Omaha

It’s not complicated anymore.

On Facebook, that is. In life, sure. My life is always complicated. But my relationship status no longer is.

I flew out to visit Brian on Thursday, and found him sick and miserable. Not the same Brian. A little slower and sleepier. And perhaps a bit more negative than normal.

I packed mostly sundresses, as I know Brian loves me in them.

We didn’t get out much over the weekend due to his illness. We didn’t fly kites. We didn’t go on the giant slides he told me about. We never made it to the zoo. He never cooked me dinner. The virus sort of threw a wrench in everything. He just seemed miserable.

But then, I was miserable, too. For other reasons.

On Friday, I made a comment regarding the state of our metaphysical relationship. And it became clear rather quickly that Brian and I had different ideas about what we were and where we were headed.

I thought we were, in some sense, dating. He did not.

He pulled out the traditional male excuse. The one about me being great, “but I don’t know if I want to be in a relationship with anyone right now.” I told him that we were already in some sort of relationship, albeit an undefined one. He disagreed.

I asked him what he was afraid of. Was he worried that I was going to go off to grad school and find someone else? Was he worried that he would find someone better?

I told him that he and I weren’t getting engaged or something just because I thought we were dating. And that we could always break up if things weren’t going well. It didn’t have to be some huge, serious deal if he didn’t want it to be.

We tried to move past it several times, but the argument lasted most of the day.

We were watching a baseball game in the evening when he looked at me.

“You’re upset.”

“Can you blame me? You’ve basically just reduced us to the label ‘friends-with-benefits’.”

He muted the television. “I can’t believe you just said that. I respect you and I care about you so much more than that.”

“Do you? Do you love me?”

He paused.

I wasn’t expecting him to pause.

The first time he told me he was in love with me was back in November, long before we were whatever it was we had become. He’s told me many, many times since then.

“I don’t know. I love so many things about you. And I love you in many different ways. But in a romantic way, I just don’t know.”

God, that hurt. I wasn’t expecting it. How could I have expected that? After all the times he’s called me, telling me that he couldn’t wait to see me. That my trip wasn’t coming soon enough. That he wanted to be there so that he could hold me. That he wanted to see me in person so badly…

“Do you think about me as if… as if I’m just one of your friends? Or am I something more to you than that?”

“I need to think about that.”

What! I wanted to scream. WHAT IS THERE TO THINK ABOUT??? How many times have you told me you loved me? And suddenly, that’s just GONE? Suddenly, I’m just like any other friend? I suppressed the urges to scream and hit him.

“Okay. Think about it. But I’m going to need an answer.”

I spent most of that evening crying quietly while he held me. I couldn’t even look at him. Such an awkward experience to be comforted by the person who is causing the pain.

“I wish you liked me as much as I like you.”

“I’m sorry for you. Because I’ve been in that situation before, and I know how much it hurts.”

Of course, that wasn’t what I wanted him to say. It just made me cry more violently. But it’s not unusual for him to make me cry. He’s just never done it in person before. And it would be a lot easier to be mad at him if he weren’t there, within grasping distance. Giving me the sort of hug I needed. And looking so handsome and so strong. And smelling like comfort.

I was at his house for another three days after that. It’s hard to have a conversation like that with a person. But having to stay in a house with them for days after tremendously worsens the situation. Watching television together. Eating together. Sharing a bed (and cuddling, despite knowing that it wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had). And feeling the entire time like I had to be nice to him. Not only because I’m crazy about him. Not only because he was my host. But because he seemed so ill and uncomfortable.

Saturday was actually a nice day. We stayed in pajamas for most of it. We didn’t leave his house once. I’m pretty sure all I ate were four s’mores-flavored Pop-Tarts. We watched Battlestar Galactica, Firefly, The Office, Arrested Development, and The 40-Year Old Virgin. I got to meet some of his friends, who were delightful. I acted cordially toward Brian, attempting to veil my residual anger. I cuddled with him on the couch and attempted to will all previous undesirable conversations out of my memory.

I could tell you about the pretty things that happened while I was there. How when we went to the bookstore, I laughed when Brian gravitated toward the Military History section. About all the ways we applied the phrase, “That’s what she said.” How words like “shiny”, “gorram” and “frak” entered my vernacular (if only temporarily). How he accidentally head-butted me in the nose, making me cry for an entirely different reason than usual. How I had the combination of Frosted Flakes with milk, and it was delicious sugar heaven.

