We are mere renters but Hiro and I attend to our space like new homeowners.  Never have we had the luxury of space, of grass, of shed and neighbors all to ourselves!  Perhaps in preparation of one day being real-time home owners and because the worst of the winter gracefully passed, I dedicated my next adventure to gardening.

Let me tell you, it’s not easy being green.  My grandparents were ardent groundskeepers.  Their lawn was the envy of the surrounding Chicago neighborhood and they maintained a vegetable patch that rivaled anything you’d see in Better Homes & Gardens.  It’s one of my greatest regrets, not learning the delicious art of it all.  Now that they’ve passed there is no one left to try to maintain their legacy.  What remains of my family, in way of botany, is suburban lawns and some perennial flowers near front doors.  It seems a shame, to let all that our patriarchs built dry up, so here’s my attempt to water the seeds of newfound family tradition.

I have to start simply.  In part because I began this at the tail-end of the winter frost, but mostly because I have NO IDEA what I’m doing.  I’ve begged the internet for advice only to find that my remedial starting point is so far below what most gardeners consider beginner that reading alone won’t suffice.  I needed to start small and understand the basics, so I’ve begun with herbs.Why herbs?  Well, my grandmother was also a darling cook and the idea of making use of my creation is exciting AND fiscally responsible!  Plus, I can start indoors which makes for morale boosting gratification.  Finally, there seems to be a lot of help in literature and chat boards on how to grow indoor herbs.  Perhaps this is the stuff of novices but THINGS ARE HAPPENING!  Just look at the evidence!

I bought a little starter kit and seed packets of cilantro, basil and oregano.  After moistening the soil and distributing even amounts into pots with holes in the bottom, I spread the seeds out to avoid crowding.  (The pictures will document that I got a little too excited and planted an egregious number of seeds.  This is a urban herb garden).  After that I wrapped my darling pots in plastic wrap to capture moisture and left them in the sun to their own devices until I started to see things bloom!

It was tempting not to poke and prod, but I kept them packaged until sightings of a second leaf appeared (as per my seed packet instructions).  When the leaves courted I unwrapped and continued to feed and water them.  At present they are still infantile, but look at the progress!

It’s encouraging to see things grow.  Am I becoming somewhat maternal?  Maybe, but that can wait.  I’m saving all my love for these little guys now.  Dinner party to come!

So it was in Japan when I tried serving Green Tea only to splinter the bamboo stirrer in everyone’s cup; or my embarrassing inability to NOT use the words “lovely”, “bullocks” and “right-o” when speaking to anyone with a British accent.  I make attempts, and my trip to sunny San Diego is no exception.

What is inherent to Californians?  Those clever celebrity-dense ad campaigns would suggest sun and able-bodied fun.  I grew up in the land-locked US.  My family didn’t jet-ski or engage in bouts of sand volleyball.  We were efficient travelers.  We used up all our time riding every ride imaginable in Disney World.  The idea of sun-soaked leisure is new to me.

Some posts ago I referenced my very real fear of showing skin.  I wear 3 piece bathing suits and I hate the summer because everyone seems to strip down.  Strip down if you will, but don’t expect me to follow suit.  And this is what I feared most- that to do as the Californians do, I would have to wear a bikini and vapidly dismiss everything in a valley accent.  I can now say my preconceptions of the dear state of CA were wrong.

We visited so that Hiro could present at the American Chemistry Conference in San Diego, CA.  It was a first time for us both and I was a-flutter with suggested trip plans.  The internet would have you find that there are a bounty of free things to do in SD!  Due to our wedding budget we did so much of what was suggested, but the one thing – the thing that seemed so very SoCal – I wanted to do was ride a bike on a pier in sunshades.

Note Hiro is an avid cyclist.  I last rode a bike in Japan when I had a basket on the front and the bike and rode slowly on paved sidewalks at the speed of all the neighborhood grannies.  That’s why, when I saw a brochure for a scenic 3 hour adventure tour through La Jolla, replete with cave dwellings, canyon cliffs and seal parks I signed Hiro and I right up!

