Making Decisions

Sometimes you make perfectly good decisions, and everything goes terribly wrong anyway. Sometimes a bad decision you made a month or a year or five years ago suddenly causes everything to go terribly wrong in the present. Sometimes good things come from bad decisions and bad things come from sensible well thought through decisions. Sometimes you have no clue whether a decision was a good one or a bad one.

And sometimes you meant to make a decision in October that you did not for various reasons and even though you don't regret it, you know you can't just let it go again because this time you will regret it.

I have things keeping me here until the end of the summer, but at the end of August, I need to leave.

1) Do I move to D.C. like I have always wanted to because I love the city and want to be near my grandmother and also the east coast?

2) Do I move to Chicago because the city is okay and I could live with Alexa and be near my sister?

3) Do I call the French Embassy and ask to be put on a list of candidates to fill in for the assistants who cancel in August so I can go back to the life that still sometimes keeps me up at night missing it?

Any one of these could end up being a Poor Decision and that is why they terrify me. Sure I love D.C., but it's expensive and I have no job. What if I don't find one? Will I be okay living with strangers? What happens when my good friend there finds her way back to New York and leaves me possibly friendless? What do I do after I've spent all of my savings and still have no job?

Chicago is pretty cool, and I can live with my Alexa and torment my sister on the weekends that she is not traveling the country with her swords, but it's expensive and I have no job. Also, it is damn COLD in the winter. And far from many people I do not want to be far from.

I miss France desperately, and I miss the excitement, the food, the language, the uncertainty and the drama, the travel, the adventure, my friends and my students. But I remember the angry emails and the tearful phone calls home, I remember missed buses and lying officials, I remember strikes and everything being closed on Sundays and Mondays and Wednesday afternoons and sometimes Saturdays and occasionally Thursdays. I remember bleeding money and yelling at completely apathetic kids and suffering through cold showers and washing my clothes in the bathroom sink. France is almost always a terrible idea, but it is my very favorite one.

So now what?

Hopelessness and Desperation Lead to Insanity

Jobless, futureless, and emotionally devastaed, Alexa and I did indeed move to France, though we each went our separate ways, to become English Language Assistants for apathetic French teenagers.

I left the United States with my eight million pounds of luggage (maybe that's an exageration. But it did weigh 130 pounds and at the time I only weighed 105) and a shining hopeful heart.

By the time Heathrow finished with me I had been crying for four hours straight to the point where crying had made me nauseated, I had caused a bit of a scene after yelling at the girl behind the airline counter and subsequently hurling my undergarments at her and her co-workers who stepped in to save her, I hadn't slept in 38 hours, and it was beginning to dawn on me that I had left absolutely everything in the world I knew across an entire ocean.

The future, once again, looked bleak.

However, soon enough I arrived in Toulouse, the city of my heart, a city I knew and know better than any other city in the world, and I began to feel that perhaps things were about to start looking up.

I took the shuttle from the airport to the train station, where I was to take a train to my new home, Moissac.

The woman at the ticket counter told me that due to a strike, the only train to Moissac was leaving at a 4:$5, but there was a bus that left at 2:00 that I could get on. I thanked her, got the ticket, then walked the block to the bus station. With all my luggage. I sat there for nearly an hour before I noticed that my bus wasn't coming up on the schedule screen. I went up to the desk to ask about this phenomenon and was informed that I had been sold a ticket to a bus that didn't exist. I got my luggage and dragged it back to the train station and went to customer service. The woman told me that yes there was a bus, but since it was an SNCF bus and not a TER bus the bus people just didn't know about it. But if I waited around gates 18-25 I would see it eventually. So I dragged my luggage back to the bus station.
Aftter at least an hour of waiting, I found an SNCF employee who explained to me that the bus really did not exist.
I started to cry.
I was still crying as 2:00 came and went with no sign of any bus. I dragged my luggage BACK TO THE TRAIN STATION and went back to customer servcice and this time a different woman told me that there was no such bus and that my ticket was for some train that left at 4:45. Which, incidentally, would put me in Moissac JUST after the school closed for the weekend and JUST after I could no longer get a key and would be locked out for three nights.
I was crying as I purchased an international telephone card and still crying as I used a payphone to call my father in the US.

"Blluuurrg aaaah hello??"