I could tell you that Brian drank water out of a special backpack the entire time I was there, and I made fun of it mercilessly. Or how he taught me to play a video game called "Portal". How we watched two Indiana Jones movies with his friends. Or about how I jumped barefoot in puddles on concrete in a blue dress as his friend used my camera to photograph the orange sky after a rainstorm.

But in retrospect, none of that seems to matter. I guess the negative outweighed the positive.

During that storm, I thought to myself that everything would be okay. That’s what rain always means to me. I took it as a sign that the rest of the trip would go smoothly. I wish it had.

Sunday night, we lay in bed cuddling. He faced away from me and said he had an answer for me. I immediately knew what he was referring to. He told me he thinks of me as a friend. A very good friend.

I didn’t cry. It didn’t seem worth it to get upset. I just inhaled deeply a few times. And I thanked him for giving me an answer.

“Thanks for playing.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”

“No,” I replied carefully. “It’s not meant to be harsh. It’s more like, ‘We didn’t work out. Oh well. Better luck next time.”

The truth is, I didn’t much care if it was harsh. I hadn’t intended it that way, but he hurt me. And in that moment, if I stung him, I felt he deserved it.

“What changed your mind?” I asked it calmly. It was more out of curiousity than anything else.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you loved me, and now you don’t.”

“I’ve changed a lot in the past few months. I want different things now... You’ve changed, too, you know. In good ways.”

His back was facing me. Otherwise, I would've wanted to punch him or slap him or something. If I’ve changed in good ways, shouldn’t he just want me more?

“Did you know before I got here? Would you have known if I hadn’t come?”

“No. I didn’t know.”

“Then… I guess I’m glad I came.”

I said it calmly and quietly. And in the moment, I meant it. Better to end things now than to wait and let them get more complicated.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight. I didn’t try to change his mind. I know better than that. When things are ending, you just have to let them end. There’s no sense in not accepting it. I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t want to be in a relationship with me.

I’m not sure why I was so patient and subdued. Maybe I was in shock.

I found myself saying things that I didn't whole-heartedly stand behind. Downplaying my excitement about grad school and exaggerating my fears about it. I think it's because I know how proud Brian is of me for going. And I didn't want him to be proud of me. His encouragements pained me almost as though going to grad school were some sort of consolation prize in light of him not wanting me. I think I wanted to hurt him. I think I wanted to ruin whatever image of me he once placed on a pedestal. Some part of me thought that it would make things easier. It didn't.

Freud said that we don't fall in love with an actual person; we fall in love with the projection of our own desires. Brian talks so much about passion being important to him, but he hasn't yet found a path in life that he's passionate about (well, maybe he has now with his new goal of being an optometrist... who knows). I think the thing that drew Brian to me was that I had already found that thing for myself. Something that I am wildly connected to and willing to fight for. He mentally defines me by the love I have for acting. I guess I wanted to take that part of me away from him.

We held hands as we fell asleep. I woke up with his arms around me. And I just laid there for an hour or so, not wanting to move him. Eventually, my skin felt like ants were crawling all over it. It was like he was contagious (huh... he probably literally was), and I urgently needed to get away from him. I got up and washed my face, in order to give my sudden stirring some sort of excuse.

Monday was… weird. I physically attacked him a few times. I meant it in a playful sense, but I actually hurt him. I guess it was because my subconscious wanted to cause him pain.

We watched some television. It seemed to be the only way to exist in the same place and not let things get too awkward. But it sucked. Every so often, I’d catch myself staring at him adoringly, and then remember that I shouldn’t do that anymore. I have to stop thinking he’s great. I have to stop caring about him. Because if I don’t, it’ll only make things worse for me.

I did something that I know confused him. He gave me a rare CD upon my arrival. A demo of his favorite band, Platinum Weird (headed by his favorite artist and writer, Kara DioGuardi, whom he mentioned in his interview). Before I left, I uploaded it onto my computer, and then I left it there. He tried to give it to me again, upset by the fact that I wouldn't take it. But I couldn't take it. I knew that if I had it, it would just make me think of him. Too painful to keep, but too precious to destroy or give away. I couldn't take it. Having it in my apartment would've just caused me to cry more.

