Tonight, I got as far as opening a blank Word Document. The thoughts were there, tangled with the metaphors and deeply imbedded symbolism- all neatly arranged in my head. I already knew, opening the document, what I wanted the first sentence to be.
And then it snapped out of my head. As soon as I typed ", it was all gone. I think that's someone's way of telling me that I shouldn't open this thing, this monolith of "unrequited love", with dialogue. I can accept that; I just didn't have/inspire another idea.
Instead of writing something new, I flipped through some things that I wrote back in 2004, and then started working on again last summer. In that, I found the beginning of a short story that was detailing the state of my relationship last July. & in reading that for the first time since July 2007, I was horrified, scared, and saddended.
Sometimes being strong is overrated. Sometimes accepting defeat is the best thing a person can do.
I think I'm getting closer to figuring these things out.
Monday, August 04, 2008
I'm going to buy back memories / to awaken some old qualities
I've waited for that moment- the one where even when we're standing in a sea of 50+ other people, there's complete silence around us, encapsulating us, buffering us from any/every/thing/one. The one where you're standing right next to me, close enough to speak lowly almost in secret (like we've done before, when my heart was hammering inside my chest but my hand held the pen like a captive, steady and consistent, never waivering). The one where I casually say hello, ask how you are. Smile directly into your eyes because while we don't have a problem with eye contact, we seem unable to move past the stage where we express emotion outside of the locked glances. Keep it simple, easy, just hi how are you.
Easy.
I had that moment today. I had the ability to open my mouth and yank out the words, phrases so fucking casual that I can throw them at complete strangers, but so unnervingly tender when it comes to you. My hand was shaking with the slightest tremor as I scrawled in giant, black block letters. You were still there, right next to me. I couldn't hear anything other than HI HOW ARE YOU spinning in my head. Warp speed. I couldn't open my mouth. You didn't either, because you never do. No, okay, maybe you do, sometimes. & I do, sometimes. But not today. Neither of us, today.
I've always vaguely understood/surmised that you and I are a little bit alike- in that we both spend a lot of time in our heads. That maybe when we don't open our mouths, we might be thinking of saying hi, but we're also thinking of 87 other really important things and then the moment's gone, lost really forever but I don't mean that to be as world-ending as it seems, it just is, because that exact moment will never happen again. Well, I guess it could happen tomorrow. And the next day. But not after that.
What this means is that I have to be the bold one. I have to be the one to force myself to open my mouth, to get past the semi-ridiculous dramatizations debuting on an hourly basis in my head. You probably don't hate me. You probably also don't like me as much as I want you to, but that's negotiable, and that's also okay. I can't articulate what I want, realistically, but I know that I hate the fact that we ignore each other- purposely or otherwise. I don't want you to think that I don't like you. Maybe you don't care as much as I do- I almost know that you don't, because I care about you/this/us inordinately so- but I think [hope] that you care at least a little bit.
And if you don't, then that will be okay too.
I just want to get past this block in my heart. I just want to say hi, and I just want you to know that I wonder how you are.
Easy.
I had that moment today. I had the ability to open my mouth and yank out the words, phrases so fucking casual that I can throw them at complete strangers, but so unnervingly tender when it comes to you. My hand was shaking with the slightest tremor as I scrawled in giant, black block letters. You were still there, right next to me. I couldn't hear anything other than HI HOW ARE YOU spinning in my head. Warp speed. I couldn't open my mouth. You didn't either, because you never do. No, okay, maybe you do, sometimes. & I do, sometimes. But not today. Neither of us, today.
I've always vaguely understood/surmised that you and I are a little bit alike- in that we both spend a lot of time in our heads. That maybe when we don't open our mouths, we might be thinking of saying hi, but we're also thinking of 87 other really important things and then the moment's gone, lost really forever but I don't mean that to be as world-ending as it seems, it just is, because that exact moment will never happen again. Well, I guess it could happen tomorrow. And the next day. But not after that.
What this means is that I have to be the bold one. I have to be the one to force myself to open my mouth, to get past the semi-ridiculous dramatizations debuting on an hourly basis in my head. You probably don't hate me. You probably also don't like me as much as I want you to, but that's negotiable, and that's also okay. I can't articulate what I want, realistically, but I know that I hate the fact that we ignore each other- purposely or otherwise. I don't want you to think that I don't like you. Maybe you don't care as much as I do- I almost know that you don't, because I care about you/this/us inordinately so- but I think [hope] that you care at least a little bit.
