Flipping the Switch

As I’ve mentioned before, I used to keep a card in my wallet that said “Never fall in love with your guy friends”. You only carry something like that with you if you have to.

My relationship pattern is cyclical. I’m about to open a window into myself. Are you ready?

(There’s a part of me that feels like I shouldn’t write this on such an open forum, but I feel the need to. It might help someone out there to understand me better. More likely, it might help someone out there to understand someone else who may behave the way I do. May this help someone, so that I’m not just throwing out extremely personal information for no reason.)

Here’s how I work:

Something jumps up and bites me. I know you’re not supposed to wait around for things in life, and I don’t, but I swear that they come more often when I’m not looking for them. Someone enters my life in a casual, quiet way. It’s usually person I’m just meeting, but occasionally it’s someone that I just haven’t seen in awhile or have a distant friendship with. I never notice at first. I take the encounter for what it is (which panders from “completely forgettable but generally pleasant” to “wonderfully fun”), and I leave it as a moment in time, not expecting it to be repeated. (I often found out several weeks later that the meeting was a bigger moment for the male in question than it was for me… hence how this progresses).

For one reason or another, this guy is usually placed into a category that I like to label “As Good As Gay”. This means that the guy might as well be gay in my eyes, because nothing could ever happen between us. I mentally take all possibility of a relationship off the table right from the get-go. Things that might get a guy the label “As Good As Gay” include:

1. He is dating someone.
2. I am dating someone.
3. He is interested in another female on a level somewhere between “significant crush” and “stalker-like obsession”.
4. One of my friends is interested in him.
5. One of my friends has dated him in the past.
6. He lives far away.
7. We’ve never actually met in real life.
8. I suspect that he might actually be a homosexual.

Most fellows get into this label and never leave it (such as my good friend Mike, who is like an adopted sibling to me… We’ve agreed that neither of us could ever make a move on the other, as it would be practically incestuous)… But with certain others, there’s a problem…

You see, by removing the possibility of a relationship from the table, at least in my own mind (although I have in the past gone so far as to tell the male that I plan on us being buddies, in the strictest sense of the word), I have removed the stress. I’m not trying too hard to please anyone. I’m not wondering if I should be going for cute, sexy, or flirty, and therefore I’m not attempting all three and failing miserably. I’m something much closer to myself (despite the fact that I don’t always have a good handle on who that is). And thus, I end up being quirky, charming, and occasionally exactly what this male wanted me to be in the first place.

We hang out more, with me thinking that we’re destined to be good friends. I become more attached. Familiar. Comfortable. We have an emotional affair. I develop a platonic love for the person (or, as I like to call it, a non-sexual crush). Everything is lovely and wonderful and just right as it is. Nothing needs to change. We are good friends. Kindred spirits, even.

Then, one of two things happens.

1. We float out of each others lives as easily as we floated in. This emotional affair was a brief fling. We remain good friends, and we brush back together from time to time, always wondering why we have such difficulty staying in touch.

OR

2. The switch gets flipped.

What switch, you ask? The “As Good As Gay” switch. Something happens that puts the possibility of a different sort of relationship back on the table.

Once, it was the guy telling me that he’d give up his obsessive crush on another girl if he thought he had a chance with me. Once it was the fellow dancing with me in a hallway shortly after learning that my friend was over him. Once it was me suddenly being single and running into the guy randomly. But there’s a distinct, key moment when it hits me like a semi-truck. (And it’s often at a horribly inopportune time.)

Something feels wrong. My life is off-balance. Something that was a fact before (that he and I could never possibly be anything other than friends) has now been called into question. Suddenly, the sun is spinning around the moon, the oceans have leapt into the sky, and my stomach is in my throat. I try to escape. I leave the room. Or I cut off contact for a few days. It’s just something I cannot possibly deal with. I need time to myself to sort out how I feel about the whole matter (and I usually end up e-mailing a dear friend who is far removed from the situation to help me decode everything without bias).

Overnight, I remember that this friend of mine is male. And fascinating. And compassionate. And attractive. And I can’t understand how I’ve let it escape my attention for so long.

Then the confusion sets in. Am I infatuated with him? Do I want things to change? Is he interested in me? Am I only questioning our friendship because I suspect that he’s interested in me? Maybe I’m not interested in him at all… Am I using him?

I worry. I go into all the worst-case-scenarios. I play “devil’s advocate” against myself for hours on end. I tell myself all the reasons why this is a bad idea, and I see if I can talk myself out of it (which I occasionally can… I’m very convincing).

What if we lose what we have? What if this disappears? Will being interested ruin the friendship? Will not being interested ruin the friendship? Have I gone so far into over-thinking this that I have ruined the friendship already?

I try to figure out how to make him lose interest in me, as that seems like the simplest plan. I talk myself down a bit more than usual (although, let’s be honest, I’d do it anyway). I talk about other guys a little more. I hint that being anything other than friends would a bad idea (if only because I’m trying to convince myself of this).

But then I think that perhaps it would be horrible if he did, in fact, lose interest. After all, the male is splendid (that is why choose to interact with him, after all). Maybe I’m cheating myself out of something great. And maybe I really want this. If he were to talk about other girls, would I be jealous?

Oh no. I consider that maybe he only wants to be my friend because he’s interested in me. If I talk him out of being interested in me, will I also lose this person I’ve been bonding with?

And maybe I want it to change. Maybe I want this to be more/bigger/better than it is. Maybe I should throw myself forward.

It seems, somewhere along the line, I developed strong feelings for/about this person. And I haven’t sorted out exactly what they are yet. But something needs to be done… I know I need to make a choice, but I’m the least decisive person on the planet.

So I make awkward half-steps forward and backward for awhile, hoping that I won’t have to make that choice. Eventually, I imagine, what I’m supposed to do will become blatantly obvious. And in the meantime, I’m a bit of a mess.

There you have it. My pattern in a nutshell.

Honestly, I don’t even know what I want in a relationship. I know that my Savior Complex figures into things a great deal. Some people want to find someone they “need”. Some people want to find someone that “needs” them. Some people want a relationship where both people are completely autonomous but can draw support from each other while neither really “needing” the other person, nor being needed. And me? I want both. I want to need someone who needs me. I want to be hopelessly co-dependent.

I have had dreams about living in a cultish, hermit-like state with others in some sort of combine. It feels warm and cozy, like a giant slumber party. It feels like Saturday mornings watching television in my pajamas while my dad plays the piano. It feels like home. (Of course, I also have nightmares about being drugged by a man who wants to shave my head and sell my hair on the black market, so I guess I shouldn’t put TOO much stock in dreams.)

I want someone to have little adventures with. I don’t want the sit down dinners and the big romantic gestures. I don’t want roses and chocolates on Valentine’s Day. I want someone unpredictable, passionate, and silly. I want spontaneity and frenzy. I want child-like, carefree fun. I want to run around with my hair in my eyes and my shoelaces flopping untied on the pavement, and having someone there with me who finds it just as refreshing as I do.

Anyway. If I’m right, there are a handful of guys reading this who are “As-Good-As-Gay” in my eyes right now. I just wanted to let you know that if you’re interested, and if you think you can be "that guy" for me, please find a way to flip the switch (it’s not impossible… the two boyfriends I’ve had started out As-Good-As-Gay). There has recently been, of course, someone in my life who was in the “zone of confusion” (which is why I felt the need to write this), but I think I’ve sorted that out now. At least, I hope I have.

