... I'm home!
Or, rather, back at one of them - IU. Bloomington. I'd say Indiana, but outside of this little oasis, there's not much inclination to set down my stuff and get comfortable.
However, that doesn't matter! I'm tucked neatly back into town, my stuff is 78% or so unpacked (you best believe I've done the math!), and... the best part...
I'M OUT OF THE DORMS.
Oh dear god, put on the Handel record and let the "Hallelujah's!" resonate around for a while. It's about damn time.
3 years of stuffing all of my worldly belongings into a cubic space the size of a slightly generous jail cell. 3 years of trekking down the hall in fuzzy slippers and a fuzzier towel to shower, multitasking with appeasing the multiple voyeurs that always seemed to be congregating around in the corridor at that exact moment. 3 years of cooking my food in microwaves, washing my dishes in public bathroom sinks, and getting progressively and more desperately creative with the salad bar to stave off insanity. 3 years of waking up at 4 in the morning due to neighbors, roommate, or commotion out in the hallway...
... it's good to know that, while I can still expect commotion to jolt me from bed in the witching hour, I'll know who's responsible.
It means I can hunt them down later and destroy them utterly.
... I mean, ask them nicely to quit it. With my fist.
Not that I'm complaining. Oh, okay, fine, I am. I'm being a whiny little bint, and I know it - It just feels so damn BRILLIANT to be making my own space (1/2 of it, anyway) into my own home. To see my pictures on a room that's not RPS regulated, to have my food in the fridge, to just be able to relax with my roommate without worrying about propriety - or, rather, whether or not the lounge has been reserved... well...
... it's a beautiful thing.
I know people who stayed in the dorm system for all 4 years of their undergrad - I figured that would be me, as well, even though Josh and I talked about moving in together for the past three years. ("Close"?! Ha! Laughable - we are more than close. We are BFFFFFFFF's. ..... and I think I just vomited a bit in my mouth. Yuck) In any case, the moment Josh asked me to move in, the thinly stretched part of me that believed I could make living with underclassmen for *one more year* ripped to shreds. Don't get me wrong, the kids I lived with last year were fun and entertaining, and I hope they found me equally amusing (even if not intended)... but suddenly, that bathroom walk was less than tolerable. The 4 a.m. thing got *really* old, *really* fast. Cooking eggs in the morning - in the microwave (it's an exact science) - was not quite as fascinating.
... Let us just say that, after 2 1/2 years of perusing the thought, I've looked forward to this homecoming for a half year now. As my roommate and I often throw around, we've mentioned that we were excited to live together about, oh, 5000 times or so.
However, I think the quintessential moment - the epitome, the point - of finally being here... last night at dinner. Josh, his friend A., and me, eating a homemade meal, each enjoying a beer, swapping embarassing stories, and then curling up after for a marathon of Scrubs. Senior year is going to be tough. Interesting. Complicated and busy as hell. However... it's nice to know that, not only do I have a room to come back to... but I have a *home* to look forward to returning to each evening.
Thank goodness. It's about time. :)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
... and what have we learned?
Remember Middle School? Or - more specifically - Middle School "Formals"? The idea of boys and girls playing dress up in their older siblings' hand-me-downs and attempting to keep from laughing and/or blushing furiously for 3 straight hours? All literally scrubbed up and given a dressing down by moms and dads ("you had better behave yourself, mister...") and then dropped off with the mother's dabbing at their eyes, and the dad's barely hiding grins and snickers...
Well, no one would tell you, and I doubt any one would actually admit it, but these things were not designed for our own entertainment. Middle School Formals were the first test in a long string of adult experiments and Darwinian exercises that began, technically, with your co-ed sand-box playmates prior to preschool. The test situation - to see what happens when you are dressed and ordered to act like a regular human being, then sent into a gymnasium full of floating pheromones and awkward, uncomfortable testosterone. The hypothesis:
... slowly, with many a red cheek and giggle, you'd realize (not only during the "dance", but in the weeks prior) that there are people here that you... you... you...
.... that you like.
Dear God Help Us, I know.
Sure, there are crushes. Moments of weakness where/when you admit that you think someone in your class is cute - but I'm talking about the angst, the emotional uproar, the squirming animal within that rears its ugly head whenever that person - the oh-so-enduring "love of your life" - dances with someone else. Dare they even look at another person, and you become, whether you admit it or not, capable of murder..
... though only in the name of love, of course.
This is what our parents are looking for - this all consuming (though temporary) emo-whiner lust that proves we are capable of loving.
... Or, at least, that we're on our way there.
High School dances are different. Although I'd like to believe (for my own piece of mind, and/or my parents - I'd hate for them to be traumatized) that adults don't know what kind of dancing goes on once puberty kicks in and we're allowed to gawk at upperclassmen...
... I'm pretty sure that they know they're sending us off to a 3 hour orgy.
If you disagree with me, I have two things to say to you:
1. You are in denial - and -
2. Please tell me what high school *you* went to, and did your parents allow you to leave the house?
Where Middle School allows the awakening of great passion - of realizing that you can become thoroughly miserable over and about another human being, High School just extends the angst and allows clothed sex once every few months or so to keep the raging hormones at bay. By the time you reach sophomore year, you have holed yourself up in your room several dozen times and stared forlornly at the ceiling, wondering why, why, why ____ will never know your name, try as you might to silently (and without alerting them to your presence at all) get them to realize that you truly, deeply, love them.
College, however - that is when they parents truly worry, I believe. They have helped train your instincts to seek out, find, and sustain (or kill) love, and now they can no longer purposefully shove you into situations where you have to come face to face with it. The question becomes, then - are they more worried that you will have unprecedented access to it on a day to day basis, or will you shut yourself away from it, from the world? If you choose the former, you're either a lucky son of a gun or...
.... [cough]. Not that I deal in extremes, or anything.
The latter... is tempting. Your room is small and comforting, like the womb. Your computer gives you all the access to the world that you could ever need - if classes didn't take place across the street, you could snuggle in and "explore" to your heart's content, never worrying or fretting about missing what you didn't want to admit that you were seeking out in 7th and 8th grade in those darkened gyms and cafeterias.
... However... the experimentation taken up by our parents, our guardians, never truly leaves us, I believe. Mice learn to find the cheese with or without the prodding of the lab assistant; we venture out of our comfort zones, out of past issues, out of the dorm room, and often times get hit by love like a brick to the face.
... sounds pleasant, right? Well, actually - it's not too bad. Our parents introduced us to the idea, whether or not we ever became, or become, aware of the strings and the rigging - and it's inescapable after that...
... which is, I'm sure, exactly what they wanted...
... and what, admit it or no, we want, also.
Well, no one would tell you, and I doubt any one would actually admit it, but these things were not designed for our own entertainment. Middle School Formals were the first test in a long string of adult experiments and Darwinian exercises that began, technically, with your co-ed sand-box playmates prior to preschool. The test situation - to see what happens when you are dressed and ordered to act like a regular human being, then sent into a gymnasium full of floating pheromones and awkward, uncomfortable testosterone. The hypothesis:
... slowly, with many a red cheek and giggle, you'd realize (not only during the "dance", but in the weeks prior) that there are people here that you... you... you...
.... that you like.
Dear God Help Us, I know.
Sure, there are crushes. Moments of weakness where/when you admit that you think someone in your class is cute - but I'm talking about the angst, the emotional uproar, the squirming animal within that rears its ugly head whenever that person - the oh-so-enduring "love of your life" - dances with someone else. Dare they even look at another person, and you become, whether you admit it or not, capable of murder..
... though only in the name of love, of course.
This is what our parents are looking for - this all consuming (though temporary) emo-whiner lust that proves we are capable of loving.
... Or, at least, that we're on our way there.
High School dances are different. Although I'd like to believe (for my own piece of mind, and/or my parents - I'd hate for them to be traumatized) that adults don't know what kind of dancing goes on once puberty kicks in and we're allowed to gawk at upperclassmen...
... I'm pretty sure that they know they're sending us off to a 3 hour orgy.
If you disagree with me, I have two things to say to you:
1. You are in denial - and -
2. Please tell me what high school *you* went to, and did your parents allow you to leave the house?
Where Middle School allows the awakening of great passion - of realizing that you can become thoroughly miserable over and about another human being, High School just extends the angst and allows clothed sex once every few months or so to keep the raging hormones at bay. By the time you reach sophomore year, you have holed yourself up in your room several dozen times and stared forlornly at the ceiling, wondering why, why, why ____ will never know your name, try as you might to silently (and without alerting them to your presence at all) get them to realize that you truly, deeply, love them.
College, however - that is when they parents truly worry, I believe. They have helped train your instincts to seek out, find, and sustain (or kill) love, and now they can no longer purposefully shove you into situations where you have to come face to face with it. The question becomes, then - are they more worried that you will have unprecedented access to it on a day to day basis, or will you shut yourself away from it, from the world? If you choose the former, you're either a lucky son of a gun or...
.... [cough]. Not that I deal in extremes, or anything.
The latter... is tempting. Your room is small and comforting, like the womb. Your computer gives you all the access to the world that you could ever need - if classes didn't take place across the street, you could snuggle in and "explore" to your heart's content, never worrying or fretting about missing what you didn't want to admit that you were seeking out in 7th and 8th grade in those darkened gyms and cafeterias.
... However... the experimentation taken up by our parents, our guardians, never truly leaves us, I believe. Mice learn to find the cheese with or without the prodding of the lab assistant; we venture out of our comfort zones, out of past issues, out of the dorm room, and often times get hit by love like a brick to the face.
... sounds pleasant, right? Well, actually - it's not too bad. Our parents introduced us to the idea, whether or not we ever became, or become, aware of the strings and the rigging - and it's inescapable after that...
... which is, I'm sure, exactly what they wanted...
... and what, admit it or no, we want, also.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I am *quite* open to falling from grace, thanks.
I refuse to write about the obvious.
... [Yeah, I know: "Huh?" Oh well.]
I do, however, want to word vomit on a subject that is less than apparent... if only in my delusional naivety. I won't go so far as to think that I'm as easy to read as the Harry Potter books I'm going through (... again...), but I need a poker face.
Correction: I need sunglasses, a mask, a bandana, a sweet hat, and a few miscellaneous wigs.
There are two extremes of people, with a lot of gray in between: The first, who reveal nothing until threatened with interrogation and/or Chinese Water Torture, and even then, their facial expression doesn't go too far beyond a mild, inconvenienced grimace. On the other hand, you have the second - the "heart-on-sleeve-you'll-never-need-to-wonder-how-I-feel-because-I'm-going-to-tell-you-like-it-or-not". The trailing-puppy of people, they are not only completely aware of their emotions, but everyone else is, also.
... which leads us to the gray - or, it would, if I didn't see myself in a Billy Idol color setting. On one hand, my use of sarcasm, dorky humor, and endless supply of Bach jokes covers up uncertainty. With still or partial unknowns, the rule is that I try to keep the conversation going, and you laughing. Doesn't always work, but ultimately, with people I get friendlier with, this leads to more serious talk... or, at least, attempts at it. On the other hand, my good friends can tell you that they get calls twice a month or so starting with this line:
"________, can I run a hypothetical by you?"
... by now they've all come to the conclusion that my "hypothetical" will segue-way, seamlessly, into a confession that it's not hypothetical at all, but a reality - mine, ta da! - and that, once again, they're going to know a lot more about certain situations than they would under normal - or desired - conditions.
... I'm very lucky to have my friends - even though I'm sure, at points, they get exasperated with my attempts to make life "interesting" with my varying situations, or me trying to balance my emotions and my feeble attempts at covering them up.
You could argue that a poker face is all well and good - in certain situations - but that people who never give a clue as to how they feel, or function, will inevitably distance themselves or put others at a loss. You could also argue that emotions are healthy, that its beautiful to behold someone who isn't afraid to let others see what they feel, or believe.
.... my problem, at the moment, is that I have two conflicting emotional forces... and, to show them both, would be a contortionists' challenge and quite the grotesque facial expression. To hide either one would be wrong - to certain degrees. The first, as more people scope out facebook, is going to be apparent no matter how well I arrange my quizzical eyebrows. The second is healthy to realize but possibly harmful if entirely shown daylight, and while wreaking havoc always makes things more exciting, I've done enough damage for a bit. I don't have the skill - or the desire - to completely cover it up or squash it, but neither do I have the desire to run with it until I know if my hypothetical is a good thing or a foolish one.
Lady Gaga made this whole "poker face" thing seem much simpler.
... [Yeah, I know: "Huh?" Oh well.]
I do, however, want to word vomit on a subject that is less than apparent... if only in my delusional naivety. I won't go so far as to think that I'm as easy to read as the Harry Potter books I'm going through (... again...), but I need a poker face.
Correction: I need sunglasses, a mask, a bandana, a sweet hat, and a few miscellaneous wigs.
