At Least That’s What I Tell Myself

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A few days ago, I wrote that I wasn’t trying to get over or under, as the case may be, any man. Emphasis on trying. Surely you wouldn’t be so gullible as to think I meant I was already over (or under) a man. Surely you didn’t think I’d let the obsession go that easily. Because then, just what would I waste my afternoons writing about?

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For as much as my emotions allow, I try to keep it real with myself. There are no benefits of the doubt because I rarely allow doubt to creep in. In the end, there are fundamental differences in “us.” Things I never entertain with compromise. Things like career goals and where each of us wants to someday live. The differing emphasis we put on things. Things like learning and traveling. My important is his unimportant and vice versa.

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And if we’re keeping it real, there was never a forever. These were things we never had to “work out” because they were issues of the future we would never make it to. We were always now. And he’s just my “first”–an important adjective, but also an excuse for why I cling, why I obsess, why I don’t get over it. First. The subsequent will be easier. And we are young. Call us college sweethearts. A charming term, one I’ll look back on with endearment, but one that holds no serious consequences in the scheme of adulthood. That’s what I tell myself. That seems rational.

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There was a 9-month period during which the only time we spoke to each other was when I screamed at him never to contact me again. I was serious. I believed it was over and didn’t look back until I finally let him apologize so I could stop hating. And when we met up for that long-awaited apology, I hugged him and knew I was fucked. For as much as I hated what he did, I still loved who he was as much as ever. Nine months of resolving to never speak to him again didn’t change a thing.

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There’s something very unrequited about us. Unfinished. We never reached our full potential. I never allowed thoughts of compromise and forever. He never surrendered entirely, never let me have all of his vulnerability. So I wonder if I’ll always wonder. I wonder if he’ll always be that man to me–the man I never started or stopped loving completely.

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So I’m not trying. Trying to get over him seems futile. And anyway, I rather like liking him. I enjoy letting him know how much I care, how awesome of a man I think he is. I love making him laugh and get pleasure in helping him take an Econ quiz despite being in the middle of a game of beer pong. He’s still my priority, even without a promise.

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I could write us off with “firsts” and “youngs” and keep on with the resolve of moving on. Be rational. But it is what it is. Not what it was or will be. Now. We’ve always been good at now. Tomorrow’s a different story… a different blog…

Cold Feet, Warm Welcome

Seems it’s been a while since we last spoke. Or rather, since I spoke and you listened. Whatever, I wrote, you read… get off my balls.

When we last left off, I think I was doing dangerous things with boiled eggs and cowboys in Columbia. And truly, my life and my mindset couldn’t be any more different now. I’m growing into growing up just beautifully. Kayla is becoming an adult. Despite the fact that I just told you to get off my balls.

Just a week ago, I was a hot mess with cold feet (literally and figuratively). As many of you probably know, I spent the wee hours of my new year’s day in the emergency room with a nasty case of frostbite.

Seems champagne does not, in fact, act as a buffer between bare feet and concrete in 9-degree weather. This I tragically discovered after coming inside to warm up. After a few minutes, I was screaming at the top of my lungs and rolling around on the carpet, hoping one of those two actions would just make my feet fall off already.

As my feet turned odd shades of red and blue, a smart man told me he was going to take me to the hospital. With that, my screams of agony turned into pleas for him not to make me go because, despite my wincing and snot and tears, I was all better. Really, my feet felt like what I imagine a taser feels like, with pulsating shocks and a pain that leaves you paralyzed. I just didn’t want my parents to find out I was so stupid.

But when I fully grasped what “amputee” meant, I put on shoes (a little late, huh) and got in the car. For the next hour, the only phrases that came out of my mouth were “owie,” and “I’m such a fuckup.” Then, “100 dollars for a fucking hospital visit?!” Then back to “owie,” and “I’m such a fuckup” for the next 24 hours.

The fuckup part is how I’ve felt for the last 5 years. I’ve been young and dumb and disappointing for so long, that it became habit. I know people always throw around the “woe is me,” stuff, but seriously, it seems like I’m always getting myself into this kind of nonsense. Frostbite? Really?

I feel like I’ve played that part for too long. Between ditching cars, setting kitchens on fire, tripping up and down and over things, and now frostbite, I’m ready to take on a role besides the fuckup.

So I got this brilliant idea to apply for a badass internship in Texas, completely unashamed to admit I’m just following Dana Sweet around. It was a chance to start anew, to take on any role I wanted, to accomplish things. And of course to be near Dana Sweet.