"DADDY I WANT TO COME HOME GET ME HOME I AM IN TRAIN STATION WITH A FAKE BUS TICKET I DON'T LIKE IT HERE."

"Danielle? It is four in the morning."

"JUST GET ON THE INTERNET AND BUY ME A TICKET TO THE UNITED STATES. IMMEDIATELY. NOT EVEN A REAL BUS TOO MUCH LUGGAGE."

"I can't understand you."

"HOME! PLEASE! NO MORE FRANCE!"

"Four in the morning. Deal with it. I have faith. In you. Good night."

"I WANT TO TALK TO MY MOTHER."

Click.

I was left holding the receiver and my luggage and a ticket to a train I wasn't sure would take me to a destination I wasn't sure I wanted to go to.

The rest of the trip was equally horrifying, and among other things, I ended up throwing 110 pounds of my luggage at a very surprised and very angry French man in a suit standing at the bottom of the wrong flight of stairs.

However, despite the continuing pain, anguish, and near homicide, I did eventually arrive in Moissac.

And as the train pulled into the station, my exact thoughts were:
Oh. My. God. I left behind everything I know and love for THIS?
Because the train station was rotting away in front of me, the houses looked abandoned and weeds were taking over everything and it just looked like death.
I got off the train, and remembered the instructions that had been given to me: take a cab.

Take a cab? Take a CAB? WHAT CAB?

My cell had run out of batteries, I didn't know the number of a cab company (as it turned out, Moissac has one cab company, and that cab company has one cab, and that cab is almost always in Montauban). It was getting dark, there was no payphone and even if there was one you need a special card for it WHICH I DIDN'T HAVE.

I decided then that if I survived until the next day I was going right back home and never going back to France for the rest of my life ever in protest of the existence of the entirety of EUROPE.
There is more to the story, but this is becoming long, so in the interest of time I will say this. I eventually, after some more anguish and suffering and another day and a rooster, made it to my new home where I immediately met a girl who was to become one of the best friends I will ever have in this world who immediately did not like me. The school year started, and I had amazing students, worked with amazing teachers, met amazing people and did things I still don't believe I did. I made friends with people from 8 different countries, traveled to 9 countries, danced all night, showered in champagne, straddled two continents, watched the sun set over the sea from the steps of the Temple of Poseidon.

The bad decision wasn't moving to France. It was deliberately deciding not to spend a second year there by rejecting the position I was offered. It is the only decision I have ever made in my life that I truly and utterly regret.

What do you do with a B.A. in English?

When I was 4 years old, I decided I wanted to be a veterinarian. My parents were supportive enough, though skeptical, and bought me a little doctor play kit that I used to treat my stuffed dogs, bears, and squirrels (I don't know how many squirrels see veterinarians in the real world, probably not that many).
When I was 8 years old, I realized I could not be a veterinarian for two simple reasons. 1) I am nauseated by the sight of a knee scrape and 2) I can't stand animals.
I went through a brief period where I wasn't sure what to do with my life, at which point my parents pushed three careers: 1) Lawyer, 2) Doctor, 3) Computer Engineer.
Doctor was quickly, though regretfully, given up by my mother when she saw my reaction to seeing a paper cut. Lawyer was also given up when it became clear my attention span/ability to remember anything at all was not going to be sufficient to get me through law school. Computer Engineer should have been given up first, seeing as the simplest addition problem has always made me give way to tears and tantrums, and electronics wither away or explode when I walk into a room. My father still naively (stupidly) hopes.
By 10 I had settled on writer, and this is what stuck through all the years of middle school and high school, despite protests from everyone from my parents to the neighbors to strangers at dinner parties. Everyone told me writing could make a very nice hobby, but I ought to go to school to learn a useful (boring) profession like Business, Engineering, or Medicine. That way, I could get A Job. Have a Career. Live life not In A Cardboard Box.
I explained, quite reasonably and rationally, that there were plenty of jobs out there for graduates with an English degree in the publishing and editing and freelance writing! I didn't need to make a huge salary, all I needed was enough to pay the bills and save a bit each year for retirement. I WANTED a mansion and a jet and a private tennis court (not that I even play tennis) but I didn't NEED those things. My parents did not agree with me. They gave each other Looks. But I did what I wanted, because that is what I do.
I graduated from a top ten university with my B.A. in English and rushed off to get the JOB OF MY DREAMS only to discover that very few people in this world need anyone with a B.A. in English, and the people that did have use for one already had at least ten.
You would not believe the number of cover letters I have saved on three different hard drives, nor the different versions of my resume.
Most of the time I don't believe it.
Suddenly, in May of 2007, I did not only NOT have a job, I had loan bills, car insurance bills, health insurance bills (Oh, wait, no I didn't, BECAUSE I DID NOT HAVE ANY HEALTH INSURANCE AT ALL), credit card bills (interview clothing never worn, professional looking shoes never worn, coffees at coffee shops with wireless internet where I wrote seven million cover letters daily, a new laptop when the old one crashed losing every cover letter I had written thus far)...the future did not look bright.
Four days out of college, I was excitedly applying for jobs and dreaming of the amazing new path my life and career was about to take. I had friends, family, a degree...golden prospects.
Four months out of college I was still in bed at 3 in the afternoon in my parents' house, terrified of so much as taking a shower because God forbid I slip on the soap and break a limb, because without health insurance I was just going to have to let myself drown in there.
My friends with degrees in finance and marketing and engineering and graphic design were already installing themselves in their new apartments, beginning to pay the loans for their new cars, working hard to get a promotion. My other friends moved on to law school and medical school.
"Why didn't you TELL ME?" I cried to my parents (still in bed, shouting to be heard downstairs). No response, because my parents were busy shaking their heads, lamenting my naivete (stupidity).
It was around this time that I had a genius idea. I did what I do with all of my genius ideas. I called my dear friend, who has a B.A. in French, (Yes, yes, let's all shake our heads at her and move on).