There are two extremes of people, with a lot of gray in between: The first, who reveal nothing until threatened with interrogation and/or Chinese Water Torture, and even then, their facial expression doesn't go too far beyond a mild, inconvenienced grimace. On the other hand, you have the second - the "heart-on-sleeve-you'll-never-need-to-wonder-how-I-feel-because-I'm-going-to-tell-you-like-it-or-not". The trailing-puppy of people, they are not only completely aware of their emotions, but everyone else is, also.
... which leads us to the gray - or, it would, if I didn't see myself in a Billy Idol color setting. On one hand, my use of sarcasm, dorky humor, and endless supply of Bach jokes covers up uncertainty. With still or partial unknowns, the rule is that I try to keep the conversation going, and you laughing. Doesn't always work, but ultimately, with people I get friendlier with, this leads to more serious talk... or, at least, attempts at it. On the other hand, my good friends can tell you that they get calls twice a month or so starting with this line:
"________, can I run a hypothetical by you?"
... by now they've all come to the conclusion that my "hypothetical" will segue-way, seamlessly, into a confession that it's not hypothetical at all, but a reality - mine, ta da! - and that, once again, they're going to know a lot more about certain situations than they would under normal - or desired - conditions.
... I'm very lucky to have my friends - even though I'm sure, at points, they get exasperated with my attempts to make life "interesting" with my varying situations, or me trying to balance my emotions and my feeble attempts at covering them up.
You could argue that a poker face is all well and good - in certain situations - but that people who never give a clue as to how they feel, or function, will inevitably distance themselves or put others at a loss. You could also argue that emotions are healthy, that its beautiful to behold someone who isn't afraid to let others see what they feel, or believe.
.... my problem, at the moment, is that I have two conflicting emotional forces... and, to show them both, would be a contortionists' challenge and quite the grotesque facial expression. To hide either one would be wrong - to certain degrees. The first, as more people scope out facebook, is going to be apparent no matter how well I arrange my quizzical eyebrows. The second is healthy to realize but possibly harmful if entirely shown daylight, and while wreaking havoc always makes things more exciting, I've done enough damage for a bit. I don't have the skill - or the desire - to completely cover it up or squash it, but neither do I have the desire to run with it until I know if my hypothetical is a good thing or a foolish one.
Lady Gaga made this whole "poker face" thing seem much simpler.
Monday, June 8, 2009
What? Lies!! Treachery! False symphonic temptations!
... a few weeks ago, I found love.
I'm writing about it now because I can't seem to completely shake the feelings of withdrawal and strange loneliness that have cropped up, and also -
- because angst can be fun.
(Just by writing that, it becomes obvious that I don't understand "the point" of angst, but based off of my calculations, it seems to amount to, roughly, sounding like a whiny bi...nt.)
In any case - love. Angst. Harry Potter with Emo Facial Expressions = Mahler. All of these things are important because, together, they turn three fragmented sentences into a partial reason for my lustful cravings.
... I miss Cincinnati like a crazy person.
("Ah", you sigh - "here she goes. Buggering off as if she's some swooning teeny-bopper who doesn't know the difference between a viola section and a band of rusty musical saws.")
Well - I *do* know the difference. The viola section sounds better (they practiced), and, quite frankly, violas aren't the problem here.
I am *not* a teeny-bopper.
... I am a little swoony, though.
Situations like Cincinnati - where you aren't sure how people will treat you, how the music will come together, how you'll fit (if you dare assume as much) with the rest of the section... its kinda sorta quasi what I live for. My version of jumping out of planes - will the parachute open? Don't know, but it's too late to ask that now! Same idea. Will I mesh and feel comfortable, or will I get beaten to death with the score of Mahler 8?
(See? Even the mortality question is there.)
Combine that life/death parachute/score idea with the fact that I am, yes, a 21-year-old, swooning, awe-struck, green/naive small person, and it's a crack of sorts.
... Wide eyes, yes, jittery jaw, no.
IU Phil was brilliant but I let nerves overtake the first half of the year. My mistake. Things worked out, but it took a pint of Guinness (or two) to really, truly clean things up at the end of everything... Hindsight (and Guinness) is fantastic, but there was no way in all of my teeny-bopper themed hell that I was going to destroy Cincinnati.
... so I worked my tush off, survived my van's attempts to kill me (via heartattack and/or nervous breakdown), and now I'm slowly starting to ween it out of my system.
I miss the bass section: thus, goal for the day: try not to surf facebook more than 3 dozen times looking for new reasons to go back to Cincy.
I miss Mahler: blast other music until either, Mahler loosens his tentacle-like grip upon my mental juke-box, or lose hearing entirely.
I'm craving banter: go talk to the dog. She doesn't mind awful jokes - humanity generally does.
... I just want one last rehearsal, if only to hear Wayne Anderson start another diatribe post-coffee consumption.
... where's my sardonic yet lovable little sister when I need her at her crankiest?
It hasn't been easy, but so far it's gotten better. Anberlin - Alternative Christian Rock - has replaced... somewhat... Mahler (Alternative Christian Post-Romantic.) Georgia, packing, and cleaning around Grandmom's house has distracted me from facebook; the dog has hidden herself, which means either I banter with myself (not that far-fetched) or not at all... and Mary Frances returns tomorrow.
... Hoorah!
Things might just be okay, afterall.
I'm writing about it now because I can't seem to completely shake the feelings of withdrawal and strange loneliness that have cropped up, and also -
- because angst can be fun.
(Just by writing that, it becomes obvious that I don't understand "the point" of angst, but based off of my calculations, it seems to amount to, roughly, sounding like a whiny bi...nt.)
In any case - love. Angst. Harry Potter with Emo Facial Expressions = Mahler. All of these things are important because, together, they turn three fragmented sentences into a partial reason for my lustful cravings.
... I miss Cincinnati like a crazy person.
("Ah", you sigh - "here she goes. Buggering off as if she's some swooning teeny-bopper who doesn't know the difference between a viola section and a band of rusty musical saws.")
Well - I *do* know the difference. The viola section sounds better (they practiced), and, quite frankly, violas aren't the problem here.
I am *not* a teeny-bopper.
... I am a little swoony, though.
Situations like Cincinnati - where you aren't sure how people will treat you, how the music will come together, how you'll fit (if you dare assume as much) with the rest of the section... its kinda sorta quasi what I live for. My version of jumping out of planes - will the parachute open? Don't know, but it's too late to ask that now! Same idea. Will I mesh and feel comfortable, or will I get beaten to death with the score of Mahler 8?
(See? Even the mortality question is there.)
Combine that life/death parachute/score idea with the fact that I am, yes, a 21-year-old, swooning, awe-struck, green/naive small person, and it's a crack of sorts.
... Wide eyes, yes, jittery jaw, no.
IU Phil was brilliant but I let nerves overtake the first half of the year. My mistake. Things worked out, but it took a pint of Guinness (or two) to really, truly clean things up at the end of everything... Hindsight (and Guinness) is fantastic, but there was no way in all of my teeny-bopper themed hell that I was going to destroy Cincinnati.
... so I worked my tush off, survived my van's attempts to kill me (via heartattack and/or nervous breakdown), and now I'm slowly starting to ween it out of my system.
I miss the bass section: thus, goal for the day: try not to surf facebook more than 3 dozen times looking for new reasons to go back to Cincy.
I miss Mahler: blast other music until either, Mahler loosens his tentacle-like grip upon my mental juke-box, or lose hearing entirely.
I'm craving banter: go talk to the dog. She doesn't mind awful jokes - humanity generally does.
... I just want one last rehearsal, if only to hear Wayne Anderson start another diatribe post-coffee consumption.
... where's my sardonic yet lovable little sister when I need her at her crankiest?
It hasn't been easy, but so far it's gotten better. Anberlin - Alternative Christian Rock - has replaced... somewhat... Mahler (Alternative Christian Post-Romantic.) Georgia, packing, and cleaning around Grandmom's house has distracted me from facebook; the dog has hidden herself, which means either I banter with myself (not that far-fetched) or not at all... and Mary Frances returns tomorrow.
... Hoorah!
Things might just be okay, afterall.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Pardon Me, but I'm Morally Opposed to Leaving the Driveway.
I tried to take my friend's dog for a walk today.
... I figured it would be more successful than my attempt *yesterday* - mind, yesterday I tried to take her for a "run", not a walk, which may explain the following:
1 step out of the door, the dog (Roxy) and I are both excited. I've never gone for a run with a puppy before, and if she zipped around outside like she spasmodically zipped *inside*... this could be fun.
2 steps out of the door - the leash jerks out of my hand.
... and Roxy can zip, let me tell you.
What followed was a half-block sprint chase, involving teasing, coy looks, and sudden spurts of energy (the dog) and pleading, shouting, and last, determined, desperate reaches for the leash (me).
... long story short - I caught the dog... who, upon being caught, sat down immediately in the middle of the street and refused to go a step further.
... I carried her back to the house.
Today, however, I was mentally resolved to make things turn out differently. Zippy could take a calm, long walk with me, and we could get to know each other a bit as I led her - securely fastened - around the neighborhood. With the air of Santa Claus giving out a particularly big gift, I knelt down in front of the dog and introduced the idea of a walk.
"Walk???????" I said, extra perky. "Do you want to go for a walk????????"
Roxy looked skeptical, but let me hook up the leash. She even let me walk her out to the driveway.
... but... on the driveway... she suddenly refused to go further. Apparently, she wants no part of venturing out into the street. Nerves? Maybe. But so staunch was her resolve that it seemed more like moral opposition. She'd been against that sort of activity from the start, she would *certainly* not change NOW.
... I picked her up and began to carry her down the street.
Perhaps, like my friend's puppy back home, she just needed to be shown that it was okay to venture down the block before heading back home. At the end of the block, I set her down, hoping that she would be energized to explore, now that she was away from the house.
... nope. Sat and watched me stoically.
... so I picked her back up, walked another block. We were now on a new street, though connected via curve to her own.
I set her down.
... and there she sat.
I picked her up again.
"Roxy," I said, "We are going for a walk whether you like it or not. I will carry you the entire darn way if I have to, but you and I are going to make it around the neighborhood." She regarded me, again, stoically, big dark eyes focused on my eyes, then my arms, as if to ask how silly I was to think that I was strong enough to carry her for 45 minutes or so.
... my eyes dared her to believe I wouldn't do it.
Finally - we reached a new part of the neighborhood, one not connected nor remotely related to her home street. With a small, small, hesitant pause, I set her down.
She scanned the street.
She looked at me.
She turned back to the street...
... the leash jerked out of my hand.
I love dogs.
... I figured it would be more successful than my attempt *yesterday* - mind, yesterday I tried to take her for a "run", not a walk, which may explain the following:
1 step out of the door, the dog (Roxy) and I are both excited. I've never gone for a run with a puppy before, and if she zipped around outside like she spasmodically zipped *inside*... this could be fun.
2 steps out of the door - the leash jerks out of my hand.
... and Roxy can zip, let me tell you.
What followed was a half-block sprint chase, involving teasing, coy looks, and sudden spurts of energy (the dog) and pleading, shouting, and last, determined, desperate reaches for the leash (me).
... long story short - I caught the dog... who, upon being caught, sat down immediately in the middle of the street and refused to go a step further.
... I carried her back to the house.
Today, however, I was mentally resolved to make things turn out differently. Zippy could take a calm, long walk with me, and we could get to know each other a bit as I led her - securely fastened - around the neighborhood. With the air of Santa Claus giving out a particularly big gift, I knelt down in front of the dog and introduced the idea of a walk.
"Walk???????" I said, extra perky. "Do you want to go for a walk????????"
Roxy looked skeptical, but let me hook up the leash. She even let me walk her out to the driveway.
... but... on the driveway... she suddenly refused to go further. Apparently, she wants no part of venturing out into the street. Nerves? Maybe. But so staunch was her resolve that it seemed more like moral opposition. She'd been against that sort of activity from the start, she would *certainly* not change NOW.
... I picked her up and began to carry her down the street.
Perhaps, like my friend's puppy back home, she just needed to be shown that it was okay to venture down the block before heading back home. At the end of the block, I set her down, hoping that she would be energized to explore, now that she was away from the house.
... nope. Sat and watched me stoically.
... so I picked her back up, walked another block. We were now on a new street, though connected via curve to her own.
I set her down.
... and there she sat.
I picked her up again.
"Roxy," I said, "We are going for a walk whether you like it or not. I will carry you the entire darn way if I have to, but you and I are going to make it around the neighborhood." She regarded me, again, stoically, big dark eyes focused on my eyes, then my arms, as if to ask how silly I was to think that I was strong enough to carry her for 45 minutes or so.
... my eyes dared her to believe I wouldn't do it.
Finally - we reached a new part of the neighborhood, one not connected nor remotely related to her home street. With a small, small, hesitant pause, I set her down.
She scanned the street.
She looked at me.
She turned back to the street...
... the leash jerked out of my hand.
I love dogs.
Monday, April 27, 2009
... wait.... wait, don't hand me that Martini! You have to check my I.D, first!
I have been 21 for over 3 months now. Just long enough to start feeling comfortable walking into places without being paranoid that someone's going to kick me out for "looking like a teeny bopper", and not *quite* long enough for me to register that I'm supposed to be an adult.
