Middle age, love handles, and incandescent happiness

I turn 35 today, and my celebratory instinct was to hide myself away in the mountains over the weekend in the company of a like-minded friend. (But with a view like this, I feel vindicated against anyone who would criticize my anti-social life choices.)

Modern life expectancy notwithstanding, I feel I have officially reached middle age. For one, I’ve never been able to envision myself getting old, and also, I don’t have a retirement plan. So death at 70 would be convenient. I’m very practical.

I’m trying to process the fact that in a mere five years I will be forty when on most days I’m still trying to imagine what being a real adult with actual property and insurance policies must feel like. Also, I’ve never felt a strong desire to have children, but what if I suddenly start to? Even if I met someone tomorrow and got pregnant the next day, medically I’d be considered a geriatric mother. I don’t know how I feel about that. 

Also, thresholds are changing without my consent. For one, I’m getting grumpy. I have zero tolerance for people who don’t communicate, people who smoke their acrid cigars in the stairwell, people who text and walk (or operate motorized vehicles) without looking up, people who don’t parent their children properly (because I’m a parenting expert), and general poor taste, immature behavior, pettiness and nonsense. Who. has. got. the. time. I’m too busy thinking about cheese. 

Speaking of cheese, my love handles are out of control. I feel like my metabolism this year decided to go on strike. Like, it shows up to work, but then it just sits at its desk and does nothing all day. I exercise regularly and I eat the same way I’ve done for years (which is healthier than the average person), yet I continue to discover folds of skin that never used to be there. Do I resign myself to defeat and buy larger trousers, or do I stop eating all the things that make life worth living? 

Speaking of resignation and defeat, no matter how many self improvements I manage to achieve, some things are just never going to change. My habits and preferences are entrenched. For example, I will always and instinctively offer words and phrases to finish your sentences. I know this drives some people nuts (sorry, mom). I’d like to think it’s my way of showing you that I’m engaged with what you’re saying. (In fact, if I’m not finishing your sentences, I’m probably not listening to you.) Also, there is undeniably a superior way of doing the dishes and stacking them on the drying rack, and my way is the superior way. 

Despite this increase in crankiness and rigidity (or, in the case of my love handles, lack of rigidity), there is at least one awesome thing about getting older, and that is that life just keeps getting better. The quality of friendships, the travels, the challenges, the experiences, the overall random, joy-inspiring, delightfully unexpected moments that prove to me that Jesus freaking LOVES me… they just get better. 

Like today. Stephanie and I wandered around the beautiful town of Deir El Qamar and were on our way to the ancient mosque when we were stopped in our tracks by an elderly man who asked us if we had been by his wax museum. (In fact, we had just come from having avoided going in.) We felt we could not say no to this insistent old man, so we let him lead us right back. He asked his equally elderly, nearly toothless assistant to give us the tour (which he did with broken English and gusto), and then he had us sit down for a glass of wine (which was very good), and then he had us stay for lunch (which was also very good). 

Come to realize, this man is terribly wealthy and hails from a noble family dating back many centuries. He owns two palaces in town (one of which houses the wax museum), several other estates around Lebanon, and a house in Paris. He’s been decorated six times in both France and Lebanon, and he knows all of the political elite in the country. But he is wonderfully simple, generously hospitable, refreshingly unpretentious, and endearingly frank. In short, it was just another random, joy-inspiring, delightfully unexpected moment that makes life so good. 

As I sit here in my beautiful room and type the last sentences of this post, I feel deeply, incandescently happy. I’m not where I thought I would be at 35, but then again, where did I think I would be? 

“Traveler, there is no path; the path is made by walking.” ~ Antonio Machado 

Is my enneagram number the reason I’m still single?

So here’s the situation. I turn 35 in four months. I haven’t been in a relationship or even dated anyone in nine years, which, depending on your worldview, might seem really sad to you. But let’s pretend you’re not a Lebanese grandma. Or a Lebanese taxi driver. Or any Lebanese person for that matter. 