This was not for the timid cyclist.  Our tour guides (see: SO FRIENDLY) attached a smart phone to the back of their bikes, blasting Bob Marley and riding on the street at speeds I would otherwise not travel.  There was no safety-briefing on how to signal to cars, or brake on a hill.  In fact, there were no questions what-so-ever concerning our abilities or know-how.  I LOVED it.  That meant I had to keep up.  That meant I had to cruise at a quicker clip so that I could see all the amazing sights they had to show.  Let me be fair to our ragtag tour team – they would not let us ride to danger, and I trust had been eyeing our abilities discreetly (one lagged behind, humming his own Bob Marley). 

Still, it felt so free to ride up a cliffside for a stunning view of the ocean expanse; to ride the boardwalk and dodge Cali skateboarders; to cruise the winding streets of the HGTV-ready La Jolla suburbs, taking downhill straight-aways at heart quickening speeds! 

It felt lovely to be one with the sun, keeping active with the locals (although I must have seemed such a tourist!).  Our tour guide, originally from Delaware, told me that he sometimes misses the Northeast.  I asked why, incredulous.  He said that in Delaware, on a rainy day, you can just stay in.  You have reason to outlast the poor weather by doing nothing with you time, if you choose.  But in San Diego, he said, the weather is so often nice that you have no choice but to get out and exercise.  Enjoy the wind and the weather.  Be one of the many moving parts.

What a nice way to consider a state’s role!  I’m ever so happy to have played the part and will gladly again.

This week found me grumpy, uncertain and in something of an existential plight.  I’ve always been a big advocate of the notion that inspiration lies within, but some days find my optimistic mind-store closed and I try to compensate with the next best thing: drawing inspiration from others.  This is a slippery slope.  Too often I mistake credit with competition.  That’s to say, I look at someone like my dear friend Emmie whose right arm might as well be a paint brush for all the beauty that her mere handwriting produces and think, “Emmie does what she loves.  She has it all figured out.”  And even though I’m truly awed by and happy for her, I allow my own insecurities to consume me.  Enough for me to change the tempo and begin to think, “Why am I not creating?  What do I do?”  And on particularly murky days, an insipid, “Is there anything special to me?”

This is the self-talk we’d sooner caste off.  It helps no one to be so dour, and on this week, when I felt my mind race with sharp scissors, I decided to try and do something about it.

I thought simply, “What do Iwant to do?”

I answered, quickly, “Write a book.”

This is something I’ve never been able to accomplish.  Either I haven’t thought through a good-enough plot, or my structure’s too wild, or I simply run out of energy and leave a heap of words in air.  Well that’s unacceptable.  Skill or no-skill, I should see the effort through, but I didn’t know where to start, so I enlisted the help of a professional.

This week’s adventure had me call on a real-life writer for help and honing.  The fantastic local non-profit Grub Street in Boston is something of a writer’s commune with everything from workshops to seminars to consultant services.  Although it was one of my most difficult undertakings I submitted the start of my novel for consultant consideration, waited anxiously, and bam! I received a response shortly therafter with my novelist’s contact info.

As luck would have it, my novelist was critical AND compassionate.  I would lie if I said her basic deconstruction of all my efforts didn’t bruise, but in the end it is one of the best things to come from my novel.  She was no-nonsense in her approach to my work, while still making effort to understand the why’s behind my plot points and character sketches.  She asked pertinent questions that have helped conjure real results and I can enthusiastically admit that I am back in the writing game. 

Owing to this I have refurbished my book entirely and am excited with the results.  Moreover, I want to write.  I continue to write and the writing feels manageable and clean-er.  That’s not to say that I’m anywhere near finished.  Or that I’m fundamentally improved, but, I am back to doing what I love.  Perhaps we can bill this an adventure in recognition and reconciliation.  With hopeful results to come!

