For some reason, fall brings out the melancholy in me and makes me wish for things that I don’t have. I love fall, but for some reason, I associate it with being with someone. Maybe it’s because two of my long term relationships (and if you consider this past year with and without Not Boyfriend as a long term relationship, then three) started in the fall. Who knows. What I do know is that fall makes me lonely – almost unbearably lonely, sometimes.
It was around this time last year that I started seeing Not Boyfriend. The first two weeks, we spent pretty much every evening together, and it was great. I fell for him right away – I don’t know exactly why, but I remember the first night that we hung out, we sat in my living room and talked for four hours. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was because whenever he was anywhere near me, he would have his arm around me or hold my hand or pull me close to him and kiss me. Maybe it was because he would remember important things and ask me about them – and he would remember unimportant things and ask me about them. Maybe it was because he made me laugh. Maybe it was because I started to realize that he was everything I wanted.
THAT was surreal. That he could be the one who was everything I wanted, not because of anything but the fact that when we first met, we were 12, and I never in a million years would have thought that 16 years later I would want to be with him more than anything. He was the new kid at our jr. high – big, tall and kind of scary. He was always in trouble and it seemed like everyone was afraid of him, even me. Until one day, we started to be friends. I’m not sure when or how it happened, but I do remember him always hugging me when he saw me. This was a big deal for me – I was a skinny little nerd who would have been perfect pickings for him to torment, but instead, he protected me from everyone. No one dared say mean things to me, because they knew if he found out, well, they’d get their ass kicked. My most vivid memory of him was from the end of our 7th grade year. I was in the nurse’s office (probably from falling down or something) and he was waiting (again) for the principal. He came in and sat down next to me and we talked for a really long time. He asked me what I was doing that summer and I told him I was going to Illinois to visit my family. When school started the next year, he asked me how my trip to Illinois had been. I was amazed that he remembered, and I thought it was so sweet.
I told him that at our 10 year reunion last summer when I saw him for the first time since graduation. I saw him and I hugged him and we chatted, and before I left, I told him thanks for always being so sweet to me – that I’d always had good memories of him. He told me that he had a “monster crush” on me back then and that was why he was nice to me. I did not know that. He asked for my number, I gave it to him, and promptly forgot that I did. So I was surprised when, a month later, he called. We made plans to hang out and when I opened my door, he said “hey good lookin’.” I think I wanted to kick my foot in the (non-existent) dust and say “aw shucks.” File that under “How to Charm Me.”
So two weeks later, he told me we couldn’t date anymore. He was going through the beginnings of a divorce – they’d been separated for a while, but things were going ahead and he was having a hard time with it. They were married for seven years – she was his first serious girlfriend. She cheated on him and he caught her. All things that are hard to deal with one at a time, much less all at once. He told me that he could see us having a really good relationship, and that it wouldn’t be fair to either of us to be together then because he wasn’t in a good place. At all. There was more, but I was working on not crying in front of him, so I don’t really remember. As upset as I was, and as ridiculous as it sounds, I fell even further for him because he had the balls to be honest with me and not just stop calling. He didn’t even tell me over the phone – he told me face to face, and I will always admire him for that. Then he told me that we could still be friends, and I knew that I’d never hear from him again. We all know that’s the kiss of death.
Remarkably, he meant it. We didn’t talk for about a month and then last Halloween he came to my door dressed as Tigger. Yes. A 6’4” man in what amounts to giant footie pajamas and a hood that has Tigger ears on it. He got it at the Disney Store, and when you pressed his hand, Tigger said things. I couldn’t stop laughing. And from then on, we started hanging out again.
It was basically the same as before, only we were NOT dating. He would call me every day, we did things together, we kissed, but no. NOT DATING. That’s when I started calling him Not Boyfriend. And I was totally fine with how things were, because if it made him feel better to tell himself we weren’t dating, then that was ok with me. I don’t want to deal with your baggage, so you work through that and I’m here when you need me. Similar to a girlfriend, but without the scary label.