May you know your own patterns and how to break them if you need to.

Much love,

~A~

P.S. Starting at 12:01am, I will be working on NaNoWriMo. This means I will be blogging in a foreign format for the next month. I will elaborate tomorrow, and I hope you enjoy it.

The Path of Thursday's Child

My birthday was a smashing success, I think. Went to a bar that made extremely weak drinks (which on one hand meant they were delicious, but on the other meant that I didn’t get anywhere near intoxicated off of them) and did a little bowling (and we were all horrible, which is the most fun sort of group to bowl with). One friend from high school, two friends from college, two friends who are technically post-college though really should have been during college due to proximity, one coworker, and me. The recent ex-boyfriend made some excuses and didn’t show up. Whatever. Received lovely text messages throughout the day wishing me well.

I took the day off from work on Friday, in anticipation of a wicked hangover that didn’t happen. I did nothing for the first half of the day, and then spent the second half of the day being a drama queen.

I got a birthday present in the mail. I had to walk to the post office to get it. Upon receiving it, I saw that the return address was that of my ex-boyfriend (the original ex-boyfriend, not the one who stood me up on my birthday). I opened it right outside the post office, and I cried the whole way home. He bought me a CD of an artist he thought I might like (Feist, whom I know nothing about, but I made the decision as soon as I removed the CD from the envelope that I would adore it) and included a card filled with kindness. I would normally say that I melted into a puddle, but it was quicker than that. I sublimated. I was dry ice on a spoon, screaming while dying away.

I don’t regret breaking up with him (I feel the need to make that clear in case any of our mutual friends are reading this and get some brilliant idea to try to shove us back together). But I miss him terribly. He was a major part of my life for a long period of time, and suddenly he isn’t. I want him to be my best friend again. And I cried because I’m still not sure if I should give up hope of that or not. And because I know that I hurt him by breaking up with him. And because I hurt myself, and I didn’t really allow time to heal from that.

Maybe I haven’t fully.

Maybe I don’t want to.

I was supposed to go to a theatre benefit on Friday night, but I put on pajamas and curled up on my bed with Bridget Jones instead (the sequel, “The Edge of Reason”, which I bought from a used book store last weekend). Ah, Bridget, you’re the only one who knows what my world is like. Except your life is so much more interesting than mine. I’ve never been to Thailand. Or in jail. And I don’t have a rich, handsome, brilliant boyfriend who will do the following when I need it:

“It’s all right,” said Mark, holding me tight, stroking my hair. “It’s all over. It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right.”
(309; Man, I’m a loser. Citing works in my blog. I’m not in school anymore. No one cares.)

*sigh of jealousy*

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I would prefer to wear my light green fluffy bathrobe and live vicariously through a fictional character than go out into the world and risk more of the disasters that my own life surely holds.

Saturday night I did go out. I went to my friend Anna’s Halloween party. I was a "Formal Apology". I put on a black dress, glitzy jewelry, and high heels, put my hair into an updo, and affixed a sign to myself that read “I’m Sorry.” I stole the idea from a friend. I thought it was an elegant solution to the problem of how to look attractive without succumbing to “Sexy Halloween”. I was classy instead. Perfect choice.

After watching Ghostbusters 2 and playing drinking games (Do people still do that after college? Or just us?) using pomegranate juice (I was the only one with the juice… I march to my own drummer), we went to a bar. We saw my friend Mike’s band, The Villers, play a set. After mad chants from the crowd that they should play “Freebird”, they actually did. Completely impromptu. An audience member passed forward his PDA with the lyrics on it for the lead singer. My friend’s band? They’re total rockstars.

Tonight I’m met one of my high school friends, Amanda, for dinner in belated celebration of my birthday. I love that my birthday is lasting so long. It is, after all, my favorite time of the year.

I was excited to see that my birthday fell on a Thursday this year, as I was born on one. There’s a poem that describes what children are like according to the day of the week they were born (Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, etc.) According to that, Thursday’s child has far to go.

That’s a bit of a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it seems as though there’s a rocky road ahead. The journey will be long and challenging.

On the other hand, it suggests a bright future full of promise and hope. It may be a slow climb, but there will be success. The road may wind, but at least it will be interesting. There may be obstacles, but they will make the end more rewarding. Thursday’s child has far to go, but Thursday’s child will go far.

Having “far to go” also makes the path seem endless. There is no goal in sight. But I suppose that’s the way life should be. I believe that God has a plan for me, but I don’t think that the plan involves resting on my laurels. After every achievement, one must work to go further. I don’t want to be ruled by apathy. I will set goals for myself, even if they seem impossible. I am Thursday’s child, and I will go far. Yes, I was born on the right day of the week. (Although I’d probably think the same thing if I had been born Friday… look it up.)

I used to always quote, “What would you attempt to do if you knew you would not fail?”

My own answer to that being that I’d become Miss America, cure cancer, join Mensa, and win a Noble prize, a Pulitzer, a Golden Globe, an Oscar, an Emmy, a Tony, a Grammy, and a Matt Damon. I mean, as long as I’m not going to fail…

The idea behind the question, I think, is to show you what you really want in life. If you could do one thing (and only one, as opposed to my colorful list), what would you want that one thing to be? If you removed your fear of failure, what would you be able to accomplish?

Your answer to that question, whatever it may be, is the very thing that you should be fighting for with every fiber of your being (and any fear of failure should be vanquished by your passion).

I continually ponder this topic. Let's see... at the moment that I’m writing this, the thing I would attempt to do is... find someone to hug me tenderly like Mark Darcy and reassure me it's going to be okay.

Wait a second… That isn’t a goal. That’s… that’s a sign that something is wrong… Still emotional from Friday perhaps… Drat.

In play analysis, one must always dig up the root “want” of the character that drives every action, tactic, and smaller "want" throughout the play. Looks like it’s time for an excavation.

*Angela now goes off into a literal 20-minute daydream to soul search and find the root of why she wants someone to comfort her and what exactly she needs to suddenly become okay.*

*Okay, she’s back. And she has an answer. Don’t ask how she got there.*

What I really want is to be able to forgive myself for the things that I’ve failed to do. And I want the motivation, the strength, and the courage to do them all in the future.

And now I’m exhausted, so I’ll have to figure all of that stuff out another day.

May your path be a little winding, a bit cluttered, and exceedingly long.

~A~

P.S. I’d put money down that Bridget Jones was born on a Wednesday (look it up).

P.P.S. I have another quotation that I just remembered that seems wholly appropriate to tack onto this entry. It’s from a character named Sammy in the movie The Wedding Singer: “All I really want is for someone to hold me and tell me everything is gonna be alright.” See? It's a universal truth. Among fictional characters, anyway. And me.

Fateful Birthdays

I’m sitting at my computer drinking Jolly Ranchers (Midori & cranberry, my new signature drink) out of a waxy paper cup. I don’t believe I’ve ever had the desire to drink alone before, but it seemed like a good occasion.

Today is my birthday. As of 7:33am, I will have completed my 23rd trip around the sun.

I’ve always rather liked my birthday. 10-25. A dime and a quarter. Seems sort of perfect. And 1984 is a fun year to have been born, as I enjoy leap years and prophetic literature.