I’m going to say something that might possibly make me sound self-absorbed, but I don’t at all mean it that way: I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of rejection over the years, and I just do not understand why. I mean, I have my sh*t together, I’m reasonably attractive, I’m emotionally low maintenance (holler!), and while I very much enjoy the finer things in life, I’m used to paying for all of that myself. So why are the men making themselves scarce?

Is it because I’m also decisive and willful and honest? Is it because I don’t approach the negotiating table already having reduced my demands? Or is it because I’m not easily impressed or controlled? I swear, I must have a “bugger off” sign on my forehead that I did not put there.

I was absent when my work colleagues went through an Enneagram training in which they all took the test to identify their numbers. Apparently I didn’t need to be present to take the test, because basically everyone immediately identified me as an 8 (“the challenger”). I guess I’m not an enigma. 

I suppose I didn’t do myself any favors by moving to a Middle Eastern country in which men love blondes but not necessarily blondes who challenge them. When I first arrived, everyone told me to brace myself as I was sure to get lots of male attention. Two years on, I barely get side glances. Which honestly I’m okay with, because it must get really tiring after a while. Not that I would know. 

I’ve been on two dates in these two years. One with a man who is perfectly good and decent but not at all my type, and one with a guy who is entirely my type, but perhaps imperfectly good and decent. If you’re that second guy and you happen to be reading this, I’m still interested. I don’t want someone who is squeaky clean, just someone who is real and who won’t fall off his chair the moment I ask him a probing question. 

Also, please tell me you don’t live with your mother…

Enough.

Two more mass shootings in which a maladjusted young man takes up his gun and goes on a rampage because he’s angry about something. Just another day in America. Just another round of media outcry, political farce and societal theater. 

I’m going to say what basically every other country is thinking right now: America, we have forfeited the right to mourn mass shootings. 

Why? Because when it comes down to it, we simply refuse to change. These senseless tragedies keep happening and we keep feeling acute pain and sorrow - for about two minutes - and then we shrug our shoulders and move on. So as long as our people and our politicians insist on keeping gun ownership legal, I don’t want to hear about it. 

Are we going to actually decide that it’s worth sacrificing what is now practically equal to a human right to bear arms for the good of our nation, or are we going to continue being a people who values its privileges above its principles? And I’m especially talking to you, American Christian who claims to love Jesus yet insists on conflating the Bill of Rights and the Bible. Get your head out of your ass and start actually bringing heaven to earth as we were put here to do. What does that mandate mean to you?

In the words of my uncle during one of his eloquent rants: “Innovate, or shut up.” 

I'm done. 

A eulogy of sorts

My grandfather isn’t dead yet, but when he does die I might not know about it. So I’m grieving him early. 

He has essentially disappeared from my life (his choice), and after a recent and emotional family reunion, I feel the need to eulogize him. 

Death is an interesting thing. It immortalizes those who die young, and it releases the living to be generous with those who die old. After all, people stop disappointing you when they’re dead. It’s easy to be generous.

Beginnings are important, but they don’t live on in people’s memories. Endings do, ironically. And my grandfather didn’t end well. In fact, he isolated himself entirely from his family, he concocted false versions of events in order to justify his irrational actions, and he succumbed to a woman who utterly controlled him to his and all of our detriment. 

Yet, I want to say that my grandfather was a good man. He was a simple man; his routine consisted of watching the Yankees play ball, walking the dog, completing crossword puzzles, and golfing. I remember him as one who spent his retirement years working at the local parish food pantry. Whenever I visited as a kid I’d help him bag food and hand it out to people. He possessed good comedic timing and a jolly laugh. He taught me a dance he learned when he was stationed in Japan during the Korean War. He told me stories of how he knew Grandma was the one the moment he started dancing with her. But that’s how I knew him as a child. 

