It’s never been a secret that I am not a “lady”; not to me, or anyone who knows me. And to be honest, I’m not all that concerned about it.
It seems to me that there the guidelines we set on women and men in our culture are in no way beneficial to anyone. They are limiting and discriminatory, rigid and unforgiving. The molds that were created for us hundreds of years ago are suffocating yet many people spent a lifetime trying to fit themselves inside of it. Uncomfortable? Quite.
But even more than uncomfortable, it is painful. It is our culture’s habit to make people feel bad, guilty, and ashamed of themselves simply because they do not fit a mold that was shaped so long ago that they are neither helpful nor relevant. We don’t tell them that, though. We just tell them to fit, and maybe not so directly, but with the bombardment of all the silent, covert, sneaky and disguised cues in our movies, our music, our commercials, our everything, the messages are quite clear.
Girls wear pink. Boys don’t play with dolls. Girls will be wives and mothers. Boys will make the money. Women clean. Men mow the lawn. Women take care of the kids. Men discipline them. If you have a child, you should be married. If you are gay, you are a pervert. If you are a “minority” then it is a surprise if you succeed or not a victim of poverty. If you’re not religious then you are a bad person. If you believe in God then you are right. If you enjoy being alone then you have emotional issues. If you’re too friendly then you’re easy.
So many equations and “since you are this therefore you are this” type thinking that we not only ignore peoples’ unique traits and lifestyles, we actually insult them, degrade them, punish them. When did we stop cherishing the differences in ourselves and start coveting uniformity and sameness? Why do we claim to revel in the beauty of difference and diversity and variety when what we actually do is stifle those things as a habit?
I often like to close my eyes and think about what I should be like, if I were to follow our culture’s idea of what a lady of my age should be. But all I can think about is in how many ways I am in no way even close to our culture’s ideal…
I have a hard time remembering to sit with my legs closed (especially, it seems, when I am wearing a dress) and it’s always been a natural instinct of mine to be an avid competitor in burping contests. I’m not married or in a relationship that will lead to it, and at twenty five that is sort of weird. Even more, I don’t have dreams of a white dress and I’m still not entirely sure if I will ever have children. I’d love to have a booming career that takes me places; literally and figuratively. I don’t require diamonds or gold, and my daily cosmetic routine is basic, at best. I can’t style my hair, and in terms of dressing myself, I lack a certain style. And it isn’t rare for me to question whether or not I’ll be able to cook myself food other than grilled cheese or boxed macaroni and cheese.
And I’m not worried. I’m not helpless, or floundering. I don’t base my happiness on how well I fit into the mold; and actually find more happiness in the fact that I don’t. I have nothing against any woman (or man) who wants to fit the mold or actually does, I just realize that I don’t, never will, and don’t want to.
I don’t want to limit myself so I sure as hell don’t want someone else to set limits on me. I’m not dangerous or stupid, I don’t sacrifice helpless animals or cry myself to sleep. I simply try to follow my heart and not just accept myself, but love myself. And so far, so good.
I just wish our culture would get the hint.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Cricket Pitch.
It isn't an infrequent occurrence for someone to make some comment about how often I laugh. The most common comment being that I don't just laugh a lot, I laugh most of the time. It's never said in an insulting way, or even in a way to make me feel awkward, mostly it is said with curiosity. It is stated in a way that implies to me that most people don't find half as many reasons to laugh as I do, and even if they did, they wouldn't have the energy to actually laugh. How on earth do I do it?
How on earth could I not?
My every day, normal life is filled with countless moments that end in laughter. Sometimes those moments are complete surprises, other times they are planned to the finest detail, whether by me or the comedians around me. Either way, when the laughter comes, it comes and it doesn't apologize.
The second most frequent comment about my laughter is with the voracity in which I laugh. I hardly ever giggle; quiet, moderate laughter isn't something I do naturally. I laugh with my entire self, and the intensity of my laughter is the proof. I'm an open mouthed, eyes squinted, body trembling sort of laughter. It bounces off walls and echoes across the world. My laughter doesn't apologize for its arrival or its volume.
What strikes me as most odd about the comments of my laughter is that it is something that catches people attention so strongly that it becomes a sort of normal topic of conversation. Why would the frequency in which I laugh be anything of note? Do people really laugh that infrequently that I'm the abnormal one? It seems like it should be the other way around.
And if we're being honest here, which I have no reason not to be, I have a very strange sense of humor. It's dark but cheesy, twisted but sincere, goofy but adult. It's a million different things which makes in incredibly easy to find things funny. I laugh because my body knows no other way, and really doesn't want to.
Laughter isn't just involuntary contractions of muscles and organs; it is so much more. It is a cure for your sadness, for your heart-break, for your anger. It is a magnet that draws people together; the more they laugh, the stronger it pulls. It is an instinct, a hobby, a way of life. It is the purest most reliable aphrodisiac. It is the glue that holds you together when you're falling apart. It is a melody, a rhythm, song and dance. It is one of the most enjoyable, near death experiences one will ever endure; gasping for breath, aching in pain but loving every moment of it.
Laughter is beautiful.
Think about it: laughter is so important to our way of life that the first time a baby laughs, we write it down and then try without exhaustion to make it happen again and again and again.
So yes, I laugh a lot and I do it loudly. It may even be noteworthy. But can you really laugh too much?
I can't.
How on earth could I not?
My every day, normal life is filled with countless moments that end in laughter. Sometimes those moments are complete surprises, other times they are planned to the finest detail, whether by me or the comedians around me. Either way, when the laughter comes, it comes and it doesn't apologize.
The second most frequent comment about my laughter is with the voracity in which I laugh. I hardly ever giggle; quiet, moderate laughter isn't something I do naturally. I laugh with my entire self, and the intensity of my laughter is the proof. I'm an open mouthed, eyes squinted, body trembling sort of laughter. It bounces off walls and echoes across the world. My laughter doesn't apologize for its arrival or its volume.
What strikes me as most odd about the comments of my laughter is that it is something that catches people attention so strongly that it becomes a sort of normal topic of conversation. Why would the frequency in which I laugh be anything of note? Do people really laugh that infrequently that I'm the abnormal one? It seems like it should be the other way around.
And if we're being honest here, which I have no reason not to be, I have a very strange sense of humor. It's dark but cheesy, twisted but sincere, goofy but adult. It's a million different things which makes in incredibly easy to find things funny. I laugh because my body knows no other way, and really doesn't want to.
Laughter isn't just involuntary contractions of muscles and organs; it is so much more. It is a cure for your sadness, for your heart-break, for your anger. It is a magnet that draws people together; the more they laugh, the stronger it pulls. It is an instinct, a hobby, a way of life. It is the purest most reliable aphrodisiac. It is the glue that holds you together when you're falling apart. It is a melody, a rhythm, song and dance. It is one of the most enjoyable, near death experiences one will ever endure; gasping for breath, aching in pain but loving every moment of it.
Laughter is beautiful.
Think about it: laughter is so important to our way of life that the first time a baby laughs, we write it down and then try without exhaustion to make it happen again and again and again.
So yes, I laugh a lot and I do it loudly. It may even be noteworthy. But can you really laugh too much?
I can't.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
1+2+3+4+5+6
One of the most beautiful things about growing up and getting older are the memories you've come to collect: long lazy days, crazy parties, tears, loves, single heart-stopping moments. Of all the things that people collect, the ones that seem to be least appreciated are the memories that have made us who we are.
I've tried to imagine what it would be like if, even just for an instant, I knew nothing of my past; a blank slate that is twenty five years old. I wouldn't be jaded or have any hang-ups, I would know nothing of old scars and pains, I could walk the earth with the same blissful abandon that children cultivate so naturally. And that almost sounds appetizing. Until, that is, you realize that without all those hang-ups and scars there really isn't a person, just a brand new body itching for memories. Itching for life.
Some of the most beautiful hours of my life were spent remembering. Whether it was long talks over a dinner table with my parents about the years I spent naming snails while watching them kiss me as they slimed along my arms or flipping through old pictures of times so long ago I can't actually remember them. We laugh and smile until our our temples burn and our eyes well up, and in those blissful moments of recollection the moment I am living in right now seems even more important.
Because this moment, this one right here that is serenaded by the rhythmic clanking of a keyboard, will one day be but a distant memory; one that I will one day see in hindsight as the beginning of something. This moment will make my life.
There's that saying that we are the sums of our experiences. I find the sentiment incredibly beautiful for two very different reasons. First, isn't it amazing to look into the mirror, far deeper than what is obvious to eye and see someone so lovely, so incredible, so powerful and realize that every moment of your life, good, bad, monumental, painful, has made you the person you are looking at? It's almost magical to think that every breath you've taken, every stumble, every laugh, every tear has molded you into this masterpiece before you. Life is a very talented artist, no? But even more beautiful than that is the fact that if by chance you don't see the masterpiece before you that you want so eagerly to see, you have the power to revise. There may be no "backspace" button or "delete" option in life, but the editting options that life has so generously given to us are far more beneficial. This moment right here is filled with limitless potential to change everything. This moment right here is more powerful than anything else. And this moment belongs to you and nobody else.
I know it sounds cheesy to say that every moment is a gift, but how can you deny that? Life has given you countless moments of limitless potential and infinite power, shouldn't we take advantage of it? To squeeze every ounce of life out of every moment, big or small, and to not simply exchange gases with the world around us?
We should live. We should be grateful for all the moments of our past, of our present, of our future. We don't need to be an aged blank slate to make our marks in the play ground sand like children do. We can do that now.
And isn't that the least we can do?
I've tried to imagine what it would be like if, even just for an instant, I knew nothing of my past; a blank slate that is twenty five years old. I wouldn't be jaded or have any hang-ups, I would know nothing of old scars and pains, I could walk the earth with the same blissful abandon that children cultivate so naturally. And that almost sounds appetizing. Until, that is, you realize that without all those hang-ups and scars there really isn't a person, just a brand new body itching for memories. Itching for life.
Some of the most beautiful hours of my life were spent remembering. Whether it was long talks over a dinner table with my parents about the years I spent naming snails while watching them kiss me as they slimed along my arms or flipping through old pictures of times so long ago I can't actually remember them. We laugh and smile until our our temples burn and our eyes well up, and in those blissful moments of recollection the moment I am living in right now seems even more important.
Because this moment, this one right here that is serenaded by the rhythmic clanking of a keyboard, will one day be but a distant memory; one that I will one day see in hindsight as the beginning of something. This moment will make my life.
There's that saying that we are the sums of our experiences. I find the sentiment incredibly beautiful for two very different reasons. First, isn't it amazing to look into the mirror, far deeper than what is obvious to eye and see someone so lovely, so incredible, so powerful and realize that every moment of your life, good, bad, monumental, painful, has made you the person you are looking at? It's almost magical to think that every breath you've taken, every stumble, every laugh, every tear has molded you into this masterpiece before you. Life is a very talented artist, no? But even more beautiful than that is the fact that if by chance you don't see the masterpiece before you that you want so eagerly to see, you have the power to revise. There may be no "backspace" button or "delete" option in life, but the editting options that life has so generously given to us are far more beneficial. This moment right here is filled with limitless potential to change everything. This moment right here is more powerful than anything else. And this moment belongs to you and nobody else.
I know it sounds cheesy to say that every moment is a gift, but how can you deny that? Life has given you countless moments of limitless potential and infinite power, shouldn't we take advantage of it? To squeeze every ounce of life out of every moment, big or small, and to not simply exchange gases with the world around us?
We should live. We should be grateful for all the moments of our past, of our present, of our future. We don't need to be an aged blank slate to make our marks in the play ground sand like children do. We can do that now.
And isn't that the least we can do?
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Score.
I have always been the sort of person that remembers the fine details of far-gone events; what shirt was worn, who ate what, or what time it happened. It isn’t just that I write those things down (I do) or even that it was a particularly significant event (it sometimes isn’t), there is just something about those fine details that make a memory all that more delicious. So it’s funny that if you asked me when the moment was that I fell in love with him, I couldn’t even begin to guess.
I’d always imagined falling in love being much like getting hit by a bus, only more romantic. It would happen and knock you on your ass, steal your breath, and there would never be a doubt that it happened at that precise moment; but it wasn’t like that for me. Sure, I was knocked onto my ass and there were countless moments that my breath somehow managed to get lost in my throat, but there was never that precise moment of knowing.
What was more of the case for me was the fact that I always knew I would fall in love with him. I don’t fancy myself a psychic; I can’t tell you when it’s going to rain (only when it is raining) and I don’t communicate on different levels of consciousness (I have a hard enough time communicating on this one). But for some reason, I always knew I would.
Months after the slightly awkward (mostly on my part) albeit breath-taking declarations of love I came across a journal entry I had scrawled down into one of my school notebooks, dated a mere three months after meeting him. I had long forgotten about this entry and a random itch to organize my room was the only reason I had stumbled across the treasure. There in the middle of the page, after paragraphs about how difficult he was, how weird he was, how painfully hilarious he was, written in my unmistakably flirty, chaotic cursive were the words, “I could see myself falling in love with him.” And so far, that is the only time I have ever correctly forecasted my love life.
As I read through the entry I smiled and laughed and by the end of the two pages of psychic scribblings my face hurt. I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember writing it but I no doubt did; I couldn’t have denied it if I had wanted to.
It caused a swarm of butterflies to take over my stomach and I felt weightless; as if just one more butterfly would have caused me to float above the ground in a majestic dance with them. What made me feel this so early on in our friendship? How on earth could I have known? And why did I feel it so strongly as to actually write it down?
There’s a part of me that likes to think all of us has a touch of psychic ability in us. I don’t really fancy it something so fantastical as actual psychic ability or magic; I see it as something more biological, more earthly. I call it instinct. Those gut feelings you have all the time for a million different reasons that we often ignore, but more often turn off. I find those far more interesting than ESP or Miss Cleo.
And my gut knew. It knew that the way I laughed with him echoed off the wall far more powerfully than any other laugh. It knew that the comfort I took in the silent moments of our conversations was as a result of those silences speaking far more amazing things than our words did. It knew that it didn’t matter how long we spent talking on the phone today that I would look forward to talking to him even more tomorrow. It just knew. And in my forgotten moment of pure and honest listening to myself I turned a “gut feeling” into an actualized thought. I could fall in love with him.
And I did.
It’s amazing the things you know without actually knowing you know it.