Okay, I might be way off of the mark here, but tonight was my buddy's 21st birthday; a celebration of a coming-into-true-manhood and a just present of attempting to drown him in booze... and it occurred to me that the reason why I still felt awkward ordering a Martini is because I ... I, well...
... damnit, I don't want to.
Before 21, people called me a wuss - or similar sounding synonyms - for not drinking illegally. What, I didn't bong those cans of yellow water you call beer over at the frat house during Little 5 weekend? Blasphemy! Egad - I didn't do shots to celebrate everything from my 19th birthday to surviving my 19th day of college? Sacrilege! Bloody Hell - I've plumb forgotten to ask random upperclassmen to buy me bottles of strange liquid that'll make me choke and splutter and lose my grip on things!
... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
Now, post the epic birthday, I still have the tolerance of most grandmothers who are not Irish, German, Polish, or Russian (despite my own Polish/German heritage), and here is why:
I DON'T CARE.
Sorry, folks. Do I enjoy a good beer now and then? God knows that's the truth. I won't turn down the offer for a Guinness, and if given the opportunity, will definitely order myself something hoppy. That being said... tonight, I called my friend, the birthday boy, before the festivities. Funds were running a little low, and alcohol is expensive... the two combined don't really mix well. Would he mind, I asked, if I came but didn't drink? I wanted to be there but I didn't want to go into the red, either.
My friend's an easy going guy who knows me pretty damn well - and he didn't mind a bit. Thus, my slightly more relieved mood as I went over to my boyfriend's place to make dinner. Small talk led to figuring out plans for meeting up with the birthday boy and his traveling fiesta, and I brought up the small, seemingly insignificant fact that I would, "surprise", not be drinking to save a little bit of money.
... This, apparently, was a negative surprise. J. looked confused.
"But... but, it's Josh's birthday."
"Right, but if I need funds for the rest of this week, I don't want to spend them on beer."
"Well, that's fine, but this is one of those times where you kind of need to drink."
..... mind you, I didn't record the conversation. I don't have the exact quotations, but the gist of the whole thing was that there are certain occasions where alcohol is not only necessary, but necessary.
... that makes sense.
In other words - situations where its unavoidable. One must drink, or fail at fulfilling one's part / destiny.
... okay... yes... weddings. Toasts. Supremely awful moments, but that's advocating using alcohol to solve one's problems, and that's not what I actually believe.
I understand that, on the occasion of someone's 21st birthday - that momentous occasion of making it to legal drinking age - one typically celebrates by knocking back a few pints and a dozen or so shots with one's friends. At the same time... Josh knows me. He understands that, given my light-weight stature, my typical sparse drinking habits, and my general lack of income (Hi, College), beer is less important than me actually being there to celebrate with him. He would have made fun of me for just chugging water all night, but he would have thought it amusing, not insulting.
... thus, when J offered to buy me a drink that night in order to spare my wallet, I was pleasantly surprised... but that wasn't the point. Yes, I was saving a few dollars, but I have a freakin' fantastic time hanging out with friends, with or without the addition of booze, and that was ultimately what I was going for. It's not in my nature to go out drinking for drinking's sake, and it's not in my nature to understand why I *have* to do that.
[shrug]
... and that might explain why a six-pack lasts over a month in my fridge.
Okay, I might be way off of the mark here, but tonight was my buddy's 21st birthday; a celebration of a coming-into-true-manhood and a just present of attempting to drown him in booze... and it occurred to me that the reason why I still felt awkward ordering a Martini is because I ... I, well...
... damnit, I don't want to.
Before 21, people called me a wuss - or similar sounding synonyms - for not drinking illegally. What, I didn't bong those cans of yellow water you call beer over at the frat house during Little 5 weekend? Blasphemy! Egad - I didn't do shots to celebrate everything from my 19th birthday to surviving my 19th day of college? Sacrilege! Bloody Hell - I've plumb forgotten to ask random upperclassmen to buy me bottles of strange liquid that'll make me choke and splutter and lose my grip on things!
... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
Now, post the epic birthday, I still have the tolerance of most grandmothers who are not Irish, German, Polish, or Russian (despite my own Polish/German heritage), and here is why:
I DON'T CARE.
Sorry, folks. Do I enjoy a good beer now and then? God knows that's the truth. I won't turn down the offer for a Guinness, and if given the opportunity, will definitely order myself something hoppy. That being said... tonight, I called my friend, the birthday boy, before the festivities. Funds were running a little low, and alcohol is expensive... the two combined don't really mix well. Would he mind, I asked, if I came but didn't drink? I wanted to be there but I didn't want to go into the red, either.
My friend's an easy going guy who knows me pretty damn well - and he didn't mind a bit. Thus, my slightly more relieved mood as I went over to my boyfriend's place to make dinner. Small talk led to figuring out plans for meeting up with the birthday boy and his traveling fiesta, and I brought up the small, seemingly insignificant fact that I would, "surprise", not be drinking to save a little bit of money.
... This, apparently, was a negative surprise. J. looked confused.
"But... but, it's Josh's birthday."
"Right, but if I need funds for the rest of this week, I don't want to spend them on beer."
"Well, that's fine, but this is one of those times where you kind of need to drink."
..... mind you, I didn't record the conversation. I don't have the exact quotations, but the gist of the whole thing was that there are certain occasions where alcohol is not only necessary, but necessary.
... that makes sense.
In other words - situations where its unavoidable. One must drink, or fail at fulfilling one's part / destiny.
... okay... yes... weddings. Toasts. Supremely awful moments, but that's advocating using alcohol to solve one's problems, and that's not what I actually believe.
I understand that, on the occasion of someone's 21st birthday - that momentous occasion of making it to legal drinking age - one typically celebrates by knocking back a few pints and a dozen or so shots with one's friends. At the same time... Josh knows me. He understands that, given my light-weight stature, my typical sparse drinking habits, and my general lack of income (Hi, College), beer is less important than me actually being there to celebrate with him. He would have made fun of me for just chugging water all night, but he would have thought it amusing, not insulting.
... thus, when J offered to buy me a drink that night in order to spare my wallet, I was pleasantly surprised... but that wasn't the point. Yes, I was saving a few dollars, but I have a freakin' fantastic time hanging out with friends, with or without the addition of booze, and that was ultimately what I was going for. It's not in my nature to go out drinking for drinking's sake, and it's not in my nature to understand why I *have* to do that.
[shrug]
... and that might explain why a six-pack lasts over a month in my fridge.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
brief brief brief brief brief... briefing
First: I might just be on here more often.
"might" is the key word in that sentence, but hey - I'm here right now!
..... [smiles?]
Second: it's Easter.
..... I should be at Church.
The Roman Catholic in me is balking at the fact that I'm still in my boxers and faded Indiana t-shirt, and not moving towards going to Mass. However... sometimes I want to bind, gag, and shove that Roman Catholic into the corner and just pepper her with rhetoric for a while.
... yeah, I have a few issues.
The point is not the joy in masochism, or self-torment / deprecation, nor is it a battle against the Church itself. I don't agree with all of its views, but I was raised to respect and appreciate the majority of the morals and virtues that it extols, such as loving thy neighbor, or honoring thy father and mother. My reluctance to go to Mass today is not a boycott, is not a gesture of defiance, is not me sticking *anything* to the man.
.... I just don't want to go without my family.
God and I get along pretty well, and I can't deny that I'm incredibly blessed to be as fortunate as I am. However... sitting in a pew by myself, without my family, without my cousins, without the laughing and joking and celebrating afterward, without the light-hearted, care-free nature that marked all of my childhood Easters... can't do it. I know that's not what religion is all about, but nothing is wrong with my faith, or my morality. Easter for me is not just about Jesus, it's about some of the best childhood memories that I have, and all of them involve family. I don't need the Easter basket: the chocolate, jelly beans, peeps, and adorable spring cards...
... what I need is to laugh so hard at myself or with the rest of family that I practically choke on my food. I need to hold hands with my little sister and big brother in Church and pretend that we're not all thinking: "ewwww...., I have to hold hands?! I'm not five anymore!" I need my mother to send me upstairs a half a dozen times to change my outfit, and my Dad to exasperatedly herd us all into the car. I need joy, laughter, and well... comfort with the rest of the Meiers / Skibickis.
Yes, Easter is Christ's Rise from the Grave, his ascension from the human to the Divine. The entire Christian and Catholic world rejoices, because He, and this Day, symbolizes our redemption, our freedom from sin and earthly constraints.
.... but it's also one of those days that I can't celebrate truly without my family. [shrug] Instead, I'll enjoy the sun and the slow, glorious day... and give thanks in my own way.
Happy Easter, everyone. :)
"might" is the key word in that sentence, but hey - I'm here right now!
..... [smiles?]
Second: it's Easter.
..... I should be at Church.
The Roman Catholic in me is balking at the fact that I'm still in my boxers and faded Indiana t-shirt, and not moving towards going to Mass. However... sometimes I want to bind, gag, and shove that Roman Catholic into the corner and just pepper her with rhetoric for a while.
... yeah, I have a few issues.
The point is not the joy in masochism, or self-torment / deprecation, nor is it a battle against the Church itself. I don't agree with all of its views, but I was raised to respect and appreciate the majority of the morals and virtues that it extols, such as loving thy neighbor, or honoring thy father and mother. My reluctance to go to Mass today is not a boycott, is not a gesture of defiance, is not me sticking *anything* to the man.
.... I just don't want to go without my family.
God and I get along pretty well, and I can't deny that I'm incredibly blessed to be as fortunate as I am. However... sitting in a pew by myself, without my family, without my cousins, without the laughing and joking and celebrating afterward, without the light-hearted, care-free nature that marked all of my childhood Easters... can't do it. I know that's not what religion is all about, but nothing is wrong with my faith, or my morality. Easter for me is not just about Jesus, it's about some of the best childhood memories that I have, and all of them involve family. I don't need the Easter basket: the chocolate, jelly beans, peeps, and adorable spring cards...
... what I need is to laugh so hard at myself or with the rest of family that I practically choke on my food. I need to hold hands with my little sister and big brother in Church and pretend that we're not all thinking: "ewwww...., I have to hold hands?! I'm not five anymore!" I need my mother to send me upstairs a half a dozen times to change my outfit, and my Dad to exasperatedly herd us all into the car. I need joy, laughter, and well... comfort with the rest of the Meiers / Skibickis.
Yes, Easter is Christ's Rise from the Grave, his ascension from the human to the Divine. The entire Christian and Catholic world rejoices, because He, and this Day, symbolizes our redemption, our freedom from sin and earthly constraints.
.... but it's also one of those days that I can't celebrate truly without my family. [shrug] Instead, I'll enjoy the sun and the slow, glorious day... and give thanks in my own way.
Happy Easter, everyone. :)
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Hey there! Remember me?
1. Yes - I'm awful at this. I keep promising myself to update, and I never do...
2. .... partially because I wonder if anyone ever reads this. If you do, Hi! Sorry!
3. Thursday is my 6 month anniversary. I never know how to approach these sort of things - most of my friends are enrolled in the "anniversary's are an invention of Hallmark" school, and there is a large part of me that agrees with them. When you care about a person, the passage of time should be secondary - enjoying the present should take precedence over the past. At the same time... I am my parents' child. (Literally and figuratively - I'll explain. Sheesh.)
Every anniversary, my Dad makes a point to go out and find my Mom this gorgeous and yet, humorous card... and fills it out with the most beautiful, heart-felt, loving message that I've ever read. Mom, on her part, is often less lovey-dovey oriented than Dad... she's affectionate in her own way. It's hard to explain, but it balances things out - you don't have to be over the top to let people know that you love them. Her cards, however, are the same way - meaningful, amusing, and with a message inside that leaves my Dad no doubt that they've belonged together for the past 25 plus years.
... it's the sort of message... the sort of writing... the makes you wish that, one of these days, you'll have something that amazing for yourself.
... Not just the card! Don't get me wrong - if I just wanted the card, I could write a pretty decent love letter to myself. It's the idea that you could spend the rest of your life with a person and continue to grow more and more in love with them the longer that you're with them. Most relationships grow tired, stale. People forget to appreciate the little things that made them so happy and focus only on the growing annoyances, insecurities... things spiral downwards until everything just explodes. A fireball of love-gone-wrong, if you will.
... so here's my... main malfunction. 6 months. For me - a HUGE deal. My mind has a skewed sense of reasoning and logic, and it takes something bigger than me to recognize when things are worth while. 6 months... compared to 25 years, pretty tiny, but on *my* scale, ridiculous. 6 months of making, enjoying, and working at a relationship with the person that I love. I didn't even believe I was capable of it. (This is growing quasi-emo, I know...) So yes, an anniversary is just another day to spend money, support the economy, and wear your fancy shoes... *however*... it's also a day to remember that, even after 6 months... or 25 years... two people still want to be together.
In other words - maybe I'll find a nice card.
... and then take him somewhere thoroughly un-romantic.
That... just might work.