I love that I was born in autumn. It’s by far my favorite time of year. It’s such a festive season. Colored leaves are like nature’s confetti. They’re beautiful while still in the trees, and when they begin to drop it’s almost like a constant fall of rain (and I’ve mentioned how much I love rain). I find it to be simultaneously calming and exciting. I want to cocoon myself in a big pile of leaves. If I weren’t in a city, I’d grab a rake right this very minute.

My birthstone is Opal (although the “alternative” is Rose Tourmaline. And the closest to my birthstone that I’ve ever received as a gift was Rose Quartz. That’s a pity, as I rather like opals). My birth flower is either Camellia, Cosmos, or Calendula (marigold), depending on where you look. I was born in the Chinese Zodiac year of the Rat.

I share a birthday with Adam Pascal (the original Roger in “RENT”), Barbara Cook (another Broadway star), Pablo Picasso, Georges Bizet, Michael Boatman (I only know who he is because I was addicted to Celebrity Mole... and I’m not ashamed of that), Helen Reddy (she is woman, hear her roar), Ciara (yick), and Conchita Campbell (the girl who plays Maia, the clairvoyant child, on The 4400).

And here’s something interesting. I was born on the same day (and in the same year) as two people I met in college. All three of us ended up in the extremely tiny theatre department of a very small Catholic women’s college. That’s the kind of coincidence that could tempt you to trust in horoscopes.

Now, generally, I don’t believe in horoscopes or the zodiac (what’s the difference? I honestly don’t know what those words actually mean). First of all, I’m fairly certain that they’re against my religion (“Thou shalt have no other Gods before me” and all that). Second, I think that there are more than twelve different types of people in the world. Additionally, they seem vague, and mine was always wrong, anyway. I’m not a good example of what a typical Scorpio should be. But a few years ago, I learned a little more about the Zodiac, and now the time has come to revisit the new concept I was introduced to…

Cusps.

I’m not really a Scorpio at all. I’m on the cusp between Libra and Scorpio, which is apparently a completely separate sign. We’re called Scorlibrans (or Librium Leepio), and our sign is known as The Cusp of Drama and Criticism. That title alone sounds pretty dead on like me, doesn’t it? We’re also dubbed “The Indecisive Assassin”. Yup, me to a tee.

Here are some quick descriptive words about people who fall on this cusp:
- Aesthetic
- Alluring
- Artistic
- Charismatic
- Compelling
- Critical (while maintaining a sense of personal infallibility)
- Culturally Aware
- Deep-Feeling
- Diplomatic (and they have skill for seeing all sides of any situation)
- Exhibitionistic
- Honest
- Imaginative
- Indecisive (“with the head guiding and the heart denying, or vice versa”)
- Insightful
- Manipulative
- Passionate
- Procrastinating (with a tendency “to delay things or mull them over for so long that it proves to be costly”)
- Sensuous
- Stubborn
- Talkative
- Theatrical

And a few things that people on this cusp are NOT:
- Confident
- Decisive
- Laid-back
- Secure

Likes:
- Abstract Reasoning
- Approval (they have a need to be well-liked)
- Arts (art, music, literature, theatre)
- Peace and harmony
- Preaching (and they are willing to speak on almost any subject)
- Truth
- Well-Developed Thoughts

Dislikes:
- Generalizations
- Lacking control
- People who equate sexuality with sensuality

Now, as I said, I’m hesitant to put any stock into these things… But nevertheless, I feel the need to share with you a couple more of the eerily spot-on descriptions of someone born within my little stretch of time (October 19-25).

“… tensions and disappointments of life can at times prove too much for them, such that they retreat into isolation.” (Someone obviously wrote this down after observing me for a month.)

“There may also be ailments of the back, kidneys, and stomach.” (In case you’re unaware, I have diagnosed medical problems with my back and stomach.)

Every piece of cusp-related information I’ve just shared with you is something that I believe applies to me. Crazy coincidence? Or destiny?

Take what you will from that. Moving on.

My birthday takes on a different significance as I age than I thought it would. I don’t feel old, but yet I feel that I am one step closer to death.

What I am about to admit is something I’ve only shared with a handful of people in my life, but in the spirit of birthday honesty, I’m going to share it with you.

When I was younger, I had some sort of prophetic recurring dream that I would die at the age of 27. I don’t generally believe in signs, but I’ve had dreams that paralleled reality before, so I can’t ignore this. I have a hard time imaging that I’ll live to see 30 (which might have something to do with why I’ve talked myself out of wanting children or marriage, but that’s a can of worms that I don’t intend to open right now).

Twenty-seven seems to be a famous age for deaths. Especially for musicians. Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison (The Doors), Kurt Cobain (Nirvana), Brian Jones (The Rolling Stones), Robert Johnson (blues musician), Gram Parsons (The Byrds), Al Wilson (Canned Heat) and Peter Ham (Badfinger) all died at 27. Nick Drake died at 26, and Tim Buckley at 28, so I guess they’re honorable mentions. If I were a famous musician, I’d say my fate was sealed.

As it is, I’m neither famous, nor a musician, so maybe I’m wrong.

I’m not really upset about the idea of dying at 27. Around eighth grade (10 years ago, when I had the dreams), I just sort of accepted it to be true. Actually, believing I’d die at 27 made me less worried about dying sooner. It’s a strange, backward sort of logic, but it helped me at the time.

From about the age of 7 to the age of 13 I was terrified of death. I was afraid to go to sleep at night because I was so convinced that I wouldn’t wake up in the morning (hmmm… I may have just unlocked the root of my insomnia… Thank you, alcohol. Perhaps I should drink while typing more often… I may have just found a way to get through NaNoWriMo).

It got pretty bad the summer after fourth grade, when my Omama (grandmother) died. Death became real in a way that it never had before. Tangible. Terrifying.

I had a major breakthrough at a Chenille Sisters concert (a group that my parents were groupies of… My parents are awesome) later that year. They sang a cover of “What a Wonderful World”, and I started crying. I realized that the world was a beautiful place, and that I was missing out on it if I was always living in fear. (Yes, this was a revelation I had at the age of 9. I swear. I was a strange child.) I’ve had a great affinity for that song ever since. (I actually had a similarly affecting experience in college involving the song “Here Comes the Sun”. I have deep love of that one as well.)

Anyway, I’m not as afraid of death now. If I live longer, that’s tremendously good. If I was right all along and I now have fewer than 5 years left, I’m okay with that. Sorry for being morbid, but I needed to get that off my chest.

Twenty-two was an eventful year. I adjusted to city life. I worked on a couple of shows. I took a couple of classes. I went through a couple of boyfriends. I got a job. I got a promotion. I moved into my very own apartment. It was a year of metamorphosis, to be sure. There were a lot of ups and downs, but I reached the end of it (gracefully, I hope) and I'm still standing.

Twenty-three isn’t very exciting (it's two years before being allowed to rent a car... and, um... in the title of a horror movie starring Jim Carrey), but I suppose that happens more as you age. At the end of the year, you’re another year older. That’s all you can say for your life after twenty-one. I guess what twenty-three really represents is another chance. A whole year's worth of time to do better than I did this past year.

I feel like this would be a good time for me to make resolutions of some sort. Why wait for the new year? Actually, this IS a new year… Unfortunately, I can’t think of anything to resolve to do at the moment. And the alcohol is beginning to cloud me a little (I think I’m on my fourth since beginning to type this entry… Hopefully this isn’t full of typos by the time I’m done).