And if you don't, then that will be okay too.
I just want to get past this block in my heart. I just want to say hi, and I just want you to know that I wonder how you are.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
everything is bigger than me, even stars, even dreams
Earlier this evening, I was sitting in my favorite courtyard downtown, and we have such a love/hate relationship, me and that courtyard. I love it most in the summer, when the sun is trickling down through the arching tree branches that act like a leaky roof- ineffective but beautiful nonetheless. But then I hate it most in the summer, specifically the first week of August, when it's overrun with locals and visitors and the stale sticky smell of spilled beer clashes with the terribly appetizing odor of all things fried food. & I hate it when these strangers, so foreign, trample through without recognizing an inch of the beauty in that courtyard, and yet I can't hold them responsible because you can barely see the history through the retina-burning colored tents, nor can you take your eyes off of the parade of sometimes horrifyingly clad people weaving over the bricks and around the trees and stray chairs.
I was sitting there, ignoring the pressing crowd around me, filtering through the rinse cycle in my brain. I was thinking about how I'd seen AC again today, how she'd smiled big and waved from across the street, looking dangerously cute as usual, but that's where it ended. & I was thinking about the lesbians, god they were out in droves today. Everywhere. But they weren't cute, and I was feeling disheartened as I always do when I see large groups of unattractive lesbians. It's so common, that train of thought-- "I'm going to be alone forever because the women that I find attractive are either A) horrible for me, or B) seemingly unattainable." So I started to feel pathetic for a hot minute, but then I remembered all of the options I have, like the nervous ability to transfer my skills to a different city, a different state, even a different country.
I have three friends that uprooted their lives, moved respectively to Wisconsin, Virginia/DC, and California. All three moved for professional reasons; two for jobs, one for working on her MBA. All three moved without attachments to any sort of attraction or romance. In fact, two of them moved from my area and both had dated me, at separate times (different years, actually), but neither was involved with me when she moved. The possibilities, for each of them, were limitless. They had no ties of the heart to contend with. They went, and they did. Not surprisingly, all three of them found love in the places that they moved to. They unearthed, uprooted, and discovered. My envy is tangible.
It's especially resonant now because one of those friends, the one who is currently living in California, is in town for a couple of weeks and we're planning on catching up this week. I can already hear what she's going to tell me- nothing I haven't already whispered to myself- about my job, my life, my romantic endeavors, and my unfailing like for the Obscure Object. Because we've had so many similar conversations in the past, even when she was trying to get in my pants, I can hear her tone of voice, hear the exact words she'll say. Comforting and scary. She's usually right. Sometimes I forget about how she asked me to drop everything and move to California with her. Sometimes I forget about how stubborn I can be.
The thoughts have waned now. It's one of my tragic downfalls. I write a novel in my head but can't get it out quick enough, and then it strings into pieces and disappears.
I'll see the Obscure Object tomorrow. I tried to force myself to write today, but I argued with myself. Again. Because I can't yet let go of what's in my head. Because I can't look her in the eye without feeling a porcupine scamper through my lungs. Because I don't even know what's real anymore.
I was sitting there, ignoring the pressing crowd around me, filtering through the rinse cycle in my brain. I was thinking about how I'd seen AC again today, how she'd smiled big and waved from across the street, looking dangerously cute as usual, but that's where it ended. & I was thinking about the lesbians, god they were out in droves today. Everywhere. But they weren't cute, and I was feeling disheartened as I always do when I see large groups of unattractive lesbians. It's so common, that train of thought-- "I'm going to be alone forever because the women that I find attractive are either A) horrible for me, or B) seemingly unattainable." So I started to feel pathetic for a hot minute, but then I remembered all of the options I have, like the nervous ability to transfer my skills to a different city, a different state, even a different country.
I have three friends that uprooted their lives, moved respectively to Wisconsin, Virginia/DC, and California. All three moved for professional reasons; two for jobs, one for working on her MBA. All three moved without attachments to any sort of attraction or romance. In fact, two of them moved from my area and both had dated me, at separate times (different years, actually), but neither was involved with me when she moved. The possibilities, for each of them, were limitless. They had no ties of the heart to contend with. They went, and they did. Not surprisingly, all three of them found love in the places that they moved to. They unearthed, uprooted, and discovered. My envy is tangible.
