... 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.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
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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