As I was packing up, I told him that this trip was the first time that I’ve gone someplace alone, where I wasn’t going to or from my family.

“And how was it?” The way he asked made me think of a bed and breakfast owner wanting me to rate my stay.

“My feelings are mixed," I said, before hugging him. "I'm not gonna lie."

He dropped me off at the airport entirely too early. (In fact, I composed the majority of this post at the airport, making it difficult for me to remember to put anything in past tense.) As we parted ways, I hugged him.

“Thanks for coming to visit.”

“Thanks for having me.”

“I’m really glad you came.”

I let that one hang in the air.

“Have a good flight.”

“Thanks. I hate-love-hate you.”

“Um. Okay. I’m not sure what that means.”

“Neither do I.”

“Write me a letter or two while I’m in the desert? Even if it’s just to say that you’re enjoying Battlestar Galactica.”

“I will. After all, I love-hate-love you.”

And that was that.

Weeks ago, we were talking on the phone, and I mentioned my fear: that I would go to visit, and we’d realize that whatever connection we had only worked over the phone. That be being away from each other, we were filling in the missing information with things we liked. That we had built each other up to be more than we were. And that this visit would somehow make us fall apart.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said. And I trusted him. I guess I shouldn’t have.

All those times when he said I didn’t have to worry that I might do something wrong that would make him stop loving me… I believed him.

And look at the result. He doesn’t love me. Brian doesn’t love me anymore. And I can’t help but think that if even Brian can stop loving me that suddenly, that anyone would. I will never find anyone to love me. Because Brian did. And then he didn’t.

He has said in the past that the more he learned about me, the more he loved me. Even if I told him something less than positive or flattering, it made him adore me more because I had chosen to share it with him. Clearly, that didn't end up being the case at all.

I trusted him. I believed him. I’ve never put as much faith in another person as I have with Brian. I opened up with him. I told him things that I would never tell anyone else. And now I feel betrayed. And broken.

I’m not in any sort of relationship now. Not even a metaphysical one. And I’m not going to be over it for awhile.

There's always a level of disappointment when the potential you saw in something didn't pan out. I think that's especially true when it comes to dating. But this is different than my other experiences.

I’m wounded.

Not in the way I was when I broke up with my first ex. I was the one who ended things. I was in control. And although the process was painful, I felt free when it was over.

I’m numb.

Not in the way I was after my second ex. He broke up with me, but my heart was never really in it. With him, I just didn't care.

I’m single.

But this time is different. This time, I’m really hurting. A week ago I was writing everything I loved about him, and now I’m writing about how he ended things. It seems… wrong.

How can I be this hurt when he was never technically my boyfriend to begin with? And if we were never dating, as he claims, then why do I feel like I’ve been dumped? And why, oh why, does it hurt this much? He may have been a metaphysical boyfriend, but my pain sure doesn’t feel metaphysical.

I don't know why I should be surprised. It should've occurred to me that, sooner or later, he'd realize that he deserves better than me.

I guess this is what I get for not keeping him labeled "As Good As Gay".

I never thought I'd cry over a break-up. I made a deal with myself long ago that I would just say "Thanks for playing" and move on. But it doesn't feel that simple this time.

I didn’t cry in front of him, of course. But I did cry. At the airport as I typed. On the plane, after I realized my phone had fallen out of my pocket. At the lost and found desk at the other airport as airline employees tried to track down my phone (prompting one of the employees to tell me, "he's not worth it, Sugar. It's his loss."). On the L, as I tried to read through my tears. In my apartment as I checked my email. I’ve never cried this much as a result of a guy before. Ever. And I hate it.

I kept it together at work today. My sadness is beginning to turn into anger. I have an urge to shave my head, doing away with the hair that Brian loves so much. And maybe to eat my weight in pancakes and turn my body into an unrecognizable blob so he can't lie anymore and tell me he thinks I'm beautiful. But I'm not quite irrational enough to ignore that these actions would hurt me more than him.