It's especially resonant now because one of those friends, the one who is currently living in California, is in town for a couple of weeks and we're planning on catching up this week. I can already hear what she's going to tell me- nothing I haven't already whispered to myself- about my job, my life, my romantic endeavors, and my unfailing like for the Obscure Object. Because we've had so many similar conversations in the past, even when she was trying to get in my pants, I can hear her tone of voice, hear the exact words she'll say. Comforting and scary. She's usually right. Sometimes I forget about how she asked me to drop everything and move to California with her. Sometimes I forget about how stubborn I can be.
The thoughts have waned now. It's one of my tragic downfalls. I write a novel in my head but can't get it out quick enough, and then it strings into pieces and disappears.
I'll see the Obscure Object tomorrow. I tried to force myself to write today, but I argued with myself. Again. Because I can't yet let go of what's in my head. Because I can't look her in the eye without feeling a porcupine scamper through my lungs. Because I don't even know what's real anymore.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
one foot nailed to the ground
Today I ran into an old flame that never caught fire. I didn't think I'd recognize her, and I probably wouldn't have if she hadn't been standing beneath the sign of a building where we both worked (and consequently met/flirted something fierce), and if she hadn't been wearing a shirt with that company's logo. As it was, I did a triple-take before saying to J, "Uhm, isn't that AC?" And it was... probably due to my three whiplash looks in her direction, AC came over--- because she recognized J. Not me- which makes sense because like I said, I wouldn't have recognized her if I'd passed her on the street (it's been a good four+ years since we've really been face to face). So, of course, J felt the need to say to AC, "And you remember _______, right?" Awesome. I was happy to go unnoticed, but oh no. Not in the plans today. Small talk followed, laden with short-scripted details of 'where are you now' and 'how's the family.' It was surprisingly awkward, probably because AC and I never got our act together. Years ago, like I said, the flirting was rampant, and the attraction was obvious. But we never actually found time to explore our connection outside of work. Wasn't meant to be, clearly. Regardless, she has been an always-wonder for me.
She's totally hot, okay. And I am not immune to these things. AC has the most amazing smile, and she is a charmer. But I can't date charmers anymore. I usually discover that's all they've got to offer: charm. & usually a great smile that they then try to use to get them out of trouble. I'm not so much into saving graces anymore.
But today- there wasn't any spark. No butterflies. No unattractive sweating. Just, hey, how are you. I probably came off as aloof, but I am aloof sometimes, and like hell would I want AC to know, at this juncture, that I still entertain the idea of her. Without that spark, though, there's nothing more to wonder about.
Speaking of spark-- or, really, unattractive sweating: yesterday found me in the same room as the Obscure Object, and wonderfully, the air conditioning was nonexistent, and I could feel the sweat accumulating on my face. My FACE. What is this?! Just the sound of her voice makes me a little weak in the knees. That's fucking lame. This doesn't happen to me. Or, okay, it does: and always when I can't make a move to lessen the mystery.
I don't know, don't know, know.
She's totally hot, okay. And I am not immune to these things. AC has the most amazing smile, and she is a charmer. But I can't date charmers anymore. I usually discover that's all they've got to offer: charm. & usually a great smile that they then try to use to get them out of trouble. I'm not so much into saving graces anymore.
But today- there wasn't any spark. No butterflies. No unattractive sweating. Just, hey, how are you. I probably came off as aloof, but I am aloof sometimes, and like hell would I want AC to know, at this juncture, that I still entertain the idea of her. Without that spark, though, there's nothing more to wonder about.
Speaking of spark-- or, really, unattractive sweating: yesterday found me in the same room as the Obscure Object, and wonderfully, the air conditioning was nonexistent, and I could feel the sweat accumulating on my face. My FACE. What is this?! Just the sound of her voice makes me a little weak in the knees. That's fucking lame. This doesn't happen to me. Or, okay, it does: and always when I can't make a move to lessen the mystery.
I don't know, don't know, know.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
if you could only see the way she __________ me
I realized several minutes ago that I'm not writing because I don't want to put this lingering story into words-- words spread across my computer screen, winding through the intense desire and mind-bending relative impossibility of a love so carefully/unconsciously grown, a love that rips through the most monotonous of every day tasks; the words will draw out the most shadowed recesses of my imagination (which is totally overactive despite this infatuation) and reveal entirely unfamiliar levels of yes/no.
I don't want to write it, because once I do, that'll be reality. The words, wound and bound. Black and white fiction. Fiction. When I write it, I'll have to face the reality that while the feelings are sometimes too real, the hypothetical and tangible situation is nonexistent (outside of the drawn-from-real-life seriously open-ended real-life experiences involving these feelings for this person). It'll be fiction, for real, but just fiction. & I guess there is a part of me that is unwilling to face that.
