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~