the trip and had told me (up until the moment we arrived at the airport) that we were going to Vancouver. The destination itself was such a surprise I never once imagined there was more in the plans.

What was he gonna do if I hadn't chosen sunset at the top of Mandalay Hill as the thing to do that night? How did he hide the ring when his bag got an extra dose of security search at the airport in Beijing?

***

Later Kevin tells me he always wondered if that proposal was ever going to actually happen. I learn details of his having contracted malaria on that previous trip (his second to the country. He was collecting snake specimens with mentors and colleagues from the Cal Academy of Sciences). I learn how they weren't sure he would survive, how his recovery took months, many of which he was bedridden.

I learn he'd snuck off to my parent's house the night before we left, told them of his plan, asked for their blessing. I learn that the ring he's given me was made by a local jeweler using diamonds from his grandmother's wedding ring. His mom had given it to him about a year previous, suspecting he'd be proposing at some point and encouraging him to use it any way he liked.

And I learned something that day about the type of man my husband is. I'd known from watching him work on monster projects--both professionally and creatively--that he was a fan of the long view. He didn't like just to do things. He liked to do them in the way he envisioned. Carefully. With planning. He liked to do things well.

This proposal was 18 years of vision in the making. I would say that, as proposals go, this one was done really. fucking. well.

#inktober

I Want You to Know, if I Ask...

A couple of days ago I was sitting in my office when a colleague stepped in and asked if I would come meet a customer, sharing this briefest of debriefs, "She's bringing money over from her bank and is interested in hearing about options to get a better return."

This is a very typical scenario: a banker has a prospective investor in his or her office and there is limited time to break down the situation; I'm asked to meet the prospect and take it from there.

I followed the banker and was introduced to "Stacy" (name changed to withhold her identity), a 6'2" woman in a long skirt and sensible flats. Stacy stood up and offered her hand, and I shook it, hoping my expression didn't betray my surprise at the largeness of it, the strength of her jawline, the generous amount of foundation covering her features, the depth of her voice.

We chatted for a while while the banker worked on opening Stacy's account. She had recently moved to the area, was going to be starting a new job in a couple of weeks, was fed up with her current financial institution.

Stacy was very open. She jumped right in, and we talked about her work history, her challenging childhood, the woman she'd once been married to, and the passing away of two people very close to her.

It had been a rough few years.

Then she studied my gaze for a moment, sucked in her breath, and said, "after that is when I came out as transgendered, and things started to change in my life."

Instantly, the energy in the room shifted.

It felt as though the breath Stacy took in mirrored the one I let out, with a quiet sense of relief. We could talk about the unspoken thing that had been hanging in the air (for me, anyway).

I asked her how long ago that had been, and what her life had been like since. She said it got harder, much harder at first, and then, slowly, easier.

The banker--who had been so all-encompassed in the task-at-hand I'm not sure if the conversation had even registered--interrupted just then to ask what needed to be asked to get the account opening process moving along. Stacy and I exchanged pleasantries and a plan to meet in two weeks, and I excused myself from the room.

But Stacy stuck with me.

I thought about that pause in our conversation. That moment when she was clearly gauging whether or not this was a safe place to tell her truth. I wondered how many times she'd paused and sucked in her breath the way she had in that moment, and what the other outcomes had been like.

I thought about how much easier some of us have it than others. And I was in awe of her courage. I couldn't even imagine what it had been like to live the life she'd lived.

I have limited friendship experience with transgendered people. Two coworkers from the same former place of work have transitioned: one from male to female, the other from female to male. Before their transitions, I never would have imagined either was uncomfortable in his or her skin or gender assignments. For the most part, I have lost touch with both, but from what I can tell through my current limited contact with them on social media, both seem to be doing well.

I have another acquaintance whom I met after she'd already transitioned. Again, I am not close enough to know well how her life after the transition compares to that before. And I don't feel I've earned the right to ask the questions.

Like many of us, I have a lot of questions.

And I'm sad about the fact that I don't know how to ask them. I don't know how to show my interest in a way that doesn't make them feel other. I don't know what type of question will be seen as an expression of genuine concern and curiosity in the life experience of another, and what could be taken as an invasion of privacy.

I don't normally worry about this. I am the queen of asking questions that invade people's privacy. And most people don't seem to mind. I don't know why I feel compelled to treat this particular subject differently.

But this I know: the Stacies of the world deserve my compassion and my willingness to listen. Stacy gave me a ray of hope with her openness. I know we will meet again and engage in meaningful conversation. I know she is willing to sit with me and have this discussion. And for that I am grateful.

Just three days ago I found myself engaged in a discussion with a high school friend on social media about whether or not it's a good idea to make gay jokes in a semi-public forum. That it was even up for debate came as something of a surprise. It was a reminder to me, in my comfortable, liberal, Bay Area bubble, that some people aren't yet even comfortable with atypical sexual orientations, let alone gender identities. But gay is old hat to me.

I can do gay all day!

With my limited relationships with transgendered people, however, I still feel unsure how to proceed. Is it a subject to be talked about or a subject to be ignored? Do transgendered people want to be acknowledged in their unique circumstances, or do they want to blend in?

I feel incredibly small and ignorant in pondering these questions.

And then I remember that, first and foremost, transgendered people are just people. There is no one answer that fits all. There is no formula for how to proceed. Like all other people, some will want to discuss something this intimate and personal. Some will not. The rules of engagement haven't suddenly become cryptic and unreadable.

In short: I don't need to check my curiosity.

