Pantslessness & Delayed Goodbyes

I promise you that I will not be updating this blog every day in the future (maybe every week or so... we'll see). For the moment, it still has its novelty. It’s remarkably cathartic. I forgot how much I truly enjoy rambling in written form. For those of you who don’t know (which I assume is most of you), I had an online journal in the past. I began it when I went off to college as a way for my friends from back home to be able to know what was going on in my life. I wrote for four years. I never allowed anyone I knew from school to read it, in case I wanted to vent about them without them knowing (I also wouldn’t have wanted a couple male friends of mine to know that I was completely crushed on them. Of course, I’ve since told them this, but it would’ve been mortifying at the time). I promised a couple of my friends that I would allow them to read the journal as soon as we graduated (because after that point, who cares?).

Then, tragedy struck. Just a few short months before I left college, my journal disappeared. Actually, lots of journals did. Curse you Diary-X and your server failure! I was heartbroken. It felt as though a part of me died that day. I believe I actually wept over it. And I’m fairly certain I made a couple phone calls on the verge of nervous breakdown to people who didn’t quite understand the magnitude of this calamity. I put gads of time into carefully chronicling my existence, and all evidence of that was gone.

I eventually realized that I don’t need those old entries (as much as I would like to have a record of them). I learned a lot from the book Dear Mr. Henshaw (it was required reading for me around third grade, I believe). There was a boy who kept writing letters to his favorite author, never receiving a response. As the boy grew up, he realized that he didn’t need one. It was nice to think that someone was reading about his problems, but the important thing was for him to be able to write them down. He was only truly honest with himself when he was writing. It allowed him to have distance from his problems, so that he could better solve them.

The same is true in my life. Writing things down created more vivid memories for me. I don’t need to rely on re-reading those entries in order to recall events clearly (although, rest assured, I have set it up so that every entry I create for this new blog is automatically e-mailed to me. And I’m saving them as Word documents for good measure). I don’t need anyone to comment on what I’ve written (allow it does add a touch of sparkle to my day when they do). I kept a journal in high school that was an actual book. No one ever read that to give me advice, and it was still worthwhile. Actually, I’d be horrified if they had. It’s lurking in my closet right now. I’m embarrassed just thinking about the things I did back in the day. For example, I was awestruck by certain boys in high school, and in retrospect I am perplexed by what it was that drew me to many of them. My point (yes, there is occasionally a point to my tangents) is that it’s not about the readers. It’s about the writer. This is all a sort of therapy for me. Anyone who’s willing to trudge through these waters, God bless you. If, by some fluke of nature, I gain faithful readers, I will do my best not to scare them off. After all, it’s rather flattering if people choose to become an audience for you.

I’m already somewhat of an internet celebrity. And by internet, I mean “intraweb”. At work, I am the current “Employee Profile” on the homepage (and I will continue to be for somewhere between 2-6 weeks, if past profiles are any indication). This means that every time anyone in my company attempts to go online for any reason, they are greeted by a particularly unflattering picture of my smiling face. I’ve been getting recognized in the elevator a lot. It’s always a bit awkward. After I admit that I am, indeed, the person they thought I was (and they take a moment to seem pleased with their own brilliance for making the connection), there’s nothing else to say. So we continue to stand next to each other for a few more floors, wondering if it’s best to make an attempt at conversation, or to just endure the silence. I’ve also been stopped in the ladies room, on the café floor, and in the lobby. Just this afternoon I chatted about it with a friendly chap while waiting for the L to arrive. I have had grazing acquaintanceship with him on account of us both previously being staffed by the same temp agency. Then the train came, he sat down with his book, and our fringe-friendly relationship returned to its normal “smile-and-nod” state.

As soon as I left the station, I came straight home to my apartment, giggled when the change in air pressure I created by opening the door knocked my fan over, and promptly took off my work clothes. We had to dress in business casual attire today, for reasons unbeknownst to me. Actually, they sent us an e-mail explaining it, which I chose to delete unopened, in favor of ignorantly grumbling about the inconvenience (there was another cause for grumbling at work today: a major protest encircled our building, the exits were blocked off, and we were instructed not to leave. I’ve never seen the café floor as crowded as it was today. I ended up skipping lunch and watching online video of Britney Spears’ phoned-in performance at the VMAs instead).

