The Fine Lines

It's been awhile since I've shared any of my theories, so I've decided it's time to present one.

I've been working on this one for a long time, but it's not quite finished yet. I feel like there's more here. I encourage you to share your thoughts in the comments section.

I call it The Fine Lines of Personality, and, as with most of my theories, it has to do with dating (well, really, it has to do with people, but the best application for it is in dating). I named it after a lyric from the musical Avenue Q...

"There's a fine, fine line between love and a waste of time."

So here goes.

Did you ever notice that people around you (and occasionally you) are drawn to people who turn out to be completely horrible? Well, here's the thing: everyone is horrible in one way or another. And we all have ways of trying to hide it.

Everyone has positive and negative qualities. Everyone is flawed. That is fact.

I imagine that the reason people date the wrong person for long periods of time is because they're blinded by a positive quality that sort of masks the negative one. And it's my thought that these things come in pairs. Every negative quality has a complementary positive one.

Herein lies my theory... People fall into categories. Maybe not perfectly. I myself dip a little into three of the ponds I'm about to mention. But it's an interesting way of dissecting people and relationships. And I'm sure there are more out there (just like in Hogwarts, there are more qualities that students have than there are Houses that play up said qualities... Sorry. Harry Potter geek going back into hiding now).

The Fine Lines
- Charming/Con Artist
- Sexy/Evil
- Confident/Cocky
- Passionate/Violent
- Mysterious/Manipulative
- Sensitive/Spineless
- Quirky/Crazy

Confused? Don't worry. Mama Angela is here to explain.

(Note: I mentally associate some of these with males and some with females due to my past experiences, and I might address them as such. But I assure you, either gender can be placed in any of these categories.)

CHARMING/CON ARTIST
I've dealt with these sorts a lot in my life, and now I can generally spot them from a distance. I originally called this one "Charming/A**hole", but I decided that was too generic. Encounters with someone bearing this label leave you feeling vaguely deceived, as he seemed like "such a great guy" at the beginning. Every con artist has to be able to pull off the sweet, charming, lovable role. They can't appear skeezy, or else it will ruin the con. They sweep you off your feet. And then they turn into something else. Something undesirable. But they're so charming and magnetic that it takes you forever to realize that.

SEXY/EVIL
Think of Colin Farrell. Or Jude Law right after he was caught cheating. Or Demi Moore in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. Or Angelina Jolie in... anything. It's the idea that by being gorgeous, you can get away with murder. And sometimes, it's the touch of evil that makes them sexy in the first place. For example, I have a bit of a crush on the WWE wrestler "Edge", who plays a "bad guy" character. You're supposed to hate him. And I think that makes him particularly foxy. I suppose this is where the appeal of a dominatrix would lie.

CONFIDENT/COCKY
This is the one that I fall for the most. Confidence is hot. And something I don't have a ton of, so I admire it in others. The problem, of course, is over-confidence. Random acts of unmitigated ego. These guys talk about how cool they are until you believe them. And then you eventually come to terms with the fact that they're arrogant bastards. Think of Alex on Grey's Anatomy or Chuck Bass on Gossip Girl (although they both have a touch of Sexy/Evil to them as well... but you get the idea).

PASSIONATE/VIOLENT
Okay, so maybe violent is taking it too far. But at least volatile. Perhaps even emotionally abusive. I once lived with someone whom I'd throw into this category. She seemed... bipolar. She was a very passionate person, which I admired about her. But her highs were high, her lows were low, and although her passion was magnetizing, I eventually noticed that she seemed off-balance. And potentially dangerous.

MYSTERIOUS/MANIPULATIVE
If you ever think someone's mysterious, it's for one of three reasons. 1. You haven't tried hard enough. 2. They're painfully shy. 3. They're calculating every move they make. That's right. Mysterious people are manipulative as hell. They think it's alluring. And they're right. Makes you curious. And you feel this need to become the person who gets them to open up. They've got you exactly where they want you, and you have no idea that you're a marionette.