But first I had to leave him. In the weeks leading up to my departure, I tortured myself with love songs and bawled every few hours over the thought of us ending. My first. My baby. My beginning and ending thought of everyday. The man who I hoped was on the line every single time my phone lit up the past two and a half years.

I was absolutely terrified, but not so much of how our relationship would change. I think we were both ready to change our relationship. Instead I dreaded, loathed, feared how much it would hurt not seeing him and not having him as mine. I replayed our “goodbye” scene in my head a million times, each time unable to fathom actually driving away. I began writing endless letters to him, incapable of signing my name to any of them.

And when the day came, he held me while I cried, we said goodbye, I turned up the CD he made me and drove south.

Goodbye hurt, but not nearly as badly as I had anticipated. And not nearly as badly as frostbite. I think I had once again pigeonholed myself into a role that wasn’t necessarily who I was.

I think I allow myself to cry too much because that’s my role. I’m the girl who cries when she sees a puppy on TV, when I hear certain Alicia Keys songs, when he’s 5 minutes late calling or when my computer breaks. I’m a girl. I stick out my bottom lip and whine. I speak baby talk and profess often how crazy I am about my man. I’m vulnerable and weak. And when that’s my role, when that’s what I’m used to, it’s easy to accept it. It’s easy to make fun of it and not strive to be any better.

But one week and one thousand miles later, my cold feet (literally and figuratively) are gone. When I crossed the Texas border, I was listening to Jazmine Sullivan’s “Dream Big,” (YouTube it NOW) and of course crying, because I’m just so damn excited to do good work and to start a successful life. The freedom and thrill I have are truly indescribable. I’m so happy.

Despite how often and how much I hated the journalism school at MU, I find myself overjoyed at the degree I chose. And my goodness, it’s no lie that MU has the very best School of Journalism in the world. I never knew how much I knew until I was thrust into a daily newspaper. I feel the confidence I’ve been missing these last few years and the ambition that had turned into apathy during college.

I also feel strong. I drove here, moved in, figured out the cable and heating, found my way to a grocery store, AND fixed my fireplace all by myself. OK, men did that last part. But I found and asked them.

Yep . Although 2010 started off on the wrong foot/feet, I think it just might be my best year yet.

Lessons from a Stranger’s Baby Daddy

The other day I was getting a sandwich in Subway, trying my hardest to ignore the uneven distribution of jalapenos on my Veggie Delight. You all know how that goes. I was cringing at the thought of those few extra-spicy bites when the lady behind the counter struck up conversation.

“Don’t you just hate it when someone you don’t like tries to hit on you?”

I responded with something like, “Oh totally. Feeling attractive and desirable SUCKS.”

Disregarding my sarcasm, Subway lady went on to tell me about how her baby daddy’s cousin was always trying to get in her pants. But she was all like, your cousin is my baby daddy, and that just ain’t cool, ya dig?

Seeing as I don’t have a baby daddy, I didn’t “dig,” but I did say, “yeah, fuck that guy.” By the end of the conversation, I hadn’t even noticed the obnoxious amount of onions she put on my sandwich. Instead, this stranger and I had made a connection. Mutual man-hating. I listened to her bitch and validated her feelings, which is what girls do. She gave me a free soda for my kindness, and I thanked her, realizing the only thing better than a Diet Coke is a free Diet Coke.

I wish all of life worked like that. If every act of kindness were immediately rewarded with free caffeine, the world would be a much lovelier place. Hold the door open for someone—free alcoholic beverage of your choice. Compliment someone’s shoes—free back massage from the sex of your choice. Stop at a crosswalk—free NOT GOING TO PRISON card because YOU’RE SUPPOSED to yield to human flesh.

My moods are very dependent on strangers, I guess. One simple act of generosity seriously puts a perk in my step. And one asshole going out of order at a four-way stop sign can piss me off for the rest of the day.

And isn’t it just pleasant to be a pleasant person? To smirk a little while walking down the sidewalk, to be polite, to wave at others just because. To compliment someone who otherwise may have been feeling down. It feels nice to be nice.

And I don’t know, maybe there is such a thing as karma. Maybe we will get a little good luck from the world if we are kind to it. But if not, being kind still feels good for the soul. Ya dig?

Moldy Mondays and That Mess I Call My Life

I was weighing the pros and cons of boiling pasta in a skillet when I realized it. My life is a mess.

Even if I had had the time, I didn’t have the room to clean a pot in our kitchen of chaos. I’ve been eating out of Tupperware for days for the same reason.

On a similar note, I actually Googled whether or not it’s safe to tear the mold off of bread and still eat it. When Yahoo Answers advised against it, I did it anyway. I have neither the time nor the funds to  get more bread.