So while there is no precise time for me to mark in my calendar and emblazon into my memory, I have something just as memorable…
A gut that knew before everyone, without any real clues or hints, that he would have my heart, and that I would have his.
I’d always imagined falling in love being much like getting hit by a bus, only more romantic. It would happen and knock you on your ass, steal your breath, and there would never be a doubt that it happened at that precise moment; but it wasn’t like that for me. Sure, I was knocked onto my ass and there were countless moments that my breath somehow managed to get lost in my throat, but there was never that precise moment of knowing.
What was more of the case for me was the fact that I always knew I would fall in love with him. I don’t fancy myself a psychic; I can’t tell you when it’s going to rain (only when it is raining) and I don’t communicate on different levels of consciousness (I have a hard enough time communicating on this one). But for some reason, I always knew I would.
Months after the slightly awkward (mostly on my part) albeit breath-taking declarations of love I came across a journal entry I had scrawled down into one of my school notebooks, dated a mere three months after meeting him. I had long forgotten about this entry and a random itch to organize my room was the only reason I had stumbled across the treasure. There in the middle of the page, after paragraphs about how difficult he was, how weird he was, how painfully hilarious he was, written in my unmistakably flirty, chaotic cursive were the words, “I could see myself falling in love with him.” And so far, that is the only time I have ever correctly forecasted my love life.
As I read through the entry I smiled and laughed and by the end of the two pages of psychic scribblings my face hurt. I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember writing it but I no doubt did; I couldn’t have denied it if I had wanted to.
It caused a swarm of butterflies to take over my stomach and I felt weightless; as if just one more butterfly would have caused me to float above the ground in a majestic dance with them. What made me feel this so early on in our friendship? How on earth could I have known? And why did I feel it so strongly as to actually write it down?
There’s a part of me that likes to think all of us has a touch of psychic ability in us. I don’t really fancy it something so fantastical as actual psychic ability or magic; I see it as something more biological, more earthly. I call it instinct. Those gut feelings you have all the time for a million different reasons that we often ignore, but more often turn off. I find those far more interesting than ESP or Miss Cleo.
And my gut knew. It knew that the way I laughed with him echoed off the wall far more powerfully than any other laugh. It knew that the comfort I took in the silent moments of our conversations was as a result of those silences speaking far more amazing things than our words did. It knew that it didn’t matter how long we spent talking on the phone today that I would look forward to talking to him even more tomorrow. It just knew. And in my forgotten moment of pure and honest listening to myself I turned a “gut feeling” into an actualized thought. I could fall in love with him.
And I did.
It’s amazing the things you know without actually knowing you know it.
So while there is no precise time for me to mark in my calendar and emblazon into my memory, I have something just as memorable…
A gut that knew before everyone, without any real clues or hints, that he would have my heart, and that I would have his.
M'mm, banana.
I recently read an article that was reporting on studies that have concluded that romantic comedies are “ruining” real-life romance. You don’t say?
It struck me as odd at first. We are suffering from issues like cancer and poverty, and yet somewhere out there, there is someone who has enough time (and desire) to research the effects of romance comedies on my love life. Odd. I chuckled, but I read through the article anyway. After all, who am I to judge what some other person deems noteworthy; I spend ridiculous amounts of time funneling my personal thoughts through a keyboard.
After I got over myself I found that I was slightly irritated. They write, “…romantic comedies give people unrealistic ideas about love and sex…” I thrive on the idea that if it possible for someone to think up Bill Pullman’s character from “While You Were Sleeping” then certainly a person of his caliber should exist, no? Or John Cusack’s heart wrenching scene in the rain, boom-box poised so romantically over his head? It is impossible that men like this don’t exist! Unrealistic? Bah!
And then I felt it; the icy hand of reality.
Okay, fine. I can sort of buy the idea that most men aren’t like that; dropping rings into the toll booth money exchange slot, or boom-boxes raised high in incredibly intense proclamations of love. Okay. Fine. But certainly, they must exist. Right?
Did that sound too desperate?
I’ve never been a girl of grand gesture type feats. In fact, it is wholly impressive if I can muster up with even the slightest romantically charged gesture; a poke in the nose has nearly been the extent of it. I insist then that I haven’t been ruined. And then I read on…
“Marriage counselors often see couples who believe that sex should always be perfect, and if someone is meant to be with you then they will know what you want without you needing to communicate it.” And I read it again, only I concentrated on the expecting a clairvoyant partner part (Not that I don’t appreciate the sex part, but that’s a different topic entirely). I’ve been had.
Now I won’t go as far as to blame the movies for my painful ignorance, but I will indeed recognize that it perpetuates something dangerous. I’ve always recognized that the fine and dying art of communication is key; not just to romantic relationships, but to relationships as a whole. Communication is key to life. Can you imagine if for all these hundreds and thousands of years that the creatures of the earth didn’t communicate? We’d have all been dust by now.
It’s funny to which the extent that we simply assume that things will just be understood, even without any sort of real communication. “He should just know why I’m angry.” “She should just understand that I don’t want to.” “They should get it.” But he doesn’t, nor does she; and that person way over there, they really have no idea. And despite all the confusion, and frustration, and headaches, and chaos that our closed mouth habits incur, we just keep on keeping on.
What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to expect a mind reader.
It’s seems pretty simple to deduce that just saying what you’re feeling, what you’re expecting, what you’re wanting is the most efficient, most successful way for those things to be known. I mean why wait around festering in frustration when you could just nip the whole thing in the butt right from the get-go and say, “Honey, I really don’t like it when you leave your dirty underwear in the middle of living room.”
What are we going to do next, blame movies for our lack of common sense?
So I give it to the researchers, romantic comedies may be warping our minds a little bit. There really aren’t so many “Lloyd Doblers” running around.
Ruining romance, however? I just blame us.
It struck me as odd at first. We are suffering from issues like cancer and poverty, and yet somewhere out there, there is someone who has enough time (and desire) to research the effects of romance comedies on my love life. Odd. I chuckled, but I read through the article anyway. After all, who am I to judge what some other person deems noteworthy; I spend ridiculous amounts of time funneling my personal thoughts through a keyboard.
After I got over myself I found that I was slightly irritated. They write, “…romantic comedies give people unrealistic ideas about love and sex…” I thrive on the idea that if it possible for someone to think up Bill Pullman’s character from “While You Were Sleeping” then certainly a person of his caliber should exist, no? Or John Cusack’s heart wrenching scene in the rain, boom-box poised so romantically over his head? It is impossible that men like this don’t exist! Unrealistic? Bah!
And then I felt it; the icy hand of reality.
Okay, fine. I can sort of buy the idea that most men aren’t like that; dropping rings into the toll booth money exchange slot, or boom-boxes raised high in incredibly intense proclamations of love. Okay. Fine. But certainly, they must exist. Right?
Did that sound too desperate?
I’ve never been a girl of grand gesture type feats. In fact, it is wholly impressive if I can muster up with even the slightest romantically charged gesture; a poke in the nose has nearly been the extent of it. I insist then that I haven’t been ruined. And then I read on…
“Marriage counselors often see couples who believe that sex should always be perfect, and if someone is meant to be with you then they will know what you want without you needing to communicate it.” And I read it again, only I concentrated on the expecting a clairvoyant partner part (Not that I don’t appreciate the sex part, but that’s a different topic entirely). I’ve been had.
Now I won’t go as far as to blame the movies for my painful ignorance, but I will indeed recognize that it perpetuates something dangerous. I’ve always recognized that the fine and dying art of communication is key; not just to romantic relationships, but to relationships as a whole. Communication is key to life. Can you imagine if for all these hundreds and thousands of years that the creatures of the earth didn’t communicate? We’d have all been dust by now.
It’s funny to which the extent that we simply assume that things will just be understood, even without any sort of real communication. “He should just know why I’m angry.” “She should just understand that I don’t want to.” “They should get it.” But he doesn’t, nor does she; and that person way over there, they really have no idea. And despite all the confusion, and frustration, and headaches, and chaos that our closed mouth habits incur, we just keep on keeping on.
What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to expect a mind reader.
It’s seems pretty simple to deduce that just saying what you’re feeling, what you’re expecting, what you’re wanting is the most efficient, most successful way for those things to be known. I mean why wait around festering in frustration when you could just nip the whole thing in the butt right from the get-go and say, “Honey, I really don’t like it when you leave your dirty underwear in the middle of living room.”
What are we going to do next, blame movies for our lack of common sense?
So I give it to the researchers, romantic comedies may be warping our minds a little bit. There really aren’t so many “Lloyd Doblers” running around.
Ruining romance, however? I just blame us.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Chai.
Up until two years ago, I was never the girl that got asked out. I wasn’t even the girl that got checked out. I was the invisible girl. I apparently was wearing a “Harry Potter” cloak that didn’t make me invisible to everyone, no, no, it was far more specialized than that. It simply made me invisible to the male species. What a wondrous cloak indeed! As a result I’ve carried around that alter-ego all too willingly and all too diligently.
I still have yet to get used to the idea that men are attracted to me in any way beyond common, casual friendship. I’m not saying that I walk out my front door and am immediately bombarded with desperate confessions of love or pleas for just “one chance.” What is more my reality is a couple handfuls of, “So, hey…would you like to go out sometime?” Which for me, is just as complicated as anything can be.
If I’m being honest here, which I so embarrassingly am, when I get asked out my first inclination is to think, “Is he serious?” I realize we are far past the age of asking people out as a practical joke, but I think since I missed out on the whole dating world when I was of that age, it still lingers. The thought that then immediately follows the “Josie Grossie” in me is, “He just wants to hang. Buddy-buddy style.” So I say, “Sure,” smile and beep-boop-boop-beep my number into his very available phone and call it a day; another buddy to add to the list, “Score!” And while on more than a couple of occasions I’ve found out later that, “buddy-buddy” was not the style in which the other was hoping things would be dressed, I continue to assume the very comfortable, always in fashion “buddy-buddy” thing that’s all the rage. I know…I walk a very fine line of complete dating disaster and insane embarrassment.
I wish I could say I’m getting better at it, but I can’t; not yet.
And the delicious seasoning a’top this “disaster especial” is the fact that I very often (read, almost always) give so many mixed signals and confusing clues that I can name at least two men that I have caused serious distress and discomfort. And while two may not sound like too many, when you take into consideration that I’ve only dated six men (and I’m not talking seriously dated, I’m talking even just the “one daters”) it seems to be a little more serious than, “just two.” What am I doing?
I think what has happened is that I’ve become so accustomed to just being a friend, that my natural, most comfortable inclination is to just assume that position, right from the get-go. It made never being the girl the boys sought after a lot easier to deal with; if I made them a friend first, I’d never suffer the stinging pain of rejection. And that process was mostly successful during my dating dry spell (see: my first twenty four years of existence) but now it’s mostly just throwing wrenches in all sorts of systems.
My main question (aside from wondering why I insist on being such a staunch masochist) is how do I break the cycle? I mean, it seems easy to just say I’ll not assume friendship right off the bat when faced with such situations, but let’s face it, my friendship machine is a well-oiled one. So what do I do?
Do I practice the fine art of casual dating? Always say yes then proceed to be wined and dined, ooh’d and aww’d wearing my very best “not your friend” outfit? Do I simply assume that everyone who wants to “go out sometime” or “hang out” or “meet up” (all phrases that I’ve personally been left to decipher in my dating mishaps) doesn’t want to be just friends? How do I change the course of my ridiculously misled dating vessel?
Or is Dating Disaster my final voyage?
I still have yet to get used to the idea that men are attracted to me in any way beyond common, casual friendship. I’m not saying that I walk out my front door and am immediately bombarded with desperate confessions of love or pleas for just “one chance.” What is more my reality is a couple handfuls of, “So, hey…would you like to go out sometime?” Which for me, is just as complicated as anything can be.
If I’m being honest here, which I so embarrassingly am, when I get asked out my first inclination is to think, “Is he serious?” I realize we are far past the age of asking people out as a practical joke, but I think since I missed out on the whole dating world when I was of that age, it still lingers. The thought that then immediately follows the “Josie Grossie” in me is, “He just wants to hang. Buddy-buddy style.” So I say, “Sure,” smile and beep-boop-boop-beep my number into his very available phone and call it a day; another buddy to add to the list, “Score!” And while on more than a couple of occasions I’ve found out later that, “buddy-buddy” was not the style in which the other was hoping things would be dressed, I continue to assume the very comfortable, always in fashion “buddy-buddy” thing that’s all the rage. I know…I walk a very fine line of complete dating disaster and insane embarrassment.
I wish I could say I’m getting better at it, but I can’t; not yet.
And the delicious seasoning a’top this “disaster especial” is the fact that I very often (read, almost always) give so many mixed signals and confusing clues that I can name at least two men that I have caused serious distress and discomfort. And while two may not sound like too many, when you take into consideration that I’ve only dated six men (and I’m not talking seriously dated, I’m talking even just the “one daters”) it seems to be a little more serious than, “just two.” What am I doing?
I think what has happened is that I’ve become so accustomed to just being a friend, that my natural, most comfortable inclination is to just assume that position, right from the get-go. It made never being the girl the boys sought after a lot easier to deal with; if I made them a friend first, I’d never suffer the stinging pain of rejection. And that process was mostly successful during my dating dry spell (see: my first twenty four years of existence) but now it’s mostly just throwing wrenches in all sorts of systems.
My main question (aside from wondering why I insist on being such a staunch masochist) is how do I break the cycle? I mean, it seems easy to just say I’ll not assume friendship right off the bat when faced with such situations, but let’s face it, my friendship machine is a well-oiled one. So what do I do?
Do I practice the fine art of casual dating? Always say yes then proceed to be wined and dined, ooh’d and aww’d wearing my very best “not your friend” outfit? Do I simply assume that everyone who wants to “go out sometime” or “hang out” or “meet up” (all phrases that I’ve personally been left to decipher in my dating mishaps) doesn’t want to be just friends? How do I change the course of my ridiculously misled dating vessel?
Or is Dating Disaster my final voyage?
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
The Feller Number.
The recent year has taught me a huge number of weird, sometimes hilarious, but more often than not, plain old complicated things about myself. I’ve learned that organizing your closet by color isn’t just a sign of impeccable organizational skills, but also a sign of O.C.D. I’ve learned that simply saying, “I love you,” isn’t the same as showing love. I’ve learned that when push comes to shove, I am resilient and strong and powerful. I’ve also learned that you can’t teach someone to be spontaneous.