Then in the middle of January, he stopped calling. Just stopped. No explanation, nothing. I knew it wasn’t about me. I knew he was having a really hard time dealing with the divorce, plus? He had to give his dog up. But even though I knew all that, it didn’t make me feel any better. I talked to him once in March (bad) and once in June (good), and that was that. My heart was totally broken and it sucked.
So the beginning of September, he came back. He spent all that time not talking to many people and just getting through everything. His divorce was finalized. He felt like he could truly move on because he wasn’t legally tied to her anymore. I’m glad he did all that, and I’m glad he did it without me.
Do I know what’s going to happen with us? No. Not in the least. Of all the millions of things we talk about, that’s not one of them. We don’t awkwardly avoid the conversation, it just never comes up. I do know that even after all of this time, I still want him. And all the dating debacles I’ve endured this year have only served to enforce my feelings for him. He is a good man – and the kind of man I could spend my life with. I know girls say that all the time -- “he’s the one” – and I’ve said it before (in high school no less – ack), but I know now that it’s something I have to give A LOT of thought to. Because there are few people I can spend a week with, much less multiple years. I could spend multiple years with him. He would be a great father – and really, really wants to be. I could seriously go on about all the things I love about him, but I won’t. There are a lot.
So yeah. That's Not Boyfriend. Let's keep our fingers crossed, shall we?
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Even the Elderly Enjoy the Occasional Concert
So last night I went and saw Jason Mraz in concert. Before I go any further, I have to tell you that the person behind this whole event was Mandy. She got into him and knew that I would love him, so she burned his newest cd “Mr. A-Z” for me and got tickets to the concert. Well, she was right – I loved him. And after last night’s show? I love him even more. So big shout out to Mandy – you totally know musical genius when you hear it – AND you know me so well.
Anyway, so Mandy, her sister Cass, our friend Steph and I headed out to the Fillmore. We’re all about the same age – Cass is 22, so a little younger. But when we got to the theater, clearly the only thing we were was old. Teenage girls EVERYWHERE. And there were a few guys there, but they were mostly the whipped boyfriends, standing around and trying to look as if they totally chose to be there and fooling no one.
So the opening act was James Blunt, a charming lad with a fantastic English accent and a really tortured soul. I was actually going to say something here about how he’s so young and how there’s no possible way that he could be so tortured when he’s all of like 22, but then I looked up his bio and turns out? He is. He was in the British Army in Kosovo in 1999 at the age of 19 and wrote some songs about that. He describes his album as “fatalistic” and boy, he isn’t kidding. At first I was like “I think I’ll buy this cd and listen to it.” By the end of his set I was like “I think I’ll buy his cd, listen to it, break it in half and slit my wrists with it.” For real. His voice is haunting and his songs are super depressing. But he’s talented, no question about that.
ANYWAY. Jason Mraz. I love him because he is a total word nerd. He’s quick and funny and writes great songs. He can talk so fast and he plays the guitar and did I mention that he’s a word nerd? How do you not love a guy wearing a pink t-shirt that says “GEEK” across it? And yes, he’s hot, but it’s all the rest of the stuff that makes him nigh unto irresistible. The thing, though, that sealed my adoration for him was his VOICE. He does this one song “Mr. Curiosity” where in the middle is this operatic kind of interlude. I always assumed someone else did it – until he broke it out last night and almost made me pass out. His voice is unf*ckingbelievable. The rest of the concert was great – he isn’t one of those artists who does the chit chat in between songs that makes you want them to please shut up and never talk again. His in-between-song talking was hilarious. I can’t really describe it, so I won’t.
What I will describe is how utterly ancient I felt. There were so many young kids there and when we first got there, I was SURE they were looking at us like “How sweet. The old ladies finally got a night out.” This was cemented by when we’re standing there during the James Blunt set and we were talking about getting a drink, and then Steph pointed out that there probably wasn’t alcohol because it was an all-ages show. WHAT? Cass was like “I thought maybe they just ran out of the bracelets and also forgot to card me.” Yeah, not so much. No alcohol.