I feel like I just don’t stop. A bill always has to be paid, usually with a late fee. There’s always a new e-mail to answer, new tasks at work, a project, paper, or unpaid newsroom shift.

And I’m always running late. Always forgetting to do stuff or stressed because I assume I forgot to do something. I’m 100 miles per hour all day, multitasking like a champion. I just paid an MU bill online, scheduled an appointment to get my oil changed AND cooked moldy garlic bread—all at the same time.

And the worst part about it is, I’m poor. Being 22 and still having to rely on my parents’ income makes me feel like a bitch. But at least I’m a thankful bitch. Thank you mom and pops!

I guess I’m not special. (Yes I am). In this situation, I’m no different than every other college student: overworked and under (read: barely) paid. I just feel like I’ve been doing homework for far too long. Something like 17 years. I’m over it.

Then I think about why our kitchen is such a mess and why I can’t afford a new loaf of bread. It has a little something to do with our weekend drinking binge that only stopped long enough to sleep a few hours. It has a little something to do with being in college.

College. When it’s appropriate to start drinking in the a.m. because strangers are getting ready to play football down the street.

College. When passing out on the couch in snow boots while it’s 70 degrees is just another Friday, and eating drunken El Rancho with friends is more satisfying than sex.

College. When three grown women can choreograph dances in a messy kitchen, laughing until it hurts, only half-caring if the neighbors see. Because we’re not really grown at all.

And I suppose I’ll eat a little mold any day if it means not really being grown at all.

Grandpa

How thankful for stage 4 cancer. That it allowed for preparation and hugs while he was alive.

How thankful for grandma’s dementia. That she didn’t have to fully grasp these would be her last days with her husband.

How thankful for infected wisdom teeth. That they forced me to go home, so I was able to be there when he took a turn for the worse.

How thankful for trips to the DMV. That afterwards would be our final lucid moments together.

How thankful for pancakes and sausage. That over them, he could tell me “I really do love you.” And that was our goodbye.

How thankful for his 76th birthday party. That he was able to see how many lives he had influenced. How many people loved him.

How thankful for his small house. That we had gathered there so many times before. That it’s filled with decades of memories. That he could be there instead of in a hospital.

How thankful for his recliner—the one I always had to give up when he came into the room. That his children could kiss his forehead while he lay. That mom could rest on his chest and pray.

How thankful for sickness instead of suddenness. That he was comfortable and ready. That his family could hold his hand. That he could hear their prayers.

How thankful for my grandfather. That he loved his wife and children. His grandchildren and great-grandchildren. That he worked hard and gave much. That he told funny stories and stuck to his faith. That he took me fishing when I was young and wrote me one-sentence notes when I was in Spain. That he created an amazing family. That I was able to know him.

How thankful indeed.

Essays in Idleness

***This is supposed to be an emulation of Kenko, a Japanese prose artist from the 13th Century. I assume most of you never had to read his “Essays in Idleness,” so take my word for it–this is a very bad imitation. But it turned into a decent essay nonetheless, so read on.***

If one is not late for class or rushing to get home in time for the latest “The Office” episode, red lights are good fortune. The halting hand forces contemplation, allows for observation. With nothing to do but wait for the go-ahead, red lights escape man from the hypnotism of the highway—with its abstract and arbitrary wanderings—back into authenticity—or at least whatever verisimilitude can be attained from behind a windshield.

The man to the left, looking straight ahead, hands on 10 and 2, he is shy. He will not waver from his stare for fear of catching the eye of another human. He seems slouched, not just in the car, but in all situations. I imagine he thinks if he had less shoulders, less height, he might just go away. Perhaps tinted windows would be better suited for him, especially in these red-light situations.

The couple to the right is as silent as the shy one. Both are attractive, not an uncommon occurrence in this town. They might as well be in different vehicles, I think, their auras seemingly failing to overlap. I imagine they’re listening the radio, just loud enough to mask the silence, a song neutral to their tastes and as cookie-cutter as they are. Coldplay or Dave Mathews Band. Or maybe I’m jaded, and their auras are one in the same. Their connection is on a level unseen, that of telepathy. Their silence stems not from their individual lack of depth, (which is only cultivated by their couple-dom), but from an unsaid understanding. Though this I doubt.

In my side mirror, I see a hand holding a cigarette. I feel the base exploding from someone’s speakers and hear almost-scratchy beats linger in the lanes surrounding us. I assume the hand with the cigarette is the same that dialed up this volume, as only badasses smoke cigarettes and only badasses listen to music that loud.

