Stories About Whom I've Become

Well, aside from the more bizarre fashion experiments that I've been making as of late (photo here being one of the less bizarre things I've worn... I wore a tutu to a bar last weekend. You know, like ya do), my life hasn't been all that exciting. But I've had a few things happen to me in the past week or so that are aligning themselves in my head tonight. And I wonder what these things say about me. So I thought maybe you could help me out with that...

Am I weak? Am I a pushover? Am I a people-pleaser? Am I a well-intentioned person who goes awry? Am I a fight-picker? Am I a complainer?

Or am I (wouldn't this be a shock) just a normal girl?



Story #1: The Song
In September, I e-mailed several of my male classmates to see if any one of them would like to sing the duet "A Stud and a Babe" from the musical I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change with me at a Late Night (aka a student produced piece of theatre that is usually one-night-only) in February (there is generally a love-themed variety show style late night near Valentine's Day). D-Train e-mailed me back saying, "Why not? I'll do it with you." Needless to say, I was pleased.

He called me yesterday. Some of the 3rd-Year students are putting on a Late Night in a few weeks filled with duets, and one of them asked D-Train to sing "A Stud and a Babe" with her for that. So D-Train called me up, and asked if I still wanted to do it for the Love Late Night...

Now, being that I'm the sort of person that I am, the conversation went like so:

Angela: It's okay. You can do it with her.
D-Train: Really? Because you asked me to do it first.
Angela: No, it's okay. It was just a thought I had.
D-Train: Angela...
Angela: You can do it with her.
D-Train: Tell me how you really feel. You're just being nice right now, aren't you...
Angela: It's fine. We can find another duet for the Love Late Night.
D-Train: No, Angela. Are you just being nice? Or do you really not care.
Angela: Well, I am being nice, but I'm not heartbroken or anything.
D-Train: You asked first. I won't do it with her if you still want to do it.
Angela: I don't even have the sheet music yet. If she wants to do it...
D-Train: I don't think you mean that.
Angela: ...
D-Train: I will do it with you if you want to do it.
Angela: ... Can I think about it?
D-Train: Can you give me an answer tomorrow?
Angela: Okay.

Clearly, D-Train is a good friend. And probably knows me a little better than I know myself, sometimes.

I came home, and just felt weird about it. I don't want to seem like a mean person. I don't want to seem like I'm claiming it out of spite (like, "YOU can't do that song! That's MY song!"). But clearly, I did want to do it. And it wasn't even really about doing it with D-Train (although honestly, I'm really glad that he wanted to do it, because I'd LOVE to do it with him), as I asked several guys to do it with me. It was (at least initially) about the song.

But this other girl... I guess, I don't want her to be disappointed. She doesn't have great casting this year (and mine isn't terrific either, so I know how lousy that makes you feel), and I want her to be able to do something that she wants to do. And so if she wants to do this song, then I want her to do it.

Also, I don't want her to be mad at me. (Because, as I said in the last post, my ultimate goal in most situations is just for everyone to like me).

And also... I don't want her to do the song with someone other than D-Train... and then feel like D-Train and I shouldn't do it at the Love Late Night anyway, because it was just done. (This last point, admittedly, is probably more my overactive imagination at work than anything else.)

I ended up sending D-Train a text message a couple of minutes ago saying that I do still want to do the song with him, if it's not too late to request that... But if she seems heartbroken, I'll yield.


Story #2: The Understudy
There's a rumor going around that next year, the theatre is going to do a production of My Fair Lady (this would be with the big theatre company, which my class will be part of next year, meaning that there's a chance that we might get cast in it).

We already know that none of us will be cast as the female lead, Eliza Doolittle (long story, but we do know that), but there's a possibility that someone in my class might get to understudy it.

As soon as the rumor hit, an Alpha Dog female classmate of mine began loudly and frequently announcing that she would chew off her left arm to be able to understudy Eliza. (Perhaps it's worth mentioning that this is the same classmate who has great casting this year, and who made pretty catty comments to me post-casting implying that we all got what we deserved... and has continued to make comments of questionable tact level since).

So, of course, a couple other female classmates waited until Alpha left the room, and got upset. They, too, would love to understudy the role, and they don't like the way she stakes her claim in things. They think it's some kind of subversive psych-out plan to make them question their abilities. I think they're overreacting, but I was getting a little annoyed at our classmate's sense of entitlement.

At dinner one night, Alpha was going on about how much she wanted the role, and how it was so perfect for her, blah blah blah. She even said that she had e-mailed the head of our program to tell him how badly she wants to be involved in any musical theatre piece that might be slotted for next year's season (the season that won't even get ANNOUNCED until March). And we were sitting with one of the other classmates who had told me that she was interested in the role, and I just watched her quietly sinking into her chair... And I had to say something.