Never in my most wild and carefree days was I ever a spontaneous person. I took the words, “Look before you leap,” seriously; so seriously that they became less of a guideline and more of a way of life. I think things through until there is nothing more to think about, and then I start thinking about it again. I feel better with schedules and routines, habits and normalities; just “jumping off” the proverbial cliff has never been something I’ve ever actually considered. Just the mere thought of such an act very often led to cold sweats and shaky breathing.
At the point that I became aware of this anti-spontaneity way of life I subscribe to, I decided I should do something about it; and in true “plan it out, think it through” form, I devised a ridiculous sort of plan. I said, “Self, everyday you’re going to do something spontaneous.” Yes, you heard me correctly; I actually planned on doing something unplanned (You see, my closet is only the beginning of my issues).
Now as logic would have it, the plan crashed and burned; and I mean that in the least dramatic sense. A more logical person would have seen the fatal flaw in the spontaneity plan before it ever became a plan, but I am not that person. So, on day one as I sat in my room and thought out what I would do for the day, I actually thought, “Okay, so what spontaneous thing am I going to do today?”
It was at this point the fatal flaw became obvious to me; I saw it grab its stomach, huddled over in laughter and say, “Serious?” I responded red-cheeked, “Ya-no?” This was a bad sign.
So I resigned myself to the fact that I would never be a naturally spontaneous person; I half bowed my head in failure and half breathed a solid sigh of relief. This was okay, and actually, it was better than okay. I was learning myself: strengths and weaknesses, natural abilities and things I’d have to put effort into. It just so happens that much like an old dog and new tricks, you can’t really teach spontaneity.
The issue now becomes simply being open to spontaneity as it presents itself. I’ll never be the person who just packs up her car and drives and drives and just finds herself somewhere. I’ll never be the person who just walks up to a stranger and says, “Hey, my name is Carolina. Would you like to get dinner sometime?” I can be, however, a person that doesn’t completely turn their back on spontaneity; another habit I have deliberately collected.
I recognize that I am naturally a planner and an over-thinker. And even more than just recognize it, I accept it, embrace it; it is a huge part of who I am, and I happen to like that person. What I don’t like however, is that I have passed up many opportunities for fun and crazy and lowered inhibitions all for the sake of, “Look before you leap.” There is a huge element to life that can’t be tamed and can’t be predicted, so there is no use in trying to. Those times in life could turn out to be huge mistakes, but who knows, they could also turn out to be huge successes. Some of the best things in life are surprises, the things left unplanned; jumps off the steep and exhilarating cliff. But in my growing habit of thinking too much and doing so little, I’ve become a person almost completely void of that part of life.
I’m not saying that I need to take every risk that presents itself, or jump off every cliff I come across. But what I am saying is that while I will not naturally find myself facing huge risk or at the cliff’s edge often, if ever, I do need to keep myself open.
Open to the times where I see that someone I trust, someone I love, is going to jump and wants me to join in on a glorious life adventure that I shouldn’t say, “Well, I don’t know…”
I should take a leap without a look from time to time; jump off and make like a cannon-ball, look back giggling and exclaim, “Last one down is buying drinks!”
Never in my most wild and carefree days was I ever a spontaneous person. I took the words, “Look before you leap,” seriously; so seriously that they became less of a guideline and more of a way of life. I think things through until there is nothing more to think about, and then I start thinking about it again. I feel better with schedules and routines, habits and normalities; just “jumping off” the proverbial cliff has never been something I’ve ever actually considered. Just the mere thought of such an act very often led to cold sweats and shaky breathing.
At the point that I became aware of this anti-spontaneity way of life I subscribe to, I decided I should do something about it; and in true “plan it out, think it through” form, I devised a ridiculous sort of plan. I said, “Self, everyday you’re going to do something spontaneous.” Yes, you heard me correctly; I actually planned on doing something unplanned (You see, my closet is only the beginning of my issues).
Now as logic would have it, the plan crashed and burned; and I mean that in the least dramatic sense. A more logical person would have seen the fatal flaw in the spontaneity plan before it ever became a plan, but I am not that person. So, on day one as I sat in my room and thought out what I would do for the day, I actually thought, “Okay, so what spontaneous thing am I going to do today?”
It was at this point the fatal flaw became obvious to me; I saw it grab its stomach, huddled over in laughter and say, “Serious?” I responded red-cheeked, “Ya-no?” This was a bad sign.
So I resigned myself to the fact that I would never be a naturally spontaneous person; I half bowed my head in failure and half breathed a solid sigh of relief. This was okay, and actually, it was better than okay. I was learning myself: strengths and weaknesses, natural abilities and things I’d have to put effort into. It just so happens that much like an old dog and new tricks, you can’t really teach spontaneity.
The issue now becomes simply being open to spontaneity as it presents itself. I’ll never be the person who just packs up her car and drives and drives and just finds herself somewhere. I’ll never be the person who just walks up to a stranger and says, “Hey, my name is Carolina. Would you like to get dinner sometime?” I can be, however, a person that doesn’t completely turn their back on spontaneity; another habit I have deliberately collected.
I recognize that I am naturally a planner and an over-thinker. And even more than just recognize it, I accept it, embrace it; it is a huge part of who I am, and I happen to like that person. What I don’t like however, is that I have passed up many opportunities for fun and crazy and lowered inhibitions all for the sake of, “Look before you leap.” There is a huge element to life that can’t be tamed and can’t be predicted, so there is no use in trying to. Those times in life could turn out to be huge mistakes, but who knows, they could also turn out to be huge successes. Some of the best things in life are surprises, the things left unplanned; jumps off the steep and exhilarating cliff. But in my growing habit of thinking too much and doing so little, I’ve become a person almost completely void of that part of life.
I’m not saying that I need to take every risk that presents itself, or jump off every cliff I come across. But what I am saying is that while I will not naturally find myself facing huge risk or at the cliff’s edge often, if ever, I do need to keep myself open.
Open to the times where I see that someone I trust, someone I love, is going to jump and wants me to join in on a glorious life adventure that I shouldn’t say, “Well, I don’t know…”
I should take a leap without a look from time to time; jump off and make like a cannon-ball, look back giggling and exclaim, “Last one down is buying drinks!”
Monday, December 22, 2008
4squared.
In the recent months of my life, mostly as a result of my one romantic relationship face planting on a rocky path, I have come to realize that I may be what I like to call, “romantically retarded.” In most aspects in my life I very rarely fall below the average, and in fact, when I put my mind to something I am generally successful. It’s been a relatively easy road in respects to whether or not I will succeed; if I want to and try, I do, and if I don’t want to and don’t try, I don’t. Simple really. Yet there is one thing that eludes me. And as far as I know this lesson is one that requires a bit more “hands on” learning; I can read all I want on the subject, but it really won’t matter.
Romance and the romantic relationships that follow.
It’s a tough pill to swallow when you realize most thirteen year olds have had more practical experience in the romance department that you have (especially considering I’m twenty five). But don’t confuse what I’m saying; I’m not necessarily stating that their skills are above par, or even just par. What I am saying, however, is it more than just a bit disheartening to realize that most “just hit puberty” folks could dance circles around me when it comes to relationship experience.
Eesh.
I chock most of it up to the equally harsh fact that I have but one single romantic relationship below my belt. And I realize I spend a lot of time (more than even I like to admit) thinking and thinking and over thinking the entire debacle, but it really is something that I’m having that hard of a time dealing with. I can’t, for the life of me, come to understand exactly how romantic relationships actually work when I am included in the equation. In theory, I’ve got the steps down and memorized better than the directions for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (and I really enjoy horribly processed, from a box, Mac’n’Cheese) so it’s painfully frustrating that I can’t just put to use what I know works so blissfully.
I’m at a point now where I can look back at my relationship and all my romantic blunders and laugh. There is of course, a painful cramp towards the end, but that is just to remind me it isn’t completely funny. I was twenty five, crazy, out of this world in love, and I would torment myself with the decision of whether or not I should reach out and hold his hand. And when I say torment I mean a nasty, back and forth battle of, “CHICKEN!” and, “Are you retarded? Just do it.” with the always pleasant, “You’re not going to do it.” rattling off in the background. It was something worth cheering about if I touched him without provocation (even if it was just putting my finger in his nose). I really have no idea what it is that stops me.
I tend to think that because I’m so used to just being friends that the physical language of “just friends” has transcended from being just a part of life’s language to being the only part of the language I know. I would sit there beside him and desperately want to love him, yet I would sit there and stare, all the while suffering a silent panic attack. Who does that? “Show my boyfriend whom I’m nuts for physical love and affection? People do that? Surely you jest.”
I say it again. Eesh.
And as if that weren’t enough to cause me severe distress, the fact that I will never be able to jump that hurdle outside of a romantic relationship certainly will. As my history shows, I’m not a dater or a casual hooker-upper. I’ve never been the girl that just dated a guy to date a guy; I’ve never needed to call someone my boyfriend or have a hand to hold. And it’s pretty evident that I never will be, and I am more than just okay with that. But it does beg the desperate question of “When?!” this hurdle will ever be successfully passed.
I’m not asking for a miracle here. All I’m asking for is a little help; a little patience and understanding.
And I’ve never been one to ask for leniency or for the lessons to be dumbed down for my sake, but on this one, this time, I am asking for at least some sort of learning curve.
Romance and the romantic relationships that follow.
It’s a tough pill to swallow when you realize most thirteen year olds have had more practical experience in the romance department that you have (especially considering I’m twenty five). But don’t confuse what I’m saying; I’m not necessarily stating that their skills are above par, or even just par. What I am saying, however, is it more than just a bit disheartening to realize that most “just hit puberty” folks could dance circles around me when it comes to relationship experience.
Eesh.
I chock most of it up to the equally harsh fact that I have but one single romantic relationship below my belt. And I realize I spend a lot of time (more than even I like to admit) thinking and thinking and over thinking the entire debacle, but it really is something that I’m having that hard of a time dealing with. I can’t, for the life of me, come to understand exactly how romantic relationships actually work when I am included in the equation. In theory, I’ve got the steps down and memorized better than the directions for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (and I really enjoy horribly processed, from a box, Mac’n’Cheese) so it’s painfully frustrating that I can’t just put to use what I know works so blissfully.
I’m at a point now where I can look back at my relationship and all my romantic blunders and laugh. There is of course, a painful cramp towards the end, but that is just to remind me it isn’t completely funny. I was twenty five, crazy, out of this world in love, and I would torment myself with the decision of whether or not I should reach out and hold his hand. And when I say torment I mean a nasty, back and forth battle of, “CHICKEN!” and, “Are you retarded? Just do it.” with the always pleasant, “You’re not going to do it.” rattling off in the background. It was something worth cheering about if I touched him without provocation (even if it was just putting my finger in his nose). I really have no idea what it is that stops me.
I tend to think that because I’m so used to just being friends that the physical language of “just friends” has transcended from being just a part of life’s language to being the only part of the language I know. I would sit there beside him and desperately want to love him, yet I would sit there and stare, all the while suffering a silent panic attack. Who does that? “Show my boyfriend whom I’m nuts for physical love and affection? People do that? Surely you jest.”
I say it again. Eesh.
And as if that weren’t enough to cause me severe distress, the fact that I will never be able to jump that hurdle outside of a romantic relationship certainly will. As my history shows, I’m not a dater or a casual hooker-upper. I’ve never been the girl that just dated a guy to date a guy; I’ve never needed to call someone my boyfriend or have a hand to hold. And it’s pretty evident that I never will be, and I am more than just okay with that. But it does beg the desperate question of “When?!” this hurdle will ever be successfully passed.
I’m not asking for a miracle here. All I’m asking for is a little help; a little patience and understanding.
And I’ve never been one to ask for leniency or for the lessons to be dumbed down for my sake, but on this one, this time, I am asking for at least some sort of learning curve.
My fifteen minutes of fame.
There’s that old saying that “blood is thicker than water.” Even as a child I didn’t blindly stand behind it. And in fact, more often than not, I was sort of irritated by the phrase. I realize logically, scientifically, blood most certainly is thicker than water. But the thought that because two people are related inherently means that their bond, their loyalty should be stronger and more important was never anything more than mild irritation to me.
Perhaps it’s in the way I was brought up. I was part of a relatively large extended family; aunts and uncles, cousins and cousins always running around. There was always a family get-together and it was rare that we could not find a reason to party; and in those rare cases, we just made one up. It was great. We were never hungry for family, because it was always there. We were lucky enough to create bonds beyond genetics, not just relying on a common heritage to keep us together. And those bonds seemed unbreakable. Unshakeable. Indestructible.
But life has a funny way of testing things, even the bonds that tie us together. And as we grew up and came into our own personalities, creating ourselves and shaping the world around to fit us, we also grew apart. At first this was something close to a crime in my mind. How on earth could this happen? Didn’t they remember all the summers spent out in the pool eating popsicles and playing “Marco Polo” from sun up until sun down? Was it not the group of us who created clubs and groups with rules and secret written languages? Again, how on earth could this happen? How is it that now I look at them and practically see a stranger?
Yet even more disturbing to me is the fact that I not only see someone vaguely more familiar than a stranger, but it feels that way; conversation doesn’t come easy, and all the secrets we’ve shared and time we spent together seems like someone else’s life altogether. I know I knew you once. But I don’t anymore. And I don’t even know if I want to. So much for the unbreakable bonds of genetics, eh?
Some days it only hurts me a little. Mostly it’s just tender; an old bruise whose cause is unknown and it usually easy to forget. Old memories are my treasures, and they make my heart smile but to see you now and remember all those memories, then realize how far we’ve come and how far that’s distanced us is bittersweet. The memories are priceless, but I’ve come to realize that those memories are all that binds us now. Well aside from genetics, that is.
Most days, however, I just see it for what it is; life. Life gives and takes as it sees fit. And sometimes, unfortunately, that includes people; even family. And I can appreciate that, and even respect it. As you grow and forge through the rough terrain that life places in front of you, you change. And sometimes it doesn’t matter how many hot summer days you spent outside giggling around the patio table slurping on popsicles, you may one day find that your former partner in crime is less familiar than the face behind you in line. Sometimes that stranger’s face you see from across the building is, in fact, your blood.
It’s hard to realize that you share blood with a stranger; especially one that was once more of a Siamese twin than just a blood relative. When we both look back we see a life spent shoulder to shoulder, but the future holds something far more separated.
A miraculous surgery? Or just a dirty trick?