SENSITIVE/SPINELESS
This one usually fits with the stereotype of "The Nice Guy/Girl". I like to think of George in the first season of Grey's Anatomy (I only really watched the first season... so I don't know what he's like now... But at the time, he was really into Meredith). It's the guy who's the good friend of the lead girl, and I always think he's so sweet and wonder why she's ignoring the potential there. And then I think something wistfully, such as, "If it were me, I'D notice him. He's so wonderful!" But then one day I realized: I wouldn't. I fall for the confident, charming a**holes, the confident egomaniacs, and the sexy bad boys of the world. Mr. Nice Guy? Way less likely to toss my confetti. I mean sure, I like the nice part in theory, but I can't deal with the spineless part. I need a man who can make decisions, because I'm sure as heck not going to. And I don't want to be put on a pedestal; it just makes me uncomfortable. And, as much as I hate this about myself, there's always going to be a part of me who wants someone to protect me/take care of me/save me. And a sweet-yet-weak guy is hard to imagine in that role. Not that I haven't fallen for a guy like this... I have. More than once. But it just doesn't work out the way I want it to.

QUIRKY/CRAZY
Think of Natalie Portman's character in Garden State. I've never actually seen this movie (at least in part because I don't much care for Natalie Portman), but I know this is a good example. Why? Because of how many times I've been compared to the character. Yes, that's right. I'm in this bunch. Well, I'm a little bit of a couple other things as well, but I'm mostly here. My ex came up with this label, although he called it "Cute/Crazy" (actually, he thought I was "Sexy/Evil" before this one was invented, if you can believe that). But I'm pretty sure that's just because he thought quirky was cute. And he liked alliteration. Anyway. It's someone who seems silly and full of life, but is disguising a closet of emotional and psychological problems. There's always a reason for quirky. I'm just saying...



So, there you have it.
I'm Quirky/Crazy (and Mysterious/Manipulative... and Passionate/Violent...). And I fall for Confident/Cocky (and Charming/Asshole... and Sexy/Evil... and, in spite of my self, occasionally Sensitive/Spineless). And so far, none of these labels have worked out for me.


You know, I was recently trying to reevaluate what it is I want in a romantic relationship, and I realized that I'm sort of thinking the wrong way about things.

Do I want someone who I find to be funny?
Or do I really just want someone who will think that I'm funny?

Do I want someone smart?
Or do I just want someone who can keep up with me (and occasionally tell me how brilliant he thinks I am)?

Do I want a good writer?
Or do I just want someone who can recognize and appreciate good writing (and occasionally mistake my writing for the good stuff)?

Do I want someone to take care of me?
Or do I want someone I don't have to take care of?

Do I want someone handsome?
Or do I want someone who thinks I'm beautiful?

Do I want someone Charming? Sexy? Confident? Passionate? Mysterious? Sensitive? Quirky?
Or do I just want someone who is NOT a Con Artist? Evil? Cocky? Violent? Manipulative? Spineless? Crazy?

All good questions.

I just hope that I'll know him when I see him.

May you know what you want as well as what you don't.

~A~

P.S. I hope that all of you (yes, you... even the lurkers) will comment on this post. Please consider the following:
- Can you figure out which you come closest to?
- Can you figure out which you fall for the most?
- Are there personality lines that you can come up with that I've missed? (Because I'd love to add to my collection)

ETA: I've added a few new fine lines to my list at the suggestions of readers. They're still being developed... Once I get a good grip on them, I might do a follow up entry.

Fine Lines in the Nebula
- Experienced/Damaged
- Driven/Obsessed
- Outgoing/Obnoxious
- Hipster/Poseur
- Idealistic/Unrealistic

Theatre Changes Everything

Graduate school auditions are just around the corner, and I'm terrified. (The picture you see is the headshot I'll be bringing to them.)

I'm attempting to get accepted into a MFA program in acting. I'd be especially excited to get into a program that had a strong focus in Shakespearean work, but I'll take what I can get (after all, the odds of me getting in anywhere aren't great).

I'm worried that I'll do horribly.
That I'll embarrass myself.
That I won't be as successful as I was the last time, when I was "this close" to getting into two really great schools.

Can you even call that success?

You can in theatre. And I'm about to explain why.