I felt like our complicated relationship was helping me grow. But the way things ended, I wonder if I'll regress. I no longer trust anything he said to me. All the compliments he'd convinced me to believe. My self-esteem continues to plummet with each additional moment I spend thinking about this. If Brian doesn't want me... BRIAN... Brian who cared so much about me... Brian who told me he couldn't stop thinking about me... Brian who said he loved me... Maybe there's no hope.

I just wish... I wish I could understand. I wish I knew what happened. And I wish I didn't feel so stupid for falling for a guy who clearly couldn't care less about me.

I feel weak. I feel pathetic. I feel alone. I feel worthless. I feel discarded. I feel unloved. I feel miserable.

Is this what it means to be heart-broken?

I can’t tell.

All I know right now is that my heart is still beating.

And at the moment, that’s all that matters.


May your broken heart keep beating,

~A~





P.S. Brian answered half of the interview Sunday. He finished typing his responses Monday, as I lay next to him on the bed. He read all the answers aloud. And I felt vaguely violated by the fact that I was allowing him to take over my blog, especially under the given circumstances. But it felt wrong to not go through with it. I doubt that I’ll ever let someone guest blog again.

P.P.S. I actually felt guilty writing this, because I don’t want him to read this and feel badly for what happened. That’s how much I care about him. I’m the opposite of vengeful. I warned him that I'd be writing a post about this. And that it would probably be bitter. And that he might not want to read it. Part of me hopes he doesn't. Another part of me wants to obsessive-compulsively check my statcounter until he does. Maybe things will be easier to express through the written word than the spoken one.


P.P.P.S. The conversations I included in this are recited from a memory that may have been clouded by emotions. Therefore, I cannot speak to how accurate they are. In my head they’re pretty close to what transpired.

Callback to a Wedding

I feel like my blog posts have been very list-heavy lately. Mostly because I've been chronicling my life through them more than I used to. I've started considering trying to force myself into the form of shorter, more frequent posts. Even just experimentally. Just to see if I could. Anyway, there is a poll on the upper-right column of the blog that will be up for a week. Please add in your two cents (it's anonymous).

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On Friday morning, I had a text message on my phone. It came from Ex #1. He sent it at 4:18am.

"I am drunk. And Waiting on a World to Change is playing. Thinking of you."

My thoughts:
1. A drunk text? Really? NOW? I FINALLY talked with him after a 10-month hiatus, and now suddenly he's open and communicative and texting while drunk? WTF?
2. Why was he still out drinking at 4:18am on a school night? (He's in grad school)
3. That's not the name of the song. It's Waiting on THE World to Change.
4. There is NO reason that he should think of me because of that song. No correlation between me and John Mayer whatsoever. And didn't that song get popular AFTER we'd broken up? WTF?
5. I'm not thrilled that he gets drunk and thinks of me.

I think I liked him better silent.


In contrast... Around 7:00pm, as I was walking out the door, I got a delivery. I bouquet of roses. I didn't have to read the card to know they were from Brian.

I've never been to any acting school... but this is my spin on improv, Sunshine.

He's pretty great, right?

I put the flowers in a vase and headed out to my "third callback" for Tony n' Tina's Wedding.

(Note: No idea why they call it a third callback. First of all, I've only had one previous callback, so if anything this should be the second. Next, it wasn't a callback at all. It was just an opportunity to see the show.)

I ran through a torrential storm on my way there, blinking as I was temporarily blinded by lightning that erupted from the sky in large flashing panels. By the time I arrived, my wet dress clung to my legs, my makeup had streamed down my face, and my hair -- which previously had looked phenomenal -- resembled a dead animal. Despite this, I was comforted by the fact that it was raining (as is my habit... see A Little Water Clears Us). I knew that things would be alright.

I sat down next to the other people who had been called back during the pre-show. Dan, Mel, and Leticia. We compared stories about our callbacks (none of our partners made it on to this round). Dan's partner sounded great, Leticia's mediocre, and Mel's was about as unclear on the instructions as mine was.

(Example: They had the same "stuck in a box" scenario, where one person wants to stay in and the other wants to get out. So Mel started off as the desperate one trying to get out of the box, but then her partner started doing the exact same thing. So Mel switched and started acting like she wanted to stay in the box, but then her partner started agreeing with the points she made then as well. So there was no conflict whatsoever.)