I note that for a brief moment, the grid of cars of which I am among—all going somewhere separate, all filled with their own masters, all consumed with their own worries—we all merge. It isn’t the red light herding us back or that we are ingesting each other’s fumes that brings us to one mind. It is the young woman.

As half-nudity tends to entice, every male, every female, hetero- and homosexual alike, cease waiting for the green and content their eyes on her. She’s in a sport’s bra, short-shorts, hair slicked back by a headband, iPod attached to her bicep. As quickly as she appeared from the left, she is gone from the right, taking our brief traffic union along with her.

I fancy her a vain existence. Narcissistic in a way that needs attention from a highway of people. I can’t for the life of me imagine why else she would be parading through the intersection of Providence and Stadium in such a way. Are not side streets safer? A treadmill safer still?

Blink, and a honk of impatience.

When the green light invites, I move on from such quick yet copious contemplation. I leave my judgments at the white line, realizing I would take the bare girl’s abs if I could. I’d smoke a cigarette if I had one and if smoking a cigarette didn’t lead to addiction again. I’d just as well be lonely with a man next to me, to fake companionship, than go it alone. And maybe I don’t want shoulders either. Disappearing sounds just fine.

The next light is yellow. Will I stop, or will I speed?

Too cool for school

It’s that time of year again. Drunkards roam the streets, clinging to the last few days of summer like they won’t drink all semester anyway. Furry pink rug sales skyrocket, as gaudy, tasteless decorations are accepted and expected in dorm rooms. Campus is stirring with prettier and taller people than it will see all year. Hair is straightened, heels are endured, new outfits debuted… all for the new school year.

Even I’ll get caught up in the hype. I’ll pick a back-to-school outfit that’s casual yet cute and curl my hair loosely, so it looks natural. I won’t look like I tried, but every girl will know I did. I’ll have highlighters handy and perhaps write due dates in a calendar because, of course, this semester will be different. I’ll be organized and well rested. I’ll sit in the front of the class and participate often without being annoying. I’ll resist tripping sorority girls.

And this time, this semester, I’ll give myself a stellar introduction.

Perhaps I should preface this by saying I’m hopelessly terrified of first-day-of-school scenarios. I remember I was so scared my first day of high school, I actually had to leave class, multiple times, to tend to a nervous bowel situation. But I digress.

The point is, new situations and new people scare me. Yes, this coming from the girl who booked it across the Atlantic to live alone in Europe for a year. But back then, you could have shipped me off to Baghdad with only a George W. bumper sticker to cover my ass, and I would have said THANK YOU for getting me out of Bolivar. But I digress again.

It’s not that I’m worried what people will think of me because I have an unmatched ability to join classes in which NO hott guys are present. I’m not sure what it is. This is just one of my many feelings that doesn’t make sense. Like my unnatural fear of flying. Or my unnatural dislike of babies.

Anyway, I might not even have this stupid dread toward first-day days if we didn’t ALWAYS have to do obligatory introductions. Name, year in school, major, reason you’re taking the class, and… here’s the kicker… something interesting about yourself.

Something interesting? What am I supposed to say to that? I once pooped 6 hours straight my first day of high school? I can bong a beer in 3.4 seconds? A few years ago, I outran a cop while naked? All interesting, but probably not appropriate, at least for first impressions. That’s stuff better saved for weeks 3 or 4.

It’s not that I’m uninteresting, it’s just I can’t really think of something so special about me, it deserves to be mentioned right off the bat. I’m not sure what kind of bullshit I’ve made up in the past for these kinds of exchanges. It’s not like you can say something like, “I have 450 tattoos,” or “I can contort my tongue into the shape of a penis” or “I am magic.” Because they’ll make you show them, and then when your tongue looks nothing like male genitalia, they’ll just think you’re weird. Or a liar. Or sleep with strange men.

But this time around, this semester, I’m going to come up with something interesting about myself so that maybe I won’t be so terrified on the first day of school. I’m not so concerned with truthfulness as I am coolness.

Here are some of my contenders:

Lil’ Wayne is my uncle. He gets sloppy drunk at family Christmases, so I take care of him.

I was a child star. Remember that Alex Mac show? That was me. Hollywood was too superficial for me, though.

I met Chuck Norris. And lived to tell about it.

I’m married to a billionaire. But if I tell you his name, I’ll have to kill you.

I dated Chelsea Handler before she went straight.

I skydive, like, everyday.

I choreograph all of Beyonce’s videos. Post Destiny’s Child, that is.