The Fillmore has no seats on the main floor, so you have to stand. We stood there for nearly 3 hours and towards the end I wanted to die.
“Not to be totally old, but my feet are KILLING me.”
“My back hurts.”
“Man, mine does too, now that you mention it.”
Not only were we standing there for hours, but people kept pushing their way in front of us like they belonged there. Look, if you want to be closer to the front, I recommend that you get there earlier. Don’t make me kick your ass. At one point, Steph turned around to say something to us and when she turned back around, some little chippy had elbowed her way into Steph’s spot. Steph looks at us and says “Apparently if you turn around, you lose your spot. That’s the last time I’m talking to you f*ckers tonight.” The girl got the point and moved out of the way. Another girl tried to edge in front of Cass, and so Cass, Mandy and I all looked at her with the laser eye of death and she kind of cowered and was like “sorry” and moved. That’s what I thought, bitches.
After about 2 hours, we started to want some water. But we were totally trapped. We’re thirsty and smushed in with 85 bajillion people and there’s no way we can get to where there might be water – not that we’d know where that was anyway. By the end of the concert, we swore we could feel our skin drying up and had passed the realm of "thirsty" like an hour before. I think we were at the "Brink of Imagined Death from Dehydration" stage about then, but we possibly could have been hallucinating from lack of water -- maybe our brains had dried up. Anyway. We wanted to go to the 7-11 across the street from the theater but with the crowds of people walking around, we couldn’t get there. We drove around FOREVER (or like 20 minutes -- I really don't know because my eyes were totally dried up rendering me blind so I couldn't see the clock) because apparently Denver shuts down at 10 on weeknights – something to know in case you’re ever here and want to get something at a convenience store after 10. You can’t. We finally found a gas station and I have never been so happy to drink water ever in my life. Add another point for “old” on the “Old vs. Young” scorecard.
Luckily, there’s a curfew in Denver for teenagers – it’s 11 – and so the concert was out at 10:30 or so. I say luckily because damn – we all have to work tomorrow and we need to get to bed. That’s now at least three points for old, in case you’re keeping track.
But the concert? Totally fun. We laughed SO MUCH and had a blast and Jason Mraz was awesome. And once we found water, well, the night was complete. And all that before 11.
Anyway, so Mandy, her sister Cass, our friend Steph and I headed out to the Fillmore. We’re all about the same age – Cass is 22, so a little younger. But when we got to the theater, clearly the only thing we were was old. Teenage girls EVERYWHERE. And there were a few guys there, but they were mostly the whipped boyfriends, standing around and trying to look as if they totally chose to be there and fooling no one.
So the opening act was James Blunt, a charming lad with a fantastic English accent and a really tortured soul. I was actually going to say something here about how he’s so young and how there’s no possible way that he could be so tortured when he’s all of like 22, but then I looked up his bio and turns out? He is. He was in the British Army in Kosovo in 1999 at the age of 19 and wrote some songs about that. He describes his album as “fatalistic” and boy, he isn’t kidding. At first I was like “I think I’ll buy this cd and listen to it.” By the end of his set I was like “I think I’ll buy his cd, listen to it, break it in half and slit my wrists with it.” For real. His voice is haunting and his songs are super depressing. But he’s talented, no question about that.
ANYWAY. Jason Mraz. I love him because he is a total word nerd. He’s quick and funny and writes great songs. He can talk so fast and he plays the guitar and did I mention that he’s a word nerd? How do you not love a guy wearing a pink t-shirt that says “GEEK” across it? And yes, he’s hot, but it’s all the rest of the stuff that makes him nigh unto irresistible. The thing, though, that sealed my adoration for him was his VOICE. He does this one song “Mr. Curiosity” where in the middle is this operatic kind of interlude. I always assumed someone else did it – until he broke it out last night and almost made me pass out. His voice is unf*ckingbelievable. The rest of the concert was great – he isn’t one of those artists who does the chit chat in between songs that makes you want them to please shut up and never talk again. His in-between-song talking was hilarious. I can’t really describe it, so I won’t.