I was also browsing on Amazon earlier, ISO good reads (and what did I purchase? Cupcake, of course, because I need to know what CC is up to in NYC), and I got a little nervous that my eventual writing is going to be cliche. I don't want to be cliche. I don't want to write another typical lesbian love story. Uh uh, no sir, not my goal. But it's not as if I'm being proactive in any sense of the word. Me and my lofty goals of being a writer slam to the floor when I realize that in the language of a novella, I have to be real. I'm going to have to unearth the demons of unrequited love, because there is still a part of me that believes one writes best about the things one knows... intimately. So maybe it's not all fiction, for me. Fiction interspersed with the nonfiction of the heart.
In fact, speaking of proactive, which I am not, I am sitting here with two browsers open, totaling four tabs and one additional browser window for Solitaire. I also just im'd a friend to point out that simplicity can be lame, "However, I think complexity is sometimes overrated." Which's pretty amusing considering all the talking I've been doing about how a relationship with el sótano would never work because anything between us is completely superficial. Total lack of depth (which, alright, I think I could appreciate for maybe a handful of months at this point because I am exhausted with Deep Connections that only serve to fuck with my mind). Tiresome. All this talk about relationships/love/bullshit is so tiresome. & not a priority, not anymore.
I thought I'd see the Obscure Object today, but I didn't, and part of me was relieved. I never know at which angle my stomach is going to jump, if we'll even acknowledge each other, if my smile/eyes will betray me, or if she'd even notice.
If I write it down, it can be real for someone else's eyes, and maybe, I think, that's real enough.
I don't want to write it, because once I do, that'll be reality. The words, wound and bound. Black and white fiction. Fiction. When I write it, I'll have to face the reality that while the feelings are sometimes too real, the hypothetical and tangible situation is nonexistent (outside of the drawn-from-real-life seriously open-ended real-life experiences involving these feelings for this person). It'll be fiction, for real, but just fiction. & I guess there is a part of me that is unwilling to face that.
I was also browsing on Amazon earlier, ISO good reads (and what did I purchase? Cupcake, of course, because I need to know what CC is up to in NYC), and I got a little nervous that my eventual writing is going to be cliche. I don't want to be cliche. I don't want to write another typical lesbian love story. Uh uh, no sir, not my goal. But it's not as if I'm being proactive in any sense of the word. Me and my lofty goals of being a writer slam to the floor when I realize that in the language of a novella, I have to be real. I'm going to have to unearth the demons of unrequited love, because there is still a part of me that believes one writes best about the things one knows... intimately. So maybe it's not all fiction, for me. Fiction interspersed with the nonfiction of the heart.
In fact, speaking of proactive, which I am not, I am sitting here with two browsers open, totaling four tabs and one additional browser window for Solitaire. I also just im'd a friend to point out that simplicity can be lame, "However, I think complexity is sometimes overrated." Which's pretty amusing considering all the talking I've been doing about how a relationship with el sótano would never work because anything between us is completely superficial. Total lack of depth (which, alright, I think I could appreciate for maybe a handful of months at this point because I am exhausted with Deep Connections that only serve to fuck with my mind). Tiresome. All this talk about relationships/love/bullshit is so tiresome. & not a priority, not anymore.
I thought I'd see the Obscure Object today, but I didn't, and part of me was relieved. I never know at which angle my stomach is going to jump, if we'll even acknowledge each other, if my smile/eyes will betray me, or if she'd even notice.
If I write it down, it can be real for someone else's eyes, and maybe, I think, that's real enough.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
stop (don't) the beat
I started to write about how I'm having trouble sleeping, which would have segued neatly into the repetitive thought patterns I'm having about A) ending my relationship, B) hating the neatly twisted, lingering what-if with el sótano, C) the impending doom of the beginning of the school year & how it's getting close, and D) the never ending fascination/wonder/tugging of the heartstrings surrounding the Obscure Object. .... and how one of my friends added fuel to the fire yesterday when she informed me that she'd overheard the Obscure Object talking about me. In a totally professional way, but, come on, she could have used 75+ other names/examples/ideas.
I almost just said WHY ME, but that would be a little pathetic, and I'm not playing that card.
