Formalities
Oh heeeyyy, WordPress.
Fancy finding you here, in my bookmarks, as sharp and witty and disarming as ever.
It’s been awhile? I know.
There are days my mind races to pour out my thoughts and emotions to you and other times I want to keep it all locked up inside of me, where everything is mine and not yours and it doesn’t really matter because you are probably not listening anyway.
In fact, there are days the thought of getting rid of you excites me. Starting fresh, erasing the baggage, enjoying not being tied down or responsible. What do I have to lose? I can be whoever I want to be.
But… most of those times were good times. What if I miss you? What if someone else mentions that they miss you and then makes me regret my rash decisions? What if eventually I want you back? Do I really want to start from zero?
It’s all so involved. And so I’ve avoided you. And, yes, I’m stringing you along. Because I don’t know what I want.
There, I said it. I don’t know what I want. And I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Thanks for listening.
Can we still be friends?
Shouting from the Shelves
Who do you share your secrets with? Do you have a “person” – a trusted keeper of your most honest moments? Or, do you find comfort confiding in the masses; the faceless readers of blogs and postcards who relate to the need to feel heard and understood under a veil of anonymity?
Sometimes, secrets are only secrets because we can’t bring ourselves to admit information to the one person who needs to hear it.
Sometimes, shouting from the rooftops is a much more appealing option than whispering a sentence of truth across a pillow or a phone line (given your one person doesn’t pass through the neighborhood).
And this is how great art is made. Through conflicting desire and inability to express truth in a straightforward way. We secret-keepers get creative and scream our hearts out from anywhere we can, including grocery store shelves.
A few days ago, as I was browsing the card aisle, I picked up the following:
Hallmark speaks my mind
and opened to find:
Someone speaks to my heart
Like all captivating art, it’s open to major interpretation. Obviously, a man wrote it, but who was he writing to? Why is it not signed? Did he buy it and return it? Was it returned because he couldn’t bring himself to share it, or because the relationship ended too soon? On the other hand, did he sign it in the store and purposely hide his voice among countless other words? Most pressing, where are the men who write these sweet things??
We all have our secrets. One of mine? The $2.29 I spent on a pre-signed card that I will never be able to send (seeing as how I am not a man or a plagiarize-er) is the best purchase I’ve made in a while. I’ll keep the reasoning for that to myself for now.
We also all have our own perspective. I would love to hear yours! Please comment with your interpretations/thoughts/opinions and pass it on!
When Life Laughs
Sometimes, it feels like the universe is telling me to just sit still. To wait for something. To be at peace. Of course, I respond by making myself busier, even less available, and convince myself that it’s because I need to.
Without exploring all the perfectionist/go-getter/people-pleaser issues that make me terrified of slowing down, we’ll just say that this Learning-To-Listen-To-Something-Bigger-Than-Me is one lesson I would like to put on the shelf, behind the yearbooks and D-ring binders from AP classes where I actually enjoyed, well, learning stuff.
In my efforts to bury that sneaky little feeling that I’m constantly missing or overlooking something; that there’s more to my experiences than what I’m actually feeling, I have exhausted myself.
Now, instead of the universe trying to get my attention, my body has taken over teaching me the lesson. I’m sick all the time, home every night, and can’t eat anything but ice cream or chinese (okay, so there are some perks to being so stubborn).
While ice cream is always sweet and cheery, I should have been more wary of my egg drop soup and fortune cookies. I was comfortable. I was expecting something along the lines of, “You are a hard worker. Success will find you.” Or maybe even, “The sun will come out tomorrow.”
What I got was, “Stop searching forever. Happiness is just next to you.”
Seriously?
Life: 1 Me: 0
Almost Wordless.
In the position you’re in, with the support you have, because and in spite of the challenges, you are here. In this moment, for this time. So learn something. Love something. Hold something. Experience the process without distraction, without excuse. Let the waves wash over you. And let go.
Lucky Girl
Ask most people what June 14th is and you’ll get one of three looks.
Look #1: Clueless. Is this a test? Did they miss some obscure anniversary? The biggest sale of the year at a store you only window-shop in?
Look #2: Amused/Borderline Worried. Are you crazy? Besides falling on a Monday this year, what could be so noteworthy? Have you developed some obsession with numbers?
Look #3: “Princess Parks.”
June 14th is Lauren’s favorite holiday. Not only is it Flag Day, it’s also her BIRTHDAY. After living with her for years, I’m still not sure which she enjoys celebrating more. It’s a toss-up. Though she does constantly hum patriotic songs the rest of us haven’t heard since kindergarten, she IS the Princess, and she’s not going to ignore a perfect excuse to boss everyone around and get her way. That’s right, I said it. And I’m allowed to say it because for every ounce of “princess” in her, I have two ounces of in-your-face, say-it-like-I-see-it attitude.
