I feel like I want to write something, but I'm not really up to crafting anything intricate, insightful, or even coherent today, so here is the lazy way out: a list of fun facts! Fun, I tell you! THEY ARE FUN.
I hadn't seen her in 3 years, and suddenly she was there on my front porch. She was sitting on the ratty green lawn chair, blinking in the afternoon sun.
I had been walking up the steps with my head down, fumbling for my keys and thinking about laundry. When I saw her my heart leapt into my throat and a crackling-shooting electricity zipped to my toes and fingertips. I almost toppled backwards, but managed to grip the railing before I dashed my blood and brains all over the pebbly concrete.
She blinked again, and stood. Her lips and eyes crinkled into a small smile, and she tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear. She looked lovely--slimmer than she was before, but still soft and rounded. Her cheeks were flushed deep pink, from the Indian summer heat or from nerves, I wasn't sure which.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, the words rushing out before I had time to think. Her mouth straightened and her eyes lost their softness. I knew, before I saw her reaction, that it was the wrong thing to say. I wished I could snatch the words out of the air, but they hovered there in the heavy silence.
The last time I had seen her, it was the other side of summer. Buds bursting from trees, dewy cool air, freshness and newness permeating the earth. A light and breezy backdrop for the scorching hell of losing her.
I've recently lost some weight. I didn't really need to--I wasn't overweight, really--but I like being a bit smaller, sleeker. Of course, whenever I lose weight, it's usually because of stress and upheaval, not from being careful about what I eat. Same thing when I gain it. It just happens, and I'm usually too preoccupied with more important things to realize what's going on.
About 5 years ago, I dropped 20 or so pounds in less than 6 months. I had left my not-very-nice boyfriend, my social life had picked up, I was meeting all kinds of new people, doing new things, making new friends. My life felt crazy and exciting and full of possibilities, and I kept forgetting to eat lunch. I knew my clothes didn't fit anymore, but I didn't see myself as any thinner. Of course I knew I was, but I still had the old image of myself in my mind's eye. It's stubborn, that self-image: I had always thought of myself as a "big girl," definitely curvy, but also kind of chunky and bulbous. Blubbery.
And then I remember going into a store and trying on some jeans. I was in my little changing room stall, which didn't have a mirror, and they were tight, those jeans. I could feel them clinging to my hips and thighs, parts of my body that I had never been happy with. I knew, knew knew knew that they would look awful on me, that I would look like a fat cow. I didn't want to leave my little cloistered space and venture out to the mirror, but I did anyway, because it was the middle of a weekday afternoon and no one else was around. I was literally shocked by what I saw in the mirror. I looked...good, and it was like seeing myself for the first time.
It was a revelation to me, realizing that how I saw myself in my internal mirror was so distorted. We cling to what's known, even when all evidence is pointing us in another direction. It takes time to adjust to a new reality, whether it's what we look like physically or how we feel about someone or the fact that someone's gone forever. We cling to patterns of thought, to what we've known as true for so long, and it takes time for our minds and emotions to catch up and reconcile that cognitive dissonance. It's crazy-making, but I guess that's life.
I'm a quiet person. I don't have to fill the air with chatter just to fill it. I don't like to argue for sport. I like to listen to people and choose my words carefully. I generally keep myself to myself.
But, man, do I ramble on sometimes. I'm a nervous person, particularly around new people, and when I get nervous, I can blah blah blah like there's no tomorrow. And my voicemail messages are pretty notorious for their unnecessary verbosity ("So, um, yeah, I guess I'llll...call you back later. Or you call me. Or something like that. Ummm...yeah. Bye?") And sometimes when I write, all of those words that have been dammed up, corralled, quashed, and hoarded come flowing out, until I've divulged much more than I planned to. I'm so quiet sometimes, and yet sometimes I just don't know when to shut up.
It makes me think that I should regulate the locks and levees of my verbal expression a little better, so I can achieve some sort of equilibrium.
I just wanted to share this message I got today on Friendster, from a charming gentleman in India:
Y in da world r u single??? ;-) Ur good looks should have atleast 10 men on their feet all the time....r men in ur country gay??? ;-)
Well, I know some of them are, because I'm going to see two of them get married tomorrow (congratulations, David and Ron!), but what about the rest of you, huh? Huh?? R all of u gay???
The bus is creeping along the construction-clogged city street. 5:07 PM. She counts the number of cars and trucks between the bus and the next traffic light: 14. Two light cycles to get through to the next block. That would be...5 minutes? And then how many lights after that? Four? Maybe, if all goes well, she could get there before 5:30. The numbers and times and permutations of all possible scenarios whirl around and around in her head, like a spinning dervish, its edges blurring. She tries to wipe the numbers from her head. She should have known, should have anticipated, should have left work earlier.
More traffic snags and snarls. The people on the sidewalk are outpacing the bus. She sits, body held rigid on the hard plastic seat. There's no escape, no bus stop until the next light. What time is it? 5:28? Fuck fuck FUCK! she screams silently, the sharp consonants pinging against her skull like needles.
Finally she's out of the squealing, lumbering bus, walking down the sidewalk. Squinting into the sun. Waiting for lights to change. Swerving around moseying students. Not looking at the time, just moving as fast as she can. It's here, #305. Walking up the four flights of stairs, yes, this is the right door. 5:40 now, and the door is locked. She doesn't know the code for the door, she forgot to save that scrap of paper. 3323? 3456? Who the hell knows. It's no use pressing the buttons randomly, there are too many combinations. So she's late, too late. The numbers have won again.
The numbers, the numbers. Like metal typewriter hammers striking against her brain, raising welts in sharp relief. Too many, too fast. They all blend together and look the same. The numbers have no nuance or feeling; they're just cold, delineated symbols. There's no way to shape them or control them, massage them into something smoother or fuzzier. Little Nazi numbers, little dictators.
She counts the steps as she walks back down the stairs -- 72 -- and opens the front door, defeated.
This space has become a bit too angst-saturated. I'm starting to feel like a 13-year-old, and going through that phase of my life once was quite enough, thank you. And angsty musings are like eating waxy, cheap chocolates: tempting because, you know, it's chocolate, yet ultimately unsatisfying and pukey. OK, not the best analogy, but what I'm saying is that spewing my petty unhappinesses out through the Internet is not making me feel much better. Though I suppose it's bound to happen sometimes, if that's what's filling my head at the moment.
I write this for myself, first and foremost, though having an audience (as tiny as it may be) helps to keep me going. Knowing that other people are watching this space nudges me to write, even when I feel like I have nothing to say. I'd prefer to fill this space more creatively, more wittily, more interestingly, but I guess that's not possible every day. Like me, it's a work in progress. Sometimes it's boring, sometimes it's aggravating, sometimes amusing, sometimes embarrassing, but it's always something. At least it's something.
I feel a little neurotic. I feel a little lost. I feel like I don't know what the hell I'm doing half the time, like a floundering, floppy flounder that's been wrenched out of the sea. Flop. flop.
I feel like I'm the only person I know (or see walking down the street) who's single. I feel like I'm the only person with my level of education and intellect and all-around advantages who doesn't have my act together. I feel excruciatingly guilty for whining and moaning about crap like this when other people have real problems. Waah. waah.
I feel like I'm the only one who feels like I feel. But that can't be true, right? Right?