The show really begins in the half hour before curtain, during the pre-show. There's a group of people called "Black Staff" (named as such because the reception hall is owned by a man named Vinnie Black) who are in training to be lead characters, and they did a great job of starting the comedy early. Plus, I had a whole conversation with "Tony's Grandmother", who started telling me that he went out to Vegas for a bachelor party the night before, missing the rehearsal dinner, and she hoped he'd shave before the wedding.

The first part of the show is the wedding ceremony. It's in a little chapel, and you start getting a feel for the characters. There's Tina's gay brother, a pregnant bridesmaid, an over-zealous photographer, a singing nun, Tony's dad's hotsy-totsy girlfriend, and Tina's recently rehabbed ex-boyfriend, among others.

The best part of the show is the reception. You do all the normal wedding reception stuff (including the chicken dance), and the various characters all have things they do that are absolutely ridiculous. They also all come around and interact with the tables.

At this particular performance, there happened to be a large girl scout troup (middle schoolers) taking up half the room, which was very entertaining in and of itself.

I let my fellow callback buddies know that I have absolutely no problem whatsoever with getting out on the dance-floor and making a complete and total fool out of myself. Dan said he'd be completely willing to go with me, and so it began. We were dancing up a storm along with some people from the cast.

When I saw cast members trying to get the audience to dance, I figured I'd help out. So I started getting some of the girl scouts to dance with me. AWESOMELY FUN! Dude, do you know how much experience I have being the only person dancing and trying to persuade others to dance with me? A TON. And do you know what my success rate is? Not great. But at this show, when you try to get people to dance, THEY DANCE! They realize that by participating they're getting more out of the experience, so they comply!

At one point, one of the bridesmaids (Donna, the attention whore one) started dancing with Dan. So I accused her of trying to steal my man, and then went and started dancing with her "boyfriend" (Dominic, who was played by the guy who I think was hitting on me at my first callback). Then she came over and tried to start a fight with me. It was HILARIOUS! LOVED IT! Later in the show, Donna got up on stage, pointed at me, and said "This song is for you." She then proceeded to sing "Hit Me with Your Best Shot". It pretty much made my day. Awesome.

At the end of the show, the four of us callback people were instructed to stay and talk with the stage manager (whom I had met the previous weekend). She started talking shop with us, explaining the ins and outs of the show. Apparently, when you work on the production, they give you a book explaining all the crazy details of backstories and relationships between the characters. They talk about Tina's crazy aunt and Tony's brother, neither of whom are in the show. They mention who was the confirmation sponsor of whom, and which characters got in a fight in the second grade. Anything and everything you might want to know, which gives the actors more to riff on in collaborative improving. It's really fascinating.

She said that by the sheer fact that we've gotten to this point, we should know that they think we're talented. But getting this far DOES NOT guarantee that we'll be in the show.

The reason that we were asked to see the show is that it's not for everyone. Having to do the chicken dance 5 times a week, eating the same food over and over again... it can be rough if you're not made for it. She said that we should think about it for a day or two, and that if we were still interested, that we should call her and then she'd let the director know.

So I called her the next day. I told her I'm still interested. *fingers crossed*

Of course, the whole thing with me going to grad school in a few months could be a problem, so they might not cast me at all. The stage manager knows I'm going "in the fall". She doesn't know that I'm planning to move in the beginning of August. And if they ask me to disclose that information... Well, they might not to invest that much time and money training me to be there for such a short period of time.

And getting cast might screw up trip my to Nebraska to see Brian next month. But I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

In the meantime, I'm hoping to get this show. I really do think it'd be fun. I don't mind being "Black Staff" for 3-5 weeks, as even they seemed like they were having a good time. And it would be good to get that improv experience under my belt. And dude, I'm totally willing to shake my bum on that reception dance floor five times a week. No problem. ;)

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In other news, Tipp from A[tipp]ical Thoughts has presented me with an award!


Eek! It's an honor just to be nominated!

So I'd like to spread this love to a couple of bloggers who have made my day.

- Kristen from This is the story of a girl..a complicated girl.
She recently referred to me as "a phenom of a blogger" (which was quickly added to my Compliments Book). It totally made my day. And she took me up on my Pay It Forward Challenge and held her own contest. You go, Kristen!