2. .... partially because I wonder if anyone ever reads this. If you do, Hi! Sorry!
3. Thursday is my 6 month anniversary. I never know how to approach these sort of things - most of my friends are enrolled in the "anniversary's are an invention of Hallmark" school, and there is a large part of me that agrees with them. When you care about a person, the passage of time should be secondary - enjoying the present should take precedence over the past. At the same time... I am my parents' child. (Literally and figuratively - I'll explain. Sheesh.)
Every anniversary, my Dad makes a point to go out and find my Mom this gorgeous and yet, humorous card... and fills it out with the most beautiful, heart-felt, loving message that I've ever read. Mom, on her part, is often less lovey-dovey oriented than Dad... she's affectionate in her own way. It's hard to explain, but it balances things out - you don't have to be over the top to let people know that you love them. Her cards, however, are the same way - meaningful, amusing, and with a message inside that leaves my Dad no doubt that they've belonged together for the past 25 plus years.
... it's the sort of message... the sort of writing... the makes you wish that, one of these days, you'll have something that amazing for yourself.
... Not just the card! Don't get me wrong - if I just wanted the card, I could write a pretty decent love letter to myself. It's the idea that you could spend the rest of your life with a person and continue to grow more and more in love with them the longer that you're with them. Most relationships grow tired, stale. People forget to appreciate the little things that made them so happy and focus only on the growing annoyances, insecurities... things spiral downwards until everything just explodes. A fireball of love-gone-wrong, if you will.
... so here's my... main malfunction. 6 months. For me - a HUGE deal. My mind has a skewed sense of reasoning and logic, and it takes something bigger than me to recognize when things are worth while. 6 months... compared to 25 years, pretty tiny, but on *my* scale, ridiculous. 6 months of making, enjoying, and working at a relationship with the person that I love. I didn't even believe I was capable of it. (This is growing quasi-emo, I know...) So yes, an anniversary is just another day to spend money, support the economy, and wear your fancy shoes... *however*... it's also a day to remember that, even after 6 months... or 25 years... two people still want to be together.
In other words - maybe I'll find a nice card.
... and then take him somewhere thoroughly un-romantic.
That... just might work.
Friday, December 12, 2008
I can't decide - predictability vs. forced multiple personality disorder?
I need to get out of the dorms.
Paying for my ritual banana, apple, and nalgene-water-refill at the food court this morning, the woman working the cash register absentmindedly pointed at my bottle and asked:"Water or Soda?"
... before I could finish saying "water", she looked at my face.
"Oh! It's you!"
A beaming smile as she rang up "water".
"I should have known - just a little tired this morning."
... to my credit, I gave her a friendly smile, and returned the favor when she wished me a "good day" after finishing paying for my "usual morning order".
.... people have "usual morning orders" at their favorite diners... they have "usual" drinks at bars, they have "usual" birthday cakes (or maybe that's just my family), they have "usual" restaurants that they frequent... and yet, I can't think of anyone else who is on speaking terms with the older women who've worked at the Wright Food Court for... well, longer than I've been here.
There's the woman who works weekday evenings - she tells me almost every time I get dinner that she's glad to see that someone eats fruits and veggies.
There's the nice lady - I think from Eastern Europe originally - that reminds every other person in line to weigh their salads... but asks me how I eat them so often without getting bored.
Usually seen in the morning, there is the woman who looks like she could be grouchy... and then she laughs, and you realize her grandchildren must *adore* her jokes. ..... however, she's more prone to frown at you if you take too long to get out your meal card.
.... then your blood runs cold.
Finally, let's not forget the above mentioned morning fruit ringer-upper... J. has gone through the line so often with me now - with his own ritual breakfast items - that she merely has to see our smiling faces approaching to correctly - down to number of fruit items - add up a total.
My Eat Wright Buddies Group does not exclude men. I have lived two and a half years in the dorms... it had better not. I became running buddies with one of the managers there last winter. He saw me - sweaty and gross in my running gear - so often, grabbing dinner post-run, that we began to trade workout and training tips. He got engaged a month or so ago - I think he told me before it became official on Facebook.
.... and hey - today... (somewhat unfortunately) - that feels like a big deal.
Oh - and last (for today, and certainly not least) - the guy who works mostly at the salad bar. (Can you tell that salad is a common theme here?) I don't even know his name, but after mistaking me for one of his bosses, we've hit it off and have been food court friends ever since. He knows that I play bass and get a little worried about performances, and I know that he works full time and can't wait to get home for the holidays. In some odd, dorm-bubble shaped way, we look out for each other.
What amazes me is that I have seen some of these people outside of the Food Court - funnily enough, I saw one in a grocery store.
... heck, that got a chuckle out of me.
However - with the exception of the grocery store escapade - seeing them out of context... out of uniform, out of their cash register domains... its as if we have never met. I remember who they are, but perhaps the lack of tray, nalgene, and multiple pounds of greenery make it difficult for them to remember me. The grocery store incident, I believe, is different only because we were still surrounded by food, and I had multiple vegetables in my cart. I can't help but wonder, then, if they would still be able to pinpoint my identity if I went through the line with a few slices of pizza and a big ol' bowl of ice cream.
... in a way, it makes me a little ... well... sad. The Wright Food Court is not their life, it is not who they are, but that is all I'll ever know about them. And - just as my salads do not define me (God, I hope they don't) - that may be all that they find of interest about me.
And, on that note - if I finally left the dorms... moved into my buddie's apartment... did all of my main shopping at the local grocery store / co-op, and took a dorm food hiatus (hiatus = break from dorm fare as coma = nap)...
... if I came back just one last time... and loaded up my tray with all sorts of fruits and veggies... broke out the nalgene... and went back to the same cash registers...
... well... would it be as if I never left?
... or would I finally need to look for a new "usual" as they'd struggle with the idea that they'd seen me before, somehow, somewhere.
Paying for my ritual banana, apple, and nalgene-water-refill at the food court this morning, the woman working the cash register absentmindedly pointed at my bottle and asked:"Water or Soda?"
... before I could finish saying "water", she looked at my face.
"Oh! It's you!"
A beaming smile as she rang up "water".
"I should have known - just a little tired this morning."
... to my credit, I gave her a friendly smile, and returned the favor when she wished me a "good day" after finishing paying for my "usual morning order".
.... people have "usual morning orders" at their favorite diners... they have "usual" drinks at bars, they have "usual" birthday cakes (or maybe that's just my family), they have "usual" restaurants that they frequent... and yet, I can't think of anyone else who is on speaking terms with the older women who've worked at the Wright Food Court for... well, longer than I've been here.
There's the woman who works weekday evenings - she tells me almost every time I get dinner that she's glad to see that someone eats fruits and veggies.
There's the nice lady - I think from Eastern Europe originally - that reminds every other person in line to weigh their salads... but asks me how I eat them so often without getting bored.
Usually seen in the morning, there is the woman who looks like she could be grouchy... and then she laughs, and you realize her grandchildren must *adore* her jokes. ..... however, she's more prone to frown at you if you take too long to get out your meal card.
.... then your blood runs cold.
Finally, let's not forget the above mentioned morning fruit ringer-upper... J. has gone through the line so often with me now - with his own ritual breakfast items - that she merely has to see our smiling faces approaching to correctly - down to number of fruit items - add up a total.
My Eat Wright Buddies Group does not exclude men. I have lived two and a half years in the dorms... it had better not. I became running buddies with one of the managers there last winter. He saw me - sweaty and gross in my running gear - so often, grabbing dinner post-run, that we began to trade workout and training tips. He got engaged a month or so ago - I think he told me before it became official on Facebook.
.... and hey - today... (somewhat unfortunately) - that feels like a big deal.
Oh - and last (for today, and certainly not least) - the guy who works mostly at the salad bar. (Can you tell that salad is a common theme here?) I don't even know his name, but after mistaking me for one of his bosses, we've hit it off and have been food court friends ever since. He knows that I play bass and get a little worried about performances, and I know that he works full time and can't wait to get home for the holidays. In some odd, dorm-bubble shaped way, we look out for each other.
What amazes me is that I have seen some of these people outside of the Food Court - funnily enough, I saw one in a grocery store.
... heck, that got a chuckle out of me.
However - with the exception of the grocery store escapade - seeing them out of context... out of uniform, out of their cash register domains... its as if we have never met. I remember who they are, but perhaps the lack of tray, nalgene, and multiple pounds of greenery make it difficult for them to remember me. The grocery store incident, I believe, is different only because we were still surrounded by food, and I had multiple vegetables in my cart. I can't help but wonder, then, if they would still be able to pinpoint my identity if I went through the line with a few slices of pizza and a big ol' bowl of ice cream.
... in a way, it makes me a little ... well... sad. The Wright Food Court is not their life, it is not who they are, but that is all I'll ever know about them. And - just as my salads do not define me (God, I hope they don't) - that may be all that they find of interest about me.
And, on that note - if I finally left the dorms... moved into my buddie's apartment... did all of my main shopping at the local grocery store / co-op, and took a dorm food hiatus (hiatus = break from dorm fare as coma = nap)...
... if I came back just one last time... and loaded up my tray with all sorts of fruits and veggies... broke out the nalgene... and went back to the same cash registers...
... well... would it be as if I never left?
... or would I finally need to look for a new "usual" as they'd struggle with the idea that they'd seen me before, somehow, somewhere.
Monday, December 8, 2008
short (and stupid)
You know, it has never really occurred to me that relationship issues are fixable.
Well - no, that's not true. I figured that they had to be, given that many other people seem to do it pretty easily.
[clarification]: *my* relationship issues have never seemed fixable. Usually, I'm spiraling through extreme scenarios and outcomes in my imagination as opposed to "imagining" that two people could logically work through a rough patch. Most of the time those scenarios involve weaponry ("A duel to the .... well, not the death, but if I win, we still go out!" "It'll never work [sob sob], I've trained far too hard and I'm far too competitive... I knew that we were never meant to be!" "... You could let me win!" "I don't know how!") or at least, some sort of soap opera 'last-phrase-to-say-before-you-get-out-of-earshot': "The aliens knew I was incapable of love!"
It was kind of anti-climatic, actually. The talking and logic thing. I was maybe expecting lightning to strike, at least.
"Oh, ____! My sudden near-death experience makes me realize that talking this out with you is more imperative than ever!"
Huh.
But, hey - we all have to be wrong sometimes!
ps: Ben, it works!
Well - no, that's not true. I figured that they had to be, given that many other people seem to do it pretty easily.
[clarification]: *my* relationship issues have never seemed fixable. Usually, I'm spiraling through extreme scenarios and outcomes in my imagination as opposed to "imagining" that two people could logically work through a rough patch. Most of the time those scenarios involve weaponry ("A duel to the .... well, not the death, but if I win, we still go out!" "It'll never work [sob sob], I've trained far too hard and I'm far too competitive... I knew that we were never meant to be!" "... You could let me win!" "I don't know how!") or at least, some sort of soap opera 'last-phrase-to-say-before-you-get-out-of-earshot': "The aliens knew I was incapable of love!"
It was kind of anti-climatic, actually. The talking and logic thing. I was maybe expecting lightning to strike, at least.
"Oh, ____! My sudden near-death experience makes me realize that talking this out with you is more imperative than ever!"
Huh.
But, hey - we all have to be wrong sometimes!
ps: Ben, it works!
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Well, boy, am I bad at this.
So... I figured that by saving this page under "Bookmarks", I'd see the link enough to be guilt-tripped into updating regularly.
... It kind of worked - I've seen it regularly, and have felt daily pangs of "what a sorry excuse for a blogger I" ... I just haven't actually updated.
Whoops.
To placate the gods of cyberspace, (no lightning, please), a short piece to [hopefully] spawn more writing later. I call it:
"Thanksgiving - the Skibicki Version"
[for your reading pleasure]:
Perhaps it's part of our Polish ancestry (though none of us know any of our "native" tongue; our Babci passed on few words to her children besides those they shared at school and probably giggled about.
"What's that mean?!"
"Thank you very much."
"No way!! It sounds far too silly."
"You must be right! My mom's probably just making it up.")
- mais oui, perhaps it's due to our bloodline, but holidays are not complete without the Polish Homemade Bread. Babka, I think. (It sounds silly enough to work.) However... usually, "holidays" means the holidays - Christmas Break. Therefore, the appearance of a loaf... a golden, moist, prune-butter (pvebla?) filled, crumb-topped loaf... at our Thanksgiving celebration...
Madness.
Pandemonium.
.... Joyous rioting.
Some thirty, forty (I lost count somewhere in the cousins area) people, all of them jostling for a piece before dinner. Those *not* jostling where clearly not part of the family, but they didn't know the power of the Babka, and could thus be grudgingly forgiven. However, cousin Katie - sitting guard with a gigantic butcher knife, managed to protect the goodness until dinner was served. (At least an hour of being called the "Bread Nazi". We're a very kind family.)
... well, dinner is finally underway; the adults have filled their plates, the kids are now in line - circling around the countertop and jostling for the person in front of them to move faster so that they could take their sweet time with the mashed potatoes themselves.