So yes, blood is thicker than water, and once we swam together, laughed together, lived together. But common genes and ancestors have no control of who we’ve become and the distance that has grown between us.
But trust me when I say that I love you no less.
I just don’t expect anymore summer days full of giggles popsicles.
Perhaps it’s in the way I was brought up. I was part of a relatively large extended family; aunts and uncles, cousins and cousins always running around. There was always a family get-together and it was rare that we could not find a reason to party; and in those rare cases, we just made one up. It was great. We were never hungry for family, because it was always there. We were lucky enough to create bonds beyond genetics, not just relying on a common heritage to keep us together. And those bonds seemed unbreakable. Unshakeable. Indestructible.
But life has a funny way of testing things, even the bonds that tie us together. And as we grew up and came into our own personalities, creating ourselves and shaping the world around to fit us, we also grew apart. At first this was something close to a crime in my mind. How on earth could this happen? Didn’t they remember all the summers spent out in the pool eating popsicles and playing “Marco Polo” from sun up until sun down? Was it not the group of us who created clubs and groups with rules and secret written languages? Again, how on earth could this happen? How is it that now I look at them and practically see a stranger?
Yet even more disturbing to me is the fact that I not only see someone vaguely more familiar than a stranger, but it feels that way; conversation doesn’t come easy, and all the secrets we’ve shared and time we spent together seems like someone else’s life altogether. I know I knew you once. But I don’t anymore. And I don’t even know if I want to. So much for the unbreakable bonds of genetics, eh?
Some days it only hurts me a little. Mostly it’s just tender; an old bruise whose cause is unknown and it usually easy to forget. Old memories are my treasures, and they make my heart smile but to see you now and remember all those memories, then realize how far we’ve come and how far that’s distanced us is bittersweet. The memories are priceless, but I’ve come to realize that those memories are all that binds us now. Well aside from genetics, that is.
Most days, however, I just see it for what it is; life. Life gives and takes as it sees fit. And sometimes, unfortunately, that includes people; even family. And I can appreciate that, and even respect it. As you grow and forge through the rough terrain that life places in front of you, you change. And sometimes it doesn’t matter how many hot summer days you spent outside giggling around the patio table slurping on popsicles, you may one day find that your former partner in crime is less familiar than the face behind you in line. Sometimes that stranger’s face you see from across the building is, in fact, your blood.
It’s hard to realize that you share blood with a stranger; especially one that was once more of a Siamese twin than just a blood relative. When we both look back we see a life spent shoulder to shoulder, but the future holds something far more separated.
A miraculous surgery? Or just a dirty trick?
So yes, blood is thicker than water, and once we swam together, laughed together, lived together. But common genes and ancestors have no control of who we’ve become and the distance that has grown between us.
But trust me when I say that I love you no less.
I just don’t expect anymore summer days full of giggles popsicles.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Tetradecimal.
I can remember sitting around as a kid, enamored with the adults around me; their independence, their success, their general “adultness.” I hungered for it in the way a person hungers for that Venti Caramel Frappuccino with extra caramel the day after they decided they’d give them up. It wasn’t that I needed to be an adult to be happy; it was that I couldn’t have it, and I wanted it.
As you grow up and you begin to profess your undying desire to be an “adult,” people begin to counter it. They tell you it’s “over-rated,” or to “enjoy being young and carefree while you can.” They tell you how if they could trade places with you and run around the yard yelling, “TAG!” while pretending to be the ultimate super hero instead of doing their adult things, they would; in a heart beat. You laugh at the absurdity of the comment and think that certainly they’re just having a bad day or that they haven’t driven around their car fast enough today. So you continue to pine away, drunk with thoughts of how totally awesome being an adult is: no school, no curfews, and no parents telling you what to do. That is the life at the pinnacle of perfection because now instead of just pretending to be the ultimate super hero, you ARE the ultimate super hero.
Then that enlightening thing called “reality” sets in and you become that adult you’ve so endlessly hungered for all your life. But there is no high-fiving yourself or “Whooping!” for joy, instead you look around and think, “Where’s a good game of ‘Tag’ when you need one?”
I carry around that thought with me constantly. I have an incredible phobia of growing up. Why on earth is it even an option? It seems ridiculous that one would want to trade in Velcro sneakers with flashing lights for shoes that cost more than four months allowance.
And it is.
Or at least I think so.
What is it exactly that causes me such distress at the thought of growing up? And what does it mean to be, “grown up” exactly?
Being grown-up means having to be responsible: working, paying bills, taking care of yourself and others. It means doing what you might not necessarily want to because you “have” to. It means that, sure, you can stay up as late as you want but that there is no “snooze” button for life and the desperate plea of, “five more minutes mom!” often falls upon deaf ears, if it even falls upon any ears at all. Being grown-up means that you kind of have to trade your super hero cape for something a little less flashy and a little more conservative. And while that all sounds absolutely terrifying, is that what I’m really afraid of?
Perhaps another thought I carry around in my back pocket is that being grown up ultimately means being bitter. After living a life full of ups and downs, twists and gut wrenching turns, how on earth could you not become bitter?
And maybe that is my real fear: bitterness. Maybe, as a result of my definitively linking adulthood to bitterness, I have fooled myself into fearing adulthood instead of the real culprit. What a curiously twisted little world I live in.
And so I think maybe being an adult really isn’t all that bad. I can have a job, which means I can have a car, so I can go places I want to buy things I want and live where I want which ultimately means I really can do whatever it is that I want. And sure, some of that comes with catches like waking up on time, doing some things I might not necessarily want to do, having to take responsibility for my actions…but is it that bad?
And just like everything else in this glorious world, bitterness is a choice, not a mandatory step in the staircase of life. Surely I could choose to be bitter since it seems to be the “grown-up” way but I could just as easily choose to be excited. Fearless. Impossibly crazy about life.
Who says I have to give up games of “tag” anyway? And why can’t I still be the ultimate super hero? Let’s face it, successful, responsible, bitter free adults really are the closest thing to super heroes that we have. Why deny myself that sort of fun?
After all, I can do whatever I want.
As you grow up and you begin to profess your undying desire to be an “adult,” people begin to counter it. They tell you it’s “over-rated,” or to “enjoy being young and carefree while you can.” They tell you how if they could trade places with you and run around the yard yelling, “TAG!” while pretending to be the ultimate super hero instead of doing their adult things, they would; in a heart beat. You laugh at the absurdity of the comment and think that certainly they’re just having a bad day or that they haven’t driven around their car fast enough today. So you continue to pine away, drunk with thoughts of how totally awesome being an adult is: no school, no curfews, and no parents telling you what to do. That is the life at the pinnacle of perfection because now instead of just pretending to be the ultimate super hero, you ARE the ultimate super hero.
Then that enlightening thing called “reality” sets in and you become that adult you’ve so endlessly hungered for all your life. But there is no high-fiving yourself or “Whooping!” for joy, instead you look around and think, “Where’s a good game of ‘Tag’ when you need one?”
I carry around that thought with me constantly. I have an incredible phobia of growing up. Why on earth is it even an option? It seems ridiculous that one would want to trade in Velcro sneakers with flashing lights for shoes that cost more than four months allowance.
And it is.
Or at least I think so.
What is it exactly that causes me such distress at the thought of growing up? And what does it mean to be, “grown up” exactly?
Being grown-up means having to be responsible: working, paying bills, taking care of yourself and others. It means doing what you might not necessarily want to because you “have” to. It means that, sure, you can stay up as late as you want but that there is no “snooze” button for life and the desperate plea of, “five more minutes mom!” often falls upon deaf ears, if it even falls upon any ears at all. Being grown-up means that you kind of have to trade your super hero cape for something a little less flashy and a little more conservative. And while that all sounds absolutely terrifying, is that what I’m really afraid of?
Perhaps another thought I carry around in my back pocket is that being grown up ultimately means being bitter. After living a life full of ups and downs, twists and gut wrenching turns, how on earth could you not become bitter?
And maybe that is my real fear: bitterness. Maybe, as a result of my definitively linking adulthood to bitterness, I have fooled myself into fearing adulthood instead of the real culprit. What a curiously twisted little world I live in.
And so I think maybe being an adult really isn’t all that bad. I can have a job, which means I can have a car, so I can go places I want to buy things I want and live where I want which ultimately means I really can do whatever it is that I want. And sure, some of that comes with catches like waking up on time, doing some things I might not necessarily want to do, having to take responsibility for my actions…but is it that bad?
And just like everything else in this glorious world, bitterness is a choice, not a mandatory step in the staircase of life. Surely I could choose to be bitter since it seems to be the “grown-up” way but I could just as easily choose to be excited. Fearless. Impossibly crazy about life.
Who says I have to give up games of “tag” anyway? And why can’t I still be the ultimate super hero? Let’s face it, successful, responsible, bitter free adults really are the closest thing to super heroes that we have. Why deny myself that sort of fun?
After all, I can do whatever I want.
Like a black cat crossing your path.
Someone recently asked me, “What makes me happy?” A simple question, one I’m sure I’ve been asked before, but for some reason this particular time, I was overwhelmed. It almost felt like I had just ran into a wall in front of a crowd of people; there was immediate surprise with the growing warmth of embarrassment. I wasn’t exactly sure why I felt either emotion, and that only added to the growing feeling of being overwhelmed.
It took me a few minutes to sift through the whirling and buzzing of the surprise and embarrassment; my avid attempt to understand myself in all its confusing glory. Then something (the wall perhaps, its attempt at revenge?) hit me: I’m not entirely conscious of what makes me happy. I mean, I know the feeling when I feel it; that glow that sort of arises from your inner most parts, the extra glimmer in your eye, the added pink to your cheeks. It’s a feeling I’m hungry for, but very rarely seek out. So what, exactly, makes me happy?
The sound of genuine laughter. The special way it radiates off the walls, and adds to the melody that life is playing. A hug. And not just a one handed, 3.5 second hug, but a real hug; the ones where the other person hugs you not just with their arms, but with their body, their neck, the hearts, too. Conversation. The ones that take a hundred different turns, segment off onto a dozen more tangents and hit every emotion one can feel; you laugh, you ponder, you tear up, you feel. Love. All the different kinds of love there are. The friendship love, the family love, the love you feel for new ideas and epiphanies, the love that hits you right where it counts and leaves a heart shaped print on you forever. Learning. The kind of learning that doesn’t come from a text book, or rely on a classroom and professor; the kind that comes from the simple act of living. Honesty. It isn’t important if it’s “positive” or “negative,” all I want is the bare bones truth; no sugar coating or beating around the bush. Acceptance. It’s not enough to tolerate something, or simply acknowledge and put up with it; it’s far more beautiful to embrace life, and allow it to help you grow. Wealth. Not the sort of wealth that you balance in a check book, or gleams expensively in the drive way. I’m talking about the wealth that builds your life; the laughter and love and learning that comes with every breath you take. Life. Every single thing about it makes me happy; all the joys, the tears, the stumbles, the leaps, the wins, the losses.
But when someone asks you, “What makes you happy?” do they really want to hear all that? Or are they simply looking for a clean and neat answer like, “chocolate, foot rubs, good food, dancing”? And I’m not saying those things don’t add to the happiness in my life, because they do. They’re just more like the “salt and pepper” of life; that extra little something that would certainly be missed if it weren’t there, but doesn’t exactly make a meal.
It took me a few minutes to sift through the whirling and buzzing of the surprise and embarrassment; my avid attempt to understand myself in all its confusing glory. Then something (the wall perhaps, its attempt at revenge?) hit me: I’m not entirely conscious of what makes me happy. I mean, I know the feeling when I feel it; that glow that sort of arises from your inner most parts, the extra glimmer in your eye, the added pink to your cheeks. It’s a feeling I’m hungry for, but very rarely seek out. So what, exactly, makes me happy?
The sound of genuine laughter. The special way it radiates off the walls, and adds to the melody that life is playing. A hug. And not just a one handed, 3.5 second hug, but a real hug; the ones where the other person hugs you not just with their arms, but with their body, their neck, the hearts, too. Conversation. The ones that take a hundred different turns, segment off onto a dozen more tangents and hit every emotion one can feel; you laugh, you ponder, you tear up, you feel. Love. All the different kinds of love there are. The friendship love, the family love, the love you feel for new ideas and epiphanies, the love that hits you right where it counts and leaves a heart shaped print on you forever. Learning. The kind of learning that doesn’t come from a text book, or rely on a classroom and professor; the kind that comes from the simple act of living. Honesty. It isn’t important if it’s “positive” or “negative,” all I want is the bare bones truth; no sugar coating or beating around the bush. Acceptance. It’s not enough to tolerate something, or simply acknowledge and put up with it; it’s far more beautiful to embrace life, and allow it to help you grow. Wealth. Not the sort of wealth that you balance in a check book, or gleams expensively in the drive way. I’m talking about the wealth that builds your life; the laughter and love and learning that comes with every breath you take. Life. Every single thing about it makes me happy; all the joys, the tears, the stumbles, the leaps, the wins, the losses.
But when someone asks you, “What makes you happy?” do they really want to hear all that? Or are they simply looking for a clean and neat answer like, “chocolate, foot rubs, good food, dancing”? And I’m not saying those things don’t add to the happiness in my life, because they do. They’re just more like the “salt and pepper” of life; that extra little something that would certainly be missed if it weren’t there, but doesn’t exactly make a meal.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Duodecad.
I’ve lived a comfortably sheltered life. Not too many atrocities or catastrophes to speak of; no bone crushing smashes against the hard and rocky bottom. It is safe to say, that nothing too bad has ever happened to me and while some of that can be chocked up to luck, much of it can be attributed to my very well stocked armory of defensive weaponry. I’ve got walls in front of walls, in front of walls, in front of metal gates. I’ve got a tongue that is connected to an arsenal of emotion-seeking missiles and psychological time bombs. I’ve got an impenetrable force-field and arms that are deceivingly long to keep you at a distance. And what this has achieved for me is a mostly contented existence. Not to be mistaken with satisfying or exciting or the stuff books are written about. It’s been clean and neat, and not a lot has happened…
…and that’s finally starting to make me wonder: what happens when you realize your personal defenses are so strong that they keep more than just the bad stuff out, they keep it ALL out?
For as introspective and in-my-head as I am, it has only recently occurred to me that my walls are so high, so indestructible, so efficient that they’ve now evolved into walls that actually push things away. It wasn’t enough that they were simply blocking things out, they had to keep you back, too. Which would be perfect if they could decipher between the good and the bad, but alas, my walls have not evolved that much.