Becoming an adult is disappointing in that you find out all sorts of things about your relatives that you never knew. They cease to be larger than life and shrink down to regular, dysfunctional size. Family skeletons start making appearances, and middle-aged adult children start confronting what actually happened when they were kids. They begin putting words to their father’s violent outbursts, the verbal aggression, the emotional distance. Unpretty things surface when you start to dig. 

After Grandma died seven years ago, Grandpa opened up emotionally in a way we’d never seen before. But then he met a woman who carries her own baggage so large, there was no longer any room for us. Now my memories are of when he lied to me about having plans to spend Thanksgiving elsewhere the time my father and I flew in from overseas to spend the holiday with him and our family. Or when we met briefly at my great-aunt’s funeral and he told me he’d join us at the family restaurant after the wake. He never showed. Never mind that he has so few opportunities to see his only granddaughter because she lives on a different continent. And those are the least offensive things he did to a member of his family. My brother, aunt, uncle, father and cousin were all treated with less consideration. 

So instead of dedicating this eulogy to him, I’ll dedicate it to his children - three of the most emotionally courageous people I know. My aunt, who never felt her father’s love and bore the brunt of his emotional violence all her life, yet isn’t bitter. My father, who at the age of 58 chose to dig deep and identify the roots of his anxiety, taking him on a humbling journey towards emotional health. My uncle, whose wisdom and integrity get dismissed far too often by people who don’t appreciate what he can bring to the table, yet who continues to walk the line with humor and self-deprecation. Grandpa can’t take credit for how well his kids turned out - their present selves are entirely a product of God’s grace and patient work - but they are what he leaves behind. So. Because he’s gone and we can be generous, we’ll let them be his legacy. His children are doing the emotional work of confronting the past so that his grandchildren can walk uninhibited into the future.

On August 27, 2018, I called to wish him a happy birthday. I wasn't expecting him to pick up as he was never home since meeting 'that woman'. But to my surprise he answered, and when it became clear that I had totally mistaken the date (it was my grandmother's birthday, not his) he chuckled and began talking just like old times. For 30 providential minutes he reverted back to who he used to be to me; he was open and loving and happy. I hung up feeling like God had just given me a gift.

That was the last time we spoke. Since then things have gotten really bad. But I choose to remember him the way he was for those 30 minutes. Because it's a good ending, and it's the one I want to live on in my memory.

I almost died in Baghdad

First of all, I did not almost die in Baghdad. I was quite safe the whole time. I just said that in reference to an inside joke I had with one of my travel companions, and also because that’s what we think of when we think of Baghdad, right? BOOM.

To be truthful, Baghdad makes Beirut seem like an oasis. Even though Beirut is a mess, there are visible signs of real prosperity and enterprise all around. Baghdad feels forlorn and forgotten by the world. Also, if you think Heathrow airport security is intense, you have no idea. To get on the plane in Baghdad, we had to pass through seven security checks, two of which included sniffer dogs and emptying the taxi of ourselves and our luggage (just FYI, in case you ever go). But unlike at Heathrow, they could care less if you have 2 ml of liquid over the limit. I went through with a full water bottle and all of my toiletries - not once did anyone say anything. The Iraqis have other things to worry about (like actual explosive materials), and I find that refreshing. We’re so obsessed with safety in the West, we rob people of their shampoo. We’re absurd. 

Anyway, Baghdad. It’s pretty rundown. But to be fair, it’s been bombed a few times. There are lots of restaurants and plenty of made-in-China-or-Turkey shopping, but not much else. There is a large complex that used to be a theater and then became a hospital and then became a military barracks. Now it’s abandoned and plundered. The square (which is actually a circle) where the infamous scene of angry citizens pulling down the Saddam statue took place is closed off by a makeshift wall. Nothing has been done to redeem the space. 

What was once the high street is gloomy when it’s empty of people (we drove through in the afternoon but we’re told commerce is booming in the morning hours). There aren’t any high rises or apartment blocks like we have in Beirut or most other cities. The houses and churches are walled in to protect from car bombs and other explosions. 