What I will describe is how utterly ancient I felt. There were so many young kids there and when we first got there, I was SURE they were looking at us like “How sweet. The old ladies finally got a night out.” This was cemented by when we’re standing there during the James Blunt set and we were talking about getting a drink, and then Steph pointed out that there probably wasn’t alcohol because it was an all-ages show. WHAT? Cass was like “I thought maybe they just ran out of the bracelets and also forgot to card me.” Yeah, not so much. No alcohol.
The Fillmore has no seats on the main floor, so you have to stand. We stood there for nearly 3 hours and towards the end I wanted to die.
“Not to be totally old, but my feet are KILLING me.”
“My back hurts.”
“Man, mine does too, now that you mention it.”
Not only were we standing there for hours, but people kept pushing their way in front of us like they belonged there. Look, if you want to be closer to the front, I recommend that you get there earlier. Don’t make me kick your ass. At one point, Steph turned around to say something to us and when she turned back around, some little chippy had elbowed her way into Steph’s spot. Steph looks at us and says “Apparently if you turn around, you lose your spot. That’s the last time I’m talking to you f*ckers tonight.” The girl got the point and moved out of the way. Another girl tried to edge in front of Cass, and so Cass, Mandy and I all looked at her with the laser eye of death and she kind of cowered and was like “sorry” and moved. That’s what I thought, bitches.
After about 2 hours, we started to want some water. But we were totally trapped. We’re thirsty and smushed in with 85 bajillion people and there’s no way we can get to where there might be water – not that we’d know where that was anyway. By the end of the concert, we swore we could feel our skin drying up and had passed the realm of "thirsty" like an hour before. I think we were at the "Brink of Imagined Death from Dehydration" stage about then, but we possibly could have been hallucinating from lack of water -- maybe our brains had dried up. Anyway. We wanted to go to the 7-11 across the street from the theater but with the crowds of people walking around, we couldn’t get there. We drove around FOREVER (or like 20 minutes -- I really don't know because my eyes were totally dried up rendering me blind so I couldn't see the clock) because apparently Denver shuts down at 10 on weeknights – something to know in case you’re ever here and want to get something at a convenience store after 10. You can’t. We finally found a gas station and I have never been so happy to drink water ever in my life. Add another point for “old” on the “Old vs. Young” scorecard.
Luckily, there’s a curfew in Denver for teenagers – it’s 11 – and so the concert was out at 10:30 or so. I say luckily because damn – we all have to work tomorrow and we need to get to bed. That’s now at least three points for old, in case you’re keeping track.
But the concert? Totally fun. We laughed SO MUCH and had a blast and Jason Mraz was awesome. And once we found water, well, the night was complete. And all that before 11.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Step away from the white. And the pink. And the flowers.
So I’m going to do some painting in the house. One of the reasons I wanted to buy a house in the first place was so that I could decorate it to my liking. I’ve lived in mostly new apartments, and therefore, I’ve lived in apartments with an overabundance of white. White carpet, white walls, white doors, white counters, white cabinets – white everything. While this is appealing to the side of me that likes the pristine new feeling of white, it sometimes gets old living in a world of WHITE.
When I bought my condo, it was a new build, and so I got to pick out all of my cupboards and flooring and countertops and carpet. NONE of it is white. Cherry cabinets, various shades of cream and beige and cherry to offset the cabinets and to contrast with the – you guessed it – white walls and white doors. Again, I love the white, but when you have vaulted ceilings and a lot of open space – and a white couch – well, you see where I’m going. Luckily, the white couch went out the door soon after I moved and was replaced by a dark navy sectional, which is a color I never thought I’d pick for a couch, but that I absolutely love. Anyway.