I need to check my assumptions. My desire to categorize. My preference to understand the whole without taking the time to understand the individual. My desire for conversation to be easy.

I have read a lot from people in minority segments of the population about how frustrating it is to be expected to be ambassadors and translators for their respective groups. I understand that it is not the job of individuals in these groups to help those from outside the group to understand, so that they can be comfortable. I get that.

I do, however, beg grace and preemptive forgiveness as I navigate what for me is relatively new terrain. I hope that my questions will be received in the sincere and non-judgmental manner in which I intend them. I hope that it will be clear that, for me, to truly know somebody is to know about the struggles and the significant choices/changes they've made as a result, all of which have molded them into the person I get to meet today.

If I'm asking questions, perhaps especially uncomfortable ones, it's because the human in me recognizes the humanity in you and wants to know more.

And I hope this will be a good place to start.

If This is 40...

Today I woke up and was 40. It actually happened.

Not that I thought I could escape it.

Not that I wanted to. Being alive is one of my favorite things. Getting older is part of it.

I was fully prepared to be kind of sad about it all, though, namely for the same reasons most people start to do the whole mid-life-crisis thing long about this time.

I wasn't bummed about getting older. I'm excited to be 40 because the power of not giving a damn is a real thing. And the older I get, the realer it gets. Also, I truly believe that age is a state of mind. In these important ways, 40 is a very good thing.

But I was prepared to be sad about all the things I'm not--to dwell on what I'd thought I should be or have accomplished by now. Forty years seems like enough time to accomplish quite a bit (spoiler alert: I haven't).

Waking up at 4:21 this morning, into the semi-darkened room and in the generally fucked-up state of mind that insomnia seems to breed, it was looking to be headed in that direction. I started to inventory. And a lot of it wasn't good. But a lot of it could also be worse.

This is a sampling of what went through my mind, not just in the early morning hours of today, but in the week or so leading up to this big, high-pressure birthday:

* I should have had a party, because 40 is a big deal and if you don't have a party you must be sad about turning 40. You should be celebrating! But also: as open and sometimes-extroverted and happy to have an individual's attention as I am, the thought of a party of that magnitude isn't making me feel happy. That's too much attention all at once. That's too much pressure to be awesome. (The quiet weekend away with my husband was a good call.)

* I have wasted waaaaaaaaaaaaay too many hours on social media in the past few years and have absolutely nothing to show for it. I have to rethink this thing. How to find balance without throwing the baby out with the bathwater? (I mean nobody likes a social media teetotaler.)

* I'd hoped to be in the best shape of my life when I turned 40. I'm not. Or maybe I am, but if I am, that's not saying a lot. I can do better. But I also don't want to get obsessed with working out at the expense of SO MANY OTHER THINGS I ALREADY FEEL THERE ISN'T TIME FOR. (Let's just keep this as is for now, and maybe try to cool it on the carbs a bit. Maybe.)

* I could be a better parent. This is trite and boring and every parent thinks it and it's true for every parent, but so is this: We could all be better everythings. I say that with one caveat, though...one tangible way I can *actually* be a better parent is by spending less time on social media (see above), and on my phone in general. (Ok, we're getting somewhere here.)

* I need to be challenged more at work. Or fulfilled more. Or something. The big deals that used to feel like accomplishments don't do it for me anymore. I find more satisfaction in the often financially neutral human interactions at work that ooze with intrinsic value. But uncovering moments that ooze with intrinsic value is not my job duty. (I could probably be in a more suitable line of work.)

* I don't own a home. Owning a home in the Bay Area, where a 2-bedroom will run you at least a half a million dollars, seems both impossible and slightly insane. Still, sometimes I feel like I want one, or that I should have one. Renting can feel like failure. (It's hard not to fantasize about winning the lottery.)

* People used to say I looked younger than I was. People don't say that anymore. I'm aware of the fact that I'm actually aging, in real life. (I try not to have sad feelings about this, but sometimes I do.)

* It's ridiculous and stupid that I haven't made time for reading, let alone writing, in recent years (apart from reading articles online). I'm rusty as hell and almost too ashamed to post this. This is therapeutic, though. (Damn, does reaching for the therapeutic imply I could use therapy? Yes, I could! Haha.)

* I follow at least half a dozen yogis on Instagram and haven't done 10 minutes of yoga in over a year. I know I'm drawn to it. Why am I resisting?! (This is separate from my earlier discussion on fitness. This is about whole body wellness. Why wouldn't I want that?!)

* I have some really pretty rad people in my life. (Because of the pretty rad people in my life--and after catching a little nap after taking my son to school--I couldn't even pretend that I have anything in my life to be sad about. That would be the most luxuriously navel-gazing, first-world problem BULLshit ever, if I were to go there, or stay there anyway. I've already indulged this line of thinking long enough. Today, I felt the love.)

So, dear friends. Around mid-morning, after the above-mentioned nap and in the extremely satisfying space between an un-rushed shower and the Things I Needed to do Today, I came to these for-now conclusions:

1) Forty feels like 39 (39 felt like 28, so...)
2) Forty looks like it looks. Acceptance (along with what help we can garner and what improvements we *are* capable of) is our friend.

Here I am, at the end of this long day, resisting the urge to put on glam makeup (as if I knew how) to try and look more "Fab at 40" than I actually am. The black and white filter does help, though.

And so if this is what 40 is like, less-than-satisfied in so many ways (which is exactly the state of being that causes us to strive for more, no?), doubtful and frustrated and sometimes proud and always (please please forgive me for this) #blessed, I suppose I'll take it.

More than that. I'm very happy to be here.