I wouldn’t thrive here. But I enjoyed seeing the place. And observing my Lebanese travel companions be tourists in a neighboring country was fun for me. Don’t make the mistake of thinking Arabs are all the same across the Middle East. Not so.

One, the Lebanese like to display their wealth, especially wealth they don't have. Drive around Beirut for a day, and you’ll see about 432 Range Rovers, 348 Mercedes/BMWs/Audis, 36 Porsches, 10 Jaguars, 5 Ferraris, and a Maserati or two. The Iraqis drive Kias, Hyundais and Toyota Land Cruisers. 

Two, the Lebanese don’t have the same obsession with white cars as the Iraqis apparently do. I’m not kidding: you can step outside, look to the left, look to the right, and count ten white cars within 40 feet of you. Seventy percent of any given parking lot is white. What did our host drive? A white Hyundai. 

Three, Lebanese men are notoriously vain (in Beirut there’s a barber shop on every corner, my favorite being one called “House of Handsome” - I’m not making this up), but Iraqi guys…oh my goodness. While the Lebanese favor the immaculate bushy beard, easily 7 out of 10 Iraqi guys look like Arab Johnny Bravos: hair gelled straight up. Hilarity. 

Four, foreigners are not exotic to the Lebanese. Probably because most have lived overseas at some point or have family who do. I never get stared at in Beirut. I definitely got stared at in Baghdad. Especially when I inadvertently stepped into a males-only part of a restaurant to look at the fish. Oops. 

Five, though the Lebanese are known for their hospitality, I think the Iraqis have them beat. We hit the ground eating and we did not stop eating. There was food and more food, then coffee, then tea, then more food, then more coffee, then more tea. At the end of the trip, my body was dying to come home and return to normalcy. And perhaps Lent. 

 

An ode to Uber drivers

Because I’m pretty slow at being modern, I had never used Uber until I moved to Beirut, took one look at the way people drive and decided that I didn’t want to buy a car. To my great surprise and convenience, I learned that Uber was a thing here (as is Caribou Coffee from Minnesota - random), so I decided to give it a try. A year later, I’m still alive and still saving money on car insurance. 

Here are the guys who have been getting me around town… 

The introvert. The best Uber driver is the one who doesn’t feel the need to make conversation, he just gets me to where I want to go. LOVE that guy.

The extrovert. This guy likes to make conversation but generally only speaks Arabic or French, and when we establish that I don’t speak those languages, he makes a few feeble attempts at English but eventually falls silent and just drives. Sometimes a friend will call him on the phone and he’ll happily chat away and forget I’m there. 

The DUI guy. This has only happened to me once, but he’s the guy who smoked or snorted something before picking me up, has no idea where he’s going, drives over a cement divider, looks confused about what that noise was, and doesn’t respond when I give him direction. 

The guy who has relatives in Sweden. There are anywhere between 9 and 14 million Lebanese living outside of Lebanon, most of them in the States, Canada or Brazil. But quite a few live in Europe, and there will always be the driver who, when he learns that I’m Swedish, sits up straight, turns around and excitedly exclaims, “Hur mår du?!?” (How are you?). He then proceeds to list off all the relatives he has living in Göteborg, Stockholm, Malmö and Linköping. Usually he’s the unfortunate sibling who didn’t manage to snag a Swedish spouse and is therefore relegated to taking care of the matriarch who refuses to leave her village. 

The moonlighter. He works as a high school teacher by day, an Uber driver by night. Since most west-bound flights take off in the middle of the night here, he’s usually the one driving me to the airport. His English is pretty good and he asks me for suggestions for where to go on his honeymoon since he’s finally saved up enough money to marry his fiancee of nine years. 

