The World Spins Madly On

Whenever I sit down to write for this thing, I feel like I’m typing the script to one of those vaguely insightful (and undeniably cheesy) voiceovers you hear at the ends of television episodes. I invoke Meredith Grey, J.D. Dorian, and Carrie Bradshaw, and they all spill out onto my keyboard in a gooey amalgam of thoughts that, I’m pretty sure, are supposed to have a point (although I can never discern exactly what that’s supposed to be). I don’t gather all the loose thoughts together and thread a ribbon around the one life lesson that you didn’t realize was connecting the seemingly disparate notes, but I feel as though there is some hidden bit of wisdom that people might be able to decipher amidst my incoherent babbling that might somehow better their situations. That’s how pretentious and self-important I feel right now. My inner-monologue is interesting enough that it should be documented, darn it.

Then I feel immediately guilty and self-absorbed. The world does not, in fact, revolve around me (thanks, Galileo). I should be writing about the starving children in Africa (or any continent, really), how to get conflict-free diamonds (my 20-year-old single brother has decided that whatever woman he proposes to will not be getting a traditional rock. I think the movie Blood Diamond really got to him), or the situation in Darfur (which I know shamefully little about… I couldn’t point out Darfur on a map… Then again, I also couldn’t point out Wyoming on a map. Luckily, I don’t believe that Wyoming exists. The four people who claim to be from there are just conspirators trying to take over part of South Dakota and secede under the guise that no one cares about them and their counterfeit state anyway. Honestly, would you miss it? I didn’t think so).

I need to focus on something outside myself. Something topical… Let’s see… I don’t believe Fidel Castro is dead any more than I believe Tupac is dead (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Witness Protection Program. How else would they keep finding “unreleased” material of his that happens to be relevant? I rest my case). I think the facts in the Jena 6 case are being twisted around to a ridiculous degree, and the situation is no longer recognizable as the one I began reading about weeks ago (before it was trendy to support them). I think that all young women should get the HPV vaccine, especially now that it has been shown to block 10 other strains of viruses that it was not initially marketed for (they should get it even if they’re not sexually active, because it’s always better to be prepared. Besides, you can’t put a price on cheating death).

And now for something I know a little more about…

I’m thrilled that Salma Hayek named her daughter “Valentina Paloma” instead of “Belladonna Robot-Guru” or some other such tasteless, ill-advised celeb-baby abomination. I’m ecstatic that Noel Gallagher was bluffing when he said his child might be named “Gilly, “Chutney”, or “Gizmo”, and actually went with “Donovan Rory” (which I don’t give a full thumbs-up to, but it’s definitely the least of those potential evils). I pray for the unborn child of Nicole Ritchie (please, Lord, don’t let her name it after snack food), and I look forward to the child of Isla Fisher (I have this feeling that she’ll go with something classy… Of course, she’s engaged to Sascha Baron Cohen, so I suppose I shouldn’t become too comfortable with that thought. She might very well have a son named “Junius Supercilious Thorax Fisher-Cohen” before the year is through).

I don’t understand recent naming trends. If you are naming your child after a medieval profession, a band, or something found on a spice rack, let me buy you a baby name book. There are plenty of unusual names out there that are actual established names (Evander & Beatrix, for example, neither of which has been among the top 1000 baby names used in the USA within the last century) and not something that you concocted by spelling something nice backwards. (Note: “Nevaeh” was among the top 100 names used for baby girls in the USA in 2006. And here I have been under the impression that spelling something in reverse made it Satanic.)

Naming your child after the place of his/her conception will only serve as a perpetual reminder to an adolescent mind that “mommy & daddy had sex” (and no one wants to think about that, especially during their formative years). Misspelling a child’s name will only lead to everyone else in the world needing to be corrected when they assume that the traditional spelling is the proper one, and they will therefore decide that you are a linguistically-challenged half-wit for being unable to recognize that the generally accepted spelling was the better choice (to quote myself, Immylea is not a name. Immylea is what you get when the Scrabble bag spills onto the floor. By the way, there are parents out there who think that the aforementioned stew of letters should be pronounced “Emily,” and it’s probably not a good sign if you figured that out on your own). There is no reason for an apostrophe, hyphen, ampersand, number, tilde, or Sanskrit character to appear in a name. Naming your child “Beyoncé”, “Kanye”, or “Aaliyah” will not make them talented. Using names like “Ferrari”, “Diamond”, or “Doctor” will not make your offspring wealthy enough to care for you when the child-support from your baby-daddy runs out.