Angela: Well, maybe you're not the only one that wants it.
Alpha: Does someone else want it?
Sinker: (looking intimidated) I don't really want it.
(Note: I was surprised, as Sinker had already said that she wanted it... And had been listening to My Fair Lady like the day before on her iPod)
Angela: What about [other classmate]? She could do it.
Alpha: She could not sing that role. She has a weak voice. Eliza is a JULIE ANDREWS role! It's LERNER AND LOEWE! She has to have a strong voice.
Sinker: Yeah, maybe she couldn't.
(Note: I was shocked at how quickly Sinker has become a yes-man to the Alpha Dog)
Angela: (defiantly) Well, how about me?
Alpha: You couldn't sing that role, could you?
Angela: Oh, couldn't I?
Alpha: Really?
Angela: I have a strong voice. And it's perfect for my range.
Alpha: (suddenly eyeing me like I'm being hunted) I guess you could sing "Wouldn't It Be Loverly?"...
Angela: And "Show Me". And "Just You Wait". I mean, I haven't sung through the entire show or anything... If there's anything I'm not positive about, it would be the last high note in "I Could Have Danced All Night", but I think I could do it.
Alpha: (looking like she wanted to eat my head) Well... I guess we'll wait and see.

Here's the thing: I don't want to understudy Eliza Doolittle. I wouldn't turn it down if it were offered to me, but it's not something that I'm going to dream about or pray for. I want a role in the season far more than I want a big understudy role. And I want to do Shakespeare more than musical theatre.

I guess I just said something because I thought someone needed to. The other girls weren't sticking up for themselves. They were just complaining behind our Alpha's back instead of saying something to her (so she had no idea that anyone else wanted the role or might be upset by her claim on it). So I decided to say what I thought they needed to say.

And afterward, I felt TERRIBLE. There was no need for me to get involved in that fight. And Alpha ALREADY thinks that she and I are rivals, which is not an idea I want to encourage.

I don't know why I did it. Maybe I have a strong sense of justice. But more likely, I think I want people to get along. And somehow, in my head, it seemed like that would help the situation.

And seeing as how Alpha hasn't brought up her fondness for Eliza Doolittle since, maybe it worked.


Story #3
When our Movement Professor went out of town, our class had Tap Workshop. It was four 90-minute classes. So clearly, not enough to make anyone a particularly great tap dancer, but we tried.

I've tapped before (for many years in my childhood), so I did pretty well. I'm not awesome, but I had an advantage over my classmates going into it, so I came out of it feeling more confident than they did.

When our Professor came back, she spent 40 minutes blocking a (easy and lame) tap routine, and said that we would do it as part of our Showing (an open class that people in the community, other students, professors, etc. can attend).

My less confident classmates FREAKED OUT. WHOA. They didn't feel confident in tapping at all. And since it's possible that the Top Banana of the Theatre might show up and judge us based on this hour of dancing that he sees, they really didn't want to do it (which is a valid fear, as Top Banana holds our creative destinies in his hands, and is rarely able to see our work).

They wanted to approach our Movement Professor and tell her that they didn't want to do the tap in the Showing. And I said I would back them. Because I want our class to look strong, confident, and skilled. I don't want our class to be uncomfortable, upset, and terrified. So I said I'd go to the professor and try to talk to her. Seeing as how I was one of the most confident people in the tap, maybe ME saying something would change her mind.

But then I came home. And I realized that I'm actually not nervous about the tap. I'm good at it. It's easy for me. And it might actually be good for me if powerful people see me do things that I'm good at. How had that slipped my mind? How was it possible that I was thinking about what was good for my classmates, and not what was good for me? I doubt that most have them would have done the same for me...

So do I do the selfish thing and support my own creative needs? Or do I support my class?

I decided to do the selfless thing. I went to e-mail my Movement Professor... But I had already gotten an e-mail from her. She wrote to the class saying that the tap dancing would be optional.

So I'm doing it. Only 5 of the 11 of us are. It's going to be me, flanked by four guys. I get to be in the middle, and I get a tap solo at the end (which will, admittedly, be lame, as I'm making it up tonight). Anyway. I'm happy. And so is my class, it seems.


Story #4
Another part of our Movement Showing is going to be Contact Improv. It's improvisational movement with partners, that involves elements of balance, negative space, kinesthetic response, etc. And it's REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY fun.

Lately, I've been getting paired with Killer, with D-Train, and in a trio with two of my female classmates (which my professor began referring to as "The Three Graces").

I love working with Killer, because we're of similar size, and we're both very playful in our work. We end up doing comedic quite consistently (I think we're probably the go-to comedy pair in the class in this work). We often start with a theme in our movement. Like "Flying Juggernauts with Parasails", "Toy Box", or "Growing Up". We've worked enough together that we have a couple of neat moves that we're confident with and try to incorporate into the improvisations.

I also really love working with D-Train. He's a lot taller than I am, and he's gotten quite strong, so he throws me around a lot. But I've gotten stronger as well, so now I can throw him around a bit, too. We often go more into combative improv, although we've had days where we've gone in a more sensual direction. And at least one time, it was just really immature and funny. But however we do it, it's always fun. The last time, we had the theme "Walking the Plank", and it was one of the most fun Contact pieces I've ever done.