And that’s the things with walls and personal defenses; they don’t just keep the bad things out. When you concentrate and focus so much of your energy on keeping things out, you will succeed, which then becomes your failure.
I’ve spent an immeasurable amount of time calculating my every move, big and small, as to avoid any sort of discomfort. The fear and avoidance of normal, average pains and injuries has turned into a full fledged battle against living. It had been assembled with only good intentions (keep me from hurting, from being scared, from doing the wrong thing) but just like the old cliché chants, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” And wouldn’t you know it, the heat is taunting every hair on my body and the sweat is blurring my vision.
If it were that I just wasn’t inviting people to come and play, it could be fairly easily remedied. But the fact that I’m actually going out of my way to keep people at a distance is a different story entirely. The habit leaves me feeling more alone than I ever thought was possible with the additional, bitter after taste of knowing that it is completely in my hands. But how do I break down a wall that was so perfectly erected? How do I keep the missiles in their silos and the bombs buried deep beneath the ground? Where is the off button for my force-field and the reverse for my “go-go Gadget” arms? How do I quit a habit that I so deliberately created and practiced that it has become a force all its own, almost separate from myself?
Because I want you with me. I want you by my side. To feel your warmth. To hear you laugh. To catch your tears. To see your smile. I want you.
And I don’t just want you inside with me, protected by my walls. I want you to help me break them down. I want you to want to break them down. I don’t want to keep you out anymore, and I certainly don’t want you trapped inside with me.
I want freedom. Sweet, sometimes painful, sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes catastrophic, sometimes bone-crushing freedom.
I want it all.
Not a life half-lived inside too strong walls.
I want to live.
…and that’s finally starting to make me wonder: what happens when you realize your personal defenses are so strong that they keep more than just the bad stuff out, they keep it ALL out?
For as introspective and in-my-head as I am, it has only recently occurred to me that my walls are so high, so indestructible, so efficient that they’ve now evolved into walls that actually push things away. It wasn’t enough that they were simply blocking things out, they had to keep you back, too. Which would be perfect if they could decipher between the good and the bad, but alas, my walls have not evolved that much.
And that’s the things with walls and personal defenses; they don’t just keep the bad things out. When you concentrate and focus so much of your energy on keeping things out, you will succeed, which then becomes your failure.
I’ve spent an immeasurable amount of time calculating my every move, big and small, as to avoid any sort of discomfort. The fear and avoidance of normal, average pains and injuries has turned into a full fledged battle against living. It had been assembled with only good intentions (keep me from hurting, from being scared, from doing the wrong thing) but just like the old cliché chants, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” And wouldn’t you know it, the heat is taunting every hair on my body and the sweat is blurring my vision.
If it were that I just wasn’t inviting people to come and play, it could be fairly easily remedied. But the fact that I’m actually going out of my way to keep people at a distance is a different story entirely. The habit leaves me feeling more alone than I ever thought was possible with the additional, bitter after taste of knowing that it is completely in my hands. But how do I break down a wall that was so perfectly erected? How do I keep the missiles in their silos and the bombs buried deep beneath the ground? Where is the off button for my force-field and the reverse for my “go-go Gadget” arms? How do I quit a habit that I so deliberately created and practiced that it has become a force all its own, almost separate from myself?
Because I want you with me. I want you by my side. To feel your warmth. To hear you laugh. To catch your tears. To see your smile. I want you.
And I don’t just want you inside with me, protected by my walls. I want you to help me break them down. I want you to want to break them down. I don’t want to keep you out anymore, and I certainly don’t want you trapped inside with me.
I want freedom. Sweet, sometimes painful, sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes catastrophic, sometimes bone-crushing freedom.
I want it all.
Not a life half-lived inside too strong walls.
I want to live.
Sodium.
I heard once that each of us has our very own language. Languages that are filled with unique accents and points of emphasis; some with complicated vocabulary and others lush with simple words that flow like a beautiful melody. These languages tell the world about our lives. They reveal the tiniest things about us, while other times they reveal the most beautiful, most complicated, most significant things that make us, us. They tell the world who we are, where we came from, what we’re made of. They tell the world how to see us, how to treat us…
How to love us.
I think that is one of the most overlooked nuances of our personalities; how to love us. The way two different people feel love may be even more different than is their DNA or their fingerprints. It may be the most unique part of our personal language, and it is our responsibility, our right, to translate and teach it to others. Yet more often than not, we don’t even personally acknowledge our love language, and if we do, we certainly resist in translating and teaching it to the ones we love. Are we expecting them to be fluent in it naturally, or do we not even understand it ourselves?
My love language seems simple to me, yet I’m learning that its simplicity has absolutely no relation to how obvious it is (or isn’t, as is my case). Mine seems to be running a very covert operation, one that gives very few hints and clues, obvious or otherwise. All that is known is that I want to be loved; everything else is left up to guess and speculation. There are no “atta-boys” or “job well dones,” no arrows or maps. I don’t really expect anyone to accomplish the mission, but I desperately hope that they will.
But what is even more painful for me to accept than my failure to translate my very own love language is my failure at learning another’s language. It wasn’t because I gave it my all and still fell short. It wasn’t even that I simply learned the language and then turned an arrogant face the other way. It was that I was so scared to share my own language, that I couldn’t possibly learn theirs. My fear was so great that life confused my fear of the language with a fear of love, and life being the gracious giver that it is, it fixed the problem. It removed the fear by removing its source: a relationship.
That’s the funny thing about fear, it very often leads to the destination you’re most fearful of and leads to a journey of a thousand falls instead of a thousand steps. I mean really, how can one handle all the gifts that life gives when all they’re concentrating on is fear?
So what does make me feel love? What is my language saying to no one, but expecting people to hear?
Question. Ask me how I am, how I’m feeling, what I want. Sometimes you’ll have to pry and ask a few times, but I promise I’m not keeping it from you because I don’t trust you. Sometimes I just need to know you want to know that badly. Teach. Tell me what you’re thinking, good or bad. I want to know you as much as I want you to know me. Help. There is so much I know I want to learn, and even more that I don’t even know I want to learn. Point me in the direction I need to go, sometimes I lose my way. Nudge me, push me, pull me. Laugh. I laugh as often as I breathe. It keeps me alive and helps light the path ahead of me. I want to laugh with you. See. See me, for all my faults, all my successes, all my possibilities and all my realities. Look into my eyes, look into my soul, look into my heart. I want you more than anyone else to see those places. Hold on. I have a lot to learn, and even more mistakes to make, but all I want is to look up from my leaps and stumbles and see your face smiling back. Feel your hand hold mine, and feel you stand beside me.
And while I have to be brave enough to teach you the words of my heart, I have to be brave enough to not just learn yours, but speak it, too.
That has been one of the hardest lessons I’ve learned; that your language will not feel as natural floating across my tongue as mine feels to me, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t speak it. You deserve to hear your love language from the mouth of the one you love.
And I can’t wait to speak it…
How to love us.
I think that is one of the most overlooked nuances of our personalities; how to love us. The way two different people feel love may be even more different than is their DNA or their fingerprints. It may be the most unique part of our personal language, and it is our responsibility, our right, to translate and teach it to others. Yet more often than not, we don’t even personally acknowledge our love language, and if we do, we certainly resist in translating and teaching it to the ones we love. Are we expecting them to be fluent in it naturally, or do we not even understand it ourselves?
My love language seems simple to me, yet I’m learning that its simplicity has absolutely no relation to how obvious it is (or isn’t, as is my case). Mine seems to be running a very covert operation, one that gives very few hints and clues, obvious or otherwise. All that is known is that I want to be loved; everything else is left up to guess and speculation. There are no “atta-boys” or “job well dones,” no arrows or maps. I don’t really expect anyone to accomplish the mission, but I desperately hope that they will.
But what is even more painful for me to accept than my failure to translate my very own love language is my failure at learning another’s language. It wasn’t because I gave it my all and still fell short. It wasn’t even that I simply learned the language and then turned an arrogant face the other way. It was that I was so scared to share my own language, that I couldn’t possibly learn theirs. My fear was so great that life confused my fear of the language with a fear of love, and life being the gracious giver that it is, it fixed the problem. It removed the fear by removing its source: a relationship.
That’s the funny thing about fear, it very often leads to the destination you’re most fearful of and leads to a journey of a thousand falls instead of a thousand steps. I mean really, how can one handle all the gifts that life gives when all they’re concentrating on is fear?
So what does make me feel love? What is my language saying to no one, but expecting people to hear?
Question. Ask me how I am, how I’m feeling, what I want. Sometimes you’ll have to pry and ask a few times, but I promise I’m not keeping it from you because I don’t trust you. Sometimes I just need to know you want to know that badly. Teach. Tell me what you’re thinking, good or bad. I want to know you as much as I want you to know me. Help. There is so much I know I want to learn, and even more that I don’t even know I want to learn. Point me in the direction I need to go, sometimes I lose my way. Nudge me, push me, pull me. Laugh. I laugh as often as I breathe. It keeps me alive and helps light the path ahead of me. I want to laugh with you. See. See me, for all my faults, all my successes, all my possibilities and all my realities. Look into my eyes, look into my soul, look into my heart. I want you more than anyone else to see those places. Hold on. I have a lot to learn, and even more mistakes to make, but all I want is to look up from my leaps and stumbles and see your face smiling back. Feel your hand hold mine, and feel you stand beside me.
And while I have to be brave enough to teach you the words of my heart, I have to be brave enough to not just learn yours, but speak it, too.
That has been one of the hardest lessons I’ve learned; that your language will not feel as natural floating across my tongue as mine feels to me, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t speak it. You deserve to hear your love language from the mouth of the one you love.
And I can’t wait to speak it…
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Two full hands.
There have been many occasions in my life where I have actively been an inauthentic version of myself in attempts to achieve something I apparently deemed worth it. Whether it was for friends, or praise, or just a little extra attention, being slightly fake, or exaggerated seemed like the sensible route to success. And while I've looked back on those many occasions (one of them being my entire middle school existence) with a sickening sense of embarrassment, it hasn't stopped me from getting caught up in the inauthenticity of trying too hard from time to embarrassing time.
And it isn't very often that I find myself red-cheeked or nauseous with embarrassment. In fact, it happens so infrequently that I almost always am more giddy about the embarrassment than actually embarrassed; there's something sort of thrilling about being embarrassed for me. But when it comes to the times where I've bound myself by the ropes of fakeness and over exaggeration, not a single bit of giddiness is involved. I find those times so embarrassing that they're actually hard to replay in my head. Yet while these embarrassing occasions happen rarely, they are also the deepest etched in memories, sometimes the most stomach turning memories I have to replay.
I hate looking back and thinking, "Why was I laughing so loudly? He wasn't that funny." Or remembering the time where all my friends had to say was, "Jump," and without even asking, "How high?" (Or better yet, "Why?") I jumped and jumped and jumped until I got the slightest look of approval. And blast the times that I played myself down, whether it be my intelligence, or feelings, or disinterest, and for what reason, I'm still unsure. Those memories send the biggest waves of nausea; bigger than any flip, twist or death defying drop of a roller coaster has ever caused me.
So why is it that I do it? Why is it that while I am completely aware that I'm doing it AND sickeningly embarrassed that I do it, do I still do it? It seems like an awful lot of trauma to cause oneself. Am I really that die-hard of a masochist?
I hate to believe so.
More likely the reason is the undying and overwhelming desire for acceptance. Perhaps the desire for acceptance is stronger than that for even love, and putting on a false face for acceptance doesn't seem like that big of a sacrifice. Or maybe it's that desperate want for acceptance that begins the thin ice trail that we believe leads us to love. "All I have to do is reel them in, and after that, I can be real."
But thin ice very often leads to a slippery slope; once I fake the funk once, the fear of no acceptance changes to the fear of losing the acceptance. Fighting to keep the acceptance, the love, is a much more desperate fight; now you’ve savored that gloriously, mouth watering taste and you want nothing more than for it to last. It is far more difficult to lose something you craved and then possessed, than to simply crave its possession in the first place.
Which begs the mention of one of life's biggest clichés; all acceptance starts with self-acceptance. Without self-acceptance, all is for not, because no matter how large the sense of false acceptance is, it won't be stronger than the gurgling, foaming, drowning waves of nausea that will arrive.
Self-acceptance: better than Pepto-Bismol.
And it isn't very often that I find myself red-cheeked or nauseous with embarrassment. In fact, it happens so infrequently that I almost always am more giddy about the embarrassment than actually embarrassed; there's something sort of thrilling about being embarrassed for me. But when it comes to the times where I've bound myself by the ropes of fakeness and over exaggeration, not a single bit of giddiness is involved. I find those times so embarrassing that they're actually hard to replay in my head. Yet while these embarrassing occasions happen rarely, they are also the deepest etched in memories, sometimes the most stomach turning memories I have to replay.
I hate looking back and thinking, "Why was I laughing so loudly? He wasn't that funny." Or remembering the time where all my friends had to say was, "Jump," and without even asking, "How high?" (Or better yet, "Why?") I jumped and jumped and jumped until I got the slightest look of approval. And blast the times that I played myself down, whether it be my intelligence, or feelings, or disinterest, and for what reason, I'm still unsure. Those memories send the biggest waves of nausea; bigger than any flip, twist or death defying drop of a roller coaster has ever caused me.
So why is it that I do it? Why is it that while I am completely aware that I'm doing it AND sickeningly embarrassed that I do it, do I still do it? It seems like an awful lot of trauma to cause oneself. Am I really that die-hard of a masochist?
I hate to believe so.
More likely the reason is the undying and overwhelming desire for acceptance. Perhaps the desire for acceptance is stronger than that for even love, and putting on a false face for acceptance doesn't seem like that big of a sacrifice. Or maybe it's that desperate want for acceptance that begins the thin ice trail that we believe leads us to love. "All I have to do is reel them in, and after that, I can be real."
But thin ice very often leads to a slippery slope; once I fake the funk once, the fear of no acceptance changes to the fear of losing the acceptance. Fighting to keep the acceptance, the love, is a much more desperate fight; now you’ve savored that gloriously, mouth watering taste and you want nothing more than for it to last. It is far more difficult to lose something you craved and then possessed, than to simply crave its possession in the first place.
Which begs the mention of one of life's biggest clichés; all acceptance starts with self-acceptance. Without self-acceptance, all is for not, because no matter how large the sense of false acceptance is, it won't be stronger than the gurgling, foaming, drowning waves of nausea that will arrive.