One day last fall, my mom and I were at our condo in Winter Park and we had spent most of the day either watching the Home & Garden channel or the “Trading Spaces” marathon that was on. We got to talking about how I needed to paint the guest bedroom in my house and since it’s not a room that’s used much, I could do something BOLD and DARK. And then we talked bookshelves and curtains and eventually got so into the whole plan that we decided to leave RIGHT THEN to go home (it was 10 at night), so that we could start on the room the next morning. And we did. I painted one wall in the room a lovely Merlot color and got matching curtains. I set up three white bookshelves and added crown molding at the top so that they didn’t look like plain old shelves. And when I got my New! Pretty! Bed! in January, I put my old bed in there and it is all black and white.
My house is predominantly decorated in prints by my all-time favorite photographer, Harold Feinstein. He does fabulous pictures of flowers and so my living room is all roses and my bedroom is mostly tulips with some orchids, iris and magnolia thrown in. And I get no end of shit from my guy friends about it. Dan always teases me about the flowers and the other night, Not Boyfriend is like “I think I’m going to get a new tattoo. Of flowers – so I match this room.” Ok fine, boys. I get it. Too many flowers. That, coupled with the pink bedspread and my penchant for eyelet lace has rendered my house a frilly, girly wasteland.
I’ve gotta man it up. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not suddenly going to go completely neutral with varying shades of brown and olive green and start decorating the house with lovely hunting prints featuring dogs and ducks and whatnot. I’m just going to change it up a tad. And not because the boys think I should – but because I’m getting tired of the flowers and the frilly and the WHITE WALLS. And if I’m doing color? I refuse to paint my bedroom pink, even though I love pink and wear it a lot. NO PINK.
I’m not very good at branching out and changing my style. My OCD tendencies require a lot of symmetry and a lot of matching. And so I called the one person who I think has the greatest sense of house decorating style EVER. Sally. Her house is so awesome. Besides the yard and the cute pets, the inside of the house is beautiful. She does really cool things with color and prints and it all ends up looking like a professional decorator did it. I would happily live in her guest bathroom, if it were only a little bigger. So I called her over for a color consultation. We talked about what I was envisioning and she vetoed it. Which was totally fine with me because the whole reason I wanted her help is because if left to my own devices? The house would remain girly and pastel. Or everything would be a really dark, bold color. Apparently there’s no decorating middle ground for me.
So we went to her house and got out the box of those paint color things that you get at the paint store and we ate thai food and discussed color schemes. And I am now looking at everything thinking “Hmmm – would THAT be a good color for my room/living room/kitchen?” I’m thinking blue for the bedroom, or a nice sagey green – something sort of “Cape Cod.” And a nice warm cocoa color for the living room – but once I go to the paint store and get the samples pieces and tape them to my wall? I might change my mind.
At any rate, I’m happy to be adding some color to my life. Stepping outside the color comfort zone and into something new. It’s sort of like a metaphor for my life right now, if you want to get philosophical about it. I’m trying to do things a little differently than I ALWAYS HAVE – because I’m not a risk taker and I feel like it’s time. But for now? We’ll just start with the paint and see how it goes from there. Baby steps and all that.
When I bought my condo, it was a new build, and so I got to pick out all of my cupboards and flooring and countertops and carpet. NONE of it is white. Cherry cabinets, various shades of cream and beige and cherry to offset the cabinets and to contrast with the – you guessed it – white walls and white doors. Again, I love the white, but when you have vaulted ceilings and a lot of open space – and a white couch – well, you see where I’m going. Luckily, the white couch went out the door soon after I moved and was replaced by a dark navy sectional, which is a color I never thought I’d pick for a couch, but that I absolutely love. Anyway.
One day last fall, my mom and I were at our condo in Winter Park and we had spent most of the day either watching the Home & Garden channel or the “Trading Spaces” marathon that was on. We got to talking about how I needed to paint the guest bedroom in my house and since it’s not a room that’s used much, I could do something BOLD and DARK. And then we talked bookshelves and curtains and eventually got so into the whole plan that we decided to leave RIGHT THEN to go home (it was 10 at night), so that we could start on the room the next morning. And we did. I painted one wall in the room a lovely Merlot color and got matching curtains. I set up three white bookshelves and added crown molding at the top so that they didn’t look like plain old shelves. And when I got my New! Pretty! Bed! in January, I put my old bed in there and it is all black and white.