And the Graces... Well, it used to be way too slow and pretty for my taste. So one day, we played with the rule that, whenever we ended up frozen, we had to break out of it with attack. And suddenly, it became way more interesting. Having conflict is really vital to keeping the trios alive.

The last time we were doing improv, instead of doing Three Graces, we ended up having all 5 women in the class participating. And we used the theme "The Last Supper". It was CRAZY, and AWESOME. At one point I was Judas. At one point I was Mary Magdalene. At one point I was Jesus. And I'm pretty sure that at the end, I was the table.

Movement Professor asked us to e-mail her our top three preferences for what Contact pieces we wanted to do in the showing. I decided that what I really wanted to do, more than anything else in the showing (more than the tap, ballet, Viewpoints, waltzing, whatever) where my pairings with D-Train and with Killer. I KNEW that she was going to put in my pairing with Killer (because she loves it), so I ranked my pairing with D-Train first, and the one with Killer second. I wrote that I really really really wanted to do those two. And third, I wrote "The Last Supper" group of all 5 women (mostly because she said to write three, not because I had my heart set on it).

Today, she said that she had made up an order of improvs for the Showing, which she had spent over an hour working on, and that she would absolutely not be changing it, so we shouldn't ask.

She put me with Killer (as I knew she would). And she put me with two girls (a group which was NOT the original 3 graces... in fact, the three of us had NEVER worked together before... As a side note, Alpha is one of the New Graces).

I frowned at D-Train from across the circle, and he frowned back. He had been paired with someone that he didn't usually work with. And he was only in two pieces, while most of the guys were in three (and one is in four).

Movement Professor asked if there were any questions. The threesome of girls I'm now in mentioned to her that we'd never worked together before, and she said something vague about, "Well, that's how it had to work out, so that all the girls are in two pieces..." I don't know. It seemed weird to put us in a brand new group the day before the showing, especially since the other two girls in the group are injured, and we haven't worked with each others' bodies enough to work around the injuries yet.

I sat there, saying nothing. Movement Professor looked up and her eyes darted right to me.

Movement Professor: Angela, you look disappointed.
Angela: I'm not.
Movement Professor: I don't understand why you look upset. You can't get everything you requested. There's no time for that.
Angela: I know. I'm not upset.
Movement Professor: And you got your first choice! Oh... no you didn't.
Angela: No, I didn't. But that's okay. It's fine.
(Movement Professor begins intensely messing around on her laptop... speaks about a minute later)
Movement Professor: Okay. [This person] is now going to go with [that person] instead of with [D-Train]. And then Angela and D-Train will go together.
[That Person]: Great!
[This Person]: Okay.

(about 10 minutes pass, and we're in the middle of something else)
Movement Professor: Oh no! But now [this person] is in two back-to-back!
[That Person]: What if we just flipped [this pair] with [that pair]?
Movement Professor: And now Angela's in three!
[Someone else]: What if Angela just weren't in the Graces one?
Movement Professor: (flustered) I had it all figured out last night...
D-Train: You know what? Let's just go back to how it was before.
Angela: It' didn't ask you to change it. It's really okay.
Movement Professor: But you looked really upset. But I was trying to make it even, and I don't want two to have the same energy in a row...
D-Train: [Movement Professor], you've seemed upset ever since we made this change. Let's just not change it.
Movement Professor: But then Angela doesn't get her first choice.
D-Train: Angela's a big girl. She'll be fine.
Angela: I am fine. No problem.


Of course, I was disappointed, but I did NOT try to make a big deal out of it. I NEVER said I was upset. I NEVER asked her to change anything. But she freaked out on me. And then I felt like the entire class was looking at me like I was being greedy/whiny/selfish, when in reality, I hadn't said anything at all.

My pairing with Killer ended up going phenomenally well today. It was one of my favorite outcomes of our times working together.

The New Graces was... well, not great. And they felt it, too. When we got up, we tried to come up with a theme, and our frazzled Movement Professor said, "You're the Three Graces! That IS your theme!" It was too pretty, too slow, and too boring. So Alpha and I sat around trying to come up with another theme (although, surprise surprise, she didn't like most of the things I came up with). Our ideas included "The Three Fates", "Sirens Luring Men to Their Deaths", and "All-Hallows Eve Seance". We haven't talked it over with the third Grace yet. Hopefully, we'll be brilliant tomorrow... but who knows?

I stayed after class to talk with Movement Professor and make sure she knew that I seriously was not upset. She gave me about 8 additional reasons why she had made the schedule the way she had. I told her I was fine. And that I was EXCITED, because I still got to work with Killer, whom I love working with.

I grabbed dinner with D-Train, and we talked. He, too, was disappointed that our pairing was cut. He had forgotten to e-mail his preferences to our Professor, which probably had something to do with it. But in class, he was so frustrated by Movement Professor's frustration that he decided to forfeit it (which was pretty much the same route I had chosen). We vented about the day for awhile.