I'm going to a sort of cattle-call audition for graduate school. The first step is a screening audition, where they try to weed out the mediocre people. Only a fraction of the people make it to the next round, which is actually performing your two contrasting monologues in front of representatives from whichever graduate programs are accepting students that year (unlike most fields of study, theatre grad schools don't all accept students every year). You have three minutes (including your introduction) to show them something that will make them want you (and they WILL cut you off if you exceed that time limit, which serves as a signal to the grad school reps that you weren't prepared well enough).

If you don't pass the screening auditions, there's an optional round that you can go to if you like. In it, you get ONE minute to show ONE monologue to SOME of the grad schools (whichever ones feel like sticking around for that round), as opposed to THREE minutes to show TWO monologues to ALL of the grad schools. Obviously, this is not a desired option.

Last time I went, I made it on to the next round. I was the first actor in the recent memory (or, perhaps, history) of my college to do so. Just lucky, I guess.

After everyone has shown their stuff to the grad schools, they gather you all in a room and call out names one at a time, handing each of the hopeful performers a folded piece of paper. The paper tells you if any schools want to see you again (and, if so, which ones, which hotel room they will be waiting in, and what time slot you have).

I was shaking last time as I unfolded my piece of paper. I had a healthy crop of call-backs. I hadn't anticipated any (as no other actor I knew had ever acquired any, and I had been told so many times not to expect any). I almost cried with joy.

The call-backs are all different. One of them was sort of an interview ("Who IS Angela?" "Why do you want to go to graduate school?" "What do you do that ISN'T theatre?"). One was a continuation of the audition (she wanted to see two additional monologues, and wanted me to re-perform one of the original ones, giving me direction as I went). And the others were more sorts of informational sessions, telling me about the programs and asking if I had questions. In one, I was alone. In the rest, I was with other people. I didn't know what to expect from one hotel room to the next.

But that's not even what I'm scared about the most. I'm not worried about the call-backs, but rather that I won't get any. I'm worried that I might not get beyond the screening round. That the last time I went was a fluke. My one, lucky shot. And that I'll never be tempted by opportunity again.

(Playing one of the stepsisters in Cinderella. April 2005.)

I did a little research on the grad schools last weekend, but I kept feeling as though I was counting chickens that would probably never hatch. I timed my monologues (and cut them when I realized they were too long), and criticized myself openly. They're going to take one look at me and know that I'm not good enough. I'm not what they want. I'm just another 20-something white girl, and that's not rare in the world of theatre.

Last time I went, I was a senior in college. My advisor told me that I really shouldn't bother going, as I was too young. Every graduate program is looking for students to round out their programs. People that will expand the potential of their casting pools. They already have undergraduate programs packed with 21-year-old white girls; they didn't need another one. She said I should wait until I was older. That I could become a sort of self-made minority by waiting.

Besides, going straight from undergrad to grad school, they'd probably just think that I was attempting to hide in academia.

Perhaps I was.

Last time, I had a bunch of callbacks. Enough, in fact, that I discounted some of them. I really fell in love with two schools, and I didn't want to settle for anything less. They had little in common with each other, aside from the fact that they were both small programs (most theatre programs are, because they have to be small if they're going to be good).

The first was a school that took 2-4 students every year. And they liked to keep their program male-heavy (which makes sense, as theatre itself is male heavy... they don't want the males to be inundated with roles as the females all fight over the part of the chambermaid). The year I auditioned, they informed me that they would be accepting 2 males and 2 females, which were the best odds I was ever going to get. I drove out to the school for a follow-up audition in front of all the faculty. They had current students call me to encourage me to go there (with one of them even offering to help me look for an apartment). And then they told me that I had made the waiting list. I was girl #3, for 2 spots. And then girls #1 and #2 accepted.

The second school only accepted students every 3 years. They take 5 males and 5 females, and then keep them for 3 years, and then get a brand new class. I travelled out to that one. I observed a class. I ate lunch with the 10 students. The college gave me tickets to a performance that night. I fell in love with the school. And then they told me that I was on the waiting list. I was girl #6 or so. And, as you may have guessed, girls #1-#5 accepted.

