Kids, Crime, and a Bloggiversary

Yesterday I tried to convince Qi not to have a baby. “Aw, you don’t want a baby,” I said. We were walking home from Tulane. Qi stayed silent for a full block before replying: “Yes, I do.”

And I didn’t argue. Not much. Because what do I know about having a baby? A husband seems important (though, arguably, not essential). Qi has that. Stable income is nice. Qi is still in school, of course, but her husband works law enforcement for the Chinese government. Good to have the feds on your side in China.

From what I’ve seen in Mr. Mom and Baby Boom, child-rearing also requires a certain tolerance for chaos. “Chinese women are strong,” Qi told me, stepping lightly around someone’s discarded mattress. “I can deal with stress.” Empirical evidence agrees. During the hurricane, Qi slept in the psychology building. (As you can see, it’s a sturdy structure, but not appealing to refugees in the “Give me your tired, your poor” sort of way.)

Then, last week Qi got mugged and bought really cute shoes, all in the same afternoon. The mugging happened at 9 a.m., on our usual school route. Qi was alone, talking to her husband on her cell. When the mugger grabbed her purse from behind, Qi turned around and pulled back. “It was just instinct, you know?” she told our Developmental Psychology class later. So, Qi fell (“He was a little guy, but tough,” she said. Qi weighs about 110). Then, she screamed for help. As it was the middle of the morning (not even), construction workers heard her, tackled the mugger, and called the police. Court date is this summer.

A little therapy might not be a bad idea -- that’s what we all thought, “we” being me, my Developmental prof, our program director, and various classmates. “I’ve had therapy,” I offered, detonating a chain of “me toos"....what’s the truism about psychology students and “me-search”? Qi listened to us, nodded empathetically, and headed to her office. "Shoes.com is having a sale,” she explained.

Say what you want about “retail therapy,” but Qi bought one very reasonably priced pair of Hot Kiss flats. Hardly as potent as Prozac. And if you suspect she’s repressing the incident, well, get a translator and do a quick Google search. “I know what I’ll be blogging about tonight!” she exclaimed. Ah, a girl after my own heart...

Unless I get time for a tutorial in Chinese, I guess I won’t know Qi’s real feelings about the mugging. (This is assuming a blog contains “real feelings” -- debatable, no doubt.) She let me in on the title of her post, though: roughly translated, “I Have Another New Experience.” Personally, I would’ve gone with: “I Lose All Faith in Humankind,” or “I Am Intensely Distressed,” or “Get Me Out of New Orleans Right Now.” But as we’ve established, Qi and I have slightly different coping mechanisms.

In fact, I have not used the title “I Have Another New Experience” once in the one-year (as of today) lifespan of this blog. Amazing, considering the number of “new experiences” I’ve...experienced...since April 11, 2005. New job. New city (two of them). New boyfriend, while it lasted. Evacuation. Relocation. Celebration (“Look, ma! No mold!”). Some sublimation. Frustration, too. Maybe too much. “Goofus Musings” has never claimed to be saintly -- that’s Gallant’s domain -- but the blog title promises a sense of humor, at least. A “quarterlife crisis” is a pretty privileged event, when you think about it. I made it this far. (“Why should you worry so much?” Qi asked me before midterms. “The test will happen, whether you’re anxious or not.”)

I thought about ending it here. A year is a nice, neat package for a blog. Plus, I’m done with “new experiences” for awhile. But...I can‘t let go right now. (W. says, “You can’t die on your birthday.” Comforting news.)

Instead, I’m taking a new direction. Until I get bored, I mean -- then I’ll go back to recounting minor meltdowns and electrical outages. At present, I can’t describe this direction, because I have to go to class, and, okay, I’m not sure what I’ll do exactly. Stay tuned. And thanks -- it has been quite a year (by cracky).