To Whom it May Concern

Dear Derek,

                This letter may come as a surprise to you. You’re a friend of my brother’s, and thus as the saying implies, a friend of mine. It must be a few years now since I met you, and yet I have to admit my ignorance up until late to what makes you essentially yourself.

                As I have been becoming better acquainted with you, I’ve found the tidbits of your life to be nothing short of the intriguing character description of a well rounded hero of a classic novel or 1950s film. Facts such as that you work on a ranch, or want to pursue a career in psychology, or that you’re as terrible a dancer as I am, or that you were once a professional mime. These attributes override the actuality of your piercing blue eyes, and that you look nearly irresistible in a deep grey knit sweater reminiscent of my grandfather’s regular duds.

                Derek, I feel I must confess – I must admit my wayward feelings as simply as this: I think I’m platonically in love with you.

                It’s nothing to get freaked out about. It doesn’t have to be a “not you, but me” situation. I don’t want you to hold my hand or to lie gazing at the stars and talk about what we’ll name the children we’ll one day have.  I just want you to be around. I want to talk about our separate goals, dreams, and desires; and I want to know that as I look into your eyes and say these things, that you can see my soul. I want to be in love with you like Romeo and Mercutio, like Laurie and Jo (Little Women, anyone?), or Piglet and Pooh. I want to be the first person you tell when something out of the ordinary rhythm of your well orchestrated life happens, or the one you plan a spur of the moment road trip with, or the person who sits by your side for an evening’s worth of silent film entertainment.

                You understand, don’t you? Don’t you long for this too? The relationship without the expectations? The love without the pressure? I thought you would, I felt you had to. Well then it’s settled- let’s go out to a candlelit dinner and split the bill. 

Song: From Above - Ben Folds/Nick Hornby

The Rejects of My Labour: An Alien Allegory

     It's been a long week, friends, with too many stresses and duties and pressures. I got as close to insane as I ever want to get - but I feel like I may have made it out the other side? Well, either way, I'm back to semi-sanity and I'm holding on to it for as long as I can! Part of this week's stress was working on what turned out to be a fruitless project, however, I will share it with you (it's a bit of a story):

My Alien Ally

 I had a best friend, and she was an alien. She was not an alien in the gruesome sense of the word. She did not have bulging, pulsating eyes, or secrete ooze out of the tips of her fingers. She was not bald, or able to breathe out of fins, or covered in scaly skin the color of pistachio pudding. She was different in no ordinary way, and just a girl in every biological sense of the word. In truth, nobody knew she was an alien except for herself; and for me.  

                She worked with the rest of us. She ate the same food, she wore the same clothes – she often seemed very much the same- but she wasn’t. She was an alien. She was foreign.

                She knew it best when she talked with one of them. She felt it from the look in their eyes when she shared something deep, something meaningful, and they stared back in ignorant vacancy. She knew that she spoke the same words, but not the same language. She said these things to me once with our heads under the covers and a flashlight lighting her face. I hoped to be the only person who did understand her, but I could never be sure.

                Most days I think she was content with the knowledge of her otherworldly existence.  She loved this world for all that it was: for the feeling of the sun on her face, and sand between her toes; for the taste of cotton candy on her lips and the smell of an old friend to her nostrils. She loved the world, and she was in the world, although not of it.

                It was on a regular day that something strangely phenomenal happened. She was in her favorite spot outside amongst the trees, and the grass, and the shouting of children. She was sitting on a bench in a near comatose state: 9:00 am, 12:00 pm, 3:00pm, 6:00 pm, watching the leaves shimmer in the sunlight, and the grass whisper in the wind; and somewhere nearby was a slow caterpillar that had been stuck in a cocoon for too long, now stretching out and pushing the walls of his confinement with his newly shaped body. 9:00 pm - color burst in the last glow of sunlight as the new form of the caterpillar came to life. In the moment that the kaleidoscopic color flitted across her line of vision, her heart skipped a beat. It was something of a nervous tick that started in that moment, and then continued to make an inconstant stutter in the crevice of her chest with every third beat skipping like the flitting of the butterfly's wings.

             That night she had wild dreams of colorful parades, and meteor showers; revolution, and crusades. She slept with a restless mind, and woke to the same ramblings. She was not master of her own body - and that scared her. It was as if the simple things, the normal things, the things that had fit her into the regular world were crashing down and exposing her for who she truly was.

              Three nights and three days she spent like this - barely functioning to the outside, but inside suddenly understanding and feeling with a passion she had never accepted. On the third morning she awoke in perfect serenity. Somewhere between sleeping and waking she had found clarity - that girl, my best friend and confidante - the alien in my midst - was me.

A Juxtaposition

     I have been working on a bit of a project this week, so I have not had much time to think of a post for this week. However, in the meantime, I thought I would share a funny story from this week. Really, it's more of an image than an all out story. Anyways, as a bit of lead up, occasionally when I'm working at my evening job as a waitress I will add a bit of entertainment to my night by trying to guess what a guest will order for their meal (sometimes you can just tell if a person is a pasta or burger person). A few nights ago I had three BIG guys come in - very rough and tumble, unkempt, and dirty from working outside. Instantly I thought to myself, "a pitcher of beer and three steaks - probably rare,". As they sat down I came over to introduce myself and say my little waitressing speal as I got their drink orders, the biggest guy of the group answered for all of them, "Can we have three glasses, and a pitcher of lemonade?"

-and then they each ordered a salad and nothing else.    :)


P.S. Listen to the song above for some extra feel-good vibes while you're (hopefully) enjoying a sunshiny day!

Growing Pains

                “You used to be younger! You used to be shorter!” my 8 year old cousin Jake cried out to me in accusation this past weekend, “You used to play all day with us!”