But my sports fanaticism ended there.  Save watching some golf or tennis when I want to nap I don’t really dedicate my time to any one sport or team.  And I especially don’t make any attempt to watch football.

What’s so wrong with football you ask?  Well, nothing and everything.  Football has always seemed evasive to me.  Because I never feigned to understand the rules, the rules appear foolishly complex when I try to make sense of them.  The basics I get, but it seems there’s always some reason to stop the game, yet never stop the clock.  It’s maddening!

All told, however, people LOVE it.  My Northeast kinsmen especially so.  And considering my current city of residence’s team, the Boston Patriots, were Superbowl contenders, I thought I’d study up.Hiro patiently sat with me during a considerably important game and explained all the points of procedures.  I wasn’t impressed.  But then I heard some commentator claim that Superbowl Sunday was the secondmost holiday of exorbitant food consumption.  Second to Thanksgiving!  Now that I had a kitchen and a new home I thought I’d invite everyone over to watch the big game.

This is important to Hiro and I for many reasons but mostly to christen our new television.  We haven’t had a tv for a long time.  Also, we hadn’t had anyone over.  It seemed a great excuse in hosting!

Sometimes, though, we miscommunicate.  The radio host said people eat a lot, so I bought a lot of food.  Hiro and I both invited a lot of guests.  It seemed like everything was in order except that Hiro feared we would run out of food and chairs and slyly asked certain guests to bring their own.

Oh dear me, BYO Chair and Food?  Hiro!

So one-by-one our house filled up with generous offerings of chips and dips.  We had so much food.  Mountains of food!  It was my first time hosting such a large gathering and I toiled away in the kitchen pre-heating and re-heating and frying and doing whatever it is the recipe called for.  This is no big feat, but for me it was a lesson in pre-planning and appreciating past hosts who have so graciously received me. 

Either our guests loved the food or ate out of extreme agitation for the Patriots mishaps.  No matter, we all ended up having a great time!  Myself and other football fan-less friends gathered in the kitchen trying to one-up eachother’s innate football knowledge.  “Name a position!”  “Agitator!”  “Like Benedict Arnold!”  “More guacamole!”

It should be a rite of passage to host the big game.  It asks a lot but gives even more, as my amply stocked pantry can show for (12 bags of chips and counting).

Somehow, since then, I haven’t been able to do anything other than fiscally plan.

I’m a financial administrator at MIT.  My job asks that I maintain financial portfolios.  Before then I was maintaining the books at Loyola.  Earlier than that, for Betsy Markey for Congress.  So, following the great tide of life, I am keeping in theme with my upcoming nuptials.

As Hiro and I have to assume most of the fiscal burden of a wedding we are trying to do so in the most creatively frugal ways possible!  Thankfully, we settled on partying in a barn.  Barn décor is minimal, at best, so we needn’t fret over silken linens and rental forks.  However to really keep in theme (and I love a good theme) I have decided to do almost everything by hand.

It’s a wild adventure in DIY madness!Please note that I am a big proponent for up-cycled, hand-crafted things.  But do know that I am lousy in craftsmanship.  I have all these ideas just swirling around (and often abusively posted on pinterest) with no way of executing.  I haven’t sewn since my elementary school home economic course; have little experience with design a la Adobe suites; and can’t paint.  These DIY-basics prove to be a hindrance, but not a total wash, as I am lucky to have some artfully gifted pals who have offered help.  But I also wanted to take part in the process.  And, impatient as I am, I’m trying to do just that.

For now, here’s the DIY roster for the coming months:

• Folding 1,000 paper cranes
• Making hand-crafted paper flower centerpieces
• Creating paper doily bunting
• Creating our own favors
• Designing my own Save the Dates

The later has had me busy for the past week, and subsequently became adventure-full.