When I got home, I had an e-mail from Movement Professor, with the schedule for tomorrow. She added back in my pairing with D-Train.

Part of me is, of course, thrilled.

And part of me is worried. What are my classmates going to think? Are they going to think that when I talked to her after class, it was to complain? Will they think I stamped my feet until I got my way? Will they be upset that not only am I doing ballet AND tap AND have a tap solo, but now I'm also the only girl in class who gets to do THREE pieces of contact improv?



So who am I?

It's interesting... It seems that the times I think to blog on this blog now are the times where I really don't know what I'm feeling.

I don't even know why I felt the need to tell these stories. Maybe you can connect the dots for me. What am I trying to prove to you? What do I need you to tell me?


May you know who you are without needing to ask.

~A~


P.S. I'm not sure if the title of this post is supposed to grammatically be "who" or "whom". If I've guessed wrong, please correct me in the comments section.

P.P.S. Am I a blogger you wished blogged more often? Think of me at the 20SB awards.

Out of the Networks

(Me and Wifey at a pizza place. 05/22/09)

So since about, oh, August, I've been difficult to reach. I thought it would be a good idea to start calling all of the people who I scroll past in my contacts list and think, "Oh man, the next time I have time for a good long talk, I NEED TO CALL YOU" about. As it turns out, that list has gotten very, very long.

Occasionally one of those people will do the calling (like my friend John, whom I spoke with a couple of weeks ago for the first time in about 9 months). And usually, I say, "It's so great to hear from you! Can I call you back?" But the best laid plans of mice and Angela go oft awry.

I've neglected so much while being at school -- which is, of course, exactly what I needed to do. The days are gone when I can come home at 5pm and work on my less-than-Pulitzer-worthy chick-lit novel. I can't hold myself to a blogging schedule of twice a week (I've been barely clinging to once a month). And I certainly can't keep up with all the people I care about.

I thought about making myself some kind of schedule. Call one person a day or something. But that seemed formulaic and somehow disingenuous. Like "I'm calling you today because you're the next person on my list" as opposed to "I thought about you today and I genuinely care about what's going on in your life."

I used to be better at this. Keeping up with people and information. Brian, my ex-metaphysical-boyfriend, has said that whenever he wants to know what someone from our high school is up to, he knows his best bet is to call me. I know about the girl who's engaged to a girl, the girl who has three kids and just got divorced, the girl who is now a guy, and the girl who is now an exotic dancer. Some of it I get from facebook, some from my mother, and some from all the conversations I used to have with people I went to high school with. But now that I'm living away from all the people I knew back when, that flow of information has been cut off. Or maybe, for the most part, I just don't care anymore.

I still care about some of them, of course. The people who were (and are) important to me in one way or another. But I've gotten to the point where I'm beginning to forget names and faces. My friend had a crush on a guy for a couple of years, and I can see his eyes and his hair, but I can't remember his name for the life of me. I can, however, remember the name of the girl he was dating (though not her face... I think she was a redhead?).

My mother used to say, "The world is so much bigger than [Town] High School." That statement was, of course, obvious, but I don't think you really come to grips with it until you're away from everyone you knew there. Every community I've been a part of in my life, with the exception of my immediate family, I am currently separated from. The last time I saw someone I went to college with was October. I don't remember the last time I saw Phil, who was my best friend through some of my hardest times in high school. I haven't seen my dear friend Greg since the week before we graduated college back in May of 2006.

I've passed through so many networks and stations in my life. Not just your standard "High School" (Heidi, Ian, Kate, Katie, Lauren, Monica, Sara) and "College" (Renee, Deet, Rachel, Christina, Lauren). I had "Chicago" (John, Cleric). I had "Rome". I had "Chicago Workplace". I had "Summer Shakespeare", "Tony 'n' Tina's Wedding", and countless other casts and crews for the plays and musicals I've been a part of. I've had "NaNoWriMo"(Ricky, Jim, Michael, Valerie, Amanda). I've had "Shakespeare Classes" (Aileen). I've even had "Karaoke" cliques, in a couple of different places. I've had the "Broadway Message Board" (Chris, Christine, Papa) and the "Baby Name Message Board". And then I have the one group that I'm never fully away from because I was rarely with them: the bloggers (Barry, Nico, Chele, Andari, Tipp, Carrie Lea, and so many others it would be insane to list them all).

(And believe me when I say I miss being in Chicago that had 20sb meet-ups on a regular basis. It is SAD to not have people like Jenn, Rachel, Jessi, Joy, Pete, Jessi, K, Cheryl, Kayleigh, Jamie, Angie etc. in your life once you've gotten to know them.)

The network that has mattered most to me has been "Grad School". And I don't even really mean that in a social way.