I think happiness isn't a goal, it's that life is a journey, not a destination thing. But how could life be a destination? I'm not sure if I'd recognize happiness if it slapped me across the face. I wouldn't, actually, because I am happy, I just have piss-poor "luck in love" and continually end up with women who put on such tremendous airs to get me into their clutches, and then, then the pearly facade erodes and I'm left with a crippling pseudo-replica of whom I thought I was with. And then I get unhappy. Because it's not real. And things that are not real should be boundaried to staying in my head or on paper. So maybe I should not get into relationships until I've been dating someone for, oh I don't know, six years maybe. That should eradicate the possibility of discovering something, once latched into the Relationship, that is totally appalling and impossible to live with. But I guess not, because the Right People are forever evolving, changing, enhancing, and what you experience now is not what you will experience in eleven years. There is always more to learn, and room to grow.
I think, then, that I simply want to be with someone who takes advantage of the room we have in which to grow. Because me + stagnance = disaster.
El sótano told me, back before she started calling me a Liar and getting all fired up about supposed inconsistencies, that she wanted to A) be with me, B) do good by me, and C) have me rub off my better qualities on her so that she could grow as a person. She actually didn't say (C) in those words, because she doesn't speak like that, ever, but she gave me (and our mutual friend) the impression that she wanted to become a better person, and that she wanted to grow. The thing is, as rehashed in discussion yesterday with said mutual friend, while el sótano has the capacity to do these things (we all do, I truly believe that, but the WILL is an entirely different force to reckon with), she won't. Because she is emotionally stunted, and she always gives up before she achieves something intrapersonal and self-beneficial. I don't doubt that she would like to be faithful to me, but we all know she has a very hard time with this because she is not the type who does committment well. And that's fine, but being honest about that is key. She talks a good game, but it's game. And I am a really poor loser when it comes to games.
I've got to rid myself of the illusion of perfection floating before me. It's out of reach, it's probably a blown-up escapist fantasy, and I might not even want it if/when I conquer it. I need to pull a Kelly Taylor and choose me. Because that is probably the only real solution.
I almost just said WHY ME, but that would be a little pathetic, and I'm not playing that card.
I think happiness isn't a goal, it's that life is a journey, not a destination thing. But how could life be a destination? I'm not sure if I'd recognize happiness if it slapped me across the face. I wouldn't, actually, because I am happy, I just have piss-poor "luck in love" and continually end up with women who put on such tremendous airs to get me into their clutches, and then, then the pearly facade erodes and I'm left with a crippling pseudo-replica of whom I thought I was with. And then I get unhappy. Because it's not real. And things that are not real should be boundaried to staying in my head or on paper. So maybe I should not get into relationships until I've been dating someone for, oh I don't know, six years maybe. That should eradicate the possibility of discovering something, once latched into the Relationship, that is totally appalling and impossible to live with. But I guess not, because the Right People are forever evolving, changing, enhancing, and what you experience now is not what you will experience in eleven years. There is always more to learn, and room to grow.
I think, then, that I simply want to be with someone who takes advantage of the room we have in which to grow. Because me + stagnance = disaster.
El sótano told me, back before she started calling me a Liar and getting all fired up about supposed inconsistencies, that she wanted to A) be with me, B) do good by me, and C) have me rub off my better qualities on her so that she could grow as a person. She actually didn't say (C) in those words, because she doesn't speak like that, ever, but she gave me (and our mutual friend) the impression that she wanted to become a better person, and that she wanted to grow. The thing is, as rehashed in discussion yesterday with said mutual friend, while el sótano has the capacity to do these things (we all do, I truly believe that, but the WILL is an entirely different force to reckon with), she won't. Because she is emotionally stunted, and she always gives up before she achieves something intrapersonal and self-beneficial. I don't doubt that she would like to be faithful to me, but we all know she has a very hard time with this because she is not the type who does committment well. And that's fine, but being honest about that is key. She talks a good game, but it's game. And I am a really poor loser when it comes to games.
I've got to rid myself of the illusion of perfection floating before me. It's out of reach, it's probably a blown-up escapist fantasy, and I might not even want it if/when I conquer it. I need to pull a Kelly Taylor and choose me. Because that is probably the only real solution.
Monday, July 28, 2008
The more I want to let it go
I wonder if it's redundant to put honey on my Honey Nut Cheerios. This isn't a critical thought process, but really, the honey in Honey Nut isn't as bold as I want it to be. & I seem to have a slight addiction to honey. It's one of the fucking coolest substances out there- seriously. It's luxuriously thick, so much so that it sinks to the bottom of my bowl and when I scrape my spoon against the underbelly of the ocean of soy milk (alright, it's more like a small pond of soy milk), I unearth clumps of smooth honey. Totally makes my mouth happy, and that's important.