I think it’s time for me to go to bed. After all, it’s 2:30am and I have to leave my apartment at 7:45am. And then I have a full day of work. And then a full night of partying.

May every birthday be a new beginning for you.

Much love,

~A~


P.S. Isla Fisher and Sascha Baron Cohen’s baby was born. Early reports said that it was a boy named either Satchel or Sadler James. Luckily, this is not the case. They had a baby girl, and have named her Olive. Not perfect, but the least of the evils.

P.P.S. “Here Comes the Sun” just started playing on my iTunes. Perfect. :)

New Pants, No Plot, No Problems

I now have a new happy place to go when I’m feeling terrible about my physical appearance: The United Colors of Benetton.

It’s a clothing store that has a location near to my work place. You may know them from their colorful, multicultural advertising concept. Shopping there always reminds me of my semester abroad, as Benetton was founded in Italy.

There’s a Sephora near it, so first I go give myself a free makeover from the “tester” products, and then I head over looking like a put-together professional person. The sales people fawn over me. They tell me that I’d better not dare lose a pound, because if I do, then that pair of pants they convinced me to try on won’t make my bum look as fabulous as it does today. They tell me that I have the perfect body type, a blend of slender and curvaceous. The man says that I’ve been wearing clothes that are much too big for me, and need to grab pieces that are more tailored (i.e. tighter). He says that there is no reason my closet should be full of “Mediums” when I am clearly a “Small”. His associate tells me she wishes she had a body like mine (despite the fact that she looks like an ethnic version of the popular Hollywood stick figure… The grass still looks a bit more verdant to me on her side of the fence).

Yes, I realize that it is their job to sell me things. Yes, I know that it’s in their best interest to flatter me. But I like to put that knowledge out of my head. It makes me feel good about myself (compliments are always easier for me to take when they come from strangers). I walk in and become a paper doll that they can dress up as they wish. Most days that I go in there, I successfully walk out empty handed. I add the items I liked onto a mental list of things to consider purchasing, and if I haven’t forgotten about them after a couple of days, then I begin to stalk them until they go on sale (which, at Benetton, they inevitably will before the season ends).

On my most recent trip, however, I did not walk out empty handed, as I had intended. Instead, I spent more money in one day (and in one store) than I ever had on clothing before. And I only walked out with three new additions to my wardrobe. Eek! But they’re good purchases, I think. I bought a lovely red dress that I can wear to my birthday celebration this week. I bought a pair of “winter white” corduroy pants (that’s what the salesman called them) that I think are fashionable and work appropriate (and they were on sale). And I bought a scandalously tight pair of black pants (the aforementioned pants that make my bum look fabulous) that make me feel like Sandy at the end of “Grease” (which I would have normally stalked, but they were the last pair in the store, and I couldn’t take the risk). I will be wearing those out dancing, and I am most excited about it (I have a great love of tight pants, probably stemming back to the elementary school days when I wore leggings as pants. Loose-fitting pants make me feel somehow unclothed).

I also bought an iPod this week. A black 80-gig classic. I am completely in love.

So my savings account got a good chunk taken out of with within just a few days. You know what? It was time. I needed to use some of the cash that I’ve been attempting to hoard in the bank. So yes, I spent an obscene amount of money on two pair of pants, a dress, and a music player all in one week. But now that I’ve gotten it out of my system, I think I’m less likely to let the money trickle out through little leaks until the wall breaks and my bank account floods into oblivion. This is definitely better than that. This was the responsible choice, even if it doesn’t seem like it.

Occasionally, my money goes down the tubes in much more frustrating ways. Today, for example, when I stopped at a Noodles & Co. to grab myself some mushroom stroganoff for dinner. I was very excited by the prospect of eating it. And then I got on the bus with all my bags (some used books, a shirt, an inflatable mattress… more things that I feel were good ways to spend money). And as soon as I got off of the bus, I realized I’d left one bag behind. I tried to run back, but the bus sped away, with my mushroom stroganoff in a bag under the seat. Tragic. I hope a homeless person found it, so that at least it won’t have gone completely to waste. I’m sure it would’ve been delicious.

I made myself some macaroni and cheese (spirals, which somehow taste better than any other shape, despite them being basically the same thing), and sat down at my computer to watch some episodes of various television programs that I hadn’t seen (on account of my not having a television set). It was a satisfactory way to waste an evening.

Other than watching new-to-me-TV (which is usually “Heroes”, “The Office”, the effervescent “Pushing Daisies”, and the why-am-I-still-watching-this show “Gossip Girl”) and shopping for things that I would argue I need, I spent most of the weekend reading, writing, and thinking about writing.

Two weeks left before November, and I’m already freaking out about NaNoWriMo (see entry “Body Budget & Bridget” for explanation). I tried to come up with a plot, but I’ve got nothing. My original plan was just to write in the voice of a character and see where it took me, but that suddenly doesn’t seem substantial enough. I feel like I should go the storyboard route, but I really have nothing to write about. I have writer’s block, and I have not yet begun to write.

I keep sketching characters on notepads and napkins, and giving them names and personality traits. I’m hoping that some of them will start to stick. And they have. A few of the more interesting ones I just keep drawing over and over again. There are now five characters that I’m starting to get a feel for. If only I could come up with things for them to do...

I need a plot. I know I do. If I don’t have one, then I will have no motivation to keep writing. I’ve thought about expanding a plot from a short story I wrote several years ago, but that feels like cheating. I’m creative. I’m original. I should be able to come up with something new and exciting. And yet here I am, with nary a good idea (plenty of mediocre ideas, but nothing that’s jumping out as being “right”).

I was thinking about putting pieces of paper into a bowl with random, intense events on them. Then, every five pages or so into writing, I could pull one out. Suddenly, someone “loses their job.” Surprisingly, someone is “pregnant.” Sadly, I’m pretty sure that this would produce garbage. So I’ve nixed the idea. I can do better than that. I hope.

I don’t know why I’m so worried about this novel being terrible. It’s not like anyone is going to read it (honestly… even if I made it available to people, who would want to read a 175-page work of fiction that I wrote with an impossible deadline? It’s as enticing of a proposal as eating a bucketful of grey paste). Still, I hold myself to high standards. And I constantly fail to live up to them. Maybe I should ease up on myself this time. I mean, I don’t have a story to tell when I start one of these blog entries, but I always find more than enough to write about. Why should a novel be any different or more daunting?

Well, I’m off to dreamland.

May you have a body that others dream of, some wiggle room in your bank account, and a plot worth writing.

Much love,

~A~

P.S. In case you’re really into my blog and you have something like an iGoogle or My Yahoo homepage, I now have an RSS feed:
feed://feeds.feedburner.com/angelaboration
To add it to iGoogle (I don’t know how any other site works… I’m a Google girl), click “Add stuff” in the upper right. Then, instead of “Search Homepage Content”, hit the little link that says “Add by URL”, and input this:
http://feeds.feedburner.com/angelaboration
Hopefully, that should work. Although, really, I’m a technological half-wit, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve done something wrong there. I wish you luck.