But now I'm in Connecticut, and even that network is gone. Let me tell you who I know here: my mother, my father, my two younger brothers, my brother's girlfriend, and a large percentage of my parents' neighbors (because apparently in Connecticut everyone is friends with their neighbors). Through the wonders of facebook, I've discovered that two people I know from high school are in this state, as is a gal I knew years ago from that Broadway Message Board (I've known her online since 2004, but we've never met in real life).

But instead of building a new network here, like I've so comfortably done wherever else I've been in my life, all I want to do is reach out to the ones I've had before. So maybe I will go through my contacts list. Maybe I will finally get a chance to talk to all the people that I wonder about. Maybe soon.



Make new friends, but keep the old.
One is silver and the other gold.

~A~

Tug and Shift

(Two-Shots-Up and me on New Year's Eve. Yes, she's wearing my Hannah Montana wig.)

I'm becoming someone else. Someone that I never was. Quickly, it seems. I'm not yet sure if that's the someone who I want to be. But I feel like I need to give it a shot for awhile.

It's not a bad thing, I don't think. It's just something I'm keeping an eye on.

I'm making decisions a little faster. And making them with different things in mind.

I've decided to stop talking myself out of things and into things as often as I do. I'm going to be more impulsive. I'm going to own my emotions. And once I acknowledge them, I'm going to set them free instead of drowning in them.

I'm not the kind of person who let's things go. Anything. I hold on to moments for hours, days, weeks. I hang onto words, and run them through my brain like a river. I wonder what I could have done differently. What I could have said differently. Why other people say and do what they say and do.

I've realized recently that I'm a genuinely nice person. I don't do nice things so that I get credit for doing them, but rather I do them because I feel satisfied by making other people happy/relieved/secure. And because I'm nice, I get taken advantage of a great deal.

Maybe I need to be more selfish than I was before.

I think too hard about things. I like to feel like I'm in control of situations. I am overly concerned with the consequences of every action. And I have a hard time turning off that part of my brain.

In the last week, I've made several choices about where I was going and what I was doing that were not the sort of choices I would've made before. They were braver. Riskier. And perhaps not quite as nice as I usually am. I made them without thinking about other people.

It was liberating, actually. I stopped worrying about what people thought of me. I stopped worrying about what I was supposed to do, and did what I wanted to do. And so far, the results haven't been that bad.

I'm a little concerned about this lack of consideration for others. Or this lack of consideration in general. I didn't consider things; I just acted. I was forward. I was blunt. I was -- on a beginner's level -- adventurous.

On a small scale, I'm turning into a risk-taker. In a minute fashion, I'm becoming a libertine. And with baby steps, I'm discovering my inner hedonist.

Maybe it's just a phase.

In any case, I think I'm going to embrace it. For the time being, anyway.



I don't need a new year to make resolutions for myself. But the change of year is certainly a good reminder to make some.

Resolutions for 2009:

- Call my brothers more often.
- Stop trying to talk myself into things and out of things. Just let them happen, and take them as they are.
- Make up my own mind about things, instead of just agreeing with the opinions of others.
- Acknowledge my emotions and then let them go, instead of pushing them aside and letting them control me.
- Stop taking personal responsibility for the happiness of others.
- Be more assertive. Stop letting people take advantage of me just because I'm nice.
- Stop judging people based on their history or reputation.



May you tug your skirt, shift in your seat, and see how comfortable you are in a different position.

~A~

Reflections

So guess what I did...



I got a haircut.

You know how I've been talking about cutting my hair since, oh, the beginning of September? Remember when I got permission from the head of my program and the head of the costume department? Remember how I even had a poll on here a while back to see what my readers thought?

And how I kept pushing it back, questioning it, over-analyzing it, and backing out?

Well, I cut it. Finally.

Not the "Audrey Hepburn Roman Holiday" style that I was originally considering. Not that drastic, no. But if you take into account how much of my life has been spent with long hair, this is still a significant transformation for me. Far more than dying my hair last March.

I needed a change. I needed something different. Maybe to reflect that the person on the inside isn't the same.

More than anything, I think I just needed to stop being afraid.

I got it cut yesterday. My head feels lighter. I think my face and neck look even heavier than they did before. But in general, I think I like it. I still look like me. I just look like a new version of me. Maybe a more serious version. Maybe one who has matured.

Maybe it's just that for the first time in a long time I'm looking in the mirror and having to really take myself in.

Have you ever noticed that after awhile, you stop seeing the people you're around regularly? You look at them, but you don't really see who they are or how they've changed. But if you go a year without seeing them, they look so different.

I think that's how things started to go with me. I stopped seeing myself. My progress. My metamorphosis. The fact that who I am now is not who I was a year ago. The fact that although my hair has been the same length since college, I have not been the same me.

I am not the girl in my headshots. I am not the girl fretting about graduate school. I am not the girl who was so obsessed with completing her mediocre NaNoWriMo novel. I am not the girl who Brian said he was in love with. And I am not the girl who sat by waiting for life to come find her.