And what is it with people naming their daughters male names? Michelle Branch named her daughter Owen. Brooke Shields named one of her daughter Rowan (the other is Greer Hammond, which I am as likely to associate with a little girl as I am to associate Spam with a black tie dinner). One of Charlie Sheen & Denise Richards’ progeny is a little girl named Sam (not Samantha… just Sam. Their younger daughter was given the hyper-feminine moniker Lola, leading me to believe that they saw the error of their ways and decided to improve the second time around). The number one fastest rising female name in the USA in 2005 was “Emerson” (which translates to “son of Emery”). The third most popular female name in the country for the last two years has been Madison (“son of Maud”). Names like Ryan, Kyle, and Elliot (blame Scrubs for that last one) are being used on girls at increasing rate. I’ve even spotted girls named Scott, Michael, and Harvey (Harvey-Anne, actually. It’s so much more “femynyn” that way). It’s just wrong.

I think the idea behind it is that they’re somehow fighting gender stereotypes, and that any name that a male can have, a female should be able to have as well. If anything, I think that perpetuates gender inequality, because unless they plan to name their sons Genevieve and Isabelle (or at least try to reclaim names like Ashley, Kelly, and Dana, which have already gone to the girls), what they’re really saying is that female names aren’t as good as male ones. Some people say that giving a child a gender-neutral name will somehow better prepare them for adulthood. I whole-heartedly disagree with that. Unless your child has some sort of hormonal disorder that gives them ambiguous secondary sex characteristics (just like the character “Pat” from Saturday Night Live), all you’ve prepared them for is a lifetime of explaining that “No, I’m a male/female, yes, that is my name, and no, it’s not a mistake.” It’s a horrible idea. Using a boy’s name on a girl doesn’t make it a girl’s name any more than putting a squid on your head makes it a hat.

If you have any friends who are pregnant or adopting and considering something revolting, worrisome, or even questionable for their child, by all means send them my way and give me a crack at talking them out of it.

I pay more attention than I’d like to admit to non-baby related celebrity gossip as well. I hate that I waste precious morsels of time reading it. Many days, I find I don’t even know who the celebrities are I’m reading about or why they’re famous (who the hell is Kim Kardashian?), but I read on. I continue to stock up on my pop culture knowledge because I’m convinced that it will, at some point, come in handy. Also, it’s nice to read about people who are even more hopelessly flawed than I deem myself to be. I may have self-esteem issues, but not like Britney Spears. I might have problems in my professional life, but not like Lindsay Lohan. There may be some bits of my past I’d like to erase, but at least there’s no incriminating footage of me in flagrante delicto.

What inspires people to tape themselves having sex? Is it just a high-powered form of the exhibitionistic streak that makes people go into intense public displays of affection (not the sort that made the half-joking phrase “get a room” popular, but more the type that make you seriously wonder how much longer they’ll remain vertical and/or clothed)? Do they really plan to watch it? Will they just watch it one obligatory time before leaving it to reside on the shelf, collecting dust (and being careful not to accidentally return it to the video store in the wrong case)? Do they really think no one will ever find it? They’re wrong. It WILL be found. Definitely. Probably by their eight-year-old son, who will then have to be in expensive psychotherapy sessions for the rest of his life because his first orientation to the BDSM community was witnessing Mommy and Daddy experimenting with whips and tethers (BDSM, for those of you who are too innocent to know, is an acronym that represents three terms for types of sexual behavior: B&D - Bondage & Discipline, D&S - Domination & Submission, S&M -Sadism & Masochism. You should be at least a small bit embarrassed that you learned that from me, due to the naïveté that I grazed over in my last entry).