Honestly, taking off my work clothes is always my first priority when I get home. I have a completely different wardrobe for “me” time. I never wear socks when I’m alone (frankly, I don’t wear them to work very often either. Albert Einstein never wore socks because he said they cluttered his thoughts. He was a genius, so it was probably a little more acceptable for him to not wear socks… but I don’t care. I dislike wearing them if I don’t have to). And often, my around-the-apartment outfits don’t include pants. It’s a new thing I’m trying. Turns out, I’m happier when I’m not wearing pants. Walking around in underwear is both comfortable and liberating. It makes me feel like this space I pay hundreds of dollars in rent for every month is truly mine. I dance around in my underwear. I fold clothes in my underwear. I wash dishes in my underwear. I highly recommend it. Being stripped down to essential articles of clothing makes all activities slightly more enjoyable.


This evening, I cooked dinner in my underwear and a t-shirt. And by dinner, I mean I put 4 eggs, half a red bell pepper, and two slices of colby-jack in a pan, cooked it, and called it food. For me, that’s some hardcore cooking. I’m horribly out of place in a kitchen, which is unfortunate, since I adore food. One of my attempts at baking brownies resulted in a strange brownie-soup that refused to solidify. It defied all scientific explanation. Most of the time, I know what I’ve done wrong after I’ve done it. Like the time I accidentally put the Jell-O in the freezer instead of the fridge and ended up with inedible Jell-O-flavored ice. I can make sandwiches rather well. And I’m brilliant with all forms of pasta (I am, after all, half Italian). For most things, though, it’s better if I’m not involved with the preparations.

Evidently, I’m a finicky eater. I don’t understand how that’s possible, as I can think of a sundry of foods that I would delight in devouring. But apparently my tastes don’t align with the things most people are willing to eat. My mother actually has to keep a list of the things I don’t eat for when I come home to visit (she’s puzzled as to how she ended up with a child who doesn’t eat fennel, lentils, or gnocchi. I maintain that these foods are not found in the average kitchen on a regular basis). In case you were curious, I don’t eat any animals that I deem “cute” (so no pig, duck, or sheep, but I’m cool with chicken, turkey, and cow), anything that used to live underwater (with the occasional exception of tuna), most nuts (except cashews and peanuts, although I think peanuts are technically legumes), and oranges (which most people are especially disbelieving of. I don’t like oranges, orange juice, orange Creamsicles, orange candy, etc. I’ve never liked them, and I doubt I ever will).

I have cravings for combinations of food that other people would call “strange”. I think this originated in elementary school, where I had a penchant for mixing all the foods on my lunch tray into an unappetizing goulash and eating it so that the other kids would find me entertaining (I was willing to try whatever I could to make friends. It rarely panned out). I put condiments on just about everything I eat. I eat mashed potatoes with red wine vinegar and Worcestershire sauce. I eat slices of provolone with yellow mustard. I once ate a particularly odd concoction of Half-Baked Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (it’s chocolate-fudge-brownie crossed with chocolate-chip-cookie-dough), caramel sauce, hot fudge, and green olives. Yes, you read that right. Green olives. With pimentos, if that makes a difference. And you know what? It was sensational. Of course, I was sick as a dog all through rehearsal the next day, so I won’t be revisiting that one. Unless I’m ever pregnant, in which case, all bets are off (although it has been hypothesized that if I become pregnant, I’ll start eating like a normal person. I think that theory is more for entertainment than plausibility, but one never knows).