When we’re together, we get only one look: complete, eyebrows twisted, sideways-glance confusion. ”How are you two friends?” Because we get it. We know that at the end of the day, you have to have someone who is there no matter what. Someone who has literally seen you at your worst; someone who knows how long you can go without sleep or showers or food that doesn’t come from Sheetz at three a.m. before you break. Someone who will sit next to you through the process and hug you when the breakdown comes, even if it is before the shower.
Everyone also needs someone who has seen them at their best, high on life or love or excitement over the little things that no one else would understand the weight of. Someone who will let go and celebrate for the sake of celebrating. Someone who doesn’t talk about taking sides. Someone who never says “I knew it was too good to be true,” even when they’re thinking it for the millionth time.
Then there are the more selfish, personal reasons we’re friends. She can deal with my tendency to look at her and flat-out whine, “would you pleeease stop talking to me??” and my habit of shutting and locking my door just to be alone. I can handle avoiding her at all costs in the mornings, until she’s been awake for at least an hour and seen a full episode of The Price is Right. She doesn’t say anything when I make pizza three weeks in a row because I’m too indecisive to pick anything else to cook and I smile and sing along with her over played-radio music.
At the end of the day, it comes down to having someone who knows you, accepts you, and wouldn’t dare try to change anything about you (except maybe your taste in guys). So tonight, as we all turn out the lights on June 14th, I am honored (and beyond thankful) to have celebrated one of these “someone’s” in my life.
HAPPY TWENTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY, LAUREN!!!
Only A Matter of Time
“What we had was truly magic…”
“…now i feel indifferent. Is it gone? Is it gone? Is it floating
in the air?”
“…We’re stuck in a void, I can’t stand it. Is this what you
wanted worlds ago?”
“…I bet you are just fine. Do I make it that easy to walk
right in and out of my life?“
(You and I both know she’s your girlfriend.)
Sweet Spot
The street smells like honeysuckle tonight. Light but inescapable, innocent but irresistibly seductive. “Come closer,” it seems to whisper. “Breathe.” And I do, because, really, I have no choice. How long has it been since I’ve stopped to soak in the only neighborhood that has ever felt like home? When was the last time I acknowledged and absorbed it’s changes or allowed it to welcome me back, with my own new patches of growth? Apparently too long, because I now feel silly standing outside by myself, a stranger in the yard that used to be my kingdom; an impostor grasping at memories on a sidewalk once covered in the rainbow-chalk-art of a little girl more honest and optimistic than the “grown-up” she’s become.
Everyone knows that honeysuckle is more fun to eat than to look at, but tonight the blossoms stay on their vines. It wouldn’t be right to enjoy them alone. The hidden sweetness is for friends to find, and to me, only shared with my first best friend. Heidi, a Sheltie the size of a Collie, was more than just a dog. She was my first “student,” my partner in crime, my secret keeper. I loved her unconditionally (except for the day she chewed a hand off of my favorite baby doll). She was smart, and between bouts of herding me around in circles by biting my shoelaces and ankles, she let me teach her to eat only the most delicious flowers. Not only did I have a dog who could impersonate Lassie, I had a dog who could eat honeysuckle by herself, licking only the honey and leaving the rest.
Tonight, as I breathe the scent of innocence deeper, I struggle to stay in that moment – ignoring the cold, creeping fear I now have of being alone in the dark (even in front of my own house) to honor the little girl who was afraid of nothing and the devotion of her best friend.
The change in perspective is bittersweet. Most days, I’m too distracted by the brilliant people, amazing opportunities, and life-changing experiences in my world to miss the one she lived in, but in my most unguarded moments, I dare to wonder if I’m someone she would be proud of. Or at least like. Would that version of me respect this one?
Life was easier when people asked, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” instead of, “where have you applied? Have you scheduled any interviews? Did you see today’s job section in the Washington Post?” Answering was more fun when my responses depended on my mood and not what was typed on my degree.
Life was more fair when a broken heart could be fixed by chasing the unfortunate boy around the playground and knocking him down. When his tears over wood chips or sand in his eyes solved injustice completely, freeing the hurt to be friends again, or to at least have a crush on someone else without baggage or guilt. I don’t know whose idea it was, but this on-again-off-again system of mixed messages, second third fourth chances, Facebook stalking, and competing for people we know don’t deserve us – just because we don’t know how to let go – is quite messy and exhausting. If we’re expected to play this game, we should still have nap time.
Life was more secure when I took Rags, my pink, stuffed rabbit, to bed with me than now, as I try to sleep next to Doubt, Fear, Anger, Questioning, the Unkown, or Tomorrow’s To-Do List. I slept better with posters on my wall than with pictures in my mind.
Life was less complicated when musicians lived in my magazines and CD player instead of in my heart and my cell phone.