I guess in some ways I'm that girl. I will always be her a little. For after all, though I've changed, I am still fundamentally me. But I'm so much more now than I was before.

And when I looked in the mirror this morning, I think I finally saw a change in what was reflecting back at me. Something was different enough that I finally stopped and paid attention.

I don't look like a college girl anymore. I almost look like an adult. I'm not sure how I feel about that yet. I think I'm okay with it.

I don't look the way I want to, but at least I'm not trying to hide that from myself anymore. I'm not looking in the mirror and pretending that I see myself as I once was. I can't hide behind my hair the way I've been doing for the last 2 years.

And you know what? That's fine. Unlike Jo in Little Women, my hair was not my only beauty.

I can be beautiful without it. And I don't need other people to tell me that in order for me to believe it.



So without further ado, I present to you the new me. Not as I want you to think of me, but as I truly am.









(Me, my Aunt, and my Mom. This is the first time we can remember that I've had shorter hair than either of them. 11/29/08)


May you have the guts to see yourself as you are.
And may the person that you are be similar to the person you want to be.


~A~

The Birthday Post

October 25. My birthday.

I'm 24 years old today.

I rather like that. I find 24 to be a fetching number.

I think I've now successfully crossed over from "Early 20s" to "Mid-20s". Crazy. If I weren't so young, I'd feel so old.


Twenty-three (which rolls off my tongue now the way that "Cherry Coke" does) was a good year. Perhaps a great one. I'm in grad school. I got my heart-broken (which I've decided was a good thing to experience). I'm practically an adult. And in general, I'm content.

I'm constantly learning, growing, and changing. I'm a different person now than I was a year ago, although I think I am very much still me.


What 23 taught me:

- Long-distance relationships aren't going to work out, no matter how great I think the guy is.

- My dreams are worth fighting for.

- If I feel like I'm in a rut, then I probably am, and I need to do everything in my power to get out of it.

- I can accomplish great things if I'm determined enough.

- Sometimes I don't need to apologize.

- I'm alright living on my own.

- I don't have to be an adult 100% of the time. Not even 50%, really.

- I'm young, and it's okay to be impulsive.

- Mistakes can be great things. Sometimes they lead you down better paths. And if nothing else, you learn a lot more from mistakes than you learn by doing things right the first time.

- I really, really, really love theatre. And I really am meant to be an actor.

- I'm good at acting. Very good.

- If I were to be anything other than an actor, I would be a writer. (I guess at this point in my life I'm sort of both.)

- I have a fear of doing things incorrectly, and I need to get over it. As soon as possible.

- It's impossible to be friends with everyone.

- Traffic doesn't always stop for me just because I'm cute. (See Autobiographical Autopsy)

- It is POSSIBLE for me to be a vegetarian.

- I don't much like being a vegetarian. Except for the sense of elitism that it occasionally provides; that I like.

- I am not fat.

- I have the potential to be sexy. I just don't know how to tap into it yet.

- People enter and exit my life at exactly the times that they have to. I shouldn't question it or force it. And I definitely shouldn't lament it.

- I am vulnerable, I am sensitive, and I am emotional. And that's not a bad way to be.


So here's to 24!



May you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever.

~A~



P.S. It's really interesting to me how much my blogging style has changed in the last year. Just as long-winded, but it's different. Check out my birthday post from a year ago, Fateful Birthdays. It's also funny that I thought 23 wouldn't be very exciting. It clearly was.

P.P.S. Yes, my blessing for you today was a lyric from the song "Edelweiss" from The Sound of Music.

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. :)

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~

An Introduction to My Mind

Before you know anything else about me, it is imperative that you know this: no matter what it is that you say or do to me, I will find a way to over-analyze it. I think too much in general, particularly with matters of little to no consequence. I'm just that type of cat. It's what I do.

I suppose it's also important to note that I'm a bit of an odd bird when it comes to my trains of thought, and the ways in which they leave the station. Some people think in circles. Most people think in chains, or straight lines. I think more in webs. Each thought I have connects to a few more thoughts, in different directions. Occasionally, I go leapfrogging in my conversations. And I'm certain I will do the same in my writing.

I think I love people too much. I carry on elaborate emotional affairs with everyone in my life. Both men and women. Occasionally I decide that these relationships stem from a sort of "non-sexual crush" (which my mother, of course, does not believe exists). I even have a non-sexual soulmate. She's a heterosexual, long-distance life-partner. Inexplicably, I don't even speak to her on any sort of regular basis. But on any occasion that we're in the same place at the same time, we are able to pick up where we left off without any sort of hitch. I find that I can do that with everyone in my life, actually. I can sort of pick of the pieces of the past and continue with them, ignoring the void-like interim in the relationship. Over the last couple of months, I've had strong reconnections with a few people whom I've barely seen since high school. Now, they've suddenly become part of my inner-circle. How does that happen?