Sometimes I wonder if I’m an exhibitionist or a voyeur. I don’t mean either of these terms in their sexual capacities, but rather as applied to daily life. I can’t decide whether I’d rather see or be seen. Both appeal to me for different reasons. When I’m having conversations in public places, I always wonder if other people are eavesdropping, trying to turn my life into their own personal version of “The Truman Show”. I want to be watched (I am, after all, a performer by trade). I want every set of eyes to follow me as I go past. I won’t go out of my way to attract attention, but I desire it. It’s like my heroin. My anti-drug, if you will.

There are other occasions in which I am a watcher. I sit quietly and observe the world. I become invisible, and contemplate whether I should use my power for good or evil.

In Rome, when you walk down the street, you make eye contact with people. Staring is completely socially acceptable. You could be waiting for a bus, completely ogling someone, and not feel that you have to hide it at all. It’s liberating. Every once in awhile, I attempt to pull off this feat in Chicago. I’ll catch a woman’s gaze while walking down the street and stay locked on her for a moment longer than I should. I’ll fix my eyes upon a man unapologetically from across an L platform. I gauge their reactions. It’s a bit of a social experiment, really. I want to see how much it takes to make someone begin to appear slightly uncomfortable. And then I wonder why.

If you are interested in performing a social experiment of your own, you have an excellent opportunity whenever you board an elevator. All you have to do is face a direction that isn’t toward the doors. It makes people uneasy for some reason. Why should everyone face each other’s backs, all in the name of conformity? I find it much more interesting to face the center. It’s better for people-watching.

The best time to be a voyeur is on public transportation. There is a beautiful cross-section of society there… Annoying groups of teenagers who see no problem with the obscene volumes to which they raise their voices while using phrases such as, “Girl, you don’t even KNOW,” in earnest. Business people who are so well-clad that you wonder why they chose to board the unreliable cesspool called “the L” instead of driving their Mercedes to work in the first place. Shabby looking folks that you’d never dare sit next to for fear of catching the bubonic plague (or possibly being pick-pocketed, propositioned, or drooled on). Young women striking poses while trying to appear casual, luring potential mates for the express purpose of being able to turn them down (I imagine they feed on doling out rejections as though it’s a sadistic, supernatural power-source that you might find in a Joss Whedon creation). Drunken middle-aged men, presumably on their way home from viewing sporting events on television at pubs across the street from the venues at which they’re actually being played, who have no qualms about adjusting their position to leer at a young lady in a low-cut top (a mistake I made last week).

I am suddenly reminded of an Eleanor Roosevelt quotation (forgive me if I paraphrase): Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people.

I believe I discuss all of the above. In fact, I believe I’ve done so in this blog entry (which is why I chose to quote Eleanor Roosevelt in the first place). I wonder what that says about me. Unless my brain grows and shrinks rapidly several times an hour, I haven’t a clue. And frankly, with all due respect to Mrs. Roosevelt, I think she was wrong.

May you take the time to discuss things outside of yourself, if only sporadically.

Much love,

~A~

(P.S. The title of this entry was stolen from the title of a song by The Weepies. You should check them out.)

Someone Else's Clothes

I haven’t worn a swimsuit in public since 2003. It was on a trip to a beach in Italy, while I was studying abroad. It was a one-piece, and I wore a skort over it (for any males reading this, shorts + skirt = skort. Basically, it’s a skirt with a leg divider built in. It’s the clothing equivalent to a spork). Before that, it had been a couple of years since I’d put on that swimsuit. I don’t even have it anymore. It’s not like I need it.

I’m just not very comfortable with my body. People keep saying that Britney Spears looked appallingly bad at the VMAs this year. I keep thinking, “Her body is more toned than mine. My God, what would they say about me if I wore a bikini?” That’s why I’ve never owned a bikini. I don’t want to be judged the way people who wear bikinis are judged. I’d rather just avoid the scrutiny altogether.