My house is predominantly decorated in prints by my all-time favorite photographer, Harold Feinstein. He does fabulous pictures of flowers and so my living room is all roses and my bedroom is mostly tulips with some orchids, iris and magnolia thrown in. And I get no end of shit from my guy friends about it. Dan always teases me about the flowers and the other night, Not Boyfriend is like “I think I’m going to get a new tattoo. Of flowers – so I match this room.” Ok fine, boys. I get it. Too many flowers. That, coupled with the pink bedspread and my penchant for eyelet lace has rendered my house a frilly, girly wasteland.
I’ve gotta man it up. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not suddenly going to go completely neutral with varying shades of brown and olive green and start decorating the house with lovely hunting prints featuring dogs and ducks and whatnot. I’m just going to change it up a tad. And not because the boys think I should – but because I’m getting tired of the flowers and the frilly and the WHITE WALLS. And if I’m doing color? I refuse to paint my bedroom pink, even though I love pink and wear it a lot. NO PINK.
I’m not very good at branching out and changing my style. My OCD tendencies require a lot of symmetry and a lot of matching. And so I called the one person who I think has the greatest sense of house decorating style EVER. Sally. Her house is so awesome. Besides the yard and the cute pets, the inside of the house is beautiful. She does really cool things with color and prints and it all ends up looking like a professional decorator did it. I would happily live in her guest bathroom, if it were only a little bigger. So I called her over for a color consultation. We talked about what I was envisioning and she vetoed it. Which was totally fine with me because the whole reason I wanted her help is because if left to my own devices? The house would remain girly and pastel. Or everything would be a really dark, bold color. Apparently there’s no decorating middle ground for me.
So we went to her house and got out the box of those paint color things that you get at the paint store and we ate thai food and discussed color schemes. And I am now looking at everything thinking “Hmmm – would THAT be a good color for my room/living room/kitchen?” I’m thinking blue for the bedroom, or a nice sagey green – something sort of “Cape Cod.” And a nice warm cocoa color for the living room – but once I go to the paint store and get the samples pieces and tape them to my wall? I might change my mind.
At any rate, I’m happy to be adding some color to my life. Stepping outside the color comfort zone and into something new. It’s sort of like a metaphor for my life right now, if you want to get philosophical about it. I’m trying to do things a little differently than I ALWAYS HAVE – because I’m not a risk taker and I feel like it’s time. But for now? We’ll just start with the paint and see how it goes from there. Baby steps and all that.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
How to Charm Me*
Nearly a week after meeting my parents, still be analyzing your behavior because you’re worried that they didn’t like you, despite my assurances to the contrary. Oh, and try to frame every question on the subject as if you’re “just curious”, even though you’ve totally already given yourself away.
“So, uh, did I offend your parents the other night?”
“Not at all -- they thought you were great.”
“Oh good. Because I was thinking about it, and I was worried – uh, because, um, well, I uh – usually parents like me.”
“They liked you – I promise.”
“Ok. Good.”
And four days later, bring it up again. Because seriously, it’s not like you care, and it's certainly not that you've been thinking about it, you’re just curious. Really.
Oh and also? Pretend that it doesn’t please you to no end that I’m “making” you celebrate your 30th birthday on Sunday. Because, no – I can’t see through that at all.
*"How to Charm Me" tm Dooce
“So, uh, did I offend your parents the other night?”
“Not at all -- they thought you were great.”
“Oh good. Because I was thinking about it, and I was worried – uh, because, um, well, I uh – usually parents like me.”
“They liked you – I promise.”
“Ok. Good.”
And four days later, bring it up again. Because seriously, it’s not like you care, and it's certainly not that you've been thinking about it, you’re just curious. Really.
Oh and also? Pretend that it doesn’t please you to no end that I’m “making” you celebrate your 30th birthday on Sunday. Because, no – I can’t see through that at all.