P.P.S. I have a new favorite song of the moment. It’s called “True Affection” by The Blow, and at the moment you can listen to it on my Project Playlist at the top of the page (although I change up those songs now and again, so it might not still be there in a few weeks). I love the chorus: “I was out of your league/and you were twenty thousand underneath the sea/waving affections/You were out of my league/at a distance that I didn’t want to see/down to the bottom.” It’s empowering to think that break-ups happen because you were too good for the relationship. Not that I think that about either of my past relationships, but it’s still sort of a positive take on a negative thing. A way to rise above the wreckage. As the song says, “Just because it’s real don’t mean it’s going to work.”

Little Adventures & Big Transformations

Sometimes, I'm spontaneous. Despite my love of planning and my hatred of feeling out of control, I need a little kick every once in awhile. I need to do something different. Something unexpected. Something wonderful.

For example, on Tuesday, I dyed my hair. Black. My mother was terrified that with raven-esque hair against my pale skin I'd look like Elvira. Luckily, I don't. I might look slightly less American. A man asked me yesterday if I was Greek. So I've got that going for me.

I like to fill my life with tiny little adventures. Silly, goofy, fun events that make everything just a little brighter. The sorts of things that could be described in earnest as “good clean fun.”

I like going to Meijer (it’s a grocery store, if you’re not familiar) with a sock full of pennies riding the kiddie rides at the front of the store (a gyrating pink pony and a vibrating purple dinosaur… and I like “racing” my friends on them). I once had a picnic at midnight in the center of a traffic circle. When there’s a nice rain, I put on capris and flip-flops and go puddle-jumping (there was supposed to be a torrential storm today, but so far it’s just been cloudy… very upsetting).

In high school, my friends and I would secretly leave presents on each other’s doorsteps or front lawns (such as windmills, cookies, or tennis balls) and then accuse everyone else of being the perpetrators (I took credit for a few more of these events than I was actually a part of, in order to help the people behind the mysteries to disguise the correct path of blame… although I did take participate in many… like the time I was an accomplice to leaving two beta fish on my friend Phil’s doorstep. I take partial responsibility for that. My partner who drove the getaway van shall remain nameless).

My freshman year of college, my friend Mary would allow the use of her car in order to “kidnap” our guy friends and take them places. Usually it involved us bringing them to fast food joints, which they loved. Once, we rounded up four of them, brought them to Meijer, handed them each two dollars and told them to buy Mary and I a present. The person who used the two dollars best would win a prize (which was a shirt representing our dorm’s mascot, the McCandless Monkeys… The back read, “Who’s Your Monkey?” At the time, I thought that was hilarious.) I still have some orange balloons and a fake rose from that excursion. Good times.


I enjoy taking part in these activities because they make for good memories, and often make good stories as well. They make my life a little more wonderful. It’s hard to get excited reminiscing about times spent alone in my apartment. And I’m not going in to work tomorrow to excitedly tell people that I spent my evening watching television shows on the internet (which is the greatest invention ever for people like myself who do not own televisions) and composing a blog entry.

I was able to tell the folks at work about what I did yesterday night. I went out to see “Altar Boyz” (a friend scored free tickets, which make any show a little better). It’s a play/musical about a Catholic boy band. If you know a bit about Catholicism, and you have a sense of humor about it, then I recommend it. There was a line in which the “thug” band member made reference to a girl looking “Mary Magdalicious,” and I completely lost it. All of the Altar Boyz cast members were attractive, which also helped. I was having an internal debate for most of the performance regarding which one I thought was hottest (I was to the point of salivation over three of them).

After that, my friends and I headed to “Live Band Karaoke”, which was a strange and fun experience. I was the crazy girl dancing right next to the stage that everyone assumes is drunk (which, unless you can get drunk off of ice water, I wasn’t). Several people complimented my dance moves during the night. It’s nice to know that I haven’t lost my skills, despite lack of practice (well, practice in public, anyway). And I performed “Walk Like an Egyptian”, because that was the only song on the band’s prepared list that I knew well enough to attempt to sing. It turned out to be a great choice, as there are frequent guitar solos, which translates to “dance time” for me. I’m never going to be the best singer at karaoke (a title that often crowns my former roommate), but I can sure as hell be the best dancer. Or at least the craziest dancer. I’m satisfied with that.

Not to say that I’m a bad singer. I’m certainly not. I have a good amount of vocal training, but it’s really more choral-training than the belting-pop-rock-training that would come in handy in a karaoke setting. I don’t go into vocal acrobatics and ululations, I don’t get throaty and guttural, and I can’t nail the high notes in chest voice (although I can most definitely hit the low ones… I was always an Alto II, if that means anything to you). But I head-bang, jump, and gyrate, which I think is just as entertaining. (I mangled my neck while head-banging last night. Lots of pain today.)

So for my birthday next week (my 23rd, which will be on Thursday the 25th), I’m trying to come up with a little adventure to go along with it. Something much more interesting than going to a bar. Maybe I want to play mini-golf. Or go out dancing. Or go bowling. Frankly, I’d be happy gathering with a large group of people and just traipsing through the city en masse and acting like giddy children, but I think it might be difficult to convince my companions to play along with that…

As a side note, if you’d like to cheer me on my birthday but have no desire to get me a gift, please ask for my e-mail address and send me a song that you like (even if you don’t know me), or leave a recommendation in my "comments" section. I think that would be a lovely present. I’m musically eclectic – or at least more so than the average person – and I am always excited to learn new things.

I love being twenty-two. It’s a fun age to say. For some reason, saying “I’m twenty-two” reminds me of the movie Steel Magnolias when Annelle orders “a cherry coke” at a wedding reception. As a child I enjoyed Daryl Hannah’s line delivery on that. It’s probably why I’ve taken to ordering cherry cokes now. It is my signature drink.

For the few occasions when I decide to order alcohol (my upcoming birthday, for example), I have an unconventional signature drink. I walk up to the bartender and ask them to make me “something that doesn’t take like alcohol or oranges.” And then I pray.

Sometimes the bartender seems exasperated by that request, but usually they appear to enjoy the opportunity to get creative. I’ve gotten some good things (Stoli Blueberry and 7-Up, or any flavor Stoli, is pretty good. So is an Alabama Slamma, which I don’t know the ingredients of. And something greyish-purple called a Violent F*** which I misheard as Violet Funk for most of the night, and I think it sounds much nicer my way), some great things (my new favorite drink: a Jolly Rancher, which is comprised of something watermelon-flavored like Pucker or Midori, cranberry juice, and sometimes vodka), and some terrible things (something nasty that was bluish-green… I got it after 4 Alabama Slammas, when I was intoxicated enough to drink it anyway… That night didn’t end well). I hate the taste of alcohol, and I can detect it with extraordinary ease (I have powerful taste buds, apparently). A waitress once brought me a “black cherry & Coke” instead of my usual cherry coke, which turned out to be horrendously vile. Long Island Iced Teas taste like someone spiked a punch bowl with cleaning products. Even strawberry daiquiris taste venomous to me. And if I don’t make the “no orange” specification, I always end up with some variant on a fuzzy navel (and I hate oranges almost as much as I hate alcohol).

I drink everything quickly as a way of disguising the flavor. I think alcohol is an acquired taste, and, like coffee before it, it’s one that I’ve never gone out of my way to acquire. So I basically take most of my drinks as though they were shots. I’m just that sort of a person. When I read a book, I like to read it in one day. When I write a paper, I like to do it in one sitting. And when I drink something containing alcohol, I like to do it without coming up for air very much. I like to think it’s part of my idiosyncratic charm.