Another reason that I won’t be wearing a bathing suit any time soon is that I’m at an awkward weight right now. I’ve been wearing skirts and dresses a lot lately. This has nothing to do with wanting to dress up. My pants are tighter than they used to be. There have been a few days recently when I’ve tried on more than one pair of slacks before leaving for work in the morning, only to discover that they’re all uncomfortable. I don’t want to spend money to buy more pants, and I don’t feel like actively trying to change my weight. Therefore, I’m going to stick with empire-waist dresses and elastic-waist skirts. I also bought a shirt last week that’s two sizes larger than I normally wear from that store. That was a bit shocking. But I’d rather wear a shirt that fits than one that has the tag-marking I’m used to. After all, no one sees the size. They just see the shirt.

My weight fluctuates a great deal. I go through phases in which my pants are falling down and I have to resort to skirts for an entirely different reason. Most of my youth I was underweight (I remember calling up a friend to excitedly announce that I had finally hit 100 pounds about a month before I graduated from high school. Note: I’m about 5’6”). I didn’t start putting on meat until I got to college (and now I’ve been safely over 100 pounds for quite some time. I’ve been very far over that at points. I doubt it physically possible that I could ever be that low again, which I consider to be a good thing. I looked like an Auschwitz victim). These days, I yo-yo a bit, which I’ve grown accustomed to. Since I’m not willing to change my eating habits (mostly junk, and about 70% carbs) or my exercise habits (sedentary unless movement required and very against working out and/or running… In my mind, running is punishment for when you’ve done something wrong in gym class; it is not a pastime), I must accept that I have no say in what my weight will ultimately be. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from complaining any time I gain or lose more than I’d like. I’m very willing to whine about it.

My family thinks I complain too much. Not about weight, specifically. Just as a general statement.

I’m actually going to visit my family soon, which will be strange. They have recently moved from the house I grew up in to a house several states away. It’s incredibly odd to think that my family has moved without me. The house I’m going to see them in will never be my home (no matter how much my mother has tried to convince me otherwise). I was going through some strange abandonment issues because of the situation a few months ago. I think I’m over them, but we’ll see once I get to their house. I’m not imagining that it will be a fully comfortable experience.

I’m not even sure what I’m going to do once I’m there. Help them unpack, probably. I won’t be able to do the things I used to do when I visited them, such as hit up my old haunts and call up the friends I haven’t seen in ages. Aside from my family, I don’t know a soul in the whole state. My mother says she’s going to take me shopping for a Halloween costume. Maybe that’ll help pass the time.

I don’t have a good Halloween costume idea yet, although I have been trying my hardest. I’ve considered Alex Mack, Daria, and Beebe Bluff, among other options. For some reason, childhood memories seemed like a good inspiration this year. I was also considering being a competitor from Legends of the Hidden Temple, but after I suggested it to a friend, she quickly snatched up the idea and is now going as one half of The Red Jaguars, with another of our friends filling the spot of the other half. Drat.

Italians don’t celebrate Halloween, so when I studied abroad I was unable to dress in costume (we were in and out of museums that day… actually, that might have been the same day as the beach excursion… or I might just be lumping all my memories together). So my friends and I started deciding on what we could be without costumes (as Wednesday Addams explained in The Addams Family movie when she wore her standard ensemble on Halloween, “I’m a homicidal maniac. They look just like everyone else.”). Our costumes included Opus Dei member, pedophile, closet porn addict, Fascist, and other things that, for one reason or another, could be considered “scary.”

Halloween is my favorite holiday. I suppose that’s in part due to me being an actor (which is also why I love April Fools Day). It’s also because it’s great to be something you’re not. I’ve heard it said that we’re more honest when we’re wearing masks. I don’t know if that’s true. I just know it’s fun wearing someone else’s clothes.

I like having “clever” costumes, although I know that most people just roll their eyes at me. I have no desire to be something run-of-the-mill. I like the idea that when people tell their friends about the party the went to, the say “oh, and there was one chick dressed as _________.” It makes me feel a little bit special, which I like. Past costumes have included an alarm clock, a piece of gum, a magnet, a bag of jellybeans, a Macarena dancer, a rainbow, and a Von Trapp child.