A couple years ago (three? four? : time overlaps anymore and I have a chronological impairment), when I was dating A, two things happened. We fell in love and therefore overlooked everything we ate, AND we began to put honey on everything (excluding ourselves, as far as I can recall, because I don't like being sticky; food + sex is not appealing to me, probably because when I was in high school, I was "hanging out" [he'd never admit we were seeing each other, and we couldn't qualify as dating since we never spent time together outside one of our houses, so apparently we were just Hanging Out] with this boy, the only boy I "dated" that I actually went to high school with, and we were experimenting sexually and once upon a time I do recall chocolate syrup [how cliche, how 1999 of us] being involved, and just, ew, now). The best part of the honey addiction was when we put it on ice cream cake. Hindsight says it was probably sweetness overkill, but thanks to my grandmother, I have an incorrigible sweet tooth. I'd eat ice cream for all 3 meals of the day if I wasn't so influenced by society's heavy-handed food rulebook. A and I did get our terrible eating habits under control, and then I started going to the gym a lot, and then I cut off all my hair, and then we broke up, and she was mad because now that I'd gotten "really hot," she wasn't dating me anymore. We haven't spoken since we broke up, which is strange considering we still live in the same area but because I don't go out much when I know a lot of the gays are out, we never run into each other.
The whole food thing is bothersome, though, because it's always on my mind. I lost my natural curves during a particularly shoddy relationship about five years ago. And admittedly, I really liked the fact that my hips & boobs shrank and finally allowed me to have somewhat of an androgynous body. It didn't last, though, because real life came back/the relationship ended, and all of a sudden, my stomach unclenched and I could eat again. Fast forward to seven months later, and I had my old body back. The curvy, in-your-face-girl body. Since then, I've been trying to shrink my hips. I haven't succeeded, but I have done a fairly excellent job of tightening my quads and calves, as well as honing some pretty kick-ass triceps.
I don't really eat well. I don't care to, because I like being alive, and I like enjoying my life, and therefore I like indulging when I feel the need. I go through spurts where I lack an appetite, and I have weeks where nothing but pizza/ice cream/french fries will quell my appetite. The key to me liking my body has to do with recognizing my limits, the most important of which is realizing when I'm hungry. This is such simple logic, really, but I can understand how people overeat. I eat when I'm bored and when I'm thirsty. Totally not proud of that, but it is what it is, and at least I recognize it. The good news is that I don't eat when I'm upset... I am definitely not an emotional eater. What I forget, sometimes, is that I don't have to eat when I'm not hungry just because all the food authorities tell eager listeners that you need to eat three balanced meals + three light snacks a day. Sometimes I'm not hungry after I eat my fucking Cheerios, okay? Does that mean my metabolism is going to collapse in on itself if I don't eat again until 5pm? NO. Well, actually, I'm !!!! I was going to say I'm right-brained, but the quiz I just took is telling me I'm 65% LEFT-BRAINED. This can't be! Oh shit, I think I'm becoming logical in my late-twenties. That is the suck. I'm losing my creativity/flexibility because I'm not writing. See, no one to blame but myself!
Anyway. All that just to remind myself to do what's right for me, fuck people who tell me what I'm doing is wrong, and eat when I'm hungry and leave it at that.
A couple years ago (three? four? : time overlaps anymore and I have a chronological impairment), when I was dating A, two things happened. We fell in love and therefore overlooked everything we ate, AND we began to put honey on everything (excluding ourselves, as far as I can recall, because I don't like being sticky; food + sex is not appealing to me, probably because when I was in high school, I was "hanging out" [he'd never admit we were seeing each other, and we couldn't qualify as dating since we never spent time together outside one of our houses, so apparently we were just Hanging Out] with this boy, the only boy I "dated" that I actually went to high school with, and we were experimenting sexually and once upon a time I do recall chocolate syrup [how cliche, how 1999 of us] being involved, and just, ew, now). The best part of the honey addiction was when we put it on ice cream cake. Hindsight says it was probably sweetness overkill, but thanks to my grandmother, I have an incorrigible sweet tooth. I'd eat ice cream for all 3 meals of the day if I wasn't so influenced by society's heavy-handed food rulebook. A and I did get our terrible eating habits under control, and then I started going to the gym a lot, and then I cut off all my hair, and then we broke up, and she was mad because now that I'd gotten "really hot," she wasn't dating me anymore. We haven't spoken since we broke up, which is strange considering we still live in the same area but because I don't go out much when I know a lot of the gays are out, we never run into each other.