*"How to Charm Me" tm Dooce
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Sometimes being my friend can be hazardous to your health
So since we’ve been talking about my proclivity for accidents and also laughing at other peoples’ expense lately, I thought I’d combine the two and tell you about my freshman year of college.
Here’s the thing about me. When I get into a new living environment, I bump into things and knock stuff over a lot until I get accustomed to where that corner is and hey, maybe I shouldn’t cut it so close when I’m walking down the hall and the bathroom door is in a different place so make sure you open your eyes while walking through it. Stuff like that.
So I get to college, and my dorm room, while not horribly tiny, is about 2/3 the size of my bedroom at home with twice the beds, twice the desks and twice the people. You can imagine how this was going to work out for clumsy new environment girl. And also for the girl who never shared a room with anyone. Luckily, my roommate Elaine and I were already friends from high school, and so we were reasonably excited about the fact that we were ROOMMATES!! In COLLEGE!!
Let me explain the layout of our room a bit. When you walk in the door, on your right are two built in closets, side by side, that essentially look like armoires. On the left is my desk and my bed. Elaine’s bed was perpendicular to mine (we put the heads near each other so we could TALK at night. About BOYS.) and then her desk sat on the other side of the closets. Also, our dorm is not air conditioned and it’s the middle of August. Hot. So we have a fan going on the floor. I’m standing on a chair, hanging up a poster over my desk, and Elaine is standing behind me telling me when it’s straight, because god forbid that a poster be off by a fraction of an inch in Obsessive-Compulsive Girl’s room. Anyway, I finally got the poster hung perfectly and I stepped down from the chair. Straight onto the fan, which, in case you didn’t know, is not so much for the stable footing. I stumbled backwards, right into Elaine, and the momentum caused us to land in her closet with me sitting on her lap and, once the initial shock had worn off, both of us in fits of giggles. And so Elaine was the unwitting victim of my new surroundings clumsiness.
But it didn’t end there. A few weeks later she came to class (we also had pretty much every class together and all the same friends – good thing we got along as well as we did) and she was wearing a gauze bandage on her hand and she was maaaad at me. Turns out, I had left my curling iron on the floor by the t.v. – which I always did – except for this time I had forgotten to turn it off. Somehow, she had put her hand right on it and burned herself. Ooops. Sorry Elaine.
So the semester passes, and we are now going to go home for spring break. We’re getting ready to leave, and Elaine is packing up the car. She had all of her stuff in, and she was being nice and carrying one of my laundry bags down to said vehicle. She comes up a couple of minutes later, laughing, with a skinned hand. Turns out that she had tripped over one of those yellow concrete parking lot dividers while carrying my bag. Not her bags – she got to the car ok with those – but my bag. Hmmm. I'm beginning to sense a pattern here.
But wait! It gets better (or worse). One day my friend Brigette was driving me and some other girl home from class. There’s a four way stop on campus, and while we were at the stop sign, we saw Elaine waiting to cross. I waved at her, she waved back, and we went on our merry way. About two seconds later, the other girl in the car is like “Oh no! That girl you just waved to got hit by a car!!” WHAT??? I guess what happened is that Elaine started to cross the street and a car hadn’t come to a complete stop and sort of bumped into her. She was fine. Seriously. Fine. I’m telling you this part because I wanted you to know that she was NOT HURT before I told you about how Brigette and I could NOT stop laughing about it. I’m sorry, the mental picture was too much. When Elaine got home from class, I tried my very best to be sympathetic. I made sure she was definitely ok before bursting into uncontrollable laughter again. And again. And again later. At first, she did not appreciate the humor in the situation. I probably wouldn’t have right that minute either, if it were me.
But the thing is? It wasn’t me. I came out of freshman year unscathed. Well, except for the time I fell out of my six-foot loft. But that was due to a vodka-related incident, not from plain old clumsiness. Oh, and there was the time Elaine was drunk and bit my arm. But I think after all I put her through, she deserved a little payback, am I right?