I've fought hard to leave certain parts of my life behind. I wanted to distance myself from the awkward girl who endured mocking and social isolation throughout her formative years. I went to college in a different state; to a school that no one I knew was to be attending. After college I moved to a city where I knew fewer people than I could count on one foot (what? like no one else counts on their toes?). I treat it as though it's an experiment. Maybe I'm continually in search of myself. I have a feeling it's more a form of escapism. I'm always in need of some fresh start. I can be something better, something more desirable, if I can sandblast my slate. I can become the person I want to be. Nay, the person I was MEANT to be.

I wonder if I ever really change.

Every six months or so, I have a complete revamp of my soul. I go through a huge, world-altering metamorphosis, and I determine that this new being is the person I was meant to be. I think back to a few months before and naively think, "wow, I've really changed this time." I suppose I have, in some way, grown. But changed? Probably not. Otherwise, how would I be able to so freely pick up where I'd left off with those friends of mine?

My last major, life-altering time came a few months back (perhaps that means I'm due for an emotional tune-up soon. God, I hope not. They take a lot out of me). I was in a play (not a particularly good one, if you were curious). The play itself had nothing to do with my new mindset. Rather, it was the people I met while working on it. I started going to bars, and being social (which, previously, had always been awkward for me). Suddenly, I had found a crop of people who were all willing to buy me drinks and let me dance like a maniac around them. Before meeting them, I'd been drunk three times in my life. And then, in a matter of a couple of weeks, the number had been inflated to eight (I'm not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed by that). They gave me a level of self-confidence that I had never known before (a boost that would be dangerous to a normal person, but not to self-conscious, self-loathing me). Suddenly, I wanted to be free to do as I pleased. And I broke up with the person I had been dating for over two years.

Ah, there's the real change. It wasn't the drinking, the dancing, and the partying. It was the break-up. I broke up with a fantastic fellow, whom I respect, adore, and admire. It became apparent that, despite all the wonderful attributes he had to his name, I was unhappy. I wanted to go wild. I wanted to flirt with the world (a skill that I'm still learning... somehow, I graduated college without ever properly cultivating it). I wanted to be able to acknowledge men hitting on me. Somewhere in the last couple of years, males had begun to find me attractive, and I had been doing my best to strategically ignore it. And so I, for lack of a better word, dumped my boyfriend.

I felt guilty (I broke my best friend's heart. You'd feel guilty, too. And if you wouldn't, well then, you have no soul)... but suddenly the doors in front of me sprung open, and the world went into a strange, unfamiliar Technicolor. Everything was lighter, brighter, newer, cleaner, stranger, and slightly more perverse. And I liked it. People hit on me. People asked me out. People grabbed at me in public places (alright, that part I didn't enjoy... but it was occasionally amusing. And that which doesn't kill us either makes us stronger or makes for a damn good story later on). And about five different guys asked me out. My juice was flowing and I had arrived on the scene. I hadn't realized it (apparently I had previously had some sort of "relationship blinders" on) that certain people had been attempting to lure me into their arms for months. And then, once the problems in my long-standing, long-distance, long-lacking relationship became apparent to them, they became vultures. They circled over my head, waiting for my relationship to die so that they could identify the perfect moment to swoop down and grab me.

I'm really rather dense when in comes to certain things, like flirting. I never know when people want me. When people are interested, they have to pull out a mariachi band and serenade me before I get the picture. How I'm that oblivious to romantic and sexual gestures is beyond me. I like to think of myself as a fairly perceptive person. I suppose this falls into the category of the "random things I'm bad at."

I have many skills and strengths, in varied areas. That's probably why I changed my major 118 times before graduating from college (in four years... the joys of a liberal arts school. I accidentally fulfilled all my general education requirements by bouncing around from one department to the next). Well, that and my indecisive nature, but that's neither here nor there. But the things I'm poor at are things that no one should have trouble with. They're either embarrassing or cute, depending on whom it is that you ask. I can't find things that are right in front of my nose. I have trouble reading analog clocks. I find it difficult to make things fit into envelopes. I'm always worried that I'm miscalculating tips. I occasionally have difficulty screwing lids back onto jars. I also have difficulty with the initial task of removing lids from jars, but I have a feeling that it's more common to struggle with that, particularly for people of my gender. Not that I think women can't be strong... we just have daintier hands (or, in my case, awkward, gangly, alien-like ones).

The weakness I have that seems to frustrate others the most is my inability to take compliments. I know it's ridiculous, but it's true. I can't even explain it to my own liking. When I am paid a compliment, I feel the need to argue against it. I have this feeling that the person is being insincere in order to butter me up for something. Or they're lying in an effort to mock me in some way (rough adolescence... you understand). It's especially difficult to accept if I don't agree with the compliment. How can I say "thank you" when this person is so obviously mistaken? Also problematic is when they compliment something that I have no control over. It's nice that someone thinks I have beautiful eyes, but they're really not of my making. Somehow it would be different if they were complimenting my dress. I picked out that dress, I paid for that dress, and I decided to wear that dress that day. That's the kind of compliment that I can handle, because, let's face it, I deserve it. I have astonishingly good taste in dresses. And anyone who says otherwise is obviously lying out of acute envy.