Self-acceptance: better than Pepto-Bismol.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Dressed to the nines.
There has been a common theme in my life that I’ve spent a lot of energy trying to ignore; trying to pretend that it wasn’t an actual issue, merely a stub of the toe on this walk through life. However, it is becoming blaringly clear that it is, indeed, a real, true, actual issue. It is an issue that is far more severe than a stubbed toe; more along the lines of a severed leg.
Trust.
Though I suppose the actual issue is less about trust, and more about my lack of it. And it isn’t just something I don’t have in others. Oh, no. I am a far more equal opportunity distruster. For as much trust as I lack in those around me, I lack far more trust in myself. Which I think is a much heftier issue than distrusting those around me.
I can look back through all my self-proclaimed, “major” mistakes and without a doubt say that if I had followed my gut, trusted myself, the mistake could have been more than just side-stepped; it just wouldn’t have existed. Now I’m not declaring a pimpled past of regrets and, “what ifs.” I wouldn’t change one breath of my life; I cherish every step, fall, skip and face plant. I am declaring, however, that had I only had the simplest trust in myself, a lot of things could have been avoided: pain, heart-break, crushing disappointment. And much more may have been achieved: joy, love, all consuming excitement. And that, my friends, are the closest things I have to regrets. No one thing I’ve ever done, be it a mistake, wrong turn or major failure, has never even registered a far distant blip on the “possible regret” radar. What has registered embarrassingly close blips, however, are all the things I didn’t do because I didn’t trust myself. And those are some of the sorest, slowest healing wounds I have ever suffered.
I’m not entirely sure where this eager distrust of myself came from. And actually, I haven’t the foggiest idea of its origin. And that becomes the source of an entirely new and different and confusing sort of pain. Why, even in this sideways glance world, would a person lose trust in themselves over those around them and then not even have a good reason for it? I mean there must be a reason somewhere, but how great can it be if my twenty five year old, highly introspective self doesn’t even know where to begin to find it? And then how does distrusting myself become such a habit that it almost feels instinctual to question my every thought and decision?
Shouldn’t I be my biggest cheerleader? Shouldn’t it be me who says, “You know what self, you have a really good point there,” and then stand behind it with a grin, patting myself on the back?
The most confusing part about the whole twisted portrait is that I completely trust my gut, my instinct, myself when it comes to applying it to another person’s life. Tell me your problems. Give me your worries. I’ll take that knot of mistakes and mishaps and pain and I’ll lay out a clean, smooth, tangle free rope; all with my eyes closed. But give me the opportunity to do the same for myself and I’ll question each proposal, reject my gut and more than likely, refuse to even touch the tangled mess.
Consciously I know I do this. And in retrospect I am fully aware that had I just believed in myself for just one moment, amazing things could have been achieved. But once I see that tangle, it begins to feel like it’s choking me, and in that moment of frantic gasping for air I forget that if in this world I had only one person to trust, that person is...
Me.
Trust.
Though I suppose the actual issue is less about trust, and more about my lack of it. And it isn’t just something I don’t have in others. Oh, no. I am a far more equal opportunity distruster. For as much trust as I lack in those around me, I lack far more trust in myself. Which I think is a much heftier issue than distrusting those around me.
I can look back through all my self-proclaimed, “major” mistakes and without a doubt say that if I had followed my gut, trusted myself, the mistake could have been more than just side-stepped; it just wouldn’t have existed. Now I’m not declaring a pimpled past of regrets and, “what ifs.” I wouldn’t change one breath of my life; I cherish every step, fall, skip and face plant. I am declaring, however, that had I only had the simplest trust in myself, a lot of things could have been avoided: pain, heart-break, crushing disappointment. And much more may have been achieved: joy, love, all consuming excitement. And that, my friends, are the closest things I have to regrets. No one thing I’ve ever done, be it a mistake, wrong turn or major failure, has never even registered a far distant blip on the “possible regret” radar. What has registered embarrassingly close blips, however, are all the things I didn’t do because I didn’t trust myself. And those are some of the sorest, slowest healing wounds I have ever suffered.
I’m not entirely sure where this eager distrust of myself came from. And actually, I haven’t the foggiest idea of its origin. And that becomes the source of an entirely new and different and confusing sort of pain. Why, even in this sideways glance world, would a person lose trust in themselves over those around them and then not even have a good reason for it? I mean there must be a reason somewhere, but how great can it be if my twenty five year old, highly introspective self doesn’t even know where to begin to find it? And then how does distrusting myself become such a habit that it almost feels instinctual to question my every thought and decision?
Shouldn’t I be my biggest cheerleader? Shouldn’t it be me who says, “You know what self, you have a really good point there,” and then stand behind it with a grin, patting myself on the back?
The most confusing part about the whole twisted portrait is that I completely trust my gut, my instinct, myself when it comes to applying it to another person’s life. Tell me your problems. Give me your worries. I’ll take that knot of mistakes and mishaps and pain and I’ll lay out a clean, smooth, tangle free rope; all with my eyes closed. But give me the opportunity to do the same for myself and I’ll question each proposal, reject my gut and more than likely, refuse to even touch the tangled mess.
Consciously I know I do this. And in retrospect I am fully aware that had I just believed in myself for just one moment, amazing things could have been achieved. But once I see that tangle, it begins to feel like it’s choking me, and in that moment of frantic gasping for air I forget that if in this world I had only one person to trust, that person is...
Me.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Crazy eights.
Romance.
It isn't a vase of long stemmed red roses. It isn't a velvet box, or the diamond ring it carries. It isn't the generic, sweet nothings printed onto a million pieces of paper.
Not for me, at least.
I've struggled with the idea of romance for a long time now. The idea that romance is a tangible thing, something to be bought and wrapped and given has never settled well with me. It's the reason why I've never stood behind "Valentine's Day." The sentiments may be sweet, and loving, and maybe even be the catalyst for romance to some, even to me, but they surely aren't romance itself.
So what is romance? Romance is an action, not an item. It is one of the ways that we, as humans, act out love. It is a verb, and never a noun. It is a simple act of genuine love that is as unique as the person performing the act itself. It comes with a touch, or a whisper, or merely a glance. It can be silent, or obvious, but it is never wrong. It is never fake.
Some of the most romantic moments in my life came in silence. It was the way he looked at me; the way his look alone made me feel like it was just him and I, how he looked into the deepest parts of me, embraced me with his eyes and said, "I love you," more eloquently with the color of his perfectly tinted irises than would ever be possible from his mouth. It was the way he hugged me; the way his body covered mine, and how it felt like our bodies had been created to fit perfectly together, like two pieces of the same puzzle. It was in the ways that he loved me.
Even more, some of the most romantic moments in my life came from those who were my greatest friends, not lovers. It was in the joyful, "Hello," after a long over due meeting. It was in the excitement of dancing together in a room full of strangers, but feeling like we were the only ones dancing. It was in the way they cared enough to ask me how I felt, and love me enough to cry with me, laugh with me, yell with me. It was in the ways they loved me.
I would be grateful for a vase of long stemmed red roses. I would cherish a velvet box, and the diamond ring it carries. And I would swoon over the generic, sweet nothings printed onto a million pieces of paper.
But that isn't romance. Not for me, at least.
Romance.
It is a look. It is a hug. It is a smile.
It is in the playful wrestling matches that end in me laughing and yelling, "Okay! Okay! I give!" It is in the secretive purchase of my favorite candy bar. And it certainly is in the verbal harassment, the smart ass quips, and dirty jokes we share.
It is love.
In whatever form you prefer it.
It isn't a vase of long stemmed red roses. It isn't a velvet box, or the diamond ring it carries. It isn't the generic, sweet nothings printed onto a million pieces of paper.
Not for me, at least.
I've struggled with the idea of romance for a long time now. The idea that romance is a tangible thing, something to be bought and wrapped and given has never settled well with me. It's the reason why I've never stood behind "Valentine's Day." The sentiments may be sweet, and loving, and maybe even be the catalyst for romance to some, even to me, but they surely aren't romance itself.
So what is romance? Romance is an action, not an item. It is one of the ways that we, as humans, act out love. It is a verb, and never a noun. It is a simple act of genuine love that is as unique as the person performing the act itself. It comes with a touch, or a whisper, or merely a glance. It can be silent, or obvious, but it is never wrong. It is never fake.
Some of the most romantic moments in my life came in silence. It was the way he looked at me; the way his look alone made me feel like it was just him and I, how he looked into the deepest parts of me, embraced me with his eyes and said, "I love you," more eloquently with the color of his perfectly tinted irises than would ever be possible from his mouth. It was the way he hugged me; the way his body covered mine, and how it felt like our bodies had been created to fit perfectly together, like two pieces of the same puzzle. It was in the ways that he loved me.
Even more, some of the most romantic moments in my life came from those who were my greatest friends, not lovers. It was in the joyful, "Hello," after a long over due meeting. It was in the excitement of dancing together in a room full of strangers, but feeling like we were the only ones dancing. It was in the way they cared enough to ask me how I felt, and love me enough to cry with me, laugh with me, yell with me. It was in the ways they loved me.
I would be grateful for a vase of long stemmed red roses. I would cherish a velvet box, and the diamond ring it carries. And I would swoon over the generic, sweet nothings printed onto a million pieces of paper.
But that isn't romance. Not for me, at least.
Romance.
It is a look. It is a hug. It is a smile.
It is in the playful wrestling matches that end in me laughing and yelling, "Okay! Okay! I give!" It is in the secretive purchase of my favorite candy bar. And it certainly is in the verbal harassment, the smart ass quips, and dirty jokes we share.
It is love.
In whatever form you prefer it.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
VII.
A heart breaking is a strange thing. It is often silent to the world, but to your world it shatters glass with its piercing shriek. It leaves you paralyzed, but leaves your body feeling as if it had just ran a race. It is painful, but leaves you feeling entirely numb.
What I find most interesting about the broken heart is how instantaneously it can break, and how stealthily it does it. Often times I don’t even realize my heart had broke until I hear the crunching shards of its remains under my feet; and then you really feel it. I remember being a kid, playing and laughing and running about, only stopping to catch my breath to yell, “Tag! You’re it!” only to continue to run. I remember how at the end of the day you could look at your elbow, your knee, your hands and find scratches and scrapes and think, “Hey…when did that happen?” And up until that point, pain hadn’t even been a distant thought, let alone a reality, but at that moment, in that single moment of looking down and actually seeing the injury, pain was realized. A broken heart is sort of like that sometimes; you’re so caught up in everything that until you look down and see the broken pieces, you weren’t even aware that you were hurt.
And it feels broken. If I close my eyes and concentrate on the feeling, I’m sure I can feel the pieces; sharp and cold, and attacking your insides with every breath. You keep on breathing though, if only because you have no other choice, and every time you do you remind yourself with a painful sting that you will never be the same.
Never.
Even when the pieces are lovingly and carefully put back together, you are forever changed. Scars will appear where a once smooth and perfect surface used to be, and every time you see it you will remember how it used to be and how it will never be again.
But while I stare at the broken pieces of my heart, don’t think for one second that I am helpless. For it is in those moments that I can cut you most deep. Maybe that’s why hearts break…so that while you’re hurt and reeling from the pain you will have, at the very least, something with which to hurt another. After all, it is in those vulnerable, broken moments that you’re most likely to cut another, and what better to do it with than with a piece of you that hurts the most?
And what breaks a heart, exactly?
A lover saying, “I don’t know.”
An phone call that that was not returned.
Watching someone hurt so badly and you without a pain killer.
Not knowing.
Or even worse sometimes, knowing.
They all break a heart. And how lucky are we at the plethora of causes of one of the most painful experiences one will endure?
Incredibly.
It means that we are real. That we are alive. That we are surging with blood, and emotions, and love, and life, and all of the unbelievably beautiful gifts that life has been so gracious to give us. We are lucky.
So with every breath, with every stinging reminder of what won’t ever be the same, let it also be a reminder of how strong, and beautiful you are, and how, while things will never be the same, they can be better.
And they will be.
What I find most interesting about the broken heart is how instantaneously it can break, and how stealthily it does it. Often times I don’t even realize my heart had broke until I hear the crunching shards of its remains under my feet; and then you really feel it. I remember being a kid, playing and laughing and running about, only stopping to catch my breath to yell, “Tag! You’re it!” only to continue to run. I remember how at the end of the day you could look at your elbow, your knee, your hands and find scratches and scrapes and think, “Hey…when did that happen?” And up until that point, pain hadn’t even been a distant thought, let alone a reality, but at that moment, in that single moment of looking down and actually seeing the injury, pain was realized. A broken heart is sort of like that sometimes; you’re so caught up in everything that until you look down and see the broken pieces, you weren’t even aware that you were hurt.
And it feels broken. If I close my eyes and concentrate on the feeling, I’m sure I can feel the pieces; sharp and cold, and attacking your insides with every breath. You keep on breathing though, if only because you have no other choice, and every time you do you remind yourself with a painful sting that you will never be the same.
Never.
Even when the pieces are lovingly and carefully put back together, you are forever changed. Scars will appear where a once smooth and perfect surface used to be, and every time you see it you will remember how it used to be and how it will never be again.
But while I stare at the broken pieces of my heart, don’t think for one second that I am helpless. For it is in those moments that I can cut you most deep. Maybe that’s why hearts break…so that while you’re hurt and reeling from the pain you will have, at the very least, something with which to hurt another. After all, it is in those vulnerable, broken moments that you’re most likely to cut another, and what better to do it with than with a piece of you that hurts the most?
And what breaks a heart, exactly?
A lover saying, “I don’t know.”
An phone call that that was not returned.
Watching someone hurt so badly and you without a pain killer.
Not knowing.
Or even worse sometimes, knowing.
They all break a heart. And how lucky are we at the plethora of causes of one of the most painful experiences one will endure?
Incredibly.
It means that we are real. That we are alive. That we are surging with blood, and emotions, and love, and life, and all of the unbelievably beautiful gifts that life has been so gracious to give us. We are lucky.
So with every breath, with every stinging reminder of what won’t ever be the same, let it also be a reminder of how strong, and beautiful you are, and how, while things will never be the same, they can be better.
And they will be.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
It's afraid of 7.