- Cheryl from Places Never Planned.
She also took up my Pay It Forward Challenge. Lately, she's been naming her posts in the style of Friends episodes, which is brilliant. And really, I just love her blog. Whenever it pops up on my Google Reader, I get so excited to read it. :) I really dig her style.

- Renee from A Beautiful Day in the Reneeborhood.
She says I inspired her to blog, and I'm so glad! She's a born writer. And has great taste in formal wear. ;)

Spread the love, ladies!



May you make someone's day today.

~A~

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~

A Little Water Clears Us

I don’t cry very often. When I do cry, it’s an event. It’s intense. And it doesn’t leave my body for several hours. I might revert to a puddle without much warning.

My mother, a nurse, often reminds me that there is a correlation between crying and stress. There are proteins (or hormones? Can’t remember…) found in tears that build up within the body during periods of emotional stress. So when you cry, you’re basically releasing stress in liquid form. She says that the old adage, “have a good cry; you’ll feel better” is therefore scientific fact. I have a tendency to believe her.

In the movie Broadcast News, Holly Hunter’s character takes her phone off the hook for a few minutes each day and cries. I knew one person who cried in the shower. I have a history of crying as I pray. I think that tears are an important part of life. In fact, I wish I cried a little more often than I do. It reminds you that pain is real. It proves that you’re alive. It helps you to remember that things are going to get better, because eventually, you will stop crying. No one cries forever. To quote Regina Spektor, “people’s children die and they don’t even cry forever.” (Note: that’s from her song “Rejazz", which is an excellent break-up song, should you ever need one.) And, perhaps most importantly, it releases those hormones before they build up and cause physical pain (yes, that can actually happen).

I cried in June, while at a bar and intoxicated, because a guy stepped on my foot. Please note: I’m not pathetic. My feet had been through the ringer that day. I spent the whole morning and afternoon walking around the city in some horrible shoes. I went out and bought flip-flops to give my feet some relief. And then my foot had gotten caught underneath a revolving door, which was just as painful as it sounds. All this happened just a few hours before the drunken guy put all of his weight on my foot (which, I remind you, was in a flip-flop). And I’d been drinking. Additionally, this was about a week after my break-up, which was probably the real reason I was crying.

Before that, I don’t think I’d cried since the first week of March, when I had a complete breakdown and started yelling at my roommates. I’d been trying my best not to explode during February (as that month is always disaster and depression for me), and as a result I held some emotions in for longer than I should have. Turns out, my frustrations were not things I could just chalk up to my annual unhappiness.

I cried Sunday night. More than once, which is usually the case with me when I cry. I was in a discussion with a friend, and I spilled out onto the floor like a bag of marbles. I’m not even entirely positive as to what triggered it. I guess he said something that I knew was right, although I can’t remember now what that was. I just remember needing a hug. So I took the L over to the abode of the fellow I’m seeing. I showed up at his door, he let me in, and I promptly ensnared him in what I’m sure he realized was a vital hug. He obliged, and held me for as long as I needed (thank God… I hate it when you need a hug and the person hugging you starts patting you on the back – which is a subconscious sign that they don’t want to be hugging you – or tries to do that tight-squeeze-and-release thing to try to get you to let go). We then sat down on a bench on his portico, and he let me cry it out for awhile (which was crucial, as I couldn’t put my thoughts together at that moment anyway) before getting me to talk about what was wrong. After venting for a bit and finding myself unable to hit the root of the problem, I ended up clenched in the fetal position on his couch, trying to shake a migraine and feeling entirely vulnerable.

It was a night when I needed to cry. I’m not sure why… I think it was just the right time. Something set me off, and then I was a drainpipe, a sprinkler, a fountain, or some other plumbing contraption… Maybe it was something more severe than that. Harder to turn off… A typhoon, perhaps.

Here’s something weird: even while I was crying I was judging myself. Do other people do that? I was acutely aware of the fact that I looked a wreck while sobbing uncontrollably. I realized that there was no good reason for me to be hysterically weeping, and I felt pathetic for not being able to explain myself. And I kept thinking that the way I cry is embarrassing, and that I should try to come up with a new way (much as I have done with my laughter… I have about eight laughs, and I’m not happy with any of them… there’s a cackle, a squeak, a guffaw… none of them satisfying). The kicker to this, of course, is that the whole reason I began to blubber had something to do with a friend pointing out my lack of self-esteem and the general negativity I have attached to my self-image.