As mentioned we are marrying in 2 story old red barn replete with thousands of white lights and a weather vane.  It’s picturesque and darling.  We envisioned some wild flower centerpieces, some mason jars, lights and we’d have ourselves a party.  But I’ve quickly found that there is so much more involved.  Namely, I need to inform our guests that there is a celebration to be had.  And what better way to inform them than with custom screen-printed handkerchiefs?!

Well, screen-printing is misleading.  I ironed on 120 individually printed inverse images of our silhouette and wedding date.  Once transferred onto the hankie (vintage lot found on ebay) I dressed it up a little further with a drawn doily heart and a tag dictating the definition of Keepsake. 

It’s home-made-y and kitsch but I truly love the outcome!  I think it really resonates with our intent to keep things organic and shared.  I would have commissioned someone else to do this if we were well funded, but we are not – so the need to DIY arose.  It’s giving me greater hope for all the projects to come, although I certainly will not turn down any offers for help.

I think of meals as three a day.  Like a story there’s a beginning, middle and end.  However, were I to follow this metaphor in my own cooking each meal would hold it’s own and have a stamp of importance on it.  As such, I’m a sloppy chef and cook to consume, whereas my okasan is the real deal.  She cooks to create.   Create happiness.  Create satiety.  She does this to make those she serves happy and seeing the eager stampede to the dining table every time we were called to sit down, I can attest to her good-great-best work.

She’s a powerhouse, and, although we have a burgeoning and lovely relationship, I’d do anything to make her proud.  So here, in Boston, in the safe confines of my own test kitchen, I’ve been making active efforts to become better versed.  So when the opportunity arose to enroll in a sushi making lesson, I immediately signed up.

Thankfully so did dear pals Moira and Courtney, and the three of us made way for Sea to You Sushi in Brookline, MA for a 2 hour hands-on course in the delicate art of sushi-rolling.What struck me most was the patience demanded.  Not only delicacy, but thoughtful attention to the design of the roll.  We learned, after some botched attempts that throwing any combination of ingredients into the center of a roll does not a sushi make.  In addition to paying reverence to the rice and the rolling of, I had to concern myself with flavor combinations, strength of handling and aesthetics.

Here are some tips our sweet instructor imparted on us:

• Do not use too much rice.  Too much will make for a bulbous roll that will not close seemlessly.
• Do exert some muscle in sealing said roll.  She advised that we make a “cat paw” when closing.  A “puma paw” with a jumbo roll.
• I learned how to lay ingredients, both artfully and for maximum taste.
• Less is more was instilled in the lot of us.  Everyone seems to want to LOAD IT UP.

Finally, upon examination by the sushi master, it was discovered that Moira, Courtney and I made an egregious amount of rolls.  Because I’m a perfectionist I thought to try and try until I got it right.  Moira and Courtney were more adept to the task and worked quickly.  We were absorbed in the task.  It reminded me of my Japanese mama.  Working away.  Frighteningly concentrated  - poised to prepare.

The end result?  Eh… but I have a spring board with which to try more.  And I garnered some extra points on my last International Call home.

But I’m also biased.  Last year I tried my feet at snowboarding.  My lovely fiancé is a sportsman and loves the thrill of the ice race.  He’s been an avid and dedicated skier most his life and thought to try snowboarding on a company outing last year.  At the time I was still trying to impress him so I tagged along, hopeful. Hope wanes on slick surfaces.  Despite the picturesque surroundings in snow covered Vermont I could not find a rhythm in snowboarding.  It was contrary to nature!  I fell and fell and fell.  I bruised my tail bone for what felt like months.  I bailed and cried and may have pushed a child in one of my many attempts to “shred?” down a bunny hill. 

The incline was minimal (see: mostly horizontal).  With such failure on a seemingly simple track I lost all hope and abandoned the endeavor.

I understand how adventure-less this is.

In follow-up trips I still donned my ski costume but took straight to the lodge where I drank wine and read from my Kindle while Hiro tore up some Black Diamond or another.

I knew my limits.  I saw no harm in this.