As I am just about to take a piece of bread, Jason - friend of cousin Parker - speaks up. I'm pretty sure he says something akin to "so this f******* bread must be pretty special for everyone to be fighting over it."
I could be wrong.
I could have sworn I heard that f-bomb drop.
... however, that is not the issue.
... the issue... is my autopilot response as I grab one of the last pieces of baked perfection:
"Well, in the Skibicki family, we don't f*** around with our bread."
... whoops.
At least I can go down as the first Skibicki to drop that particular bomb at a family gathering. Hoowah!
Happy Holidays, everyone.
... It kind of worked - I've seen it regularly, and have felt daily pangs of "what a sorry excuse for a blogger I" ... I just haven't actually updated.
Whoops.
To placate the gods of cyberspace, (no lightning, please), a short piece to [hopefully] spawn more writing later. I call it:
"Thanksgiving - the Skibicki Version"
[for your reading pleasure]:
Perhaps it's part of our Polish ancestry (though none of us know any of our "native" tongue; our Babci passed on few words to her children besides those they shared at school and probably giggled about.
"What's that mean?!"
"Thank you very much."
"No way!! It sounds far too silly."
"You must be right! My mom's probably just making it up.")
- mais oui, perhaps it's due to our bloodline, but holidays are not complete without the Polish Homemade Bread. Babka, I think. (It sounds silly enough to work.) However... usually, "holidays" means the holidays - Christmas Break. Therefore, the appearance of a loaf... a golden, moist, prune-butter (pvebla?) filled, crumb-topped loaf... at our Thanksgiving celebration...
Madness.
Pandemonium.
.... Joyous rioting.
Some thirty, forty (I lost count somewhere in the cousins area) people, all of them jostling for a piece before dinner. Those *not* jostling where clearly not part of the family, but they didn't know the power of the Babka, and could thus be grudgingly forgiven. However, cousin Katie - sitting guard with a gigantic butcher knife, managed to protect the goodness until dinner was served. (At least an hour of being called the "Bread Nazi". We're a very kind family.)
... well, dinner is finally underway; the adults have filled their plates, the kids are now in line - circling around the countertop and jostling for the person in front of them to move faster so that they could take their sweet time with the mashed potatoes themselves.
As I am just about to take a piece of bread, Jason - friend of cousin Parker - speaks up. I'm pretty sure he says something akin to "so this f******* bread must be pretty special for everyone to be fighting over it."
I could be wrong.
I could have sworn I heard that f-bomb drop.
... however, that is not the issue.
... the issue... is my autopilot response as I grab one of the last pieces of baked perfection:
"Well, in the Skibicki family, we don't f*** around with our bread."
... whoops.
At least I can go down as the first Skibicki to drop that particular bomb at a family gathering. Hoowah!
Happy Holidays, everyone.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Another leaf-scone? Why, Mr. Bigglesworth, I just couldn't.
"But more puddle-tea would be lovely, thank you - Princess Garcia-Duck, this luncheon is absolutely delightful. I must accept your invitations more often."
... what? They were serving cucumber sandwiches and exotic herbal brews - I couldn't turn my stuffed animals down just because the tea was in the second-hand plastic cups that didn't even change colors! Hardship builds character, if you hadn't noticed.
Or... or, maybe you have the same skewed thought process that I do, and, in the recent light of our economic "bite-to-the-jugular" trauma, expected the world to go black-and-white and the word "flappers" to make a come back. That might explain why I have been suddenly addicted to the crooning of Frank Sinatra, and wake up misty-eyed to the soft, dulcet tones of Ella Fitzgerald.
... and have sudden urges to don a Fedora.
... but I will resist.
Things aren't good - you may have figured that out by watching the news, reading the paper, generally existing around people who depend on money in order to aid them in oh, what's the word - living. I'm beginning to feel that the kids my age [*cough cough* young adults] are caught in an interesting emotional and educational whirlwind; we're literally just old enough to watch our parents, our teachers, and our slightly-older, independent, self-supporting pals feel the stress of trying to do whatever they can to lessen the blow... and the strain of feeling absolutely helpless. Those slightly younger than us may or may not be concerned, depending on maturity level or just how close this financial crisis hits to home, but I get the impression that they do not scour abcnews.com for the positive word. I can't figure out whether or not to be frustrated by this stance - while I've asked older friends, and my older brother, about the situation, I still feel that I know nothing. At the least, nothing of certainty. What's connected, what will be eventually connected, why this happened, how it could be resolved, when, where, what will have to happen first...
... and then my mind opens the floodgates to the other issues. Storms seem to be getting worse - is that global warming? The weather is bonkers as is, without clouds plotting catastrophic events. The media grows progressively more obsessed with egotistic, narcissistic celebrities that DO NOT CONTRIBUTE ANYTHING TO SOCIETY. Pardon me, Paris Hilton, but do you really need a t.v show that pits __ # of kids against one another to see who can suck up to you the most - er, my bad: be your new bff? If you don't mind a brown nose out for meaningless camera time, you've got a good bunch there. Oh, and the effect on the young'uns? Two kids - who couldn't be more than 11 - rode by me on a moped a few weeks ago while I was biking and screamed - loudly, and with victorious air - "F*@# you, b%&$@#!"
In hindsight, I could have whipped out a few choice curses of my own, but I was too surprised to do anything but keep biking down the road and try to avoid potholes.
... and... in double hindsight (which is like hindsight, only infinitely wiser. [cough]) ... what would that have done but reinforce the idea that, at age 11, they were supposed to hear those things and understand what they meant, and exactly how to use them?
... oh, and let's not forget baby-seal clubbers. Another sign of down-spiraling... so despicable that I can't write anything else about it.
In any case, what I'm trying to say (I guess) is that... right now... the world may as well be in black-and-white. It's not exactly a joyous place in certain respects; there are moments when I look at the pictures on my wall and wonder if we can honestly expect that sort of idyllic atmosphere for the next few years without it feeling forced.
At the same time, though.... on that same bike ride home, after that drive-by-calamity... I witnessed proof that we could make it out of this hole:
A young mom, in overalls and her hair pulled up in a sporting, hair-everywhere pony tail - obviously designed and executed by her adorable 3 year old daughter, dressed and coiffed similarly - was sitting down for afternoon tea. I only glimpsed a... glimpse - maybe a second and a half - but it was enough to hear a giggle, and see the mother graciously begin to accept a cup of "tea" from the stuffed bear next to her.
... I bet they had leaf-scones.
... what? They were serving cucumber sandwiches and exotic herbal brews - I couldn't turn my stuffed animals down just because the tea was in the second-hand plastic cups that didn't even change colors! Hardship builds character, if you hadn't noticed.
Or... or, maybe you have the same skewed thought process that I do, and, in the recent light of our economic "bite-to-the-jugular" trauma, expected the world to go black-and-white and the word "flappers" to make a come back. That might explain why I have been suddenly addicted to the crooning of Frank Sinatra, and wake up misty-eyed to the soft, dulcet tones of Ella Fitzgerald.
... and have sudden urges to don a Fedora.
... but I will resist.
Things aren't good - you may have figured that out by watching the news, reading the paper, generally existing around people who depend on money in order to aid them in oh, what's the word - living. I'm beginning to feel that the kids my age [*cough cough* young adults] are caught in an interesting emotional and educational whirlwind; we're literally just old enough to watch our parents, our teachers, and our slightly-older, independent, self-supporting pals feel the stress of trying to do whatever they can to lessen the blow... and the strain of feeling absolutely helpless. Those slightly younger than us may or may not be concerned, depending on maturity level or just how close this financial crisis hits to home, but I get the impression that they do not scour abcnews.com for the positive word. I can't figure out whether or not to be frustrated by this stance - while I've asked older friends, and my older brother, about the situation, I still feel that I know nothing. At the least, nothing of certainty. What's connected, what will be eventually connected, why this happened, how it could be resolved, when, where, what will have to happen first...
... and then my mind opens the floodgates to the other issues. Storms seem to be getting worse - is that global warming? The weather is bonkers as is, without clouds plotting catastrophic events. The media grows progressively more obsessed with egotistic, narcissistic celebrities that DO NOT CONTRIBUTE ANYTHING TO SOCIETY. Pardon me, Paris Hilton, but do you really need a t.v show that pits __ # of kids against one another to see who can suck up to you the most - er, my bad: be your new bff? If you don't mind a brown nose out for meaningless camera time, you've got a good bunch there. Oh, and the effect on the young'uns? Two kids - who couldn't be more than 11 - rode by me on a moped a few weeks ago while I was biking and screamed - loudly, and with victorious air - "F*@# you, b%&$@#!"
In hindsight, I could have whipped out a few choice curses of my own, but I was too surprised to do anything but keep biking down the road and try to avoid potholes.
... and... in double hindsight (which is like hindsight, only infinitely wiser. [cough]) ... what would that have done but reinforce the idea that, at age 11, they were supposed to hear those things and understand what they meant, and exactly how to use them?
... oh, and let's not forget baby-seal clubbers. Another sign of down-spiraling... so despicable that I can't write anything else about it.
In any case, what I'm trying to say (I guess) is that... right now... the world may as well be in black-and-white. It's not exactly a joyous place in certain respects; there are moments when I look at the pictures on my wall and wonder if we can honestly expect that sort of idyllic atmosphere for the next few years without it feeling forced.
At the same time, though.... on that same bike ride home, after that drive-by-calamity... I witnessed proof that we could make it out of this hole:
A young mom, in overalls and her hair pulled up in a sporting, hair-everywhere pony tail - obviously designed and executed by her adorable 3 year old daughter, dressed and coiffed similarly - was sitting down for afternoon tea. I only glimpsed a... glimpse - maybe a second and a half - but it was enough to hear a giggle, and see the mother graciously begin to accept a cup of "tea" from the stuffed bear next to her.
... I bet they had leaf-scones.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
It's got 120 calories! 25 grams of protein! Only 2 grams of sugar!
Only 57% OF YOUR DAILY SODIUM INTAKE PER SERVING!
...thus ends my brief foray into the world of beef-jerky addiction. [sigh] And I was really starting to enjoy myself... curse the involuntary movements that cause my eyes to scan nutrition labels!
... No, for serious! (See this - this is my serious face!)
Well, you can't see it, but it's a pretty grim expression, I'll have you know.
Reading the information on the back... used to be mere curiosity. When I was much younger, I couldn't care less what I was putting into my body (oh, that could be taken in so many awful ways) food-wise, as long as it was delicious and I could get away with it. Fig Newtons? Screw serving size, I'd eat a whole sleeve of 'em. (A bad example - is anyone able to stop eating those things once they've had one? I thought not.)
On a similar note, Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On" just came on my stereo. I agree Marvin... Fig Newtons are worthy of orgasmic-taste-bud-loving. Now, if only my brother had not COMPLETELY CLEANED OUT MY ENTIRE FIG NEWTON STASH, I too, could get it on. For now, I'll continue to sip my coffee ("because it is bitter, and because it is my heart...") and plan a stop at the convenience store later.
In any case - back to the nutrition information and away from my now-all-consuming Fig Newton Craving. Through middle school, I could have three ice-cream bars for lunch and not bat an eyelid. Coca-Cola probably ran through my veins in stead of blood - after sophomore year of high school, while in Germany, I literally went through an entire case of 1 liters... by... my... self. It literally replaced water - if I awoke in the middle of the night feeling hot and thirsty, I'd stumble groggily down to the basement and grab myself a bottle and chug.
... they *used* to have crack in there, right? Past-tense?
After field hockey practice, my sister and I would head to the local Starbucks and deplete our bank accounts by buying the biggest, most sugar packed frozen drink that we could think of... at *least* three times a week. And then go home and eat the scrumptious meal that my parents had prepared, and go back to the freezer for dessert. I figured as long as I was part of the sports teams, I could eat / drink how-much-of whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
... then my mom started pointing out nutrition info, or passing me random bits of data.
Did I know that the Coke I consumed (Coca-Cola, *cough*) had ___ grams of sugar in it? That drinking a can a day would cause me to gain 10 pounds in a year - not counting in everything else I ate or drank?
Did I realize that I was getting older and my metabolism was going to slow down? That I wouldn't be able to use the excuse that my body could process most things without problem?
Did it occur to me that Starbucks frappucino's did have a calorie count - some over 600? (whoops).
Did I even know what the word "moderation" meant?
... and etc. It continues today, except that I've become such a health nut that the subjects and word choices have changed a bit.
Do I really need 12 servings of fruit a day?
Did I understand that it was okay to indulge a little bit in order to prevent sudden fits of binge eating?
... Was I really binge-eating with Kashi cereal?!
99% of the time, I owe my mom a thank you note for making me aware of my own eating habits. However... that 1%... I feel that I've become slightly neurotic about my nutrition labels. No doubt that I'm exponentially better off - I'm constantly aware of what goes in my body and why. I won't eat fast-food, and Starbucks hasn't touched my savings account in quite a long time. I look for meals and snacks that are going to make me feel better - not only bodily-wise, but even mentally.