I didn’t really drink before I was legal, and I had a scandalously traumatic 21st birthday (I should’ve spent that night in a hospital bed), so I’ve never really warmed up to drinking. I had a couple of weeks this past May when I started going to bars with friends, but as I’ve said before, I’m just as happy sober as I am when I’m drinking. It doesn’t really appeal to me.

How do other people spend their birthdays? Are bars the only option past 21? There must be a better way. Is going to the zoo too lame? I can’t have anyone over to my apartment, because it’d be hard to fit too many people in here at once without it getting awkward and uncomfortable (tight quarters, you know. Snuggly for me, but I’d imagine unpleasant for a large group).

I don’t remember the last time I had a real birthday “party”. I’ve had “celebrations”, but it isn’t quite the same. Middle school, perhaps? It seems so long ago. I hope that someday I’ll have space to have a party again. Or, better yet, perhaps someone else with space will throw a party for me so that I don’t have to think about anything past what I should wear. Yes, that sounds rather perfect.

I wish I lived a more fabulous and extravagant life than I do. I fantasize about being Charlie from the movie High Fidelity (Catherine Zeta-Jones' character). Yes, she was a witch, but her life looked incredible. I want to live in an unnecessarily expansive apartment and throw lavish dinner parties. I want everyone I know to be clamoring for my attention. I want to spend every waking moment dressed to the nines. And I want my old body back so that I can look good in the designer dresses that I envision myself in. But we can’t always get what we want.

How do people fall into those sorts of lives? Are people destined to be fabulous? Why can’t I be that?

A friend of mine would say that I can be whomever I want to be. That’s nice in theory, but it doesn’t work in practice. Whenever I attempt to be who I want to be, I feel like I’m acting. I’m not being true to myself. How can I improve on myself without feeling like someone other than me? I can’t live my life cloaked in falsehoods. I want to be poised, but I’m too hyperactive for that. I dream of orating like a scholar, but I’m more random and indirect than that. I want to be a social butterfly, but nature has left me a little too socially inept (or, at very least, socially ill-equipped). I hate pretending to be something I’m not, but I don’t always like who I am. It feels like I’m trapped.

Perhaps I’ll always be the quirky, eccentric, quasi-loner, crying out for people to notice her. I suppose it’s not so bad. There are worse fates. And I’d rather be flawed than a fraud.

Still, I daydream about being a popular, picture-perfect highly-esteemed hostess with a flair for fashion, a knack for networking, and a gift for gabbing.

*sigh*

Time to snap back to reality. Here I am, sitting alone in my apartment. Again. Unimportant, uncelebrated, unmemorable cellophane girl. My birthday is one week from today. I have no definite plans. I have nothing fabulous to wear. I have no wonderful adventure to look forward to yet. No one wants to throw a party for me. Heck, I don’t even want to throw a party for me. Mostly, I just want to hide under my covers and not come out until I feel less unattractive, imperfect, and vulnerable than I presently do. I’ll pretend I’m wrapped in a chrysalis, and that once I emerge I’ll be able to fly.

Is it my imagination, or do my blog entries always end on a darker note than they start on. That’s probably not healthy… For some reason I drag myself into pools of torment in which to wallow. But after I finish an entry, I feel great. There’s a sense of accomplishment, and I feel as if I’ve gotten some things out of me that I’ve been hanging onto for too long. So although this might not seem merry and bright, I hope it doesn’t bring you down as you read. It’s really an upswing for me. I promise.

May your life be fabulous and filled with little adventures.

~A~

Body, Budget, & Bridget

I was going to write about my trip to Connecticut in my last post, but then my break-up got in the way. So I’ll sum it up. I took a plane by myself (which I’ve done many times before, but it always feels like an accomplishment). My parents were thrilled to see me. It was extremely weird that I was visiting them in a house other than the one I grew up in. One evening, I made “Jolly Ranchers” (Midori and cranberry juice) for my parents and youngest brother (he’s 18… but he’s in college, which is the real drinking age in this country) and we watched The Office on DVD. Despite our best efforts, my mother and I did not find a Halloween costume for me. I can now do a decent impression of an East Coast Jewish mother, should I ever feel the urge to do so. My mother and I saw the movie Once at a $4 theater, and found it to be a lovely and moving work. I brought back most of my winter clothing to Chicago, making my suitcase overweight (58lbs… the limit is 50lbs), so I had to take some hideous but oh-so-warm nightgowns out and give them back to my mother in the middle of the airport (I only got it down to 52lbs, but they didn’t charge me the $50 fee since I made the effort. And I think the woman at the Delta counter felt sorry for my embarrassment regarding the ridiculous bedtime apparel). I realized later that I’d accidentally smuggled a contraband bottle of perfume onto the plane in my carry-on (the TSA people insisted on putting my lotion, toothpaste, and Tide stain remover pen into a plastic baggie, but somehow this mid-size spray-bottle of actual liquid escaped their attention. Yay for having a mom-purse!). And then I had to schlep my oversized suitcase through the airport, upstairs, downstairs, onto the L, down some stairs, on the subway, down some more stairs at my stop, and then a few blocks to my apartment, while also carrying a purse and messenger bag containing my laptop. And somehow, my body didn’t hate me in the morning.

In contrast, my whole body feels achy today, and for no good reason. My lower back hurts, which is a chronic problem of mine (there is a diagnosed medical reason for that). And for some reason, my legs are sore. I actually woke up this morning because of my leg pain. At 8:00am. On a weekend. Gah! The only reason I can think of that may be behind this pain is the stair-climbing I’ve been doing lately… and even that answer leaves something to be desired.

On workdays, I’ve been taking the stairs on my way to lunch. There are eleven flights of stairs between the floor I work on and the floor the cafeteria is on. I walk down the stairs to get lunch (piece of cake, just time-consuming), and then I walk back up the stairs with lunch in hand. Tough stairs, man. I start breathing audibly around the fifth flight, and I have to take a break around the eighth. And every day a new part of me hurts as a result of it. One day it was my hips. One day it was my high-heel muscles (obviously I never studied anatomy, so my first thought is to associate the pain with other times I’ve felt it, as opposed to naming the actual body part, hence “high heel muscles.” I’m not even sure it’s all muscles… I think there’s a tendon or something in there). But I thought my body had gotten used to it. I haven’t had any pain at all in the last few days, so I assumed I had adapted. Why does it hurt now? Maybe I slept strangely.

Why have I made the masochistic decision to take the stairs instead of using one of the six elevators like everyone else? I’ve gotten it into my head that I’m chubby. Don’t try to talk me out of that, because it won’t work. I have now gotten to the heaviest I’ve ever been. I had to break down and buy new pants so that I’m not wearing my elastic-waist skirts through the cold months.

So, in an act of desperation that I never thought I’d bring myself to, I’m starting to do something about it. Baby steps, mind you. I still love food and loathe exercise, but I’m making adjustments. For the last two weeks, I’ve been eating healthy food while at work (still snacking every hour, but now it’s on dried cranberries and granola instead of Sun Chips and Twinkies). I’ve cut out caffeine altogether. I’m drinking at least 32oz of water every day. I’m eating (some) foods in the proper “serving size” amounts listed on the label (Note: a normal container of Vitamin Water is 2.5 servings! And my microwavable soups are 2 servings! Liars! No one eats like that. And what’s the deal with tubs of ice cream saying there are 8 servings? The way I eat them, there are 3… or 4, if I make an effort to stretch it… No wonder I’m chubby). I’m walking around downtown every day after work (unless it’s cold… or too windy… or raining…). And I’m taking those gosh darn stairs (Note: I can’t take them from the ground floor in the morning because of the way security is set up in my building. But I do sometimes take them down to the ground after work, which is roughly thirteen flights).