My friend theorizes that this is why I have difficulty taking compliments. It’s because I don’t love myself enough, and I don’t think that the positive things people say could possibly apply to me. The fellow I’m seeing, on the other hand, thinks I have trouble with compliments because I have trust issues. It’s probably some combination of both. And apparently, this topic of conversation is enough to cause me to be a sniveling, whimpering mess.

I like to think that I’m a pretty up-beat person (although I’m not sure you’d get a sense of that from my writing, as I use it as a method of venting). At work, my nickname is “Sunshine”, because they think I’m always cheery and energetic. I rather like that. I try to bring lightness to my workplace. Yesterday, I brought in cinnamon rolls, cookies, and some candy to try to lighten up a manic Monday. It was relatively successful. I keep a list of all the funny quotations I hear around my department and e-mail it out every couple of months when people seem down (a recent favorite was a conversation in which a coworker tried to convince me that someone’s brother was named “Danish”). I used to take a “dance break” at 3:37pm every day (actually, it was sometime between 3:30 and 4:15, but it became known as “the 3:37 dance break”). I put on a piece of music like “Do Your Thing”, and would dance around for one minute, and then go back to work. I mostly did it for the morale of my coworkers, so when one of them complained, I stopped (luckily, she just got a new job in another department and will be leaving at the end of the week, so my dance party can resume at its usual time and place. Woo-hoo).

Sometimes, I’m downright goofy. I like that side of myself (not as much as Story-Mode, but it’s still good). I have fun when I go to Meijer to ride the mechanical ponies or vibrating purple dinosaur. I always enjoyed singing along to Oldies radio at the top of my lungs with all the windows down in my mini-van. I like dancing while waiting in line at the post office. I like giving people stage kisses (the kind of kiss where your hand is in the way, so that you’re not actually kissing the other person) in the middle of the mall. I like playing “Never Have I Ever” in situations where it doesn’t seem appropriate (and I almost always win – or lose, depending on how you look at it – because I’ve never done anything. In fact, I just had a “Diet” soda-pop for the first time in my life on Saturday… Diet gingerale. It was part of a mixed drink, and purely unintentional on my part, but it happened. *sigh* At least I can still say, “Never have I ever had Diet Cola”).

I don’t do the “goofy” thing as much in Chicago as I do in Michigan. It was a little depressing to acknowledge that yesterday. Maybe I’m not as happy here as I should be. Maybe I’m not as comfortable being myself. But then, half the time I’m not even sure who the *bleep* I am anyway.

I wish it would rain. There has been some wicked rain here this summer, which I have delighted in. I put on my puddle-jumping shoes and a smile (ah, a brief return of silly, goofy me). I love rain. Somehow, rain makes me feel relieved. It reaffirms my faith. God is washing away all the problems and making everything clean, bright, and ready to grow. It reminds me that everything is going to be alright. God has a plan, and he’s not going to send me anything that I can’t handle.

Rain often seems to come when I need it the most, as if God is reaching out to comfort me. Once, as I was walking out of a disappointing audition, it started to rain. I walked for about half a mile, thinking about what had just happened. I realized that it didn’t matter. I knew somehow that it was for the best. I turned my face to the sky and said, “It’s alright, God. I understand. I don’t need the rain anymore.” I swear to you, the rain stopped instantly, just as quickly as it had started. I started to laugh. I laughed until I could taste my tears. (In case you wondered, I was cast in that show in a role I’d never pictured myself in. It turned out to be a perfect fit.)

Unfortunately, it isn’t supposed to rain this week. As much as I would like to be drenched by it, I might not even get a drizzle. I’ll probably be fine without it. Then again, it’s Chicago, so who knows?

It just occurred to me how strange it is that someone called “Sunshine” should be so in love with the rain…

May you learn that tears and rain are signs that laughter and sunshine are ahead.

Much love,

~A~

P.S. The title is taken from a line from The Tragedy of Macbeth ("a little water clears us of this deed" ~ Lady M), in case any of my fellow Shakespeare geeks are reading.