(Side note: I have a lot of friends who wanted to go to law school or medical school and always complained about how difficult it was to get in. And yes, I know that it is. But I felt like they were discounting the difficulty of me getting into an MFA program -- which, by the way is a terminal degree; there is no PhD in Acting -- and thinking that they had it harder. But you know what? There are far more medical schools and law schools than there are MFA programs. And they take more than 2-10 students at a time. And they take students every year. And they pay attention to objective things like past academic performance and test scores, instead of a subjective 3-minute audition. And they won't overlook you simply for being female... Please don't get mad at me for saying this. I'm not trying to knock other fields of graduate study; I'm just trying to get my own field the respect it deserves.)

So there you have it. My failure. I was so sure that I was going to get into one of those schools. It really felt as though I were being courted. But no. I was left with no where to go. Nothing to do. And not long after, I began my "adult" life in Chicago.

One might argue that I did well, seeing as how those schools auditioned hundreds of students, and I came so close. So yes, in many ways, my particular brand of failure was a form of success.

Grad school felt as though it were easily in reach. But I suppose it was just a mirage.

(I played Lady Macbeth in an all-female production of The Tragedy of Macbeth. November 2006.)

I have a very unfortunate (mostly subconscious) tendency that I don't often discuss, but I think it's probably a good idea to admit it right now. Maybe that way I won't be able to hide behind it anymore...

When I think I'm going to do worse at something than I'd like, I stop trying. I pull back. That way, if i fail, I can blame it on a lack of effort instead of a lack of ability. I can make claims like, "I could be an A-student, if I tried." It's less painful to think "I wasn't prepared enough" or "I didn't try hard enough" than it would be to think "I wasn't good enough." I don't think I'm the only one that does this sort of thing, but I've never heard anyone else admit it before. Maybe we're not supposed to... Oh well.

I'm worried that I'm going to do that with grad school auditions. I'm not going to prepare enough, I'm going to do terribly, and then I'm going to say, "well, I could've gotten in to grad school if I'd been on my game." And I'll forever wonder if that statement is true.

I'm not going to do that. I'm not going to resign myself to that. I hope not, anyway. I'm going to work. And I may very well fail anyway, but I won't let it be for lack of trying

I don't even know that this is what I want. I sensationalize the concept of graduate school. As though it's going to solve my problems. In some ways, I think I just long to be told what to do again. After spending so many years in school, it's weird to not have that steady schedule of events. I'd like to regain that.

When people asked me what it was like adjusting to the real world after college, I told them that John Mayer was right: "there's no such thing as the real world." But that I didn't miss homework.

I don't know if that's true anymore. I've really just been assigning myself homework instead of having it assigned to me, in order to make up for this mysterious presence that I've lost. Regulated activity, or something like that. Along with a list of completed tasks comes a sense of accomplishment. Maybe that's what I've been missing. So I scheduled writing into my life (in the form of three blogs and a novel). I scheduled reading in (I read on the "L". I just started The Lovely Bones at the recommendation of a dotcomrade). I started taking acting classes. In some ways, I've created my own makeshift substitution for school.

Maybe that's the problem with education in this country. It doesn't teach you how to be a functional person as much as it teaches you to be a student. And as soon as you figure out all the keys to being a decent student, you're done. And by that point you've amassed an assortment of skills that you will never again be able to put to good use. And if, like me, you're a life-long learner (a "student of existence", perhaps), you can never be satisfied without new knowledge being pumped into you on a regular basis.

I don't think that's the real reason I'm longing for graduate school, but it's part of it.

Really, I just want to be a good actor. Actually, I think I'm a pretty good actor already. But I want to be better. I want to be the kind of actor that makes the audience feel the story instead of just understand it. I want people to leave the theatre and feel that they've been changed in some way because of what they've just witnessed. I want to be astonishing.


(Me -- as a blonde -- with my buddy Kevin in The Comedy of Errors. August 2006.)

Maybe now is a good time to relate my theory to you:
Theatre can change the world.