Another big problem in my life right now, aside from my bulging blubber body (okay fine, I’m exaggerating, but I feel like a whale) is controlling my budget. I make pretty good money at my job, and I’m better at saving than many of my peers are (a few of my friends have to borrow money from their parents in between paychecks), but I’m worried that I’m not saving enough. I get paid twice a month. One of those pay checks is completely annihilated by my rent, bills, and transportation costs. The other paycheck goes for food, clothes (which I have to buy now that I’ve gotten into a whole new set of sizes), entertainment, and whatever else.

I actually have a good amount of money saved right now, but I keep thinking about it the way I thought of saved money as a child: money meant to be spent. It’s hard to save money for nothing. It’s not like I’m saving up to buy a mountain bike or an iPod (which, actually, I’m probably going to blow some savings on in the next week… I can listen to it at my desk with the current project I’m fiddling with, so it’s really a work-related expense). I don’t have a goal of something to buy. I’m saving because I think I’m supposed to. And it’s so frustrating to have that money but then act like it isn’t there. It’s weird to be thrifty in order to save money that I’m not in dire need of saving. I feel like I should just improve my quality of life instead of saving so much, but that seems foolishly shortsighted.

On my trip back from Connecticut, I read the book Bridget Jones’ Diary, which I’d never read before. It was a good read and quite different from the movie if I remember correctly, although I only watched it once and that was five or six years ago (in my living room with Kate Grady, while all our friends went to the Sadie Hawkins Dance). When I saw the movie back in high school, I kept thinking that Bridget was sort of a loser, who kept making horrible choices and was too worried about everything. Reading the book now, I am Bridget. She’s worried about her expenditure, her caloric intake, and her love life. Her career is something she fell into, her self-esteem is perilously unstable, and her romantic relationships are perpetually in flux. Aside from keeping a daily journal to record my commitment to my recent resolutions, I feel as though I’m walking in her shoes (and I suppose it could be argued that this blog is my version of her journal… but hey, at least I’m not keeping track of the calories I’ve consumed here).

Throughout Bridget’s chronicled year, she struggles to find something that she refers to as “inner-poise”. As soon as I read that phrase, I knew that I wanted it, too. I’m not even sure as to exactly what it is, but I know I don’t have it yet. I think that maybe I need a way to focus my life more. I always have about four personal projects in motion. I give my attention to the one thing that seems most consequential at the moment (the current trump: fighting with my body) and then, often before much progress is made, I shuffle my priorities around. Maybe the trick is to just take on one big project at a time, and let everything else become secondary.

In an effort to get things rolling, I signed up for NaNoWriMo today, which is probably the stupidest thing I could’ve done. The goal of National Novel Writing Month is to write a 175-page, 50,000-word novel during the month of November. Quantity is more important than quality (and, as you know from reading my writing, quantity is something I’m fully capable of). But you basically have to sign a month of your life away if you want to succeed. I’m only mentioning this in my blog because I think I’m more likely to actually try to do this if people know that I’m trying it. It’s a lot easier to give up in silence. By announcing it, I have something to prove. Even if I don’t make it until the end, I’m going to push to get through the first couple of weeks. It’s like a marathon… I haven’t trained properly, so I might not finish my first time. But then next year, I’ll be ready. If anyone reading this is going to give NaNoWriMo a try, please let me know. I would really love to have a buddy to do it with. It’ll keep us both motivated (I sound as if I’m talking about dieting or going to the gym. In reality, this is more like volunteering for a lengthy homework assignment… wait, why am I doing this again?).

Anyway. If this blog doesn’t get updated for awhile in November, now you’ll know why.

May you always be able to keep your resolutions, no matter when in the year you make them.

~A~

Thanks for Playing

I believe I’ve mentioned (a couple of times) “the fellow I’m seeing”. Well, I’m not seeing him anymore. Just wanted to get that off my mind…

We broke up in a very friendly manner. I said, “Thanks for playing.” He said, “Thanks for not freaking out.” He seemed surprised that I was comfortable with it and smiling not thirty seconds after (well, after all, we were horribly wrong for each other. The Savior Complex thing, as I predicted, has failed again). I told him I still expect to see him at my birthday celebration later in the month. Then we talked for about an hour (about movies and television and past relationships and the like), and he went on his merry way. I have every intention of retaining him as a friend.

That’s probably not how break-ups are supposed to go. I don’t have much experience with them. I’ve never been dumped before (as my newly-ex would say, “There’s a first time for everything”). And I’ve only had the one other break-up experience (which was exactly four months before this one… Perhaps this is the beginning of a pattern… Making mental note about the 9th of the month. After all, the 29th seems to be a good day for my love-life, so it stands to reason that there should be a day to counter that… the 9th seems as good a candidate as any).

I’ve always thought that if I were broken up with that I would say, “Thanks for playing” and move on (although I didn’t think I’d literally say that… which it turns out, I did). After all, why would you want to be dating someone who didn’t want to be dating you? It’s obvious that there are better people out there. It’s not something to get upset over. “Better luck next time. Please try again.”

So don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Really. And I promise I’m not just saying that. I may have been broken up with, but I'm not broken.

Someone once told me (actually, it was my newly-ex testing the waters after I’d broken up with my previous ex) that it takes half the length of a relationship to gain closure. Obviously, I don’t believe that (or else I would’ve waited a year to start dating again after the previous ex), but there should at least be a short period of readjustment before heading back to the market. A couple of weeks, perhaps. I need get used to the idea of being in The Single & Fabulous Club again before I go hurl myself toward my next foray into dating… Don’t I?

Less than three hours after being dumped (I don’t know if I should even call it “being dumped”… He initiated it, but the feelings were mutual), I was asked out on a date. I think that’s pretty impressive. And about twelve hours after that, I received an invitation to drinks by another guy. My cup runneth over.

Why is it that the moment I get out of a relationship, men start knocking down my door? You’d think that guys would stay away from someone who has just gone through a break-up in order to avoid becoming a rebound. You’d think they’d make an assumption about me having fresh wounds and emotional baggage. But no. They flock to me. As I’ve said before, apparently males are buzzards, waiting around for relationships to die so they can swoop down and pick up whatever looks salvageable.

After my last break-up, I started a list of the males who had hit on me. I made the list in order to remind myself that I am desirable, and that I am, apparently, worth waiting for (as several of them had been waiting around for my relationship to end). Within a couple of weeks of becoming single, twenty-one (21!) different guys had made the list (keep in mind, I’m rather dense about flirting, and I am often informed by friends that people were trying to pick me up after the fact… so this list is only people that hit on me hard enough for me to notice… There may have been others). Of those, five asked me out (and two others said that they would’ve asked me out if they had lived in the same state as me). I went out with three of them, and one of them stuck (he was #9 of 21, for the record), for a little while anyway.