"LET'S MOVE TO FRANCE!"
"..."
"NO SERIOUSLY, LET'S MOVE TO FRANCE!"
"Can we also go to Iceland?"
"What?"
"We should go to Iceland. They have a great website."
"OKAY!"

But that is a story for a different bog post.

Babysitting

I have mentioned my problem with saying yes to things I shouldn't (Yes, I'll buy that insanely priced sparkly candle! Yes, I'll buy credit card life insurance even though my monthly bills average $25!). So it should come as no surprise when I tell you, Ooops I Did It Again.

My job puts me in contact with lots of children and occasionally their parents. In April I was approached by the mother of a 6 year old boy and an 8 year old girl who wanted me to babysit in the mornings from 6:30 to 8:30 and take her children to school.

I hate the morning. I do not deal well with the morning. My numerous former roommates/family members can attest to the fact that I often say very strange things, gesticulate wildly, make high pitched noises, and rarely remember any of it later in the day. All through college I made sure never to have a class before 10 because I knew that anything before then was useless, as I wouldn't remember any of it. In France as a teacher most of my days started around 11, and I doubt it is a coincidence that the only class I had all year that I did not care for was the only one I had at 8 in the morning (To those students, I apologize. It was not your fault. Mostly.). As a teacher here, I suffered. I used to drive my sister to school in the mornings, and she still claims to people that it is a miracle she is still alive. She's probably right. I don't remember those drives.

It was a miracle when I found the job I have now that starts at 10:30 in the morning. It is perfect. I get out later in the evenings, but I don't care, because I can function like a human being during the day and don't have to deal with the horrors, pain, and illness the early mornings bring me.

So why, when this mother asked me to babysit for her at 6:30 IN THE MORNING, did I agree to it?

Money, you probably said. And while there are a lot of things I would do for money (probably a shocking number of things) this woman offered me next to nothing. It was a monthly rate, and when I did the math, it evened out to $3.75 an hour. Which is ridiculous.

In the end, I made another offer, and when I did THAT math, it evened out to $5.75 an hour. Now, when the average babysitter averages $10-12/hour during normal hours, why, in God's name, would I ever, under any circumstances, agree to do this for 2.5 hellish months of my life?

Dude. I have no idea. None. I could always use money, I make minimum wage at a part time job and I have many bills to pay. But this really did not do much for me financially, and was, on top things, causing me to be barely able to get through my days and to be completely unable to get through what should have been fun weekends.

PLUS, 6:30-8:30 in the morning is the WORST TIME to answer Justin Bieber trivia questions, watch Justin Bieber interviews, and have Justin Bieber sing-a-longs.