... the problem is the "indulge yourself every once in a while" bit. I can't help but feel guilty the majority of the times that I do - and if I haven't exercised that day, for example, it's completely out of the question. (Note - I will not resort to drastic measures. Purging is .... well, it's a sickness. I'm out for feeling better, not destroying my body in the process of feeling good.) ... Which is where the nutrition labels come in. Part of me wishes I could completely ignore them at least once or twice a day, just enjoy the treat, and move on. Instead, I scour the sugar content, or fat percentage... for someone who wants to eventually retire to a life of baking sweet-goodness all day, this could be emotionally scarring stuff.
I figure I'm still better off than where I was in say, the Coked-up middle school era and the whipped-cream and chocolate syrup dominated days of high school... I'd just like to see a little more middle ground. I'm getting better at it, but I excel at extremes.
...thus ends my brief foray into the world of beef-jerky addiction. [sigh] And I was really starting to enjoy myself... curse the involuntary movements that cause my eyes to scan nutrition labels!
... No, for serious! (See this - this is my serious face!)
Well, you can't see it, but it's a pretty grim expression, I'll have you know.
Reading the information on the back... used to be mere curiosity. When I was much younger, I couldn't care less what I was putting into my body (oh, that could be taken in so many awful ways) food-wise, as long as it was delicious and I could get away with it. Fig Newtons? Screw serving size, I'd eat a whole sleeve of 'em. (A bad example - is anyone able to stop eating those things once they've had one? I thought not.)
On a similar note, Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On" just came on my stereo. I agree Marvin... Fig Newtons are worthy of orgasmic-taste-bud-loving. Now, if only my brother had not COMPLETELY CLEANED OUT MY ENTIRE FIG NEWTON STASH, I too, could get it on. For now, I'll continue to sip my coffee ("because it is bitter, and because it is my heart...") and plan a stop at the convenience store later.
In any case - back to the nutrition information and away from my now-all-consuming Fig Newton Craving. Through middle school, I could have three ice-cream bars for lunch and not bat an eyelid. Coca-Cola probably ran through my veins in stead of blood - after sophomore year of high school, while in Germany, I literally went through an entire case of 1 liters... by... my... self. It literally replaced water - if I awoke in the middle of the night feeling hot and thirsty, I'd stumble groggily down to the basement and grab myself a bottle and chug.
... they *used* to have crack in there, right? Past-tense?
After field hockey practice, my sister and I would head to the local Starbucks and deplete our bank accounts by buying the biggest, most sugar packed frozen drink that we could think of... at *least* three times a week. And then go home and eat the scrumptious meal that my parents had prepared, and go back to the freezer for dessert. I figured as long as I was part of the sports teams, I could eat / drink how-much-of whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
... then my mom started pointing out nutrition info, or passing me random bits of data.
Did I know that the Coke I consumed (Coca-Cola, *cough*) had ___ grams of sugar in it? That drinking a can a day would cause me to gain 10 pounds in a year - not counting in everything else I ate or drank?
Did I realize that I was getting older and my metabolism was going to slow down? That I wouldn't be able to use the excuse that my body could process most things without problem?
Did it occur to me that Starbucks frappucino's did have a calorie count - some over 600? (whoops).
Did I even know what the word "moderation" meant?
... and etc. It continues today, except that I've become such a health nut that the subjects and word choices have changed a bit.
Do I really need 12 servings of fruit a day?
Did I understand that it was okay to indulge a little bit in order to prevent sudden fits of binge eating?
... Was I really binge-eating with Kashi cereal?!
99% of the time, I owe my mom a thank you note for making me aware of my own eating habits. However... that 1%... I feel that I've become slightly neurotic about my nutrition labels. No doubt that I'm exponentially better off - I'm constantly aware of what goes in my body and why. I won't eat fast-food, and Starbucks hasn't touched my savings account in quite a long time. I look for meals and snacks that are going to make me feel better - not only bodily-wise, but even mentally.
... the problem is the "indulge yourself every once in a while" bit. I can't help but feel guilty the majority of the times that I do - and if I haven't exercised that day, for example, it's completely out of the question. (Note - I will not resort to drastic measures. Purging is .... well, it's a sickness. I'm out for feeling better, not destroying my body in the process of feeling good.) ... Which is where the nutrition labels come in. Part of me wishes I could completely ignore them at least once or twice a day, just enjoy the treat, and move on. Instead, I scour the sugar content, or fat percentage... for someone who wants to eventually retire to a life of baking sweet-goodness all day, this could be emotionally scarring stuff.
I figure I'm still better off than where I was in say, the Coked-up middle school era and the whipped-cream and chocolate syrup dominated days of high school... I'd just like to see a little more middle ground. I'm getting better at it, but I excel at extremes.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
No, no - I'm not a whore... That's just my brother!
... and that's just wrong.
Over a month into the "Freshman Living Situation", and I'm beginning to understand that... single room aside, there is no such thing as dormitory privacy. You'd think I'd have figured that out back in, oh, 2006, when I lugged all of my belongings (and probably a few of my brother's and sister's) in duffel bags and Tupperware boxes into my first college room. Even roommate-from-Opposite-Land aside, I at least had the domicile all to myself from 11:45 p.m to 4:45 a.m... a chance to breathe and stretch out and generally enjoy having all 5 square feet to myself.
[sigh] Oh, the Golden Days.
... okay - now I'll be serious. It is glorious having a living space that I can actually do more than merely spin in a circle when I feel the urge to "get up and move around". Every night, before I turn off the final light, I smile and say a little word of thanks for the fact that, while I'll probably opt to keep any extra space, I could potentially have double my freshman year belongings! (That is, if I don't already - Narnia keeps shoving this mystery stuff that I don't remember owning through my closet.) The greatest bit? A blaring, fire-engine red soccer-mom minivan in which to transport those belongings... It's an improvement on the past with some foreshadowing of the future!
[egad, no!]
It's just... it's just... IT'S JUST THESE CRAZY PEOPLE I LIVE WITH.
No, I can't honestly say that - the girls are wonderful. Young, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, out into the night for Fraternities and Fun.
... [eyes narrow] It is the men that they attract.
I walk down the hall for my evening shower.
There are freshmen boys in the way, tossing around a frisbee.
I return from my evening shower.
The last remaining male, tossing said frisbee, turns to find me with fuzzy towel, towley-hair, and the washed-up look of a drawn-out scrubbing. Cue a five-second period that seems to last for all eternity, in which he stares, clears his throat, and pivots in the slowest manner possible, then my hastened pace through the rest of the hall.
I go to brush my teeth.
As if by signal, one of my students... one of the guys... ducks in to ask me a question, startling me to slightly spit out my mouthful of bright-green Crest foam.
I wake up in the morning, bleary eyed, and haul my arm-ful of dirty dishes down for some good, old-fashioned washing.
Immediately, out pops A, or P, or B, or possible C or the other P... possibly wondering how a single person goes through 4 bowls, 3 spoons, 2 knives, a fork, and the complete works of Shakespeare - er... a coffee maker.
(You may yourself wonder the same thing. It takes a special type of person, let me tell you.)
I'm prone to believe that I would not feel nearly so... well, awkward, if I didn't teach half of the kids on this floor. OR... perhaps... maybe if I weren't an ancient junior trying to disguise myself among noobs.
Perhaps it is time to consider the option of apartment housing, no matter how brilliant the teaching gig seems to be going.
... but then again... my orange fuzzy slippers wouldn't be nearly as fun to wear if I couldn't coordinate them with my burning shades of blushing magenta.
Over a month into the "Freshman Living Situation", and I'm beginning to understand that... single room aside, there is no such thing as dormitory privacy. You'd think I'd have figured that out back in, oh, 2006, when I lugged all of my belongings (and probably a few of my brother's and sister's) in duffel bags and Tupperware boxes into my first college room. Even roommate-from-Opposite-Land aside, I at least had the domicile all to myself from 11:45 p.m to 4:45 a.m... a chance to breathe and stretch out and generally enjoy having all 5 square feet to myself.
[sigh] Oh, the Golden Days.
... okay - now I'll be serious. It is glorious having a living space that I can actually do more than merely spin in a circle when I feel the urge to "get up and move around". Every night, before I turn off the final light, I smile and say a little word of thanks for the fact that, while I'll probably opt to keep any extra space, I could potentially have double my freshman year belongings! (That is, if I don't already - Narnia keeps shoving this mystery stuff that I don't remember owning through my closet.) The greatest bit? A blaring, fire-engine red soccer-mom minivan in which to transport those belongings... It's an improvement on the past with some foreshadowing of the future!
[egad, no!]
It's just... it's just... IT'S JUST THESE CRAZY PEOPLE I LIVE WITH.
No, I can't honestly say that - the girls are wonderful. Young, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, out into the night for Fraternities and Fun.
... [eyes narrow] It is the men that they attract.
I walk down the hall for my evening shower.
There are freshmen boys in the way, tossing around a frisbee.
I return from my evening shower.
The last remaining male, tossing said frisbee, turns to find me with fuzzy towel, towley-hair, and the washed-up look of a drawn-out scrubbing. Cue a five-second period that seems to last for all eternity, in which he stares, clears his throat, and pivots in the slowest manner possible, then my hastened pace through the rest of the hall.
I go to brush my teeth.
As if by signal, one of my students... one of the guys... ducks in to ask me a question, startling me to slightly spit out my mouthful of bright-green Crest foam.
I wake up in the morning, bleary eyed, and haul my arm-ful of dirty dishes down for some good, old-fashioned washing.
Immediately, out pops A, or P, or B, or possible C or the other P... possibly wondering how a single person goes through 4 bowls, 3 spoons, 2 knives, a fork, and the complete works of Shakespeare - er... a coffee maker.
(You may yourself wonder the same thing. It takes a special type of person, let me tell you.)
I'm prone to believe that I would not feel nearly so... well, awkward, if I didn't teach half of the kids on this floor. OR... perhaps... maybe if I weren't an ancient junior trying to disguise myself among noobs.
Perhaps it is time to consider the option of apartment housing, no matter how brilliant the teaching gig seems to be going.
... but then again... my orange fuzzy slippers wouldn't be nearly as fun to wear if I couldn't coordinate them with my burning shades of blushing magenta.
Friday, September 12, 2008
I'd unwind a bit, but I'm afraid that would set off the trip-wires.
A former friend of mine tried to give me a backrub once.
.... I know that's not exactly the stirring opening that you associate with most epics, but this story has actually stuck with me for longer than 5 years. (Almost literally).
We were on the indoor track and field team together for a season in high school - he sprinted / jumped, and I made my "white-girl-field-hockey/soccer-player" attempts at the 400 and 800 meter dashes of sheer-agony. (They put them with the smaller distances, but sprinting for 2 minutes?! Who the hell comes up with these things?!)
... (is it bad if I'd rather just push myself over 7 miles than kill myself over 1/2 of one?... don't answer that.)
In any case - sprinting, whether short term or cruelly prolonged, is the one part of running that I'll get worked up about. It is also - though my accidental 12.5 miler this summer proved me wrong - one of the few things involved with cardio/exercise that can make me literally ill. (That may, however, just be my mental block against it.) Therefore - after the completion of our first track meet of the season (!) in which yours truly managed to further along the argument for longer uniform shorts - the bus ride back was gradually becoming less and less comfortable. Ten minutes in, I'd given up on sitting as a normal human being should and was curled up in a fetal position upon the brown, elementary-school-broken-in leather.
[Enter the friend].
Notorious (such an ominous word) for his extremely-literal-deep-tissue back massages, my buddy took one look at my pathetic attempt to "work out kinks" by stretching absolutely nothing at all, almost literally pulled me back into a sitting position, and offered a trade. If I would give him a quick, superficial backrub (I was notorious for my extremely-awful-deep-tissue back-massages), then he'd spend the rest of the bus ride getting my back into typical human form.
Fair was fair - less-than-mediocre for what promised to be ridiculously thorough. I agreed, and quickly attacked his back, figuring that maybe the "open-assault" mindset would put more power into my impact.
... it was a good thought, at the least - one that could have been executed by someone more talented than I.
30 seconds later - after quite a bit of badly-masked laughing and a few "ow's!", the friend had had enough, and told me to twirl around and prepare to have my life changed.
10 seconds in: "Wow... Dani, you weren't kidding, you're really worked up back here..."
20 seconds in: "... I think this one is starting to come un- nope."
30 seconds: "... have you ever had ANYONE try this before?!"
1 minute: "Oh my God, why didn't you warn me?! It's like trying to knead concrete!"
2 minutes: "I can't... it's not... my hands... MY HANDS!!! MY HANDS ARE CRAMPING UP?!"
.... 10 minutes later - after having abandoned the mission at the 2. 5 minute mark:
"WHAT ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU?!?! STEEL?!! I CAN'T CLOSE MY FISTS!!?!"
... How's that for built-up-tension?
.... I know that's not exactly the stirring opening that you associate with most epics, but this story has actually stuck with me for longer than 5 years. (Almost literally).
