10/27/05
Airtran Flight 51, Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport to Hartsfield Jackson Atlanta International Airport:

The last time I saw this city from the air was from a bobbling helicopter, and then it was normal. Lit. Populated. This time it was littered with blue roofs looking like perfectly square, perfectly blue pools. Strewn with pockets of light. Pockets of civilization. The normally glowing skyline of downtown was dim, and in tonight's falling dusk it appeared as though the buildings of the CBD were stretching their hardest to uproot their structures and leave the scarred, pockmarked city.

Further east, the worst hit neighborhoods were just dark. No street lights and no cars to pierce this desolate darkness with their beams of light. Hope ran away hand in hand with the light from his poor, poor city that so quickly got under my skin.

I get wrapped up in the day-to-day and forget about the people just on the other side of the canal that is my next-door neighbor. When my morning drive takes me across a 20 mile, perfectly straight causeway I'm treated to a perfect sunrise that begs ignorance to the problems I drive further away from with each intensification of the orange glow. The sun fingers its purples and oranges up across the lake, such that the lake falls right off the edge of the earth Then, when I turn west towards Robert on I-12 a brilliantly golden orb is funneled behind me by the channel of foilage that frames the highway. So with this perfectly normal daily ritual that obfuscates the outside world, how can I help but to think about nature's profound beauty and the trite healing power of time? How can I help but to feel childishly optimistic, to feel every morning my faith in New Orlean's successful return rise with the creeping sun? How can I help but to forget about the stark difference in my morning's routine from the reality existing 10 feet across a deviant flow of water from my front door?

But from the air and its new perspective on the mangled mass splayed at my doorstep, I'm reminded of how blessed I am. More importantly, this picture has served as the necessary impetus for the situation to hit home, and for me to realize that the best way for me to help since I've got no dry walling or home rebuilding experience (and no secret contractor friends) is to do the cheesy thing of listening, smiling, and offering commraderie. Conversations with absolutely random people on the plane and with coworkers in the past week indicate that all most people want right now (again, other than a visit from their insurance adjustor or a contractor) is someone to tell their story to, to commiserate with. And I can do that.

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Dear Perfect Man,

I've been thinking about you for a little while now, but had kind of forgotten about you in the past 2 months because, well, you know how life gets in the way of relationships like these. But this weekend was a Married-Engaged Persons reunion, too, apparently, and not just GT's Homecoming. How do so many people find the person they want to spend the rest of their lives with in the first 20 years of life? If the divorce rate is 50%, then by gosh some of these people must be horribly wrong! Anyway, all this togetherness talk got me thinking about you again, and as always, refining who you are. So let me lay some things out for you, P.M..

First, you have to know something about me. They might be minor, I agree, but I think it says alot about me if you overanalyze it enough (and I know you will, P.M., because that's part of your requirements):

I keep a notepad and pen nearby whenever I read. Even fiction. Even for pleasure.

I keep a list of words I don't know and then look them up at www.m-w.com.

I lack certain perseverance and follow through, and so sometimes I give up on looking up all the words on my list. Then I feel guilty and blame myself for everything else I've done poorly in the past four years.

I really like the autofill-in feature of Mozilla, especially on M-W when it reminds me of words I looked up recently and refreshes my vocab. Who needs flashcards when you've got autofill-in?

I'm very materialistic about some things. Like pens. I'm willing to spend $10 for a good rubber-gripped ball point. I'm sorry.

I get stressed out if I don't write things down when they come to mind. Which is why I always try to carry post-it notes or notepads with me, but also why, for lack of better implements, I jot notes down on (unused, thank you) tissues and 1-inch tears of scrap paper. Which is why I've also accidentally honked at people many times because I try to use my steering wheel as a firm writing surface while driving.

Sometimes I go to sleep with dirty dishes in the sink and the counter not cleaned off.

Sometimes I'd rather not talk about it. And sometimes I'd like you to ask just to ask (so I know you care and really are Perfect) and then accept unequivocally my "I don't want to talk about it." Sometimes I like thinking better than talking. Lots of times I like being alone, or with other people, more than being with you.

I have a very hard time imagining ever giving part of my life to someone else for an indefinite period of "forever." Yet, I long to pour my love and excitement and sweet ideas into you, P.M., and stop constantly day dreaming sappy melodramatic scenarious in my head when I should be thinking about separation processes. Even with my pessimism for the reality of "love" (eh, been there, done that) and its suckiness, I still want you to say "I love you" to, and you to hug with all my soul.

I want to be nervous and get butterflies when I think about seeing you.

I want you to challenge me - mentally, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. I want you to make me question what I believe and why I believe it and force me to have to explain myself so it's obvious when I'm bullshitting to be difficult and annoying to you. I want you to call me out. But I also want to be able to affect what you think. I want both of us to be better people because of being with the other person.

I want you to think I'm smart. And I want to think you're smart. I want us to talk about nerdy, stupid things during romantic, candle-lit dinners. I want you to make fun of me for always wanting to eat dessert.

Perfect Man, this isn't too much to ask for, right? And I should keep looking for you, right? Because I deserve you. Right?

Love,
Jen