God I hate that boy.

I can't lie though. I adored those wretched Justin Bieber/Sponge Bob loving creatures. I liked watching Victorious and iCarly with my eyes half open, and I even liked making them eggs for breakfast.

And I only set off their fire alarm once.

And when their mother asked me to come back next year, I came THIS CLOSE to saying yes.

Vanceburg, Kentucky

This isn't about bad decisions. This is just about decisions, and how little ones lead to more little ones lead to more little ones until you end up in Kentucky with a towel over your eye leaning over a pharmaceutical counter.

I was in Vanceburg, Kentucky this weekend visiting my friend Elisabeth, when I developed an eye infection and had to go to the pharmacy to see if there was anything around that might help me. I had a nice chat with the boy working there, and I lamented, "I'm a wreck, and here I am on vacation." He looked at me and said, "Vacation? In Vanceburg, Kentucky? What on eart would make you take a vacation here?" Good question. Vanceburg is off in the woods, over hill and dale, comprised of four streets, maybe, with one pharmacy, one restaurant, one historical house, and no laundromats. No one in their right mind would go to Vanceburgh, Kentucky on a vacation. So why on earth WAS I there?

I thought about it. First I went back to the year I spent in France. Then I realized, no, it went further than that. So I went farther back to choosing Wash U as my univeristy. But no, it went farther than that. I kept going back until I finally found a starting point, at 3.5 years old.

I'm going to go through the list.

When I was 3.5 years old, I could already spell most useful words, so when my mother and grandmother wanted to say things they did not want me to understand like "ice cream" and "bedtime" they spoke in French. I was terribly indignant because I felt this was unjust and rude, after I worked so hard on my spelling so that no one could keep secrets from me. So at an early age I decided to learn French.

Because I was so adamant about learning French to get rid of all clandestine activity in my family (not that it actually helped, as it turns out, but at the time it seemed like the solution), I became very excitable over and involved in the subject, and continued learning it until I could claim greater fluency than my mother.

Tangential to this, I decided at age 10 to enter a story contest in McCalls Magazine, which I won, which gave me $1000 to do with what I pleased. I decided that I would save it for 7 years to do an exchange program in France when I finished high school.

When I finished high school I decided to go to Washington University where I decided to continue studying French.

Because I decided to go to Washington University, I was given the opportunity to go back to France for a semester abroad either in Paris or in Toulouse.

Because I had loved France on my exchange program, I decided to go back.

Because I do not like Paris, I decided to go to Toulouse.

Because I decided to goto Toulouse, I learned that it is the most wonderful city on the planet.

Because I decided to major in English Literature instead of anything useful, I graduated college with no job and no prospects.

Because I had continued studying French in college I took a class taught by a professor who told us all about a program that pays Americans to teach English in France.

Because I adored France and specifically Toulouse during my semester abroad and also I had no job and no prospects I decided to apply for the program that pays Americans to teach English in France.

Because I chose to go back to Toulouse, I was placed in a town in the Academie de Toulouse called Moissac where I was roommates with a Spanish language assistant from Madrid.

Because we got along so well, I decided to visit her in Madrid that summer.

Because I went to visit her in Madrid, I met her friend Elisabeth.

Because I got along well with Elisabeth, we exchanged email addresses.

Because we exchanged email addresses, we wrote to each other for a year before she decided to come work as a Spanish teacher in the United States.

Because she came to the U.S. and the government placed her in Vanceburg, Kentucky, which is only 5.5 hours from me, I decided to visit her.

And because my eye hurt me while I was there, I decided to visit the pharmacy where I was asked this question and forced to think about all the decisions that led me to that moment.

And those were the decisions that only led to that one, little moment. Not even a big moment. And there were tons more tiny details in there that all contributed. Like I only knew about WAsh U because my mother had gone. I only decided to learn French because my mother and grandmother chose to annoy me. I liked Toulouse. I could have hated it, and none of this would have happened. And what if Elisabeth had not happened to be around in the city the three days I was in Madrid? Or I had decided not to go to Madrid at all? Or my Spanish roommate and I hadn't gotten along or we had been placed in different towns or I had been put in the city like I originally wanted...

I would never have gone to Vanceburg, Kentucky and I probably would have seen a doctor about my eye.

Which hurts.

So maybe this was about bad decisions after all.