I was talking to the fellow I’m seeing and his roommates about my possible costumes for this year. I found an adorable yellow and black dress while shopping the other day. I was considering wearing it with a pair of wings, a wizard’s hat, and a wand, and going as a Spelling Bee. I asked for their opinions. One of them turned to me and said, “Depends. How hot is the dress?”

When I asked for other ideas of what I should be, I kept getting answers about sexy female movie characters (and mostly from movies I haven’t seen), such as the chick in Underworld. I’m not doing that. Sorry.

After a certain age, Halloween for females stops being about dressing up to be scary or goofy, and becomes about being unabashedly slutty. To quote the movie Mean Girls, “Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.” It’s true. It’s the day that women can dress up as scantily, skimpily, or skankily as they would like, and not have to defend it. It's a costume. It’s a character. It’s acceptable.

I hate that I am expected to wear something that makes me look attractive. What’s the point? I spend most other days trying to look more attractive than I am. It feels like Halloween should be an opportunity to do otherwise.

At the same time, if I don’t take advantage of this annual free-pass-skank-day, then I feel like I can’t compete with all the females who do. I feel as though I’ll be invisible in some way. And I will have wasted this chance to focus on being pretty/sexy/hot. It’s like wearing khakis and a cardigan to the prom. It might seem like you’re making a statement at the time, but wouldn’t you end up regretting it? Maybe I would be missing out on some essential part of my life as a young adult. It almost seems like a rite of passage. And I hate that men don’t have to deal with this. No one is disappointed if a normally attractive male shows up at a party dressed as something that doesn’t make him seem more desirable.

For the record, I am against costumes that have words like “sexy” in the title. Sexy Librarian. Naughty Nurse. Dirty Girl Scout. These aren’t Halloween costumes. These are prototypes of characters in soft-core porn. It just isn’t right.

I accidentally watched part of a soft-corn porn flick on television once a couple of years ago. I was flipping channels and saw that there was a Lord of the Rings parody on. I didn’t know at the time that Cinemax turns into a completely different kind of channel at night. I wasn’t expecting Lord of the G-Strings. I was on the phone with a friend at the time, and only semi-paying attention to the television, which I had put on mute. A few minutes later, I screamed in horror as I noticed what was playing in the background. I yelled “Oh my God! I’m watching porn!” My male friend laughed so hard that it’s amazing his lungs remained in his chest.

I’m a relatively naïve person when it comes to things like pornography. I led a pretty sheltered childhood. I wasn’t allowed to watch PG-13 movies until I was 17. I learned the word “flirting” when I was a freshman in high school (a senior boy had to sit me down and explain it to me). I didn’t know what the other “f-word” meant until my senior year. Boys were never interested in me, so I didn’t know anything about the rituals of dating until college. Things were always going on around me that I was completely oblivious to, such as drug use, sex, and the like.

I’m not particularly bothered by my innocent nature. There are many things that I have not done, and I’m alright with that. The way I look at it, I’ve been like a Barbie doll, still in the box. At times, yes, it feels like I’m suffocating inside a plastic tomb and I wish someone would just take me out of my prison and play with me. But Barbie is far more valuable while she’s still in the box, in mint condition. She’s rare and desirable. I think I’d regret it if I were to rip the cardboard cage to shreds. I don’t plan to stay trapped in the box forever, but for now it feels like the right place to be. I’m happy, healthy, and safe from a world of things that I’m not quite ready to deal with.

As I was writing that last paragraph, I started hating that I was saying it. I make it sound like I’m some sort of object. A used car, whose value will decrease with mileage. I don’t actually think that. I do have self-worth, despite my damaged self-image. It also made it sound like I’m depriving myself of things because I feel should. That’s not it at all. If I’m staying unacquainted with anything, it’s because I want to. If I felt forced, I’d fight against it. Maybe that’s part of the reason I don’t hop out of the box… Because everyone else does.