I think that live theatre is a more powerful medium than television or film (I heard a saying once... "Theatre is life. Film is art. Television is furniture"). You can't change the channel. You can't fast forward. You can't throw popcorn at the screen. It's there. It's real. It's in front of you. In some ways, the audience is as much a part of it as the actors are. There's a connection there that's unlike anything else. The audience suspends their collective disbelief, and they witness the performed events firsthand. It's really an incredible sort of phenomenon when you think about it, that people are willing to accept theatre in the first place. But because it's not as easy to tune it out or escape from it, it can have a greater effect, I think.

I was once in a production of a stage version of Anne of Green Gables (which, for the record, wasn't particularly well-written). It was a community theatre production with a limited budget and a cast of enthusiastic local actors.

The story, if you're unfamiliar with the books, is about a precocious, redhead orphan girl named Anne, who is taken in by an elderly brother and sister after a misunderstanding. She's perhaps the brightest girl in school, in constant competition with a boy who teases her for her freckles and red braids. She experiences the world as a more romantic and enchanting place than other people, and her dramatics often get her into trouble. It's not political. It's not avant-garde. It's not meant to be a powerhouse of a play. The novels are heart-warming, and someone decided to create the play more for nostalgia and entertainment value than anything else. And that's fine by me.

While I was working on that production, a couple of troops of girl scouts came backstage before attending the performances. They could earn some sort of theatre badge for it, I guess. And I was asked to tell them all about acting, costumes, make-up, rehearsals, and everything else that might enrich the theatre-going experience. The girls were full of questions and seemed fascinated by everything I said.

And I realized... It didn't matter that this show wasn't written to as some sort of worldly commentary. If one of those little girls watched the play and felt a little more okay with her freckles, then that was more than enough of a reason to keep doing it. If one girl came to the show and felt a little braver about raising her hand in class... If she realized that it was okay for girls to be smart... Or if a child knew it was okay to be an orphan... Or okay to look a little different from everyone else... Or to think of the world as a beautiful place filled with poetry... This show (this poorly-written, unprofessional, tiny little show) could change that child's life.

That makes all the effort worthwhile.

And you know what? It's like that with every play. If one person who feels really lousy can go to a farce and forget their problems for a little while... If a family that rarely gives each other the time of day can see a play and have something to discuss as a family at dinner the next night... If one ladder-climbing professional can see Macbeth and realize that power isn't everything... Theatre can definitely change lives. Who's to say that it can't change the world?

So everything that I learn that I can use to make a show better, I'll learn. Because if the show is a little bit better, then maybe it can touch someone a little bit more.

I've given variations on this speech more times than I can remember. And during every incarnation, I remind myself of why it is that I love theatre so much. I remember why I do what I do.

While I was in college, I ran into a guy whom I'd done theatre with in high school. I told him that I'd recently become a theatre major, and I felt a little guilty about it. I was worried that it was selfish, and I didn't think it was important enough. He looked me square in the eyes, more earnest than I had ever seen him before, and said, "It IS important." I wondered aloud if I should be doing something more altruistic, like becoming a doctor and trying to heal people's bodies. He responded with, "Angela, you're going to heal their souls."

True Story:
Several years ago, a woman went up to Mother Theresa. Mother Theresa looked at her and asked, "what's wrong?" The woman broke down, saying that she worked in theatre in New York, and that she felt like she wasn't doing enough with her life. She said that she wanted to go to Calcutta and help the poor. Mother Theresa looked at her and said, "In my country, there is a famine of the body. In your country, there is a famine of the spirit. You must remain."

So that's why I'm an actor.
I do theatre because I love it more than I can say.
I do theatre because I don't know if I could ever be truly happy doing anything else.
I do theatre to heal people's souls.
I do theatre because there is a famine of the spirit.
I do theatre because it's my way of changing the world.

I really hope I get some interviews at these grad school auditions. If they ask me why I want to go to graduate school, I think I finally have some answers that I'm proud of.

May you find your own little way to change the world.

~A~

(Me and my buddy Simon in Picasso at the Lapin Agile. June 2007)

The Path of Thursday's Child

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

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

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

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

Maybe I haven’t fully.

Maybe I don’t want to.

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

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

*sigh of jealousy*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~A~

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

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

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~