Washington DC: Reporting in the Rain

From last week:

"I wish I had some flipflops," I thought to myself yesterday as I walked to the grocery store in the warm weather.

Ironically (as my life always is) I walked out of the house this morning and walked into a wall of downpour. Being from the rainy state where we are too tough for umbrellas, I dawned a hooded jacket and went out the door. I was in a good mood, despite having to wake up early for an event that started before I technically had to start work and now being faced with the only part of Washington stated I hadn't missed: the gray. With the gray overcast sky, gray skyscrapers, gray sidewalk.. I felt like I was in the gray tunnel of the metro before I really was.  My metro ride to the event had used up all the money I had on metro card.  I could put more on online, but it would take hours to register.  It would be ready when I needed to go home after work, but not by the time I needed to leave an event.  I figured I could take a taxi back to the office.

When I came out of the metro stop near my destination, I realized that my phone's GPS app couldn't pinpoint my location.  The little blue arrow representing me was flittering between my home and a location near where I truly was.  I had my route on my map, but the streets were too complicated for me to be able to tell where I was or what direction I was going without my location working. 

I tried to shield my phone from the downpour, but the wind was blowing the raindrops every which way and my phone's dryness dimished rapidly.  I stumbled blindly down the puddle-soaked sidewalk and glared at the umbrellas surrounding me on all sides.  I chose a direction and walked it.  Of course, it was the opposite direction of where I needed to go.  I didn't realize that until after I had walked ten minutes.  My suede flats were soaked through, as were my plaid tights and my pencil skirt.  My jacket shielded my blouse and the upper half of my skirt, but my jacket was soon soaked too.  Water dripped through my backpack, and I prayed it wouldn't harm my dear laptop.  Or my smartphone which I carried in my hand or pocket.  Of course neither of those offered adequate shelter for my little touch-screen warrior. 

I soon found myself under a bridge.  After gazing sadly at the five homeless people snuggled into their ragged blanket-insulation-cardboard shelters on the sidewalk under the bridge, I returned my attention to finding my way.  I realized I was going in the wrong direction, so I turned the next corner and was now going towards my destination but from the other direction.  I had left my house 20 minutes early, but I was going to be ten minutes late.  I carefully followed my route and sighed in relief as I turned a corner and saw the building.  I entered the building in a bustle, and a sweet lady greeted me, expressing her concern about the weather conditions.  My shoes sqlurched and water squeezed out onto the carpet with every step I took.  I held the elevator door open for a woman who was just as soaked as I.  Water droplets dripped off both of us as we rode the elevator up to the fifth floor.  When I left, there was a puddle of rainwater where I had stood. 

I was so embarrassed to be ten minutes late to this press event, but I walked in and found that it hadn't started yet.  The room was relatively empty when I walked in, and the people around me looked just as wet and hassled as I was.  I remembered the traffic congestion I had witnessed on the way here and realized that I was obviously not the only one who was late.  I snagged a perfect seat at the press table with access to a wall outlet for my laptop, which had survived (thankfully).  The building was warm and dry, but I was shivering from my wet clothes.  My shoes still sopped and left wet footprints on the carpet.  I grabbed a scone from the breakfast table and sat my wet butt down.  The event was quite interesting, and I got a story out of it.  When it came time to leave, I knew I needed to find an ATM so I would have cash for the metro.  I asked the nice lady downstairs where I could find an ATM.  She pointed the senate building across the street.  I went through the long line through the front of the building, the security check and the elevator ride to the basement.

After walking a mile through the underground Senate tunnels with my squeeky, sploshing shoes and smudged makeup, I found an ATM.  I opened my bag to pull my wallet out, and my stomach dropped.

There... was... no... wallet.

I now had absolutely no way of getting to the office or even home.  I panicked, but decided to go back to the event and procrastinate my panicking until then.  As I walked, I remembered that one of my coworkers was attending the second panel at that event.  I knew I could taxi back with him; I just had to find him.  I advanced through the mud puddles once more and entered the event building.  I happened to glance behind me and saw my coworker.  It was pure divine intervention.  I awkwardly approached him and informed him of my dilemma, letting him know that I would wait until he was done with his panel and taxi back to work with him.  He agreed but suggested that I come upstairs once more for the free lunch.  (Yes, that is how much time had passed.)  I came upstairs once more and was greeted with sensuous smelling gourmet food.  There was salmon, salad and pasta.  I love salmon.  After I ate, I returned downstairs and wrote my story as I waited for Adam (my coworker) to finish covering the panel. 

