Nancy's Musings

So, my warthog flag is holding steady. I mean, that particular hill hasn't been under much enemy fire lately, but I'm still proud. A friend pointed out to me last night while I was being horrible that I need to articulate my deal-breakers. I'm not certain she's right, or that she quite understands what I mean. When I say I'm looking for another warthog, I'm talking about affect, about snap judgments and intuition - someone who seems to be like me. I can weed out the abusive jerks later, if it comes up. It's not an issue when your level of commitment is less than two hours . So these are all immediate and obvious things, the opposite of which will simply warrant refusing a date, unless he plays a *Wild Card 1) He's a baptized and active member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints spiritually, if not culturally. Bare minimum and total deal-breaker. 2) Speaks English as a first language. And  Geek  second. He's gotta know what I'...

Last night, a former student invited me to attend La Traviata with her family. When I received the invitation, I pondered seriously for several minutes: I am behind in my weekly reading (that sounds like Elementary School homework. It's not), and will miss a family gettogether today to play ketchup, so attending a family-external cultural event is/was a sacrifice of valuable study time. This morning, looking back at those hours and the conversation and my current reign as Queen of Awkward, I have not a single regret. No regrets. That's not only unprecedented, it's unimaginable. No guilt for missing study time, no self-hate for the stupid things I said, no resentment for the inaccessibility of "High Culture" entertainment, and no jealousy about class difference. The Utah Opera Company, like most high culture franchises, struggles in today's economy as popular culture becomes less stigmatized and more competitive, as unemployment rises, and as Utah's m...

You can't choose who you love, but choose who you don't love. Measure love carefully. Never give too much. There are always rules about whom we love and how. There have always been rules, since Eve loved Adam, and Adam loved Eve, and I don't know who loved whom first and I don't care. The rules, I understand. But the rules are not about how much love we give, or how freely. The rules are about the manner of expression. A parent may discipline. A married couple may express themselves sexually. A courting couple enacts romance. A child hugs and kisses. A student listens. A peer offers constructive criticism. Anyone may give gifts, or smiles, or compliments. Quick study: if you had the money, to whom would you give a car? A parent? Certainly! Spouse? Child? Neighbor? . . . when would giving a car be a really bad idea? And there are very clear rules about when it's not okay to receive or give lavish gifts, regardless of the financial circumstance of the giver. ...

When I was seven, I wanted to be a ballerina. When I was ten, I realized I'd rather be a choreographer because serious lifestyle clash. When I was fourteen, I didn't want to do anything but read. Forever. When I turned fifteen I decided to write instead. And so I did. Do. Both. My entire academic path is built on an obscure privilege: I am a reader. My high test scores and academic success are all due to this inadvertent fact. It required no discipline to achieve, did reading. Schoolwork required some discipline, but since it's mostly reading and writing, I had a huge advantage. My career trajectory is based more than I care to admit on this: I want to read and write as much as possible. Under all the rhetoric of having a "calling" and "following my passion" is that simple fact: I am a reader. But reading and writing do not help with the single skill I never acquired, and never wanted to acquire: teaching. I am not a teacher. Yet. Teaching is the n...

This hill is where I plant my flag. I love and admire good men, from historical figures to near relatives. I want to marry one (a man, not a relative). But I have gotten to know fewer than ten men in the last ten years. My roommates and other non-expert acquaintances always guilt me into giving these guys a chance. "You don't even know him!" they say, but they don't understand. Because I'm not like them. I'm not like any of them. I'm a warthog. The truth is that I've got the "I'll know" syndrome from  Guys and Dolls . I DON'T know, precisely. I haven't made that mistake, although "not a gambler" is a really good place to start. But let's start with "he'll be sincerely interested in me:" the only deal-breaker currently active. I am truly, pathetically desperate. I can tell by the relish with which I cultivated my last dating failure. I keep hoping to be asked on dates by men I wouldn't hire...

Today a respected leader interpreted for our congregation that we should stop comparing ourselves to each-other and trying to be perfect. My first thought was “wait. . . but Jesus said. . .” Jesus said, “Be ye therefore perfect, even as your father which is in heaven is perfect” (Matt. 5:48, KJB ). He gave those instructions after attempting to alter justice-based (love your friends & hate your enemies) social attitudes to something much more difficult: mercy. He wants us (everyone) to feel and show love to those who hate or hurt us. He knew we would not succeed immediately. Some of us will struggle with that kind of love our whole lives. Some of us will simply give in to a very human need for justice and retribution. And yet he reiterated this commandment's importance by urging us to be “perfect.” I can think of three interpretations of that scripture, but none of them seems quite right. We can change our standards of “perfect” to fit whatever we are already; we can t...

I have S.A.D., and January is always my WORST MONTH up here in the land of four seasons. Down in the desert, Summer is just as bad, for no apparent reason. Possibly something about it being TOO HOT TO LEAVE THE HOUSE. My internal body temp is rock solid. I don't cool down easily, so I get heat stroke, heat exhaustion, and other heat-related illnesses very easily, and because I don't tolerate water well either, it's hard to prevent them. On the plus side, in Winter I sleep with the window open. I don't chill easily. Once I get going, I can shovel snow in a t-shirt. Did it just the other day, matter-of-fact. But S.A.D. isn't about internal temperatures, it's about sunlight. When I don't get enough, I fall into a trough of despair and desperation. It's quite visible. I swear more often, I tie myself into immobilizing stress-knots (so many stresses and pressures I can't prioritize, so I do nothing), and I show signs of clinical depression, like inso...