When snow fell again this year Hiro seemed anxious to try skiing.  It seemed plausible that if I hated snowboarding I would hate skiing.  To start, skis are long, spindly bruise shoes.  More surface area yields more room for error as I can’t even seem to keep my own gangly appendages in check.  But Hiro, and my best friend Brad both assured me that skiing is easier to pick up.  That there is more control leant the skier when skiing.  They spoke calmly and rationally of the many valors of skiing.

This was all great and good and I wore a snow-suit in the off chance I might ski, but mostly I wanted to sit in the lodge and read.

Note that I realize how fortunate I am.  Never before have I been afforded a privilege as lavish as lodge dwelling and skiing.  Hiro’s company supplements the costs and, as Hiro implores, I should take advantage of these opportunities when they arise.  I know, I know.

So we get there after a three hour bus ride and the mountains of Stowe Vermont are lovely.  The city seems timid, but abustle with charm and I am lodge ready!  First, though, we need to take a gondola across a mountain.  I once feared gondolas intensely, and now I only fear them momentarily, so much so that I was able to take in some lovely views!  Upon arrival Hiro scurried off to ski down some frighteningly tall mountains while Brad and I made way for the lodge for a brunch-time snack.

We had chicken wings!  It was a first for me.

The chicken wings (and Bloody Mary) gave me courage.  I enrolled in a lesson!

The lesson was really the best way to go.  For an hour we did nothing more than scoot around on one ski, dragging our legs across the slick terrain to get a feeling for traction.  Owing to my painful experiences in snowboarding I felt old hat at this and wasn’t as afraid as many of my timid ski schoolers.  This gave me an edge.  I was the girl who seemed cool.  Most people in super rudimentary ski school are there because they are not cool.  They are afraid of falling.  They do not want to have the experience I had last year.

There’s really something to courage and confidence because I really convinced myself I was getting it, and after awhile, it seemed I was.  I took to the bunny slopes easily and started to weave and turn confidently.  Hiro and Brad arrived at the end of my lesson to find me smiling and waving and asking if I could go up the “magic carpet” (children’s ski lift) one more time?!

Of course my cockiness had to meet its end.  Coming back to the bus I thought I was trained enough to take to a steeper hill.  I fell, couldn’t get up and nearly rolled down the hill.  But, in the end, I enjoyed the triumph.  I don’t know that I’ll ever take to a Black Diamond, but I’m game to tear up that bunny hill any day.

Now, I’m not one to condone drinking excessively, or requiring it to have a good time.  I’ve seen how destructive it can be to people’s lives.  That said…getting drunk can be fun as hell!

So when I heard that line a few weeks ago, I happened to also be trying to think of new adventures to have, and boom!  What if I drank a bottle of wine as I started writing a story?  Just sort of see what happens?  Yeah!  Do it!

This adventure will be good for me for two reasons.  The first is that I’m not a fan of wine.  I have tried countless glasses with friends over the years, and I have never found a wine that I would enjoy drinking, like, at all.  So, by making myself taste an entire bottle, I hopefully will be one small step closer to acquiring a taste for wine.  And if not, maybe the more drunk I get, the less I will care about how disgusting it tastes.

The second thing is that oftentimes I can come up with great story ideas, great plots, but I never actually sit down and put the pen to paper and write.  But a good friend of mine from college taught me a way to get through writing difficult analytical papers…you take a shot of liquor, then drink beer as you write the paper.  Make sure you do this a day or two before the paper is due so that you have time to edit out possible drunk ramblings, and the many misspellings or dangling modifiers.    So maybe drinking while trying to at least start a story, or create a new one, would be beneficial?  We shall see.

Now, I am writing this Saturday night (February 18th, 2012).  But I will most likely edit it tomorrow afternoon, throw in the random pictures I may take, and then post it tomorrow night.

So, without further ado, here we go.