The whole food thing is bothersome, though, because it's always on my mind. I lost my natural curves during a particularly shoddy relationship about five years ago. And admittedly, I really liked the fact that my hips & boobs shrank and finally allowed me to have somewhat of an androgynous body. It didn't last, though, because real life came back/the relationship ended, and all of a sudden, my stomach unclenched and I could eat again. Fast forward to seven months later, and I had my old body back. The curvy, in-your-face-girl body. Since then, I've been trying to shrink my hips. I haven't succeeded, but I have done a fairly excellent job of tightening my quads and calves, as well as honing some pretty kick-ass triceps.
I don't really eat well. I don't care to, because I like being alive, and I like enjoying my life, and therefore I like indulging when I feel the need. I go through spurts where I lack an appetite, and I have weeks where nothing but pizza/ice cream/french fries will quell my appetite. The key to me liking my body has to do with recognizing my limits, the most important of which is realizing when I'm hungry. This is such simple logic, really, but I can understand how people overeat. I eat when I'm bored and when I'm thirsty. Totally not proud of that, but it is what it is, and at least I recognize it. The good news is that I don't eat when I'm upset... I am definitely not an emotional eater. What I forget, sometimes, is that I don't have to eat when I'm not hungry just because all the food authorities tell eager listeners that you need to eat three balanced meals + three light snacks a day. Sometimes I'm not hungry after I eat my fucking Cheerios, okay? Does that mean my metabolism is going to collapse in on itself if I don't eat again until 5pm? NO. Well, actually, I'm !!!! I was going to say I'm right-brained, but the quiz I just took is telling me I'm 65% LEFT-BRAINED. This can't be! Oh shit, I think I'm becoming logical in my late-twenties. That is the suck. I'm losing my creativity/flexibility because I'm not writing. See, no one to blame but myself!
Anyway. All that just to remind myself to do what's right for me, fuck people who tell me what I'm doing is wrong, and eat when I'm hungry and leave it at that.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
subtle imperfections / i think i know too much
http://newyork.craigslist.org/brk/abo/768961969.html
I'd like that. Like, now. I'd need a roommate though, and it'd have to be someone as modestly introverted as I am. And it'd have to not be someone currently in my life who also wants to make the shift to true city life (because this "city/town" that I live in now is pushing the limits of wanting to be bigger than it really is).
Slowly, I'm allowing myself to realize that my tendency of feeling boxed-in and claustrophobic, though bizarrely comforting at times, is unhealthy and can only be remedied by uprooting this life.
I came into this summer with high hopes of: remaining single, keeping my head above water, Figuring Things Out, getting lost in New England (mainly Maine), writing, organizing my life, bettering my soul. It hasn't really panned out to any of those accomplishments, and I didn't think those were lofty goals, really. Totally attainable. But I should have known myself better.
I allowed myself to be lured back into my formerly dismantled relationship; we broke apart for all of 2 months, maybe. I went back in with these outrageous expectations and not even a month later, I'm already disenchanted. Bitter, too, I think. And yet, because I am who I am (a part-time eternal optimist/total closet masochist), I've stayed/persevered and continue to try and make it work. Probably, I A) should not have allowed this to happen, B) should not tough it out, and C) am a slight moron in the heart area.
While I have completed significant beach time, I haven't ventured to Maine, which's completely sad because I haven't been there in ten years. Or eleven? Last time I was there, I had a boyfriend instead of a boifriend (and I've never said that out loud but one of my exes refers to herself as a "boi" so it's only fair that I lump her into that terminology; she'd like it if she wasn't busy sending me text messages about how she hopes I'm happy that I'm a liar, but I've no fucking clue what I'm lying about especially if I haven't spoken to her in three weeks), had long hair, and wore a lot of striped shirts from The Gap. Maine is beautiful and prime for escapism; the kind with brilliant mountains and ankle-numbing wisps of waves. Also, lots of rocks and lobster, but I'm not the seafood type.