I'd also like to say at this juncture that as I've gotten older, I've reverted back to injuring just myself and not others. So we can be friends now without your fearing for your safety, ok?
Here’s the thing about me. When I get into a new living environment, I bump into things and knock stuff over a lot until I get accustomed to where that corner is and hey, maybe I shouldn’t cut it so close when I’m walking down the hall and the bathroom door is in a different place so make sure you open your eyes while walking through it. Stuff like that.
So I get to college, and my dorm room, while not horribly tiny, is about 2/3 the size of my bedroom at home with twice the beds, twice the desks and twice the people. You can imagine how this was going to work out for clumsy new environment girl. And also for the girl who never shared a room with anyone. Luckily, my roommate Elaine and I were already friends from high school, and so we were reasonably excited about the fact that we were ROOMMATES!! In COLLEGE!!
Let me explain the layout of our room a bit. When you walk in the door, on your right are two built in closets, side by side, that essentially look like armoires. On the left is my desk and my bed. Elaine’s bed was perpendicular to mine (we put the heads near each other so we could TALK at night. About BOYS.) and then her desk sat on the other side of the closets. Also, our dorm is not air conditioned and it’s the middle of August. Hot. So we have a fan going on the floor. I’m standing on a chair, hanging up a poster over my desk, and Elaine is standing behind me telling me when it’s straight, because god forbid that a poster be off by a fraction of an inch in Obsessive-Compulsive Girl’s room. Anyway, I finally got the poster hung perfectly and I stepped down from the chair. Straight onto the fan, which, in case you didn’t know, is not so much for the stable footing. I stumbled backwards, right into Elaine, and the momentum caused us to land in her closet with me sitting on her lap and, once the initial shock had worn off, both of us in fits of giggles. And so Elaine was the unwitting victim of my new surroundings clumsiness.
But it didn’t end there. A few weeks later she came to class (we also had pretty much every class together and all the same friends – good thing we got along as well as we did) and she was wearing a gauze bandage on her hand and she was maaaad at me. Turns out, I had left my curling iron on the floor by the t.v. – which I always did – except for this time I had forgotten to turn it off. Somehow, she had put her hand right on it and burned herself. Ooops. Sorry Elaine.
So the semester passes, and we are now going to go home for spring break. We’re getting ready to leave, and Elaine is packing up the car. She had all of her stuff in, and she was being nice and carrying one of my laundry bags down to said vehicle. She comes up a couple of minutes later, laughing, with a skinned hand. Turns out that she had tripped over one of those yellow concrete parking lot dividers while carrying my bag. Not her bags – she got to the car ok with those – but my bag. Hmmm. I'm beginning to sense a pattern here.
But wait! It gets better (or worse). One day my friend Brigette was driving me and some other girl home from class. There’s a four way stop on campus, and while we were at the stop sign, we saw Elaine waiting to cross. I waved at her, she waved back, and we went on our merry way. About two seconds later, the other girl in the car is like “Oh no! That girl you just waved to got hit by a car!!” WHAT??? I guess what happened is that Elaine started to cross the street and a car hadn’t come to a complete stop and sort of bumped into her. She was fine. Seriously. Fine. I’m telling you this part because I wanted you to know that she was NOT HURT before I told you about how Brigette and I could NOT stop laughing about it. I’m sorry, the mental picture was too much. When Elaine got home from class, I tried my very best to be sympathetic. I made sure she was definitely ok before bursting into uncontrollable laughter again. And again. And again later. At first, she did not appreciate the humor in the situation. I probably wouldn’t have right that minute either, if it were me.
But the thing is? It wasn’t me. I came out of freshman year unscathed. Well, except for the time I fell out of my six-foot loft. But that was due to a vodka-related incident, not from plain old clumsiness. Oh, and there was the time Elaine was drunk and bit my arm. But I think after all I put her through, she deserved a little payback, am I right?
I'd also like to say at this juncture that as I've gotten older, I've reverted back to injuring just myself and not others. So we can be friends now without your fearing for your safety, ok?
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