A sultry smoke fills the air, cascading down the walls as it surrounds the booth.  It’s patrons wave it aside, annoyed by the smell of cheap cigarettes from the teenagers sitting behind them.  The smoke can be tolerated, can be ignored.  What can’t be ignored is who these kids are.  All of them never worked a day in their life; just road the wave of daddy’s pocketbook.

Berton Campbell, age 18.  Son of the largest owner of Lexus dealerships in the metro area.

Thomas Kennedy, age 17.  His father ran the books for Campbell’s dealerships, making adjustments here or there across all aspects of their files.

And last, Patrick Burns, age 19.  His dad was the one who actually ran the whole business.  He’s the one who connected the underbelly of society to Campbells dealership.  And of course, his son assumed that meant he ran the two kids sitting across from him.

Burns was telling another story, laughing about some girl he met, fucked, and then walked away from at a party last night.  Kennedy and Campbell laughed at all the right parts, asked the right questions about how much she moaned during the sex or despaired when he left her.  They were good soldiers; they already had learned how to keep their boss happy.  They already learned that they had to protect him not only from toughs but also from a belief that he is like mortal men.  Kennedy and Campbell were the ones that the gentlemen sitting at table 42 had to worry about. Young as they were, if they knew their role, they wouldn’t go down without some form of bloodshed.

But for as good of soldiers as they were, it was all over in a flash, just as it should be.  They are followed outside.  Number 1 asks for a light.  When casually reaching in his pockets,  Burns is thrown to the ground by Number 4.  Number 3 punches Kennedy in the throat as Number 2 hits Campbell on the kidney, then temple.  He goes down quickly as Kennedy tries to scream out but can’t.  Number 1 walks up to him and gives him the envelope as the rest of them carry Burns away.

The only surprise is that Kennedy still reaches for his gun.  Even though he is gasping, can’t breathe, wheezing nothing into his lungs, he still reaches for his gun and tries to shoot at these people that are taking away the only thing that protects his existence.  Number 1 has to knife Kennedy’s trigger finger off, quickly and with precision, before walking along with the rest.

In the van, the Numbers don’t speak.  There’s no need to; it has been accomplished with success.  There may have been blood shed, which is to be avoided.  But that isn’t the worst outcome.  Zero will be happy; he has his ransom without harm.  He can stop this syndicate and worry about the next.  He can move onto Phase Nine of the Tenth Plan.  Number 1 didn’t know much about Zero, but he knew that Phase Ten was the ultimate goal, what Zero had been waiting years to achieve.

And that is where I stopped writing.  I may have drank it too quickly.  I think I finished the bottle in about an hour and a half, and I started drinking around 3:30am.  So I was tired and very quickly drunk.  But I’m fairly pleased with the short few paragraphs I created.  And I’m curious where it will lead.  I think I will have to continue this tradition to continue this story.

And side note, but does the wine cork remover look like Johnny 5 to anyone else?

I have never had Ethiopian food.  Hell, I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen seen ANY kind of African cuisine.  Do they base their meals on rice, similar to Asian cultures?  Do they have bread?  Something like the Indian dish naan?  Do they use lots of meats, veggies, spices?  I really had no idea what I was getting myself into.  And to be honest, the outside of the store didn’t make it look terribly impressive…

Now, the above picture is the street view of Fasika (it is the establishment on the corner if you can’t see the sign well).  What you don’t see is that around the corner (where we parked) is an empty lot full of dead grass and broken bottles.  Not exactly the kind of place you want next door to a raved about food joint.  But once we got inside, my opinion changed IMMEDIATELY

It smelt so good!  Like…wow.  The air was just full of spices and freshness.  I don’t know any other way to describe it.  It just smelled like an amazing kitchen.

It wasn’t an overly large restaurant, but there was ample space.  So after we were led to our table, we looked at the menu.  And sure enough, I had no idea what any of the things were based on their names.  They had a few small descriptions, but even in them, they used foods with names I didn’t recognize.  So first we ordered some Ethiopian tea to mull over our decision.