Life was more fun when everyone knew that fireflies and dandelion puffs were for wishing and airplanes were for nothing more than flying.
As sweet as that life was, times have changed. I really am looking at two different worlds and I can’t live in both. However, I can remember. I can learn. That little girl wouldn’t have accepted excuses and she wouldn’t have settled. As I leave the blossoms to their blooming, I leave her to dreaming, playing, and creating in hopes that her faith and passion and excitement for life will continue to live in me, even if it’s just quietly for now.
Bunch of Rocks
When you’re 22 and single, there are certain things you just can’t do unless you’re asking for trouble. Walking past jewelry stores is one of them. Normally, I will go to any extreme to avoid the suited men who think they’re charming with their rows upon rows of engagement rings. Any extreme – like walking to the other end of the mall, up to the second floor, and all the way back across the mall only to travel down the escalator on the other side, successfully avoiding their smiles and misplaced confidence in my relationship abilities by one or two stores. Today, in honor of my parents’ 25th anniversary (yay, mom and dad! – I obviously didn’t get my cynicism from them), I decided to make an exception.
Armed with print-outs of anniversary bands (my mom’s “research”) and dressed for the occasion in my “kiss, kiss” t-shirt, flip-flops, messy hair, and as little make up as possible, I was sure I would communicate to the poor salesperson assigned to us that I was not, in any way, interested in engagement rings. I know, I know – this was about my parents. I was invited to offer my opinion in case of emergency. Still, a girl can’t be too careful.
Surprisingly, the night went well. Mom found a ring, Dad paid the people, and no one pried into my life. Engagement rings weren’t even mentioned until (shock of my life) I found this:
It was perfect. I was so impressed, even my dad walked over to see what had caught my attention. “It says it’s vintage,” I whispered. Somehow, that idea couldn’t be more romantic. “It’s just a bunch of rocks,” he teased. Ah, yes. There they were – the words of my opinionated and unimpressed tenth-grade self , which I think have molded my father’s perception of me ever since.
My advice on life: if you ever act on an opportunity no one else in your family has experienced (let’s say, an art appreciation trip to London at the age of 16), don’t call home and compare something that most people find fascinating (Stonehenge) to a “bunch of rocks.” Bad, good, or indifferent, that is exactly what I did. Before you dismiss me, you try riding a bus for hours that makes you carsick, to stand in pouring rain, in forty-degree weather, to stare at what literally is a bunch of rocks. Add to that stories of aliens and force fields and it was all a bit much.
Besides, diamonds are incredibly more appealing rocks than the heavy gray ones that sit under an even grayer sky somewhere in England.
In his own way, Dad reminded me that for now, I’m happy to be in a place in my life that lets me browse and dream, without the commitment and pressure of deciding which one is right or compatible or will stand the test of time. For now, I’m okay dismissing this as another, lovelier “bunch of rocks” in my life.
But in case of emergency, or in case things change, if any of you know or meet my future fiancé, please make sure he sees this. I would love you forever!
Lesson Learned
“Wherever you are, be there.”
A quote I love, a quote I hate, a quote that has inspired me, haunted me, and nagged at me over the last four years. It’s one sentence. Five words. Seven syllables. And yet something about it is unsettling, overwhelming, and literally inescapable. Whether cleverly inserted in the middle of a professor’s lecture or referred to in coffee-date conversation, my conscience can’t shake the feeling that I should be absorbing, appreciating, and acting on the now. Anyone who’s known me for more than a week can probably see why this is both challenging and problematic. I’m terrible at expressing my emotions. I keep my distance, I laugh everything off, and I’m so good at separating how I want to feel from how I actually feel that I start to believe my own stories.
It shouldn’t be surprising, then, that I prefer to act like I have all the time in the world when I am with people I love. I change plans, I mix up priorities, I forget to call, I fall asleep in the middle of late-night talks, I discredit amazing days and chalk them up to “good” days because I miss my home or a distant friend or edible chinese food, and I give everyone attitude. Not any more. (Mostly due to the fact that I’ll no longer see most of you often enough to take you for granted and not really at all due to the possibility that I would actually apply something I learned.) The last few weeks were extremely eye-opening as I began the process of saying goodbye (for now) to some of the most influential people in my life. Unfortunately, I don’t handle change or letting go well, so tears and downright avoiding friends near the end made it impossible to say everything I wanted to say.
With that said, this drive home was the longest and most emotionally draining. Every exit that blurred by registered some picture of a spontaneous night out or a trip to escape studying or a story that’s been told a thousand times. Every memory strengthened the conviction that I should have lived more in the moment with these friends while I had the opportunity. In an effort to make up for my distance and as an attempt to shake this sadness and start living out the wisdom behind these simple words in my new/old home, I will write at least one letter a day to the ones who make my life wonderful by living theirs the way they do.
leave a comment