There are few things in this world that I really, really hate. Mustard, waking up before 9, and French doctors- to name a few…all of which i've had unfortunate encounters with, this week. But my least favorite thing that I have yet to experience is, by a landslide, feeling guilty.
This feeling, which often comes as a shooting pain with a moment of being dizzy, usually comes hand in hand with Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings when I realize that I spent far too much money the night before on nothing…well…of any value.
12 dollar drinks at the Daily Grill tend to rack up pretty quickly- and with the trips to Columbia, Garretts, and Rugby, the tabs don't stop there. Everyones had one of those mornings where you wake up and realize your cell phone isn't working or your wallets lost or you left your debit card at the bar after racking up a pretty shameful tab…in all honesty, I'd probably just laugh these off except for the inevitable and worst part of these mornings…
The fact that when you lose your cell phone or spend an entire weeks allowance in one weekend…you have to tell your parents. This phone call to my dad is the number one contributing factor to the guilt I (rightfully) feel after letting these things happen- and it is the reason that most nights, I make pretty responsible decisions and remember to close out my tab after 2 rounds.
Obviously I have a huge amount of respect for my dad- and if you ask anyone about it, they'll roll their eyes and do a pretty accurate imitation of one of our phone calls- ending, obviously, in 'love you huge!' (which, apparently, isn't a phrase people normally use)
But the thing that makes me feel the most guilty in making these calls (one of which I haven't made in awhile, actually) is the way that he responds- assuring me that everything is going to be okay and not to worry. Meanwhile, in my head, it only makes me feel more irresponsible for spending his money flippantly and being unable to ever really reimburse him...a pretty effective tactic, on his part.
After putting some thought into it, I've realized that all of the people that I know can make me feel the most guilty about doing something wrong are the FIRST people that I go to when I actually do something wrong- mostly because of the respect that I have for them.
"Morning-after-guilt" as Maggie and I have so dubbed it- ends up making me feel, quite honestly, a little bit more guilty than I probably should- so when I call my dad on the brink of tears and start apologizing for something like spilling a drink on a phone or going over-the-top on the credit card at Rosa Mexicano- he rightfully tells me that it isn't the end of the world.
Maggie told me once that the feeling you get in the mornings after you drink- of high anxiety comes with the change in chemicals in your brain that happens when the alcohol is totally drained from your system…something with seratonin, maybe- i'm not sure, but she could explain it better.
Honestly, I could lose a different cell phone every day this week- have to get a million blood tests at 80 euro a pop- and overcharge his credit card with frivolous fancy dinners until the day I leave paris, and I know that at the end of the day, he would be right there with me, telling me that everything is going to be okay- and THAT is exactly why I could never do those things- because I am so sure of his allegiance. I know that he does so much for me- and the guilt that I get only comes when I feel I am not doing my very best to make him as proud of me as, I know, he already is.
My dad always seems to know when to pick his battles with me…well, most of the time, anyway.
The summer I was 15, he got mad because he thought I was drinking, mostly because the boy I was seeing at the time was one of those 15 year olds who had been raiding his mothers liquor cabinet since he could walk. Truth be told though, at 15 I didn't really have an interest in drinking quite yet. But he didn't know about that- and because we were only just beginning to delve into my teenage years, he had no way of knowing what choices I was making- so one day, the morning after I was out until past midnight (though only because I was watching movies in the basement of my friends house with a group of girls) without calling home (her house never got service) my dad gave me the first real lecture I can vividly remember. The whole time he talked, I just remember thinking that he was wrong and that I was making all of the right decisions- and a large part of my motive behind that was how much he cared for me and standard to which he held me.
I remember thinking though, that August morning, that I never wanted to have him say these things and have them be true- because I knew that was a guilt that I wouldn't be able to handle. And so, I spent my teenage years making pretty good choices for the most part. Sure, I was out late a couple of nights and a few times, the doormen called up with noise complaints when I had parties- but, come on, I was a teenager- and that is life.
A lot of my current frustration in Paris lies in the fact that I don't feel like I am doing anything real to deserve all that my dad is giving me and doing for me. For most of summer and first semester, when I messed something up or did something expensive, in my head I would extinguish the guilt when I went to work or spent a night studying in the library- things I knew would make my dad proud and things that made me feel, personally, like i was contributing something of value to society. Maggie used to make fun of the fact that it got to the point where whenever I did something, even socially, wrong, I would call my dad immediately just to hear his voice. "Colleen, just because youre calling your dad doesn't mean that didn't just happen" she would say- but in my head, it did. Hearing him say that everything was okay made it okay for me. All of my freshman year, whenever I didn't go to class, I would call my dad first to tell him, and if he seemed disappointed, I'd go to class- but if he laughed it off and chalked it up to the college experience, I'd give myself permission to spend the day outside. Its strange, i guess, the patterns we develop.
Calling my parents about social things they had no real way of knowing about and giving them most of the facts is something that I started doing more since I got to college.
Calling my mom in tears at 5 in the morning last year when I was accidentally locked out of my room after spending the night yelling, screaming, and apologizing- when i needed to be showered, changed, and looking attractive in 2 hours (while at the time, I was in clothes from the night before and my face was stained with tears) was the only option I could think of.
Another morning I still cringe over to this day- I called both of my parents as soon as I could to tell them every detail and seek immediate advice- and of course, my dad was willing to let me charge that 150 shameful dollars to the credit card. Yes, as I have let myself become increasingly willing to tell my parents about what goes on in my life- they've been as receptive as one could hope- after all, when (if) I'm ever a parent, I know all i'd want would be to hear my son or daughters stories so that I could help them figure out what to do- and i think my parents like being a part of that process. They know I'm in school and doing well, and more than that- they've come to trust my judgement, so they are just as anxious to work towards solutions as I am, when it falters.
Anyway, though, in Paris I don't have a job- I also don't really have work to do- and I never even have to wake up at a reasonable hour…really, my life is filled with walking around Paris, going to nice dinners, and attending 4 classes a week…not really a heavy burden to bare. Today is a Saturday, I woke up at noon (something I usually don't do back home) but there would be no difference between my waking up at noon and my spending the rest of the day lying in bed- I only have to do one thing today…and that's it. My mom still gets up every morning at 4am to get to work and my dad is up early to make my brother breakfast, go to the gym, and then spend the rest of the day at work…they work hard so that I can be here, and because I know that, its hard to not always have some sort of guilt knocking on my door.
Obviously my dad wants me to be here and to be exploring and going out…but part of me, i must say, is looking forward to getting back to DC, to getting a real (using the term "real" loosely) job, and starting to put the rest of my life together
No comments:
Post a Comment