I was the first to come up with the phrase, “That’s what she said.”

OK. This is just a preliminary list, mind you. I’m open to suggestions any of you other fantastic liars can come up with.

In the meantime, I’m going to work on giving wrong directions to all of the frantic newbies around campus.

Laughing While Drowning

It’s amazing the kinds of thoughts that run through your mind when you’re drunk in the middle of a lake, clinging to a raft that is slowly sinking.

I wish I had made more of a difference in my life.

I wish I had said, “I love you” to my family one more time.

I wish I had deleted those photos on my computer.

OK, to be fair, I was only tipsy. And we were no more than five feet from a dam. But our raft did have a few holes in it. I’m not a complete liar.

I was at our family reunion. And unlike your lame family reunion with its leg races and grandma’s gross potato salad, the Roll Family Reunion is a good time—mostly because it is a dangerous combination of alcohol, high-speed watercrafts, deep murky water, and… members of my family.

The reunion is a chance to escape, to not worry, to eat, drink, and be merry. Unsurprisingly, I took the opportunity to have some profound thoughts. Cause that’s what I do. I have profound thoughts, so you don’t have to.

But really, I came back all sorts of enlightened. I want to say I began to see things more clearly, but for right now, I’m just having these random epiphanies that I’m trying to string together.

Two of my great-aunts found a photo from a reunion at the lake some 50 years ago. Scrounging up similar clothing, they reenacted the picture this year, and I struggled to imagine myself being able to say, “Fifty years ago…”

It made me contemplate how I’m spending my days. Life is way too short to not be happy. On the other hand, 50 years is a long time to tolerate unhappiness. I realized the worries that take up so much of my mind now won’t even be on my memory’s radar 50 years from now. Rather, my college years will be a conveniently summed-up impression. Good times or not? Happy or not?

So what am I doing to make it good and happy? How am I ensuring that today is the best it could be? Why am I clinging to things that tear me down? Why not surround myself with happiness?

It’s a powerful realization. That I’m in control of my day. I’m in control of my next 50 years. Instead of blaming others for not taking care of my emotions, how bout I take some responsibility? I choose who comes into my life, who gets the pleasure of holding my heart. And I choose how to approach life. It’s like that optical illusion. Am I going to choose to see the two heads or the vase?

Nothing is wrong. That’s all I can keep thinking. Life is good. Even when I’m in the middle of the workweek, unsure how I’ll survive writing one more freaking news story, nothing is wrong.

It’s always beers by the lake. It’s always sunshine and good conversation. It’s always the weekend.

It’s always laughing while drowning with my family.

Echo de Menos

They’re the most vivid dreams.

I see the drops that escape a fountain, onto the stone ledge, onto the slippery sidewalk, onto my skin. I feel the menthol smoke cooling what my cup of espresso had tastily burned. I open my courtyard window to sunshine, freshly hung clothes, and bad techno music. The unmistakable sound of a Diet Coke can splitting open makes my heart feel like Spring. The Diet Coke tastes better here.

But I don’t hear the language. No oigo el idioma. Not in my dreams. That’s how I know I’m not there. That my time in that world has passed, and I should move on.

Indeed I have, as much as a girl can. I’ve made a new home in a city I adore just as much as Granada. I have new friends who are beyond what I deserve, and the same family just a short drive away. Since Granada, I’ve loved deeply, cried even more deeply, and learned still more about who I am, what I need, deserve, and can’t live without.

I guess that’s how it’s supposed to work. You grow up and hopefully grow better. You allow each experience to guide you to the next one, constantly building, forever gaining. So why do I keep regressing? Why do I long for Spain? Still. Still?

I suppose it’s not the vineyard by the mountains or the meals by the ocean. It’s not the cheap wine, the 9 a.m. “nights,” or even the hippies playing their flutes in the plazas.

It’s who I was then. It’s how I embraced being young. How I longed to understand more—the language, the streets, bar specials, traveling, and different cultures. It’s how independent I was, not knowing a soul, but making lifelong soul mates. I miss the adventure and discovery. Not knowing what was beyond the corner, beyond the bus route, beyond a short plane ride. I miss being challenged.

I’m afraid I’m attached. Comfortable. I’m afraid I love too much now. The people in my life, my routine, my own bed and blankets. I’m afraid I won’t go see all that’s left to see because I’m shortsighted by the here and now.

And so I dream. I grab my hand and walk up the jagged, bricked hills of Spain.

Always up, as hills don’t work the other way here. And I look onto the city of whitewashed concrete and say, “hasta luego.” Until I sleep again.