I've just made a mental note to start a list of things I'm bad at, for future reference. I make lists a great deal. I actually have a notebook reserved for these lists. I have a list of potential party themes, a list of famous people I've been compared to, and a list of things that make me smile. I have about ten lists dedicated to names in various fashions (I'm a little obsessed with names). And I have the requisite list of "Things I Want to Do Before I Die", which I know I will never achieve. I like having all of that information on paper as opposed to in my head, as trying to juggle all of that can make anyone's brainwaves a bit turbulent. I have to hide my book of lists most of the time, as there are some lists that I don't wish to become public knowledge. I don't trust anyone enough with the information contained by them.

There are a few lists that I am particularly protective over. I guard them so intently that I leave them vague enough that even I occasionally have trouble with recalling what they mean. As a good friend of mine once told me, "never in writing." I've had written statements haunt me in the past (particularly with a dreadful AIM conversation I had my first year of college. *shudder* Wow... I hadn't mentally revisited that one in awhile), and I refuse to allow them to harm me in the future. The first of these lists is titled "Soulmate Expectations" (which is a horrid name for it... but I started this book in high school, so I deserve forgiveness on that one). It's a list of certain things that I have to keep in mind with guys, and every item on the list is written as "The ______ Thing". One example of this being "The Hair Thing". That one's the silliest on the list, and the only one I feel comfortable putting out into cyberspace. The right man for me will be one who cares about his appearance, but doesn't spend hours grooming himself. If a gentleman is obsessed with his hair, it just isn't going to work out between us (take note, all potential suitors... I may have just saved you a lot of time and pain). I recently started a list of "Deal Breakers" (which is different from the expectations list... most things on that are what I want a fellow to be... this new list is things I want him NOT to be. A subtle but important distinction... I did mention that I think too much). And then there's the most secret (and, perhaps, most silly) of my lists: "Cues".

My "Cues" list is undoubtedly the dumbest thing I've ever come up with. Every once in awhile, I'll hear/see/experience something and think, "if a guy ever says/does/acts like this, I'll know." What I'll know, exactly, isn't really set in stone. I suppose if I'm dating someone who sets off one of these alarms, maybe that'll mean that I can take the next step with him. If I already knew he was a keeper, perhaps that'll mean he's the One (is there such a thing? Outside of "The Matrix", I mean? I'll save that inner-battle for another date). If it's someone that I meet casually, I'll know that I should pursue a relationship with him. It's ridiculous, I know. Some are things that happen in movies, some are lines from songs... You'd find me to be barking mad if you knew some of the things on that list. Actually, I'm not sure why I'm so protective of it. If someone can look at the words "The Nonsense Thing" or "The Cell Phone Commercial Thing" and know (or be able to figure out) how to sweep me off my feet, maybe he deserves whatever promotion he was applying for. I don't think I'm transparent enough for that type of decoding to come easily to anyone. (Allow me to take a moment to revel in my own sense of mystery... Ahhhh.)

I've actually had to remove a few things from my list of cues over the years, as people stumbled across them unknowingly. A good friend of mine answered a question I asked with one of the cues a few years back. For the next eight minutes, I was in love. Luckily, I realized that the cue was too easy of a wire to trip before I began making wedding arrangements (this is especially fortunate, as he had an unpronounceable surname, which I'm very grateful not to be saddled with... and then there's the part about "ruining the friendship"... but he and I ended up growing apart anyway, so he was obviously not the One). Another of my friends set off sirens when he hugged me in a specific way, just as I had seen somewhere before and made a mental note of (you understand why I have a book of lists... I make too many mental notes... a large portion of my brain has turned into a cobwebbed attic, and I can't find anything when I need it. I already mentioned that I'm horrible at finding things). Then I saw him greet two other friends in the same matter within a matter of seconds, and I rushed to cross that off the list as soon as I returned home. No, I am not going to fall that easily. I hope it has become apparent that I do not play hard to get; I genuinely AM hard to get. And I'm more than a little proud of that.

In any case, surely you can see why I feel the need to hide these things about myself. I don't want the nearest con artist to suddenly have a way into my heart. I like to keep myself heavily guarded, with plenty of walls and barricades (I imagine myself to be a human Hogwarts, if that means anything to you. If nothing else, I suppose it means that I'm a Harry Potter geek).

I've just come up with about eleven more things that I would like to delve into at some point, but I'm not going to do it now. I'm too easily distractible (I had a two hour phone conversation with a friend in the middle of writing this), and I need a break from myself. Train of thought writing only works if you stay on the train. Once you get off at a station to smoke, you end up running after the train as it takes off again, and by the time you run out of breath, you might as well wait until the next one. Well, I'm deciding to wait.

Much love, many blessings, and happy future reading (I assume you will be reading this again... after all, I'm delightful),

Angela