Maybe it’s just a coincidence and has nothing to do with the break-ups. Maybe I just have blinders on when I am, to use a word and a notion that I dislike, “taken”. Or perhaps it is immediately after a relationship that I am, for whatever reason, at my most desirable. Fresh, free, and open to a world of possibilities. Maybe that’s when my juice is flowing the easiest. (I use the word “juice” interchangeably with “mojo”, hoping that both mean something along the lines of “desirability” or “ability to entice members of the opposite sex into attempting to seduce oneself”… I don’t know if that’s proper, established slang or if I concocted it somewhere along the line and have merely convinced myself that it’s an accepted, understandable usage. Part of me likes to think that I coined it. But most of me prefers to think that when I speak/type, people are able to understand it… If you have any insight on this, please leave it in my comments section). It seems, at the moment, I have juice.

I love the feeling you get right at the onset of dating a new person. Everything is a new, exciting adventure. You’re not sure how to handle it, or which way to turn. It seems like the perfect time to be passionate, impulsive, and carefree. I love the moments when you wonder if you’re going to touch. I love gauging reactions to seemingly innocuous details that are tossed into conversations. I love wondering whether he’s as into me as I am into him. And I love being confident that I’ll get to experience that again… eventually.

Someone once said to me, “Some girls you date, some girls you marry. You’re the kind of girl that guys want to marry. That’s why you don’t date.” (Of course, that was before my long courtship with ex #1 began.) Sometimes I ponder this thought at length. I suppose I am the sort of female that you could take home to meet your parents without much worry. Am I the kind of gal that fellows wish to wed?

This could present a fairly large problem… You see, I don’t know if I ever want to get married. I could see myself living a long, happy, fulfilling life as a completely independent woman (To quote The Bangles, “Single by choice/Never marry, never ever divorce”). I could also see myself falling into a sort of Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell common-law marriage. It seems more like a choice that way, instead of a legally-binding contract.

I, apparently, have commitment issues. I feel trapped by relationships. Perhaps the reason I’m not too broken up about this recent one ending is that I never fully put myself into it (even in my blog, where I have full reign over what is said, I never called him by the dreaded B-word: boyfriend). I want an escape clause. I want an ejector seat. I want a back-up plan. I don’t believe in divorce, but I don’t want to be dealing with a mistake for the rest of my life. So perhaps the answer to not believing in divorce is to stop believing in marriage. I mean, it’s great for other people, but I’m not sure it’s right for me. My mother says that she’d rather see me common-law married than alone. But is being a confirmed bachelorette (or a priest, monk, nun, or consecrated virgin, for that matter… If you don’t know what a C.V. is, look it up) really being alone? How is it different from what I’m doing now? I spent the first twenty years of my life being single. It’s not a bad way to be.

But for now, I’m not going to worry about getting into or out of relationships. I’m just going to sit back and enjoy being single, for however long that may last.

May your relationships always come in like a lion and go out like a lamb.

~A~

Angela Rigby

Congratulations to me. Today is my anniversary. I have lived in Chicago for exactly one year.

And to commemorate this occasion, I'm sitting in my apartment, alone, writing a blog entry.

There’s a song by Pink called “Leave Me Alone (I’m Lonely)” that seems to align with my life. The lyrics describe a contradictive state that I usually find myself in. I want to be away from people, but the moment that I am I can’t help but want them back. For Pink, the problem seems to be rooted in romantic relationships. For me, it’s human interaction in general.

Solitude is sort of built into my life now that I live on my own. I do love living alone. My stuff is all over the place, and no one is here to care. I don’t have to deal with someone else’s temperature preferences (which would likely be too cold for my liking). And I know I’ve mentioned my fondness for going without pants (I suppose I could do that with a roommate, but it’s so much easier without one).

The problem now is that I’m constantly wishing I had other people around me, to erase this sense of emptiness and isolation. And then, instead of doing something about it, I find a way to turn my computer into a friend... Exploring the internet. Listening to music. Writing this blog entry (that’s actually probably why I like writing in blog-form so much. It makes me feel more social than anything else I can do alone).

I find ways to feel like I’m among the living. I visit people sometimes, although that’s usually only for a short time and only happens about twice a week. I spend time on the phone every evening. A couple of nights ago, I didn’t really want to call any of my friends, so I just called my parents and talked to them for an hour. They call me every couple of days (and if I don’t answer, they assume that something horrible has happened to me), and I didn’t really even have anything interesting to talk with them about. I just needed to talk to someone other than myself. I occasionally take classes, but I’m not in one at the moment. Other than that, I guess there’s just my job (thank God for work, actually. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have that built-in people-time eight hours a day, five days a week).

Usually, these silly habits of mine tide me over until the next workday. It helps me to feel less suffocated by the walls of my shoebox-apartment (as I’m writing this, I can hear the man next door doing his exercises to his Latin music. He has crazy loud breathing noises… Maybe he’s doing some form of martial art? I don’t know). Nonetheless, I feel like something is missing. I want there to be someone here with me when I wake up in the morning. I want there to be someone here when I go to bed at night. And I want someone to be here in the evenings after work so that I’m not left here alone, talking aloud to myself about my day and my plans for the rest of the week. It’s depressing.

Maybe this is why so many people my age seem to be ready for marriage. The cohabitation aspect of it does seem appealing, and I can understand why you would want it if you were ready for it. I, obviously, am not. I want someone to eat breakfast with, but I don’t want that person’s stuff to be all over my space. And I want them to not be here about five minutes after breakfast is over. I’d like to just be able to summon them, quite like a master would a genie. Why can’t that arrangement be possible?

People have been backing out on me a great deal lately, leaving me marooned in my apartment. I had a rough night earlier this week when three different people I had plans with ditched me (the plans were all tentative, but it was still upsetting). I hate that. I hate looking forward things only to be disappointed. It made me want to crawl into bed at 8:00pm on a Saturday night in the city. Stranded, abandoned, forgotten... Life is too short to feel that way.

I hate not knowing what to expect. That’s probably a good part of why I hate being surprised. I like planning. I like dependability. I don’t like things being sprung on me.

There are other reasons I dislike surprises. The first of which is that I feel as though I’ve been lied to (because if a surprise has a great deal of planning behind it, then I have). The second is that I feel powerless, and as though I have no control over the situation at hand. It’s not a good feeling.

Actually, that’s probably why I don’t drink often. I don’t like feeling out of control. What’s the appeal in that? Alcohol is far less tasty than a cherry coke, and soda pop doesn’t make me feel like something’s amiss.

A certain friend of mine would chalk the alcohol, surprises, and dependability things up to me having trust issues. I would argue against that. If anything, I think I trust people more than I should sometimes (it’s part of why I’m gullible). But it is, in part, true. I have borders, boundaries, walls, and defenses. And yet I wonder why I’m lonely…

I’ll have to delve into my issues another time. Right now, I’m getting self-conscious about how long-winded I am (someone recently pointed out this flaw of mine in my comments section, and now my awareness of it has gone into hyper-drive).

May you find companionship, stability, and your own ways to cope with loneliness.

Much love,

~A~

P.S. The title is a reference to one of my favorite Beatles' songs, "Eleanor Rigby" (which was, thankfully, not ruined by the movie Across the Universe, which I saw earlier this week... Tangent: If you plan to go, make sure you pack some ibuprofen in your pocket. You'll probably need it.)
P.P.S. I remember hearing that one of the first recorded usages of the word "lonely" is in William Shakespeare's play "Coriolanus". I'm not sure if he invented it, but I wouldn't put it past him to create an adjective for the state of being alone. He was, after all, Shakespeare.