I seem to have a block between my brain and my mouth most of the time. Or maybe it isn’t even most of the time, maybe it’s just the more important times that this block erects itself. I don’t really understand it; its reason for being there or what it accomplishes. From what I’ve seen, it’s only been successful at alienating people and making them feel that they are “less than” in my heart. I don’t like it.
And it’s the most important people in my life that suffer with the shortest sticks; face the biggest blocks.
Where’s the sense in that, I wonder. I push away those I want closest. Isn’t that one of the biggest clichés around?
I’m not entirely sure what sets off the domino effect of blocks that go up. I know when I’m feeling something especially intense or especially tender I feel the blocks go up. But sometimes the erecting of blocks is set off by something far less meaningful; things that neither matter nor make a difference in anything, but are just nice to say. Sometimes I wonder if I just don’t think my personal thoughts, feelings, emotions, words are good enough. I don’t know. Other times I wonder if it’s just that I don’t feel the sense of security and trust with others that seems like in most people, is just there. Any avenue I wander in trying to find the reason for my block, it comes down to one thing: there’s something wrong with ME.
Which isn’t a fantastic spot to find yourself. It’s sort of like when you’re on your way to a place you’ve been before, but somehow you get your directions mixed up and you end up in this uncomfortable part of town; that part of town that instantly gives you hawk-like vision, makes you instinctively lock your doors and creates a moving lump of sick in your stomach. It’s quite pleasant.
Sometimes I think I just need someone to want to break down my blocks as much as I do. Someone with just as much desire to break them down as I do, so that we could do it together; proof that they love me, and want me, and will fight for me. Is that asking too much? Or more importantly, is that even what I want? Or is it just some song and dance number of mine to continually push people away, because that’s easier than letting people in?
I still don’t like it.
There have been times when someone would say to me, “You’re thinking something. Say it.” And I remember the sort of rosy, warmth it gave me. It would rise from my stomach, and warm me from within and I would feel loved. Yet even in those moments I would back pedal, and fight it. I’d say, “I’m not thinking anything…” even though I was thinking something incredible; something oozing with raw me. I would deny the other persons’ fight for me; I’d take a knee, bow my head and lift my shield in submission, and then quickly disappear before the other could even begin congratulating himself.
And I know I’m doing it. As soon as I feel the weight of the very first block in the infinitely high wall go up, a dialogue between my many selves starts up. One side starts verbally attacking the other while the other side simply whispers the right words to say. And it’s at this point that the white flag goes up; I surrender all thinking, silence the voices, and give up. It becomes another internal battle that I lose.
And while it starts out as an internal battle, it ends with an external loss; one that I can feel, hear and see. I erected one more block to keep that person away. I pushed them one step further back. And I feel it, hear it, see it, and it kills me. Why, when all I want is to hold that person in my arms and wrap them in myself, do I push so much harder to keep them farther away?
Why am I so afraid to have someone love me?
And it’s the most important people in my life that suffer with the shortest sticks; face the biggest blocks.
Where’s the sense in that, I wonder. I push away those I want closest. Isn’t that one of the biggest clichés around?
I’m not entirely sure what sets off the domino effect of blocks that go up. I know when I’m feeling something especially intense or especially tender I feel the blocks go up. But sometimes the erecting of blocks is set off by something far less meaningful; things that neither matter nor make a difference in anything, but are just nice to say. Sometimes I wonder if I just don’t think my personal thoughts, feelings, emotions, words are good enough. I don’t know. Other times I wonder if it’s just that I don’t feel the sense of security and trust with others that seems like in most people, is just there. Any avenue I wander in trying to find the reason for my block, it comes down to one thing: there’s something wrong with ME.
Which isn’t a fantastic spot to find yourself. It’s sort of like when you’re on your way to a place you’ve been before, but somehow you get your directions mixed up and you end up in this uncomfortable part of town; that part of town that instantly gives you hawk-like vision, makes you instinctively lock your doors and creates a moving lump of sick in your stomach. It’s quite pleasant.
Sometimes I think I just need someone to want to break down my blocks as much as I do. Someone with just as much desire to break them down as I do, so that we could do it together; proof that they love me, and want me, and will fight for me. Is that asking too much? Or more importantly, is that even what I want? Or is it just some song and dance number of mine to continually push people away, because that’s easier than letting people in?
I still don’t like it.
There have been times when someone would say to me, “You’re thinking something. Say it.” And I remember the sort of rosy, warmth it gave me. It would rise from my stomach, and warm me from within and I would feel loved. Yet even in those moments I would back pedal, and fight it. I’d say, “I’m not thinking anything…” even though I was thinking something incredible; something oozing with raw me. I would deny the other persons’ fight for me; I’d take a knee, bow my head and lift my shield in submission, and then quickly disappear before the other could even begin congratulating himself.
And I know I’m doing it. As soon as I feel the weight of the very first block in the infinitely high wall go up, a dialogue between my many selves starts up. One side starts verbally attacking the other while the other side simply whispers the right words to say. And it’s at this point that the white flag goes up; I surrender all thinking, silence the voices, and give up. It becomes another internal battle that I lose.
And while it starts out as an internal battle, it ends with an external loss; one that I can feel, hear and see. I erected one more block to keep that person away. I pushed them one step further back. And I feel it, hear it, see it, and it kills me. Why, when all I want is to hold that person in my arms and wrap them in myself, do I push so much harder to keep them farther away?
Why am I so afraid to have someone love me?
Friday, December 12, 2008
One full hand.
It's been said more than a couple of times that straight men and women can't have true "platonic" relationships. I've never understood this, nor have I ever stood behind this statement, but I'm definitely seeing that not being "just friends" is a regular human practice.
During the course of my life I have spent a large portion of my time just being friends with guys. This was due to a total lack of confidence in my romantic self, and the fact that I, in no way, even knew (and it's arguable if I even know now) how to actually be in a romantic relationship (See, "romantically challenged."). My natural inclination for things is to be friends; some compasses point north, mine points to "friendship." With this being the case, I have never had a problem having platonic relationships with males, even if I harbored romantic feelings for them, which I very often did. So why is it such an issue? I mean, can't we all just be friends?
Now, up until this past year I was never in a situation to "turn down" advances, as I never had the chance. But now that I have had the chance (and turned it down) I realize just how deeply rooted these anti-platonic feelings about male/female friendships really are. They go deep. Deep enough that I've seen people completely discard another based purely on the fact that they "couldn't just be friends." You liked me enough to want to date me, but not be my friend? Where in the world is the sense in that?
And even beyond the discarding of people left and right based on some crazy notion that has been so deeply rooted into our culture it almost seems biological, I've also found that if two people, a man and a woman, are friends, there are almost always ulterior motives. The thought that "maybe one day," or, "maybe just a roll in the hay," is almost always present, and the tension that it causes is most certainly the proverbial "elephant in the room"; and a very awkward elephant at that.
So why is this? What exactly is this all about? Is it due to the fact that we, as humans, are animals and still act on some primitive animal instinct to, quite literally, spread our seed? Or is it just easier to say, "We can't be friends," because it takes less work to not be a friend than it does to be a friend? Or maybe it's that it is just far easier to get rid of a person that may bring about feelings of a non-platonic nature than it is to just swallow a bit of pride and move on?
We say "just" friends, but somehow, somewhere along the way "just" has taken on some new meaning entirely; something painful and awkward and all together unacceptable. We hear the words, "just friends" and almost instinctively we recoil in a shudder of pain and nausea and clutch our chest and think, "WHAT?!" It's become more of an insult than a proclamation from someone saying, "Hey, you're good stuff" (which, in most cases, is what it is intended to be). It becomes something that gives people the ability to justify turning their backs on one another or remain some hungry vulture just waiting for something; whatever that something is.
It makes no sense. People jump out of airplanes, put their heads inside a lions' mouths and have walked on the moon for crying out loud, and yet we still can't manage to practice something as simple as just being friends?
It's not that hard, ask me. I've done it for twenty five years, and I'm sure, with the state of society as it is, there will be more of it.
Just. Who knew it could be so…unjust?
During the course of my life I have spent a large portion of my time just being friends with guys. This was due to a total lack of confidence in my romantic self, and the fact that I, in no way, even knew (and it's arguable if I even know now) how to actually be in a romantic relationship (See, "romantically challenged."). My natural inclination for things is to be friends; some compasses point north, mine points to "friendship." With this being the case, I have never had a problem having platonic relationships with males, even if I harbored romantic feelings for them, which I very often did. So why is it such an issue? I mean, can't we all just be friends?
Now, up until this past year I was never in a situation to "turn down" advances, as I never had the chance. But now that I have had the chance (and turned it down) I realize just how deeply rooted these anti-platonic feelings about male/female friendships really are. They go deep. Deep enough that I've seen people completely discard another based purely on the fact that they "couldn't just be friends." You liked me enough to want to date me, but not be my friend? Where in the world is the sense in that?
And even beyond the discarding of people left and right based on some crazy notion that has been so deeply rooted into our culture it almost seems biological, I've also found that if two people, a man and a woman, are friends, there are almost always ulterior motives. The thought that "maybe one day," or, "maybe just a roll in the hay," is almost always present, and the tension that it causes is most certainly the proverbial "elephant in the room"; and a very awkward elephant at that.
So why is this? What exactly is this all about? Is it due to the fact that we, as humans, are animals and still act on some primitive animal instinct to, quite literally, spread our seed? Or is it just easier to say, "We can't be friends," because it takes less work to not be a friend than it does to be a friend? Or maybe it's that it is just far easier to get rid of a person that may bring about feelings of a non-platonic nature than it is to just swallow a bit of pride and move on?
We say "just" friends, but somehow, somewhere along the way "just" has taken on some new meaning entirely; something painful and awkward and all together unacceptable. We hear the words, "just friends" and almost instinctively we recoil in a shudder of pain and nausea and clutch our chest and think, "WHAT?!" It's become more of an insult than a proclamation from someone saying, "Hey, you're good stuff" (which, in most cases, is what it is intended to be). It becomes something that gives people the ability to justify turning their backs on one another or remain some hungry vulture just waiting for something; whatever that something is.
It makes no sense. People jump out of airplanes, put their heads inside a lions' mouths and have walked on the moon for crying out loud, and yet we still can't manage to practice something as simple as just being friends?
It's not that hard, ask me. I've done it for twenty five years, and I'm sure, with the state of society as it is, there will be more of it.
Just. Who knew it could be so…unjust?
Come fourth.
There is a fine line that I attempt to straddle in my life. But this line is far more complicated and treacherous than even the line between love and hate. It is costly, and messy, and overwhelms me more than most everything else in life.
This is the line that divides my happiness; doing what I want and doing what others want. I know it's there, but I can't find it.
The problem arises with the fact that my happiness is very closely related to the happiness of those around me; the ones I love with every molecule in my body. And sometimes, maybe more often than I'd like to admit, those two points of happiness, the one as a direct result of my wants and the one as a result of my desire to make those around me happy, are very often at odds. I'm not quite sure which point of happiness is "better" or more "fulfilling" because each comes with their very own list of pros and cons. And even after studying them side by side and point by point, neither side really stands out as a clear winner. It's a definite "nose and nose" race.
It's hard for me to discount my own feelings, and I very rarely do, it's just that sometimes I swallow them. And that isn't so much painful as it is difficult; difficult in very much the same way that eating a peanut butter on peanut butter sandwich is difficult when the milk carton has run dry. It's awkward, slightly messy and there is an awful lot of effort exerted in the constant swallowing and smacking and gasping for air. But I don't blame anyone, and I'm not angry over it. It's my decision and I'm comfortable with that. And I don't even feel all that cheated because seeing those around me happy seems to bring just as much happiness as my other option may have.
Sometimes though, and only sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to just do whatever it was that I wanted to do and not for one moment even consider what someone else may think about it. Not care whether or not it would make them happy or not because damnit, it's my life and what I do should have no pull on someone else's emotions.
But life isn't that clean cut or neat. People's lives are intertwined and tangled with others' lives, and a shake of the web from way over there will certainly cause some sort of movement of the web over here. And isn't that part of the beauty of life; that people can be so bonded and connected and in love with each other that the slightest movement in one life may cause movement in another's?
And here, right here, is where the biggest problem arises; where is that line? Where is the line that shows me when it's time to stop caring so much about other people's happiness and when it's time to start caring that much about my own? It's just as confusing and just as sneaky as the tricks that many a magician has ever performed; rabbits out of hats, birds disappearing into thin air, escaping straight jackets, chains and handcuffs all while being submerged in a huge tank of water.
It's all rather exhausting.
And while I know it's incredibly important to figure out, I can't help but feel like a teenager at a magic show. I know there really is no such thing as magic, I know it's a trick but I'm still sitting here wide eyed in awe, frozen in confusion all the while stumped but persistent in trying to figure out just how they did it.
It seems like a lot more than just smoke and mirrors, illusions and hidden keys, with so much more at stake than, "Oohs" and "Aahs."
But will I ever satisfactorily find that line? And if I do, will I be happier? Or will I simply be solving a different equation with the same answer? Sort of like 2 + 2 = 4, just like 1.5 + 2.5 does; one slightly more complicated, but maybe a little more fun to solve. I don't know…
I think I may need Houdini's help with this one.
This is the line that divides my happiness; doing what I want and doing what others want. I know it's there, but I can't find it.
The problem arises with the fact that my happiness is very closely related to the happiness of those around me; the ones I love with every molecule in my body. And sometimes, maybe more often than I'd like to admit, those two points of happiness, the one as a direct result of my wants and the one as a result of my desire to make those around me happy, are very often at odds. I'm not quite sure which point of happiness is "better" or more "fulfilling" because each comes with their very own list of pros and cons. And even after studying them side by side and point by point, neither side really stands out as a clear winner. It's a definite "nose and nose" race.
It's hard for me to discount my own feelings, and I very rarely do, it's just that sometimes I swallow them. And that isn't so much painful as it is difficult; difficult in very much the same way that eating a peanut butter on peanut butter sandwich is difficult when the milk carton has run dry. It's awkward, slightly messy and there is an awful lot of effort exerted in the constant swallowing and smacking and gasping for air. But I don't blame anyone, and I'm not angry over it. It's my decision and I'm comfortable with that. And I don't even feel all that cheated because seeing those around me happy seems to bring just as much happiness as my other option may have.
Sometimes though, and only sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to just do whatever it was that I wanted to do and not for one moment even consider what someone else may think about it. Not care whether or not it would make them happy or not because damnit, it's my life and what I do should have no pull on someone else's emotions.