If anything, the tea fit right in with the atmosphere.  It tasted very similar to a chai but with even more of a spice flavor to it.  It made me ready to dive into the menu.

The only common word used throughout the menu options was “injera” which I took to be the sort of base for all of their meals.  I looked around at what people at other tables were eating to figure out if injera was a kind of rice, bread, or what.  It looked similar to naan, but very large and somewhat spongey.  Interesting.

Since I had no idea what I would be ordering, I thought I would just go all out crazy and order whatever would be the most difficult to pronounce.  Sounds reasonable, right?  Well, when I tried to order the Qunta Firfir, the waitress just gave me a shocked stare.  She asked, “Have you had that before?”

“No, I’ve never actually had any Ethiopian food before,” I admitted, somewhat bashfully.

“Well, do you like spicey foods?  Like hot things?”

“No, actually, I don’t handle hot spices that well.”

She gave me a stern look, which kind of surprised me.  “Well, then you aren’t going to order that.  You want the Tibs.  If you haven’t had Tibs, order the Tibs.  You’ll love it.”

“Um…ok.  Can I please have the Tibs?”

“Yes, you’ll love it.”

Apparently I wouldn’t be ordering the most challenging thing to pronounce.  Oh well.

After Jamison ordered some kind of chicken entree, we sipped our tea and conversed about times past and hopeful future adventures (we both realized we were interested in acupuncture but had no idea where to go.  Anyone know a place in the TC?).

After only like five minutes, our food arrived.  Speedy service at a sit down place is always nice!  And man…the plates were HUGE!

It was just…so big!  (that’s what she said).

What we were treated to was an amazing lunch.  The food was as delicious as it was large. Tibs is apparently cooked beef with peppers and onions in a delicious broth.  It also came with a small salad with a dressing similar to Italian, and of course injera.  Jamison’s was something like a chicken mix, paste, curry type thing with a hard boiled egg, some kind of a thick cottage cheese, injera, and a salad.

Jamison and I both barely ate half of our meals, which meant some amazing left overs for later in the week!  I for sure would recommend Fasika as a place for trying new food, or for great food in general!  I can’t wait for my next new food adventure!

I can’t imagine that’s a standard Friday for most, but working for MIT, it curves toward the normal.  Adventure could be found in the construction of the activity.  I had to join a group of unknowns for meet and greet games, a luncheon and the aforementioned 4 hours of community service activity.It should be noted that I am almost 30 and signed up for this.  I shouldn’t be so introverted and awkward.  I should be able to have a working lunch without feeling the fear, dread and panic that small talk often breeds in me.  The easy thing to do would be not to.  I didn’t have to go.  The billed, “Day of Service” actually had to be approved by my boss.  But I wanted to help.  I wanted to meet other people that wanted to help.  I truly wanted to feel like something I did in my everyday professional life amounted to something more than money and administrative arguments (see: I am a financial administrator). 

And wouldn’t you know, there was truly nothing to fear.  NOTHING.  It helps that MIT is an environment that attracts passionate people.  By passionate I mean to suggest people who are intensely interested in their line of work.  Often these people are focus.  So focused that they may exhibit tendencies similar to mine – introversion, reluctance to make a move, small-talk aversion.  This is a generalization, but one that is comforting to me.  Because it just so happened that my foray into professional meet and greets was well accepted.  People were anxious to serve and seemed duly dedicated to the task at hand. 

I met an Institute retiree, Betty Davis (her actual name) that chatted me up for hours.  Each word I spoke served to relax me more and come the end of our service task I knew Betty’s favorite books, had a standing date to go water jogging with her at the community pool and was regaled with stories of her tenure at MIT. 

I found that once I stopped worrying what people thought of me I had time to focus on what I thought of people.  To learn from them, better understand them, and best yet, befriend them. 

This was no great breakthrough for me.  I’ve been making active strides to be less hidden, especially in the campaign of 2010, but it’s good to again get out on the ledge.  Because sometimes, the view changes.