We were on the indoor track and field team together for a season in high school - he sprinted / jumped, and I made my "white-girl-field-hockey/soccer-player" attempts at the 400 and 800 meter dashes of sheer-agony. (They put them with the smaller distances, but sprinting for 2 minutes?! Who the hell comes up with these things?!)
... (is it bad if I'd rather just push myself over 7 miles than kill myself over 1/2 of one?... don't answer that.)
In any case - sprinting, whether short term or cruelly prolonged, is the one part of running that I'll get worked up about. It is also - though my accidental 12.5 miler this summer proved me wrong - one of the few things involved with cardio/exercise that can make me literally ill. (That may, however, just be my mental block against it.) Therefore - after the completion of our first track meet of the season (!) in which yours truly managed to further along the argument for longer uniform shorts - the bus ride back was gradually becoming less and less comfortable. Ten minutes in, I'd given up on sitting as a normal human being should and was curled up in a fetal position upon the brown, elementary-school-broken-in leather.
[Enter the friend].
Notorious (such an ominous word) for his extremely-literal-deep-tissue back massages, my buddy took one look at my pathetic attempt to "work out kinks" by stretching absolutely nothing at all, almost literally pulled me back into a sitting position, and offered a trade. If I would give him a quick, superficial backrub (I was notorious for my extremely-awful-deep-tissue back-massages), then he'd spend the rest of the bus ride getting my back into typical human form.
Fair was fair - less-than-mediocre for what promised to be ridiculously thorough. I agreed, and quickly attacked his back, figuring that maybe the "open-assault" mindset would put more power into my impact.
... it was a good thought, at the least - one that could have been executed by someone more talented than I.
30 seconds later - after quite a bit of badly-masked laughing and a few "ow's!", the friend had had enough, and told me to twirl around and prepare to have my life changed.
10 seconds in: "Wow... Dani, you weren't kidding, you're really worked up back here..."
20 seconds in: "... I think this one is starting to come un- nope."
30 seconds: "... have you ever had ANYONE try this before?!"
1 minute: "Oh my God, why didn't you warn me?! It's like trying to knead concrete!"
2 minutes: "I can't... it's not... my hands... MY HANDS!!! MY HANDS ARE CRAMPING UP?!"
.... 10 minutes later - after having abandoned the mission at the 2. 5 minute mark:
"WHAT ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU?!?! STEEL?!! I CAN'T CLOSE MY FISTS!!?!"
... How's that for built-up-tension?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
First and Foremost, I pride myself on my Hypocrisy!
... If my thirteen year-old counterpart could see me right now, she would not be pleased.
For starters, I'm 20. She'd wonder how the hell I'd managed to age 7 years without her noticing.
on a more serious note, I'd think she'd feel a tremor of shock to find me without some sort of team-gear, or sports-team affiliation.
... you know, no olympic medals, scars from climbing everest, wheatie's box deal... the usual lineup.
What every 20 year old previously involved in athletics obtains by 20, right?
She'd probably also frown in my general direction after seeing my romantic tendencies. With deft aim, she'd chuck a few choice books at my nose.
"What happened to true love?!" she'd snap. "What happened to never ending loyalty, blinding faith in finding that one, the total devotion to the first deep, intense, emotional rollercoaster?!"
... [keep in mind, my 13 year old self prided herself on being "deep".]
I'd pick up the book, and rub my nose for quite a bit - hopefully thinking carefully before I answered her.
Hopefully.
"Look, Dani - " I'd start, but she'd cut me off.
"You went down the path that you swore you'd never even set foot on! You can't possibly think this is right!" She'd be looking me in the eyes, but she'd be fuming, and thinking rightfully so.
"Yes..." - the answer would be slow, drawn out. "But - can you fault me?"
Her mouth would open, I'd cut in this time.
"Dani, right now you're used to watching other girls dating boys and pretending that you don't want to see what that's like. You concentrate on the concept of true love because it keeps you separated from your worry that you'll never have a chance at it. Next year, someone will say "I love you" and you will run as fast as possible in the other direction - and it'll happen two years after that, and again, you'll flee. For good reason, but still... at 13, love would overwhelm you. True love could chuck a book at your nose and you still would have no idea what it is - you just would know that you wouldn't want it. Not now. Not at 13. In fact, not for a while."
... She might actually listen at this point.
"I'm not telling you to become the town whore. I'm not even telling you to *try* to date guys - if you decide that a hasty retreat is the best idea, listen to your gut and get the hell out of there. However..."
An eyebrow raise. Touche, 13 year old memory.
"Well, do what makes you comfortable. Just don't expect any knights in shining armor."
Now a sigh.
"Fine - expect what you will. Just try not to be so serious. At 20, its the unexpected that well... uh... well, just roll with the punches. Life gets more interesting that way."
She grips her book.
"I still think you sold out."
My turn to raise an eyebrow.
"I know. I kind of did. But... compromising isn't the same as changing who you are. If you're rigid as a freaking board, someone's going to break you and there's really no way to fix that sort of damage."
"... did you just quote Mulan or something?"
"Maybe."
"You're too old for Disney movies."
"My darling Danielle Elizabeth Meier, if there is one thing you must learn from this encounter, one is never too old for Disney movies."
For starters, I'm 20. She'd wonder how the hell I'd managed to age 7 years without her noticing.
on a more serious note, I'd think she'd feel a tremor of shock to find me without some sort of team-gear, or sports-team affiliation.
... you know, no olympic medals, scars from climbing everest, wheatie's box deal... the usual lineup.
What every 20 year old previously involved in athletics obtains by 20, right?
She'd probably also frown in my general direction after seeing my romantic tendencies. With deft aim, she'd chuck a few choice books at my nose.
"What happened to true love?!" she'd snap. "What happened to never ending loyalty, blinding faith in finding that one, the total devotion to the first deep, intense, emotional rollercoaster?!"
... [keep in mind, my 13 year old self prided herself on being "deep".]
I'd pick up the book, and rub my nose for quite a bit - hopefully thinking carefully before I answered her.
Hopefully.
"Look, Dani - " I'd start, but she'd cut me off.
"You went down the path that you swore you'd never even set foot on! You can't possibly think this is right!" She'd be looking me in the eyes, but she'd be fuming, and thinking rightfully so.
"Yes..." - the answer would be slow, drawn out. "But - can you fault me?"
Her mouth would open, I'd cut in this time.
"Dani, right now you're used to watching other girls dating boys and pretending that you don't want to see what that's like. You concentrate on the concept of true love because it keeps you separated from your worry that you'll never have a chance at it. Next year, someone will say "I love you" and you will run as fast as possible in the other direction - and it'll happen two years after that, and again, you'll flee. For good reason, but still... at 13, love would overwhelm you. True love could chuck a book at your nose and you still would have no idea what it is - you just would know that you wouldn't want it. Not now. Not at 13. In fact, not for a while."
... She might actually listen at this point.
"I'm not telling you to become the town whore. I'm not even telling you to *try* to date guys - if you decide that a hasty retreat is the best idea, listen to your gut and get the hell out of there. However..."
An eyebrow raise. Touche, 13 year old memory.
"Well, do what makes you comfortable. Just don't expect any knights in shining armor."
Now a sigh.
"Fine - expect what you will. Just try not to be so serious. At 20, its the unexpected that well... uh... well, just roll with the punches. Life gets more interesting that way."
She grips her book.
"I still think you sold out."
My turn to raise an eyebrow.
"I know. I kind of did. But... compromising isn't the same as changing who you are. If you're rigid as a freaking board, someone's going to break you and there's really no way to fix that sort of damage."
"... did you just quote Mulan or something?"
"Maybe."
"You're too old for Disney movies."
"My darling Danielle Elizabeth Meier, if there is one thing you must learn from this encounter, one is never too old for Disney movies."
Friday, August 29, 2008
briefly:
i am tempted to believe that the older i get, the more old -fashioned i become... not because i cannot keep up with the times, but because perhaps that is how i have been all along.
... it's just hard to see that when you're thirteen and you think that, if you get your heart broken one more time, you'll curl up as ashes and blow away in the wind.
...
then again, at thirteen, i was physically and emotionally incapable of going with the flow.
working on it.
huh. :)
... it's just hard to see that when you're thirteen and you think that, if you get your heart broken one more time, you'll curl up as ashes and blow away in the wind.
...
then again, at thirteen, i was physically and emotionally incapable of going with the flow.
working on it.
huh. :)
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Excuse me, Miss, but could you please tell me what country I'm in?
... Guess who's home?
[home as in Indiana University - Wright Dormitory - Room Roughly the Size of a Spacious Penitentiary Cell.]
.... yes, that would be me. :) And, after days of driving, unloading, unpacking (staring blankly at my possessions and trying not to:
1. break down in tears
2. scream obscenities
3. curse the local deity's name
4. spontaneously combust
I have finally ... finally ... gotten settled in. Hall-le-freakin-lujiah.
Perhaps it was the mindset that I shouldn't leave the containment quarters - er, my room - until I'd finished putting everything in its proper place that did me in - by the time 7:30 came around last evening, I had accomplished a great deal of nothing besides nearly taking my own life with the set of bunk beds (but I'm only one person!) and tacking up a picture of my Babci to remind me that murder and mass destruction go against the moral and religious grain. In other words... well... no, you understand.
Mais oui - 7:30 p.m, my mind checked out, and I could do no more. Hence the slight manhandling of my bike as I high-tailed it out of the building and onto the road for some quality me-and-my-masochistic-route-ideas time.
It was a good idea - I came back to my room around 9:30 and actually finished up before 1 a.m! A victory, if I do say so myself.
In any case - I used to think biking was a ... well, to be honest, a soft option. Mind, I consider myself a runner, so if I can't feel my legs literally pounding the pavement, something must be horribly wrong. However - flash back to last summer, when I ran every day and nearly destroyed my right leg... and all the resulting power walking I had to do in order to allow it to properly heal.
The term "dorkwalking" is in itself enough to make a person start to look at other means of beating the tar out of their own body.
Hence: the bike. I realized that it's what you make of it - riding down to WaWa is not an effective work out, but tearing around town and the Valley for an hour or so is. My only problem is I tend to get explorer-crazy when I bike. I see a new, foreign road - next thing you know, I have no idea where the hell I am. It adds to the fun.
"Dani, what the hell did you do for the last 3 hours?!"
"Oh, sorry guys ... [cue gasping breaths and hands clutching chest] I ... I didn't mean to be so late but I... [wheeze wheeze] I ended up in freakin' Canada man - no idea how I got there..."
".... Oh. Well. Did you bring back a souvenir?"
A few days before I came back to school, I veered off onto the back roads of Wilmington, Delaware ... as mentioned above, what we call the Valley. Gorgeous by day, slightly terrifying at night (rows upon rows of fields, winding roads, massive hills... you either get engulfed by a love of nature or swamped by a sudden desire to run away screaming from axe-murderers, aliens, Mel Gibson...) so I decided that a late afternoon escapade would work out. For the first hour it was brilliant - dodging cars that honked lovingly, swearing magnificently as I scaled the hills, pulling up my shorts after they fell down for the nth time - I was having a blast. Then... I turned right on a whim.
Suddenly, the roads are paved differently. The license plates all read Pennsylvania. There is an air of tension and foreboding, as if the daring of a native Delawarean to enter such a place is grounds in itself to send her body back to the First State in a box. Even the nature sounds treacherous - a lizard sunbathing distinctively stuck his tongue out at me as I rode by.
... as you can see, this was Serious.
The further I ride, the more and more I am convinced that I will somehow miss civilization entirely. Whatever signs of humanity I see are obviously inhabited by evil beings who want to see me get tired and finally get off of my bike. Worse, I begin to fear that, by the time I rectify my mistake by either turning around or finally recognizing my surroundings, the sun will sink down in a fiery display and leave me to wind my way home in the dark.
and... even if I survive the dark, I would most certainly not survive the lecture from my parents about riding in the Valley alone, at night, without a helmet.
As you might figure, I was in a pickle.
... until I came out of a tight curve and was deposited at a main road about 2 miles away from my house.
Needless to say, I'm still convinced that I passed unknowingly - even if only briefly - into a twilight zone area of Pennsylvania. Further - the next time I ride here, I may just end up North of the Border if I'm not careful - and I won't rule out Mexico either.
... I'll just bring money in order to retrieve something pretty as proof.
[home as in Indiana University - Wright Dormitory - Room Roughly the Size of a Spacious Penitentiary Cell.]
.... yes, that would be me. :) And, after days of driving, unloading, unpacking (staring blankly at my possessions and trying not to:
1. break down in tears
2. scream obscenities
3. curse the local deity's name
4. spontaneously combust
I have finally ... finally ... gotten settled in. Hall-le-freakin-lujiah.
Perhaps it was the mindset that I shouldn't leave the containment quarters - er, my room - until I'd finished putting everything in its proper place that did me in - by the time 7:30 came around last evening, I had accomplished a great deal of nothing besides nearly taking my own life with the set of bunk beds (but I'm only one person!) and tacking up a picture of my Babci to remind me that murder and mass destruction go against the moral and religious grain. In other words... well... no, you understand.