I’m anti-lemming. I will be whatever it is I want to be, and will ignore the social trends. Occasionally, I will fight against them simply because I feel that someone should. Like in 5th grade when my mother couldn’t convince me to wear jeans because “all the other kids wear jeans.” I spent most of that year wearing leggings as pants. And then I entered into an overalls phase. And from there went to capris, clam-diggers, pedal-pushers, and flood pants (this was before these styles came back into fashion… I was inspired by the movie Dirty Dancing, and suffered through an unfair amount of teasing for wearing pants that were “too short”). I refused to be a conformist. Of course, I wear jeans now… when they fit.

Maybe the way we dress in daily life is a costume of sorts. Do we choose what we wear so people will know who we are? We can project an image of what we want to be, or who we think we should be. The clothes we choose are a form of self-expression, after all (that’s why Barbie was popular in the first place… put on a different outfit, and she’s a whole new toy). Perhaps on occasion we hide behind it (I suppose that by being clothed at all, we are hiding our bodies, but I was speaking figuratively... as though every person has the ability to put on sheep's clothing and pretend to be something that isn't a wolf).

Perhaps that’s part of why I take off my pants when I get back to my apartment. I don’t have to worry about what image I’m projecting once I’m alone. I’m the only person who sees me in my underwear (well, one of my former roommates did on more than one occasion… like the night she came home when she was supposed to be out watching a movie. I was sprawled out on the couch wearing underwear and a sports bra that read, “I Support the Belles”, a reference to my college mascot. I thought someone was breaking into my apartment and was terrified that I was about to be attacked. And there I was, utterly defenseless, and barely clothed. This is why you should never watch Law & Order: SVU by yourself in the dark). I don’t have to worry about anyone judging me in my underwear, which is good, because my bra and undies never match. Ever. I have exactly one set of matching undergarments, and I never remember to wear both components on the same day. Why should I have to? As my mother always says, “No one will see, no one will know, no one will care.”

My word, this has been a disjointed blog entry. But I suppose that’s par for the course with me. I hope you didn’t hate it.

May you always be comfortable, no matter what you’re wearing.

~A~

Why We Want What We Want

At one point in my college career, I was a psychology major. It actually lasted for a couple of years (unlike most of my majors, which were crosswalks from one path to another... I funneled through them with great frequency). I often remember things I studied during that time and attempt to apply various theories to my life. To be honest, I do the same thing with what I learned in "Play Analysis for the Theatre" (I once came up with a very compelling and relatively accurate way of dissecting a friend's love life by comparing it to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?... Yes, his relationship was, and is, that bizarre).

One theory (it had some form of study to support it, but I can't for the life of me remember what that study was) stated that when you do something to help someone else, YOU end up liking THEM more. They don't suddenly appreciate you more and want to be around you more. Oh, no. That would be far too obvious. Instead, you gain a greater appreciation for them. Perhaps it's because doing something for someone else gives you a sense of accomplishment or validity that you associate with happiness, and then there's some sort of quasi-Pavlovian response that makes you want to feel that again. Or, to be terse, maybe people just want to feel needed. Anyway, a tip for all you guys and gals out there: if you want someone to like you, get them to do things for you that you can't do yourself (a friend of mine recently suggested that I ask others to put letters into envelopes for me, as obviously that's something that I struggle with... don't judge me).

I fall into the trap of helping others too much, and subsequently caring more for them than they do for me. I like to say that I have a Savior Complex. To be honest, I'm not certain that's what it's called. I might have named it after the Something Corporate song, "I Want to Save You" (while I was in Rome, I listened to that song every night before I went to bed... and usually cried). I constantly feel the need to "save" people. I surround myself with people who are screwed up, because I somehow know that I can fix them. Can I? Sometimes, but not always. Some people cannot be cured, and others don't want to be cured. Some people actually like being abused and tormented by their inner-demons. And some people, no matter how much guidance or advice you send in their direction, will continue to make the masochistic choices that have been keeping them firmly rooted in a self-inflicted depression.

