Under Adjusting

As of this moment, this yellow sign stands in our lobby:

It states (not so?) clearly that this elevator is temporarily out of use. Unavailable. Do not use. Scram.


































Sometimes I wish I could carry this same yellow sign around me.
I'm under adjusting today, people!
Not functioning! Move on!
Can't you tell by the posture? Arms crossed? Cold, reflective, inattentive stare? 
Do not attempt to use.
Out of order.
Do not pass go.
Take the stairs if you have to. 
But, do not rely on me, today! 
Do not.



So, why the yellow sign and the sad face?

But first (because let's face it, there is always a But, first with me), let me point out what I am not Under Adjusting about, exactly. There is no great re-adjustment period to life back in Beijing. Everything is still as shocking, complicated, wonderful, frustrating and new as it was before we went home for the holidays. There is, thank goodness, no major shock to my system as we return to Chinese cuisine. My body isn't making a mockery of the food and reliving those first few months of routine college dining-hall gastronomical effects. I am still annoyed as hell with the neighbors and their raucous nighttime, now turned to (also) daytime, trysts. The dog down the hallway is as frantic as ever; he barks, barks, barks from sunrise to whenever the hell his owner's return home. So, no change there. See. I can continue to be as curmudgeonly as ever if I choose.

Yes, yes. So, why the yellow sign and the sad face?

Because my schedule changed. MY schedule. My routine. My day-to-day. My Beijing Me.
I know, you're thinking, "You moved to a foreign country site unseen. Get a hold of yourself. Life is change. blah. blah. A little change is good." Yeah, I get it.

Yes, but. BUT. I was sailing along, happily attending my private lessons, twice a week, with a teacher I like. I was fitting in actual physical exercise twice a week, too. I had developed the right timing for creating my lesson plans for the Dandelion School students. Then, out of the blue from my school: "An Mei (that's my Chinese name), An Mei, do you think you could take class with a different teacher, on different days, with two other students?" This of course, asked to me in Chinese.

My eloquent response:

"Huh? Whah? Why? Wei shenme?" in a sort of Chinglish.

This was like the same shock I felt when I completed first grade and I found out in order to get into second grade I would have all new teachers, and I was losing nap time.  OK. Maybe I wasn't that naive. Change is par for the course when you are the daughter of a Navy man and a sophisticated lady. Sure, you can move me from the South, to the East Coast, to the Midwest, back to the East Coast, down and around, across the pond and back again. But give me a little warning. Let me make the decision myself or at least be a part of the process. That is all I ask.



I don't fear big changes; I just dislike personal disruptions of the Chinese language variety. All those nasty feelings of incompetency rise up with change and the what if's come taunting. What if I can't understand the teacher? What if the other students are too cool for school (you know I hate that kind of attitude)? What if they can't understand me? What if I say too many things incorrectly? What if I fart in class? (Really just wanted to see if you are still paying attention).

So now what do I do? I find a new Beijing routine. I figure out when I can take my yoga classes on different days, with different instructors. I stop my whining and find a real problem to solve.

I'll just be carrying this big yellow sign around my waist for the time being.

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Side story about how I finally snapped a picture of the signage:


This is one of a handful of moments that the yellow signs have been displayed in our lobby, and each time, they exist much to my amusement. I do not bemoan the loss of a working elevator because there is something satisfying about seeing the phrase "Under Adjusting."


We returned home from yet another trip to the grocery store where we purchased more than our little bicycle baskets could handle, I ran into the apartment, flung down the bags, grabbed the camera and headed right back to the one working elevator to reach the lobby. Other attempts to snap proof of the signage have ended in failure; those pesky maintenance men seem to fix the elevator's issue before I can get back down to the lobby to snap away paparazzi style.  So, there I was minding my own business, hoping for a straight shot down when the elevator stopped at floor 12, and eight people got on. Then we stopped at floor 8 and two more people got on. At floor 5, two people got off and three people got on. At floor 1 everybody got out, and one woman waiting for the elevator to arrive, for some reason, did not get on. So there she was, with her grocery bags in hand, watching me take pictures of the "under adjusting" elevator signs in the lobby. Why, comes to mind. Why was she watching me? Why didn't she get on the elevator? Why wasn't she asking me, "Why are you so interested in these yellow signs you silly little white girl?"???

Nonetheless. Picture. Snapped. Check.