Mais oui - 7:30 p.m, my mind checked out, and I could do no more. Hence the slight manhandling of my bike as I high-tailed it out of the building and onto the road for some quality me-and-my-masochistic-route-ideas time.
It was a good idea - I came back to my room around 9:30 and actually finished up before 1 a.m! A victory, if I do say so myself.
In any case - I used to think biking was a ... well, to be honest, a soft option. Mind, I consider myself a runner, so if I can't feel my legs literally pounding the pavement, something must be horribly wrong. However - flash back to last summer, when I ran every day and nearly destroyed my right leg... and all the resulting power walking I had to do in order to allow it to properly heal.
The term "dorkwalking" is in itself enough to make a person start to look at other means of beating the tar out of their own body.
Hence: the bike. I realized that it's what you make of it - riding down to WaWa is not an effective work out, but tearing around town and the Valley for an hour or so is. My only problem is I tend to get explorer-crazy when I bike. I see a new, foreign road - next thing you know, I have no idea where the hell I am. It adds to the fun.
"Dani, what the hell did you do for the last 3 hours?!"
"Oh, sorry guys ... [cue gasping breaths and hands clutching chest] I ... I didn't mean to be so late but I... [wheeze wheeze] I ended up in freakin' Canada man - no idea how I got there..."
".... Oh. Well. Did you bring back a souvenir?"
A few days before I came back to school, I veered off onto the back roads of Wilmington, Delaware ... as mentioned above, what we call the Valley. Gorgeous by day, slightly terrifying at night (rows upon rows of fields, winding roads, massive hills... you either get engulfed by a love of nature or swamped by a sudden desire to run away screaming from axe-murderers, aliens, Mel Gibson...) so I decided that a late afternoon escapade would work out. For the first hour it was brilliant - dodging cars that honked lovingly, swearing magnificently as I scaled the hills, pulling up my shorts after they fell down for the nth time - I was having a blast. Then... I turned right on a whim.
Suddenly, the roads are paved differently. The license plates all read Pennsylvania. There is an air of tension and foreboding, as if the daring of a native Delawarean to enter such a place is grounds in itself to send her body back to the First State in a box. Even the nature sounds treacherous - a lizard sunbathing distinctively stuck his tongue out at me as I rode by.
... as you can see, this was Serious.
The further I ride, the more and more I am convinced that I will somehow miss civilization entirely. Whatever signs of humanity I see are obviously inhabited by evil beings who want to see me get tired and finally get off of my bike. Worse, I begin to fear that, by the time I rectify my mistake by either turning around or finally recognizing my surroundings, the sun will sink down in a fiery display and leave me to wind my way home in the dark.
and... even if I survive the dark, I would most certainly not survive the lecture from my parents about riding in the Valley alone, at night, without a helmet.
As you might figure, I was in a pickle.
... until I came out of a tight curve and was deposited at a main road about 2 miles away from my house.
Needless to say, I'm still convinced that I passed unknowingly - even if only briefly - into a twilight zone area of Pennsylvania. Further - the next time I ride here, I may just end up North of the Border if I'm not careful - and I won't rule out Mexico either.
... I'll just bring money in order to retrieve something pretty as proof.
Friday, August 15, 2008
As I'm sure someone in a dither once said, "I am in a pickle..."
I once knew a girl who could not feel her toes -
it spread to her buttocks and up to her nose;
While sitting or standing, smelling or prancing,
Driving to dancing, trotting then lancing,
Hopping towards shopping and fanning while fencing,
No idea had she of what she was sensing.
The poor girl knew nothing of the life that she led -
so she opted to feel with her whole heart, instead.
-dm
Remember that whole business about my last post - about Love, but not Mine; the gnarley, disgusting travesty of emotion that made my stomach clench and my eyes water of their own accord?
Yes, well.... about that. This time, I have a dilemma, and it thoroughly - and intentionally - involves me. It is a Love, but I am horribly, 99% certain that despite my best efforts and the diligence of the other party, it is not *my* Love... (or very strong "like" - urgh.) again.
Perhaps I am a shallow person - I'd like to think that I am not, but hey, you never know. If it is any consolation (to myself), the men in the past that I have fallen for have not necessarily been considered Don Juans - or worse (better?) the Derek Zoolanders and Hansel's of their time. All the same, no matter how wonderful of a relationship - a friendly, marvelously peachy, platonic coexistance... I craze a physical attraction. I've heard the phrase "just like kissing my brother", and I have to disagree with that particular wording, as kissing my brother would most likely traumatize me for the rest of my living days, but in the sense that the romance, the spark, the ZING... isn't there... well... I need the Zing.
Perhaps I am a shallow person, but the man in question pulled a movie moment and I ... felt... nothing. [cringe]
[side note: my ex boyfriend has pointed out that platonic relationships, when you actually read some goddamn plato, are far more intimate and intense - true, maybe not as romantic, but about as deep and complex as you can get - than your ordinary sex 'n sugar squeeze significant other. I've read plato - and I've kicked myself for not figuring that one out before he did.]
Mais oui - nothing. No zing. No spark. And... now... absence makes the heart grow fonder - I've heard - and we're finally seperated for the first time since June 16th... and still, zilch.
(then again, texting does take away the illusion of distance.)
I want to try. I want to try and see if I'm just a confused bint in a pickle, and once I head back up to IU I will suddenly feel that spark, those fireworks, the great lean towards truth, love, and happiness, though not necessarily in that order.
... I am concerned that I will not.
... and... I'm pretty goddamn sorry, because I have been trying the whole summer... and I don't think this is something you "try" at.
My toes and my nose and my buttocks (well, that's okay) are great - my heart needs a jolt or two.
it spread to her buttocks and up to her nose;
While sitting or standing, smelling or prancing,
Driving to dancing, trotting then lancing,
Hopping towards shopping and fanning while fencing,
No idea had she of what she was sensing.
The poor girl knew nothing of the life that she led -
so she opted to feel with her whole heart, instead.
-dm
Remember that whole business about my last post - about Love, but not Mine; the gnarley, disgusting travesty of emotion that made my stomach clench and my eyes water of their own accord?
Yes, well.... about that. This time, I have a dilemma, and it thoroughly - and intentionally - involves me. It is a Love, but I am horribly, 99% certain that despite my best efforts and the diligence of the other party, it is not *my* Love... (or very strong "like" - urgh.) again.
Perhaps I am a shallow person - I'd like to think that I am not, but hey, you never know. If it is any consolation (to myself), the men in the past that I have fallen for have not necessarily been considered Don Juans - or worse (better?) the Derek Zoolanders and Hansel's of their time. All the same, no matter how wonderful of a relationship - a friendly, marvelously peachy, platonic coexistance... I craze a physical attraction. I've heard the phrase "just like kissing my brother", and I have to disagree with that particular wording, as kissing my brother would most likely traumatize me for the rest of my living days, but in the sense that the romance, the spark, the ZING... isn't there... well... I need the Zing.
Perhaps I am a shallow person, but the man in question pulled a movie moment and I ... felt... nothing. [cringe]
[side note: my ex boyfriend has pointed out that platonic relationships, when you actually read some goddamn plato, are far more intimate and intense - true, maybe not as romantic, but about as deep and complex as you can get - than your ordinary sex 'n sugar squeeze significant other. I've read plato - and I've kicked myself for not figuring that one out before he did.]
Mais oui - nothing. No zing. No spark. And... now... absence makes the heart grow fonder - I've heard - and we're finally seperated for the first time since June 16th... and still, zilch.
(then again, texting does take away the illusion of distance.)
I want to try. I want to try and see if I'm just a confused bint in a pickle, and once I head back up to IU I will suddenly feel that spark, those fireworks, the great lean towards truth, love, and happiness, though not necessarily in that order.
... I am concerned that I will not.
... and... I'm pretty goddamn sorry, because I have been trying the whole summer... and I don't think this is something you "try" at.
My toes and my nose and my buttocks (well, that's okay) are great - my heart needs a jolt or two.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
so let go, let go, jump in - boundless pleasure with boundless pain
Tonight, I do not understand.
Rather, I see, but I cannot for the life of me comprehend my body's reactions. I have been told that I'm a sensitive person, but usually by my family for losing rationality and, thus, "my cool", upon being teased, joshed, messed with, and generally disoriented.
I've also been told that I have more hot buttons than a Manhattan Elevator.
... yeah. Well. Just 'cause it's true doesn't mean it should be tested.
In any case, my head is reeling and my stomach is rejecting the peaches it consumed earlier... I'm at a loss.
... more or less, the problem is Love.
Not mine. Being single has its benefits - I don't have to worry about the possibility of being sucker punched. However.. there is something about the summer that brings out the best and worst in people. (I know I'm being vague, but I'm trying to also be respectful. I don't do it all that often - forgive me.)
Allow me to explain. Kind of.
At age 20, I am sitting here musing over the "loves" I have had. Won't lie, I've had a few. At least, I've felt so strongly towards certain men that the consequences have both uplifted me and sickened me. If I were to delve further into it, I have probably committed the same atrocious acts of unintended (... and sometimes intended...) hurt that have been done to me. I will go so far as to say that everyone on this planet, no matter how or why, has marred someone that they have "loved", or that has "loved" them.
I have never cheated, nor have I been cheated on. (As far as I know.)
I have, however, been unexpectedly dropped like a hot dish at a restaurant.
I have also done my fair share of dropping. Insecurities, stupidity, paranoia, angst... the list goes on for a while. I'm not the brightest crayon in the box - I am just lucky that the people I have hurt have it in them to forgive me when I screw up.
[good god, I'm scatterbrained tonight. back to the original point]:
Again, this is not my love. And... the person that housed that love... I have known for less than two months. I would call us friends, but not close. Music camp is miraculous in the sense that people form friendships ridiculously quickly, but the two of us don't sit and chat over cocoa, if you know what I mean. However, when you are with the same people for 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for a little over seven weeks... you can put pieces together.
To see this person, eyes red, head in his hands - my body began to feel wretched.
It is not my problem. It is not my love. Maybe it was the way that he would talk about his, though - or the calm, collected demeanor he radiated without even trying. Perhaps it was in the way that he acted as if seemingly impossible, untouchable things were nothing at all...
No one could understand how such a person could be reduced to tears.
Or... at least... no one could fathom the hurt that would cause it.
Maybe that's why my body laments it. It is not my love. But to see the depth of another's and watch it explode...
Frou Frou says that "there is beauty in the breakdown". Maybe. All I see is pain.
Rather, I see, but I cannot for the life of me comprehend my body's reactions. I have been told that I'm a sensitive person, but usually by my family for losing rationality and, thus, "my cool", upon being teased, joshed, messed with, and generally disoriented.
I've also been told that I have more hot buttons than a Manhattan Elevator.
... yeah. Well. Just 'cause it's true doesn't mean it should be tested.
In any case, my head is reeling and my stomach is rejecting the peaches it consumed earlier... I'm at a loss.
... more or less, the problem is Love.
Not mine. Being single has its benefits - I don't have to worry about the possibility of being sucker punched. However.. there is something about the summer that brings out the best and worst in people. (I know I'm being vague, but I'm trying to also be respectful. I don't do it all that often - forgive me.)
Allow me to explain. Kind of.
At age 20, I am sitting here musing over the "loves" I have had. Won't lie, I've had a few. At least, I've felt so strongly towards certain men that the consequences have both uplifted me and sickened me. If I were to delve further into it, I have probably committed the same atrocious acts of unintended (... and sometimes intended...) hurt that have been done to me. I will go so far as to say that everyone on this planet, no matter how or why, has marred someone that they have "loved", or that has "loved" them.
I have never cheated, nor have I been cheated on. (As far as I know.)
I have, however, been unexpectedly dropped like a hot dish at a restaurant.
I have also done my fair share of dropping. Insecurities, stupidity, paranoia, angst... the list goes on for a while. I'm not the brightest crayon in the box - I am just lucky that the people I have hurt have it in them to forgive me when I screw up.
[good god, I'm scatterbrained tonight. back to the original point]:
Again, this is not my love. And... the person that housed that love... I have known for less than two months. I would call us friends, but not close. Music camp is miraculous in the sense that people form friendships ridiculously quickly, but the two of us don't sit and chat over cocoa, if you know what I mean. However, when you are with the same people for 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for a little over seven weeks... you can put pieces together.
To see this person, eyes red, head in his hands - my body began to feel wretched.
It is not my problem. It is not my love. Maybe it was the way that he would talk about his, though - or the calm, collected demeanor he radiated without even trying. Perhaps it was in the way that he acted as if seemingly impossible, untouchable things were nothing at all...
No one could understand how such a person could be reduced to tears.
Or... at least... no one could fathom the hurt that would cause it.
Maybe that's why my body laments it. It is not my love. But to see the depth of another's and watch it explode...
Frou Frou says that "there is beauty in the breakdown". Maybe. All I see is pain.
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