But life isn't that clean cut or neat. People's lives are intertwined and tangled with others' lives, and a shake of the web from way over there will certainly cause some sort of movement of the web over here. And isn't that part of the beauty of life; that people can be so bonded and connected and in love with each other that the slightest movement in one life may cause movement in another's?
And here, right here, is where the biggest problem arises; where is that line? Where is the line that shows me when it's time to stop caring so much about other people's happiness and when it's time to start caring that much about my own? It's just as confusing and just as sneaky as the tricks that many a magician has ever performed; rabbits out of hats, birds disappearing into thin air, escaping straight jackets, chains and handcuffs all while being submerged in a huge tank of water.
It's all rather exhausting.
And while I know it's incredibly important to figure out, I can't help but feel like a teenager at a magic show. I know there really is no such thing as magic, I know it's a trick but I'm still sitting here wide eyed in awe, frozen in confusion all the while stumped but persistent in trying to figure out just how they did it.
It seems like a lot more than just smoke and mirrors, illusions and hidden keys, with so much more at stake than, "Oohs" and "Aahs."
But will I ever satisfactorily find that line? And if I do, will I be happier? Or will I simply be solving a different equation with the same answer? Sort of like 2 + 2 = 4, just like 1.5 + 2.5 does; one slightly more complicated, but maybe a little more fun to solve. I don't know…
I think I may need Houdini's help with this one.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
3 of 30.
Dearest You,
I start this letter with a bit of tightness in my chest. At first I thought it was a sign of something bad, but I’m starting to realize that it’s simply because there is so much I want to say. And it’s not that I’m worried about the amount of time I have to say all these things, or having enough space to type them; I’m worried that I may run out of words. I just don’t think the correct words have been invented for the things you make me feel. This tightness, I realized, is only a sign of how much you make me feel. It’s slightly overwhelming…but in the most beautiful way.
When I look at you I see someone so beautiful that it literally stops my thinking. But it isn’t that you’re built like a super model, or have the skin of the perfectly molded porcelain doll. It isn’t that your smile is straight and perfect and gleaming with light, or that your cheekbones rest high upon your smooth, immaculate face. Your beauty is so much more than that. You are so much more than that.
Looking at you has the power to stop people.
Your eyes command attention, not because they’re large or colorful or adorned with eyelashes that tickle your forehead. They command attention because they ask questions. They dart around with intense curiosity and look deeper than is comfortable for some to accept. But even more than questions and curiosity, they figure things out. They answer the questions they ask as silently and quickly as they blink.
Your mouth does more than talk, or laugh, or smile. It directs. It directs ears, eyes, and minds to it and then fills them with words, and sights and thoughts that no one else ever has. It speaks the most honest truth it knows, but does it with kindness. It says things it means, but on the off chance that it says something it doesn’t mean, it apologizes. And it’s always genuinely. Your mouth gives easier than it takes.
Your ears are hungry for life. They’re open and alert and ready, and the world around you doesn’t have enough to fill them. They funnel in the world around them and then sorts through it and tastes each and every morsel. They listen for the slightest changes, the oddest differences and for the serenity of the usual. They want it all, and don’t apologize for it. Your mind is their stomach, and their appetites are insatiable.
Your face…oh, your face. It isn’t ideal or exotic or anything like the magazines say it should be, but your face is unstoppable. Your eyes are directly connected to your emotions; your eyes simply the projector reel for what you’re feeling. When you’re happy, your eyes say it louder than your smile ever could. But your mouth radiates the same amount of emotion, it is just stealthier than your eyes; emotions are only whispers on a gusty night, and very few ever hear them. The wrinkles around your eyes and freckles and pink on your cheeks tell stories of your life, and do it with the same unapologetic grace that children live their lives by. Your face is more powerful, more generous and far more alive than any other part of you. And it eases people in the same instant that it excites them.
Your face is a treasure. It is illuminated by the beauty that lives and stirs and grows beneath its surface…and that is its true power. It is what lies beneath your skin that gives your face the ability to stop people in their tracks.
You stop me. You put me at ease. You excite every molecule of my being.
And for that, I thank you.
Always,
Me
I start this letter with a bit of tightness in my chest. At first I thought it was a sign of something bad, but I’m starting to realize that it’s simply because there is so much I want to say. And it’s not that I’m worried about the amount of time I have to say all these things, or having enough space to type them; I’m worried that I may run out of words. I just don’t think the correct words have been invented for the things you make me feel. This tightness, I realized, is only a sign of how much you make me feel. It’s slightly overwhelming…but in the most beautiful way.
When I look at you I see someone so beautiful that it literally stops my thinking. But it isn’t that you’re built like a super model, or have the skin of the perfectly molded porcelain doll. It isn’t that your smile is straight and perfect and gleaming with light, or that your cheekbones rest high upon your smooth, immaculate face. Your beauty is so much more than that. You are so much more than that.
Looking at you has the power to stop people.
Your eyes command attention, not because they’re large or colorful or adorned with eyelashes that tickle your forehead. They command attention because they ask questions. They dart around with intense curiosity and look deeper than is comfortable for some to accept. But even more than questions and curiosity, they figure things out. They answer the questions they ask as silently and quickly as they blink.
Your mouth does more than talk, or laugh, or smile. It directs. It directs ears, eyes, and minds to it and then fills them with words, and sights and thoughts that no one else ever has. It speaks the most honest truth it knows, but does it with kindness. It says things it means, but on the off chance that it says something it doesn’t mean, it apologizes. And it’s always genuinely. Your mouth gives easier than it takes.
Your ears are hungry for life. They’re open and alert and ready, and the world around you doesn’t have enough to fill them. They funnel in the world around them and then sorts through it and tastes each and every morsel. They listen for the slightest changes, the oddest differences and for the serenity of the usual. They want it all, and don’t apologize for it. Your mind is their stomach, and their appetites are insatiable.
Your face…oh, your face. It isn’t ideal or exotic or anything like the magazines say it should be, but your face is unstoppable. Your eyes are directly connected to your emotions; your eyes simply the projector reel for what you’re feeling. When you’re happy, your eyes say it louder than your smile ever could. But your mouth radiates the same amount of emotion, it is just stealthier than your eyes; emotions are only whispers on a gusty night, and very few ever hear them. The wrinkles around your eyes and freckles and pink on your cheeks tell stories of your life, and do it with the same unapologetic grace that children live their lives by. Your face is more powerful, more generous and far more alive than any other part of you. And it eases people in the same instant that it excites them.
Your face is a treasure. It is illuminated by the beauty that lives and stirs and grows beneath its surface…and that is its true power. It is what lies beneath your skin that gives your face the ability to stop people in their tracks.
You stop me. You put me at ease. You excite every molecule of my being.
And for that, I thank you.
Always,
Me
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Commitment, part dos
They call me a control freak because I:
…like my clothes hung up in color order in my closet.
…don’t like games of chance.
…appreciate a well organized purse.
…frown upon not being able to do things myself.
I don’t consider myself a control freak because, while I do all of the above, I don’t take control of the most important things in life. I pay attention to minute details of random and mostly meaningless things while I surrender control of the bigger things; the things that matter.
I control the small things because it’s easier. They require less effort. Less skill. Less courage.
I control the little things to distract me from all that I don’t control; and not because I can’t control them, but because I’m afraid to. What if I make a mistake? Go right when I should have gone left? Swallow the blue pill instead of the red?
It’s easier to surrender control than it is to admit defeat. Or error. Or fear.
They ignore the fact that, while my closet looks like a rainbow, I turn down games of “Sorry,” have a streamlined purse, and do things myself that, I also leave life’s more crucial issues to chance. I close my eyes and slowly drift where ever it is that the stream may take me. Only my stream doesn’t flow through adventure or excitement or anywhere of even the slightest note.
My stream flows through comfortable. Through average. Through easy.
And it’s been okay for a long time now, and life has seemed…okay. Only I’m finding out that comfortable isn’t fulfilling. And neither is average. And easy, well it’s just a joke.
It’s funny when you’re floating down a stream and you’re still able to watch life pass you by.
Funny in a sick-to-your-stomach, lump-in-your-throat, someone’s-sitting- in-your-chest sort of way.
Which, funny, isn’t funny at all.
In my quiet moments I know that my color organized closet is a masquerade for the lack of control I take. I wear my “anti-games-of-chance” mask with a half-grin. And my purse is only a cover for a life less lived. My desire to do things myself, however, is the only reason I know I could take control if I really wanted to. If I were brave enough. It is the one thing that gives me confidence that if I were ready to, I could shake the world right off its axis.
And sometimes that is enough.
But I’m starting to realize that simply knowing I could doesn’t render the same results as actually doing.
Knowing means nothing if you’re not doing.
And so far there hasn’t been much doing.
And so it’s beginning to feel like nothing.
But the water is getting chilly enough to make me want to get out. All I have to do is…
Do it.
…like my clothes hung up in color order in my closet.
…don’t like games of chance.
…appreciate a well organized purse.
…frown upon not being able to do things myself.
I don’t consider myself a control freak because, while I do all of the above, I don’t take control of the most important things in life. I pay attention to minute details of random and mostly meaningless things while I surrender control of the bigger things; the things that matter.
I control the small things because it’s easier. They require less effort. Less skill. Less courage.
I control the little things to distract me from all that I don’t control; and not because I can’t control them, but because I’m afraid to. What if I make a mistake? Go right when I should have gone left? Swallow the blue pill instead of the red?
It’s easier to surrender control than it is to admit defeat. Or error. Or fear.
They ignore the fact that, while my closet looks like a rainbow, I turn down games of “Sorry,” have a streamlined purse, and do things myself that, I also leave life’s more crucial issues to chance. I close my eyes and slowly drift where ever it is that the stream may take me. Only my stream doesn’t flow through adventure or excitement or anywhere of even the slightest note.
My stream flows through comfortable. Through average. Through easy.
And it’s been okay for a long time now, and life has seemed…okay. Only I’m finding out that comfortable isn’t fulfilling. And neither is average. And easy, well it’s just a joke.
It’s funny when you’re floating down a stream and you’re still able to watch life pass you by.
Funny in a sick-to-your-stomach, lump-in-your-throat, someone’s-sitting- in-your-chest sort of way.
Which, funny, isn’t funny at all.
In my quiet moments I know that my color organized closet is a masquerade for the lack of control I take. I wear my “anti-games-of-chance” mask with a half-grin. And my purse is only a cover for a life less lived. My desire to do things myself, however, is the only reason I know I could take control if I really wanted to. If I were brave enough. It is the one thing that gives me confidence that if I were ready to, I could shake the world right off its axis.
And sometimes that is enough.
But I’m starting to realize that simply knowing I could doesn’t render the same results as actually doing.
Knowing means nothing if you’re not doing.
And so far there hasn’t been much doing.
And so it’s beginning to feel like nothing.
But the water is getting chilly enough to make me want to get out. All I have to do is…
Do it.
Monday, December 8, 2008
On commitment-phobia.
In my not so recent past I have been reminded of what a commitment-phobe I am in a succession of sometimes excruciatingly painful events but, more often than not, simply funny, mostly minor missteps.
I began to read a book about figuring out what it is that I, "want to do with my life." It's called, "I Could Do Anything: If Only I Knew What it Was." which sort of sounds like something I've muttered to myself in frustration a million or so different times. So while it may have been a sort of mantra of mine, it is also a completely amazing book. One that without hesitation looked at me, jabbed me in the shoulder and said, "You're afraid of commitment." I of course gasped with disbelief, even though most of me was simply relieved that someone had caught on (Aside from my mother of course, who has been telling me this since I was fourteen. Love you mom.).
But, what my mom hasn't been telling me since puberty is a way to look my commitment-phobia in the eye and say, "This isn't working for me anymore. No, no...it isn't you...it's me..." This book, however, is telling me such things and so far, so good.
My mission to accept was this: commit to something, anything, for thirty days, and for those thirty days you will immerse yourself in that commitment for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes a day, for thirty days, one thing. A real life commitment. I accepted said mission. Go me.
The commitment, you ask? Writing. Pure, raw, straight from this odd, very usually twisted yet cheesy noggin. Writing. The thing that I enjoy so much, do so little of and am encouraged to do with excitement and love. Writing. This crazy little hobby that scares the kink right into my hair if I think about actually doing something with it. Writing. The easiest thing for me to, hardy har har, write off.
I started December 1, 2008. I have but seven, thirty minute commitments under my belt but feel great that I am actually taking myself seriously with this. Some people take themselves too seriously...perhaps, I don't take myself seriously enough.
And with that commitment I promised myself that I'd tell people about it, that way if the day comes that I say, "Eh...I'll just do two tomorrow..." (and I'm sure this day will come...I am a procrastinator above all else. That sort of makes me wonder if my procrastination and commitment-phobia are innately linked. Don't commit to today, what you can commit to tomorrow...after all, you may change your mind.) that there will be people to call me out.
Along with that I also promised myself that I would share them. Not for some perverted, self-absorbed glory, but because if nothing else scares me more, it's being bad at something I really love. And I love to write. So I'd much rather keep my writings to myself for only me to judge than to have them out in the world for others to potentially see as horrible abominations to the writing world.
Sigh.
So with that I, with a lumping churning in the pit of my stomach, share with you my very first thirty minute commitment to writing...and quite possibly, one of the first real commitments to myself.
*****
Some things are hard to say out loud. Those same things are often the most crucial things to say out loud. Things like:
I'm sorry.
Give us another chance.
I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere.
I'm sorry.
I am, for a million different reasons. I'm sorry I didn't love you the way I wanted to love you. Instead of loving you fearlessly, I loved you fearfully. I was so afraid to lose you, to do something wrong that I did just that. I lost you. I'm sorry you don't see how much I love you; how much you love me. I feel it.
Give us another chance.
I will, if you will. Don't wait too long though; life is too short, too precious. But I'm never without you. You're in my laugh, my smile, my tears, my thoughts, my heart. And I know you carry me with you. When my phone rings with you on the other line, I know it's true. I just wonder how long you waited to call.
I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere.
I am, and I will be. Always. I know it's easy to assume I'll slowly drift away, but I won't. I can't. You've anchored me in this place; my ship won't sail without you. It's hard sometimes when all I want to do is to sail on with you, but I'll wait. I know we're waiting for each other, even if we haven't admitted it.
Some things are easy to keep inside. Those same things are often the most painful things to keep inside. Things like:
I love you.
I'm sorry.
Give us another chance.
I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere.
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