The archeologist. This one is my favorite. He’s educated, cultured, speaks seven languages, and engages in genuinely interesting conversation about religion and politics in Lebanon. He can tell me anthropological stories about the buildings we drive by and I think to myself, what’s he doing driving a taxi for a living? (Then again, I was an educated, cultured, multi-linguist who worked at a car rental desk once upon a time, so I don’t judge. We all have our journeys.) 

The responsible citizen. He’s the one who shyly but kindly suggested I change my Uber profile name from Annika to something else as the last syllable, if mispronounced, sounds like a sexual expletive in Arabic. (My profile name now reads ‘Ani’.)   

And my (least) favorite…

The flirt. This is the guy who barely speaks any English but insists on ‘teaching me Arabic’ and asking questions like “Do you have a husband,” “Why aren’t you married,” “Do you have a boyfriend,” “Why don’t you have a boyfriend.” And even though I’m trying demonstrably to be wrapped up in what’s happening outside my car window, he’ll move on to ask how old I am, and when I tell him I’m 33 he’ll tell me he’s 37, and also single!!…then waits for me to make the obvious connection. Also, he’s so busy looking at and talking to me through the rearview mirror that he keeps missing the turn. The Uber app doesn’t include “flirts too much” as a reportable problem, so I choose “GPS map” (‘cause he’s certainly reading my map wrong). 

That all said, I put my life into these men’s hands almost daily, and I’m alive to tell the tale. So hats off to the Uber drivers of Beirut. You may vex me at times, but you also save me from having to deal with crazy women driving black SUVs. For that, I thank you.

Affirming the good

I suppose it’s late for me to start voicing thoughts about the #MeToo campaign, but neither do I have that much to say about it, truthfully. I’ve stayed peripherally aware of the goings on, and I certainly champion the idea that it’s time for despicable male behavior to be called out and publicly condemned. I also applaud the tremendous bravery that women have shown in voicing their painful experiences for the sake of future generations of women. That said, I do have reservations about the extreme degree to which the pendulum has swung, because I fear it will only swing back to the opposite extreme once the fervor has cooled and/or persecuted parties get fed up (rightly or wrongly). 

I almost feel ashamed to admit this in the face of so much female long-suffering, but I’ve never been the victim of abuse, harassment or blatant discrimination by any man - and apparently this makes me the exception. I’ve never been given a reason to hate or distrust men, and I credit my family for that gift. I am a granddaughter to men of kindness and decency, a daughter to a man of integrity and perseverance, a sister to a man of profound emotional courage. I am also a friend to many many good men - men of great intelligence, empathy, conviction, love, humor and generosity; single, married, old and young. 

Because so many voices are already addressing the evil, I want to lend my voice to affirm the good. There are so many guys out there who don’t know how to be proper men. But there are so many who do. So here’s my love letter to all you decent, kind hearted, secure, responsible, protective, encouraging blokes out there: 

Thank you for respecting me, even after having seen me at my worst. 

Thank you for not feeling threatened or competitive when interacting with me in a professional capacity. 

Thank you for noticing and affirming my giftings without flattery or flirtation.

Thank you for allowing me to be ‘one of the guys’ without chiding me to toughen up. You’ve allowed me to be myself without making me feel less than. 

Thank you for making me laugh and teaching me not to take myself too seriously. 

Thank you for seeing the leader in me and for giving me a chance to prove myself. Thanks also for not forcing me to prove myself in order to be worth something. 

Thank you for giving me a place at the table, whether that be your kitchen table or your corporate table. 

Thank you for liking my cooking. 

Thank you for being my travel companions and sharing the thrill of discovering new places. 

Thank you for opening the door for me and paying for meals once in a while. I actually think it’s really nice to be cared for in that way. 

Thank you for being honest about your feelings. They haven’t always been in sync with mine, but we’ve been able to rise above it and not let our friendship suffer. That means so much in the long run. 

If I ever have a daughter, I will teach her to befriend men like you, to affirm men like you, to love men like you. 

Not all men have behaved well around me, but they fade in my memory; you are forever etched. Again, thanks guys. You may not know who you are, but I certainly do.