Why do I seek out these people? Because on some level, I think that once I fix them, they'll be able to fix me (the song I mentioned before contains the lyrics "I want to save you/I need you/Save me, too.") I know that I need saving. I need someone to come into my life, see everything that I'm doing wrong, and tell me how to change it. No, I need them to force me to change it. I'm too afraid to do it on my own. I've been trying to win a war against my fears for about 2.5 years now (before that, I was completely content with them ruling my life). Every once in awhile, I have a major breakthrough (usually around a time of metamorphosis, as I mentioned before) with one or more of my personal demons. While some are vanquished permanently (I'm pretty much done with my fear of singing in public, thanks to a production of Cinderella and many rounds of alcohol-assisted karaoke), others haunt me for years. My social anxiety pops its head back in every six months or so. I am in constant need of validation, or else I am at great risk of returning to a hermit-inspired existence (ah, here's a bit of proof that I'm a walking contradiction: I'm unable to accept compliments, but if I don't get reassurance I go into wild strains of depression. If I weren't so cheerful right now, I'd start to wonder if I'm a mess). This gets particularly bad in February of every year. No good reason for that... Perhaps I have Seasonal Affective Disorder?

By the way, I'm a bit of a hypochondriac. Not the sort that thinks pain means I'm dying. I've never been concerned about having cancer, a heart attack, ringworm, etc. No, instead of physical hypochondria, I have psychological hypochondria. A thinking man's hypochondria, I like to call it. I was convinced that when I got to college, my dormant schizophrenia would manifest itself. Didn't happen, for the record. When everyone at work started getting sick, I began washing my hands multiple times whenever I went to the ladies room. Obviously, I was terrified that this was "ritualizing": a sign of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I sporadically question whether I'm bipolar. The only thing wrong with my brain is a new-fashioned case of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. I also have the occasional bout with insomnia (I'm hyperactive, so of course I don't sleep... makes perfect sense), which I have determined makes me cathemeral (meaning that I have a completely unpredictable sleeping pattern. I like to think that it makes me special).

Anyway, back to the Savior thing. The current fellow in my life once said that he has the desire to be "that guy" for whatever gal he is currently pursuing. The guy who will step up to the plate. The guy who will understand her like no one else can. "That guy." As soon as he said that, I immediately equated it to my own need to heal others. Maybe my goal is to be "that girl", but I've just found a different way of saying it. Maybe this fellow and I will be able to save each other...

But logically, I know that isn't true.

If you've ever been on an airplane, you've heard the whole "in case of emergency" speech (if you haven't been on an airplane, go watch the pilot episode of Lost and it should help you to understand what I'm about to delve into). If there should be some problem with the air pressure in the cabin, oxygen masks will drop down from the ceiling. Your instruction is to put on your own mask. You are to make sure it is securely fashioned to your head before attempting to help those around you who may be in need of assistance. Trying to help someone else when you're not getting a proper amount of oxygen to your brain is just going to put both of you in more danger.

The major downfall of the Savior Complex: it's a sham. It cannot succeed. You will never win. How can you possibly help someone else when you don't know how to help yourself?

Besides, I'm not certain that a Savior Complex even exists. Maybe it's just human nature. A friend of mine once said that "women want to be wanted and men need to be needed." Or maybe it's the other way around. I can't remember. I always had difficulty trying to figure out what the difference was. Isn't being needed just a very strong form of being wanted? I understand the meaning a little more if it's rephrased as "women want to be objects of desire and men want their presence to be vital." Of course, that's not as catchy of a phrase.

Anyway, I don't believe this theory at all. Mostly because I don't enjoy sweeping generalizations. Or things divided by gender. I'm a major supporter of gender equality. I suppose I'm a huge hypocrite, as I attended a women's college instead of a co-educational institution. Men are not allowed to attend simply because they are male. And I chose to go there, so I suppose on some level I do believe that there are differences between men and women. But in general, I believe that any "women vs. men" theories are wrong.

There is one subject on which, I fear, I am terribly sexist. I'm not bisexual. Nothing is more sexist than that. Being bisexual is being willing to love anyone, regardless of gender. It's a very open-minded state of being. I've also heard it described as greedy, which I won't argue against (I've met a couple bisexuals who seemed as though they were just in it as a way of hedging their bets). I feel almost guilty about the fact that I prefer men to women, and I have tried to open myself up to the possibility of bisexual relationships in the past. I tried especially hard when one incredibly terrific girl started making passes at me in college. She was intelligent, talented, attractive, and funny. She was everything I'd look for in a man, but I just wasn't into it. I'm embarrassed by how sexist that is.