During the taxi ride back to the office, we talked of his days as an intern at our company.  He hadn't known anything more about telecom than I did when he started.  But I'm learning just as he learned.  His internship led to a job offer, and he has been there for five years now.  That is great encouragement for me.  Telecom has really grown on me.  I find myself bringing it up in casual conversations. (no doubt to the dismay of people who don't understand it, which is mostly everyone.)

Anyway, so I made it back to work and enjoyed an uneventful day the rest of the time.  My morning escapades turned out to be a blessing in disguise though..  A very very very good disguise.  Here's how: I was planning on getting fast food for dinner so I could go to the gym after work and before institute.  I didn't have time to go home for dinner.  But, since I had forgotten my wallet, I had no way of buying dinner.  But... I had no transportation, so I had to wait for Adam, so I stayed for the free lunch, so I still had the turkey and cheese sandwich I had brought for lunch.  Therefore I still had dinner, yay!  So that was my crazy day.  But honestly, I still had a wonderful day.

The artist's burden

I've been thinking over my life so far lately, and I've begun to question why it is that I go for boys I know will let me down, and why it doesn't work out with guys who would actually treat me good.  I figured it out though.  I'm an artist.  I mean, I don't draw or sculpt or anything.  But I create masterpieces with my thoughtfully crafted words.  I take the English language in my hands like clay and mold it to suit my moods and desires.  But I've come to realize that deep-down, I'm one of the tortured artist types.  I am more inspired when I have some sort of pain or conflict in my life.

I subconsciously recognize that chaos and heartache can fuel this burning desire to write more than anything else.  So I subconsciously look for men to let into my life who will mess it up, men who will let me down time after time until I feel so pitiful and victimized that I write and write.  I think I actually seek out rejection sometimes, without realizing it.  And when I feel rejected, of course I feel hurt, but I also feel oddly satisfied, like I've fulfilled my burden.  I've fulfilled this role I view myself in, that role of the tortured artist.  The complicated one that no one else can understand who can only properly express herself with the written word.  I think that will be how I can tell if I've found my soulmate.  He will get me.  He'll see right through all my layers and plot twists, he'll see to the core of my protagonistic heart and my antagonistic mind. 

So as I sit and stew with a rock in my heart and a cold in my head, I feel down, but I also feel fulfilled.  I feel strengthened as the words flow out of my fingers, creating whole new worlds.  I wonder though if I will ever stop choosing the wrong man.  It would seem that I must keep choosing Mr. Wrong if I want to continue receiving inspirations.  There is something so romantic about unrequited love.  I love it.  I write so many stories about it.   I watch unrequited love at work in my own life as I draw towards men who will only cause pain and as I reject good men who long to devote themselves to me.  I feel so alive as I long for someone who won't think twice of me.  It reminds me that I'm living, breathing, feeling.  And it keeps me in this tortured role that I see myself playing on the stage in my head. 

The typical artist archetype: finding inspiration while being beaten down by the world.  It's what every artist longs to be: beauty and creation rising out of the depths of darkness and despair.  It's a stereotype, but it's what every artist finds themselves reenacting.   It's why some artists will dress in odd clothes or become vegetarians.  We want to be different.  We see the world differently than everyone else.  And we want to stand out from the world because we see how straightforwardly bland the whole world is without us and our creations. 

But come on, I can't just keep going for Mr. Wrong all my life right?  So how will I keep up this level of inspiration when I let someone in my life who will fulfill me and make me happy and stop playing the role of the unrequited lover?  I've noticed that requited love can be just as much of an inspiring fuel as heart ache is.  I look back at past relationships before I realized how bad they were.  I wrote so many beautiful songs and poems for those undeserving men.  I wrote my heart out for them.  One day, Mr. Right will come along and be my sole inspiration.  Until then, I'm an artist without a muse, finding ingenuity in the beautiful chaos that we call life.