I'm not sure what exactly I thought I would Figure Out over the summer (and I love how I keep writing as though the summer is over when it's not even August yet), but it probably had something to do with:
1. The Former Ex, Now Current Again
2. The 5 Years Ago Ex, recently resurrected Something, now thinks I'm a Liar and is a WTF Nothing
3. The Persistent Infatuation/Never Gonna Get It
4. Non-heart/libido things like my job, where else I want to get certified, where I can transfer to finish grad school
5. My Work with the Keyboard/Pen, which has been completely nonexistent since, actually, I shoved off #2 and gave #1 the means to enter stage left
About that #5... I don't know why it's so hard for me to write when I'm feeling mostly normal. And "normal," of course, is such a loose term for semi-okay-not-crushed-&-incapacitated-by-tedious-affairs-of-the-heart-&-libido. My dad is forever telling me that I'm dramatic/a good writer, but he seems incapable of putting together the equation. In order to be a good writer, I have to have a good imagination, which therefore lends an artistic and perhaps exaggerated perspective when dealing with/manipulating data in my everyday life. I'm not dramatic; I simply like to react (usually), embellish (sometimes), and have a wide variety of facial expressions that generally do not include casual/constant smiles. Why I struggle with taking the hideous normalcy of my life and turning it into something creative, I so don't know.
What I can do in these dwindling days of my summer freedom is attack with vengeance the possibilities that are accessible to me. Totally possible. And yet, kind of improbable. Which's lame.
I'd like that. Like, now. I'd need a roommate though, and it'd have to be someone as modestly introverted as I am. And it'd have to not be someone currently in my life who also wants to make the shift to true city life (because this "city/town" that I live in now is pushing the limits of wanting to be bigger than it really is).
Slowly, I'm allowing myself to realize that my tendency of feeling boxed-in and claustrophobic, though bizarrely comforting at times, is unhealthy and can only be remedied by uprooting this life.
I came into this summer with high hopes of: remaining single, keeping my head above water, Figuring Things Out, getting lost in New England (mainly Maine), writing, organizing my life, bettering my soul. It hasn't really panned out to any of those accomplishments, and I didn't think those were lofty goals, really. Totally attainable. But I should have known myself better.
I allowed myself to be lured back into my formerly dismantled relationship; we broke apart for all of 2 months, maybe. I went back in with these outrageous expectations and not even a month later, I'm already disenchanted. Bitter, too, I think. And yet, because I am who I am (a part-time eternal optimist/total closet masochist), I've stayed/persevered and continue to try and make it work. Probably, I A) should not have allowed this to happen, B) should not tough it out, and C) am a slight moron in the heart area.
While I have completed significant beach time, I haven't ventured to Maine, which's completely sad because I haven't been there in ten years. Or eleven? Last time I was there, I had a boyfriend instead of a boifriend (and I've never said that out loud but one of my exes refers to herself as a "boi" so it's only fair that I lump her into that terminology; she'd like it if she wasn't busy sending me text messages about how she hopes I'm happy that I'm a liar, but I've no fucking clue what I'm lying about especially if I haven't spoken to her in three weeks), had long hair, and wore a lot of striped shirts from The Gap. Maine is beautiful and prime for escapism; the kind with brilliant mountains and ankle-numbing wisps of waves. Also, lots of rocks and lobster, but I'm not the seafood type.
I'm not sure what exactly I thought I would Figure Out over the summer (and I love how I keep writing as though the summer is over when it's not even August yet), but it probably had something to do with:
1. The Former Ex, Now Current Again
2. The 5 Years Ago Ex, recently resurrected Something, now thinks I'm a Liar and is a WTF Nothing
3. The Persistent Infatuation/Never Gonna Get It
4. Non-heart/libido things like my job, where else I want to get certified, where I can transfer to finish grad school
5. My Work with the Keyboard/Pen, which has been completely nonexistent since, actually, I shoved off #2 and gave #1 the means to enter stage left
About that #5... I don't know why it's so hard for me to write when I'm feeling mostly normal. And "normal," of course, is such a loose term for semi-okay-not-crushed-&-incapacitated-by-tedious-affairs-of-the-heart-&-libido. My dad is forever telling me that I'm dramatic/a good writer, but he seems incapable of putting together the equation. In order to be a good writer, I have to have a good imagination, which therefore lends an artistic and perhaps exaggerated perspective when dealing with/manipulating data in my everyday life. I'm not dramatic; I simply like to react (usually), embellish (sometimes), and have a wide variety of facial expressions that generally do not include casual/constant smiles. Why I struggle with taking the hideous normalcy of my life and turning it into something creative, I so don't know.
What I can do in these dwindling days of my summer freedom is attack with vengeance the possibilities that are accessible to me. Totally possible. And yet, kind of improbable. Which's lame.
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