I find many women attractive. Gabrielle Union and Rachel McAdams, for example. Of course, it's more a situation of "I wish I could be her" than "I want her." I just enjoy men too much. Give me Matt Damon or Michael Bublé, and I'll rip myself apart in gleeful celebration (which would be rather stupid, as then I wouldn't get to enjoy the desirable specimen of man that had been bestowed upon me... I must rethink this). I think, on some level, everyone is a little bit bisexual. Just a little. Usually a small enough amount that people can live their entire lives only seeking one gender and be completely content with that. Most people never acknowledge it. Maybe some don't even realize it. I, personally, will never actually attempt to start anything with a woman, although I certainly understand the appeal. Perhaps that's why I wish my reflection looked more like Isla Fisher than me.

I look into mirrors a great deal. I have several in my new apartment, which is terribly exciting. Have you ever stared into a mirror for so long that your face stops making sense? You stop seeing your own mental image of yourself, and you begin to see your face for its components. It's interesting. I always wonder what people see when they look at me. Do they see me as I see myself? Is their mental image of me characterized more strongly by my eyes or my mouth? (I recently had a semi-stranger tell me that she thought my mouth was "captivating". I didn't know how to take that. I think I became a little self-conscious about my mouth as a result, which is probably the opposite of a logical reaction.)

Sometimes I dance in front of the mirror, to see if I'm as insane a dancer as I am in my mind's eye. Generally, what I do isn't nearly as hideous as I think it is. Of course, even if it were appallingly bad, that wouldn't stop me from dancing. I love to express myself through movement. Dancing is probably the only thing I can think of that makes me temporarily throw out my self-conscious nature. I spent the majority of last weekend dancing around my apartment in my underwear, singing into a lamp as though it were a colorful microphone. I rock out at levels you wouldn't believe when I'm alone. I'm lucky that none of my neighbors have complained. But then, I don't complain when they turn up the volume on their televisions at 10:30pm and I can hear incomprehensible Spanish murmuring. So I think we're even. Maybe they enjoy hearing me sing and dance. Who knows? I like to think that they do.

I always hope that I'm brightening up other people's days just a little. Knowing that I make other people smile makes me smile. It's a weird sort of tit-for-tat relationship that they don't even know exists. A friend of mine once said that there's no such thing as altruism, because anything you do to help someone else is really just a form of self-validation. Maybe he's right. Making people happy makes me happy. But I suppose that's the same sort of vaguely cyclical logic that leads me to believe that saving someone else will make me saved.

My aunt says that "part of wanting someone is knowing that they want you," which I suppose is in a similar vein. That idea always worries me when I'm interested in someone who shows signs of reciprocating interest. Is he only interested in me because he can sense that I'm interested in him? Or, conversely, am I only interested in him because I noticed on some level that he was interested in me? These are the sorts of questions that can make you go batty. It's best for me if I avoid thinking on them all together. But, as you should know after reading my writing, I can't stop thinking about anything for very long. I get stuck in long, winding waves of painful cognizance.

I'm terribly paranoid about everything (paranoia -- yet another mental disease that I don't actually suffer from but worry about constantly. I'm paranoid about being paranoid, if that's possible. Of course, I'm relatively confident that I'm misusing the word paranoid, but I don't care. This is my blog, and I'll use whatever words I think will get the point across). I worry about my relationships a great deal. I become concerned with whether people like me (and then I go through fits of joyous elation when it becomes apparent that they do. There's a little bit of Sally Field in me, I suppose). After the things I've written over the last two days, I'm beginning to wonder if I'm too complex of a person. How can anyone possibly deal with me? The best ways to handle me are counter-intuitive. I'm warped and quixotic. And somehow, I'm simultaneously concerned with being boring. I'm a puzzle that no one seems equipped to solve (and I include myself in that).

So for now, I'm going to return to my normal, non-typed form of soul-searching. Thank you for reading. Do come again.

~A~