My mother is a fantastic cook. Seriously. If you know my mother and are ever near her, I suggest conning her into making you a meal. It shouldn’t be too difficult. She’s Italian. It’s in her blood to feed people. Of course, I’m half Italian, and I don’t cook… But even if I did, I wouldn’t cook for others. No one but me would enjoy the foods I make for myself. If I’m going to spend time with someone, we’re going to have to have an event planned that has nothing to do with eating something I’ve made. Let’s go to McDonald’s, order off the dollar menu, and waste a significant amount of time discussing absolutely nothing. That sounds like a much better way to spend an evening.

Some people have described spending time with me as getting lost in a vortex. You lose time (usually large chunks of it). It’s like being abducted by aliens, but without the nasty anal probe to deal with. I think the time disappears because I provide such an entertaining alternative to anything else you could've possibly done. After all, time flies when you’re having fun. And fruit flies like a banana (sorry… I felt the need to throw that in, despite the fact that it was an intentionally horrible misquote). It probably also doesn’t hurt that I have no concept of time myself (which is probably why I have a tendency to be late for things… I blame that lack of skill on genetics).

I think the real reason time disappears is because I manipulate it. On a level that is not entirely conscious, I distract people from paying attention to the passing of time. A possible reason behind this is that I have a difficulty saying goodbye to people. Well, people I like, that is. I’m fairly certain I could do without people I don’t like… Anyway. Whether it be at the end of a night of hanging out, or the end of a phone conversation, it’s something I struggle with. If I enjoy the pleasure of someone’s company, I don’t want our time together to end. If we were having a blast, then obviously I would want the fun to continue. If we weren’t, I feel like we need more time in order for the good stuff to begin. In addition, I am plagued by a fear of loneliness. When I leave at the end of the night, I’m going back to an empty room. I’m going to sit on my computer, check my e-mail, see if anything is new on facebook, and then lie awake in bed (darn cathemeral sleep pattern) for an undeterminable period of time, wishing that I weren’t alone. When I hang up the phone, I have no one to talk to but myself (and believe me, I talk to myself plenty), and I end up in this boring, suffocating silence. I feel as though somehow, when a conversation ends, I’m being rejected. I wanted to be around you for longer than you wanted to be around me. I’ve been abandoned in some way. Saying goodbye hurts every time, even if only a little.

So I try everything I can to stop that goodbye from happening. I start one last story. I ask one last question. I give one more hug. When I am successful in delaying separation even by a few minutes, I feel as though I have proof that the other person likes me, and wants to be around me (again, this isn’t completely conscious… in fact, at the moment I’m writing, this is the first time I’ve admitted it to myself. And I’m a little shocked that I’ve never noticed it before. This writing stuff is great for cheap therapy). I won’t say that I have a sense of accomplishment, but it certainly gives me joy, especially if the other person gives up all together for a short period of time. If they put down their coat, or if they decide they’ll crash at my place, or if they ask me if I want a drink. *sigh* I feel a little more content just thinking about it.

I guess I’m emotionally needy. I always knew I was physically needy. I’m all for hugs and cuddling… and I’m a completely indiscriminate cuddler. If the person I’m cuddling with leaves, I will move on to someone else. I will cuddle with a stranger. I will cuddle with people of either gender (see? I’m not sexist). I will cuddle with the nearest pillow, if necessary. And I often miss my friends’ physical presences despite conversing with them frequently through other means, such as phone and e-mail. And now, on top of all of that, I’m emotionally needy as well. I crave companionship. Perhaps it’s a form of reassurance that I deserve love. Or maybe it’s a cry for attention. But if you don’t have anything to hurry off to, and you decide to pry yourself out of my grasp instead of lingering, there’s a good chance that you’re hurting me without knowing it. And if you give me a few more minutes, you will have left me a little bit more satisfied. Just feel flattered that I want to spend those few extra minutes with you, and consider allowing me to do just that.

I rather like the familiar Shakespeare quote on the subject, from Romeo & Juliet:
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

Alright, I’m off to go attempt to sleep and stop thinking about the not-so-abrupt goodbye I said earlier that clearly left me slightly disappointed for no good reason (why else would I have felt the need to write about this?).

Much love, sweet dreams, and lingering goodbyes,

~A~