                I felt a pang of guilt as I remembered the times I had chosen to sit around and talk to grown-ups rather than run around with my younger cousins. “Have I turned into one of those lame adults now?”, I wondered to myself. It seems ever since Jake reminded me that I am not young anymore, there is another reminder after another reminder that keeps his words fresh in my mind – “YOU USED TO BE YOUNG!”

                I still feel young most of the time. I feel the youngest and the oldest when I work in schools. With the staff I feel like this punk kid who does not know what to do or where to do it, yet to the students (the younger ones at least) I’m just “old”, and it’s fine and good for the job that I do.

                The age I’m at now is a bit of a transition period. A part of me is still that carefree child who believes in things just “working out”; the other part is learning how to do all these grown up things that I relied on others to do for me so that things would just “work out”.  The deeper I find myself engrossed in this transition, the more I realize that the illusive “adult” who always had it all together - and knew how to apply for VISA’s and book a dentist appointment - is really not so different from who I am today. I have realized the more human aspect of “The Grown Up”. They still have irrational emotions, unfulfilled dreams, and dreaded acne break outs (I thought of all things,  I would have conquered the acne break outs).

                People who know me well often comment that I am an old soul. To be honest, I often feel as if I am forty years old inside. I have not completely decided if this is an enviable quality or not. I suppose as long as it does not take away from the spontaneity of youth , and as long as I am happy and content with my forty year old interior (which I am). My conclusion, then, is this: that I am content at the stage I am at. It comes with its stresses and pressures – but what age doesn’t? I am going to try harder to spend more quality time with the little people in my life too; because life is short, and sooner than later they will be the ones in this transition realizing that they are more like the adults in their life than not – but still wishing all the while to be just a kid.

The She-Man

      The She-man is a brand of male that is becoming ever more prevalent in the daily lives of the average female. Unfortunately, this term of “She-man” does not describe one of my beloved gay, male friends with whom I can discuss the world and all its intricacies while adding plastic gems to random items of clothing and accessories. In contrast, it is a term to describe a fully heterosexual man who prides himself on the expanse of his emotions, and the fact that he enjoys watching The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 alone on rainy afternoons. I will admit to you that my experience with men in general is limited at best. However, my experience with the She-man is at a level where I could graduate from Community College with honours on the subject. I always thought a more sensitive type of man would be an intriguing and an almost optimal choice, but my more recent exposure has left me hoping that my days with the She-man are soon to be coming to a close. The experience that I have acquired in the presence of a she-man is the type that makes me cringe at the sight of a guy picking up a guitar and playing me a song inspired by, and written about, myself. It’s the type of experience where great, sweeping romantic gestures, such as adventures to secret locations and unexpected gifts, only prove to make me nervous and do nothing to secure my affections. The type of experience that makes one of my first questions for any potential romantic suitor something along the lines of, “Are you, or have you ever been, involved in activities having to do with acting, singing, composing, sculpting and/or (but not limited to) interpretive dancing?”.  Unfortunately, if the fellow answers yes to any or all parts of this question, my more recent social history has proven that there is a high chance that he is a stereotypical preteen girl underneath his adorably artsy exterior. So what if your newest love interest has a habit of PMS-ing more than you? Personally, if I wanted to be dating one of my girl friends, in this day and age, I would be. So what is to be done? Shall we banish all feeling men to the ends of the known earth for another generation to deal with? Shall we hold riots against any new romantic flick promoting the She-man? For myself, I plan on taking a simple, yet hopefully effective, She-man hiatus until I come up with a better plan of action towards this inconvenient evil. And when the one, seemingly innocent, ballad dedicated to yourself by your next She-man turns into a three-volume musical collection and each song strangely depicts everything from your small hiccupping laughter to the odd freckle under your left eye – unless you enjoy the idea of a personal and attentive bibliographer – I suggest the option of running, and not walking in the opposite direction.

My Sunny Feeling was Taken Away

     I broke a boy’s heart today. He handed it to me and I neatly snapped it in two and gave it back to him. It was not because of any real issue; if pressed, the only things truly wrong with him that I could think of were possibly that his hair was too nice, and his jeans a little tight. All his intentions were well meant, all his words thought out – and yet there was something that never quite fit between us, some cosmic reason that my gut kept answering his advances with a firm and resounding “NO,” and made me feel as queasy as the last time I had Chicken Nuggets at McDonald’s. I am not a stranger to the deactivation of a male’s heart. The disappointment is, in truth, all I know. It is not shocking that I once again had to have the, “It’s not you, it’s me” talk. What would be shocking is to one day actually reciprocate the feelings of a member of the opposite sex. I would love to meet someone where I finally feel like it makes sense - as if life is better with them there and like my world would never be the same again without them in it. At this point I cannot say in confidence that I believe that exists out there in the vast abyss for me; but a girl can dream, can’t she?

Ultimatums

                What is the final straw that will break your camel’s back? Do you know what your limits are? I know this sounds as if I am about to jump straight into a heated rant, but in reality this is just something that has been rolling around in my mind this week – ultimatums. What started this conversation (with myself – have I mentioned I talk to myself?) was trying to explain to my six year old brother why I could not just skip work to ride bikes with him, even if I wanted to. I told him that I would get fired, and then had to proceed to explain to him what that meant. The next day I woke up to the raised voices of my parents, and a few minutes later my brother was in my room;

      “What happened, buddy?”

      “Oh, well, I spilled chocolate milk on the computer. Mom  and Dad are mad at me,” there was a slight pause of consideration on his part, and then this revelation as his eyes widened,“I think I just got fired!”. 

       As I tried to control my laughter, I reassured him that you cannot get fired from family and that Mom and Dad had probably already forgiven him. However, his reaction to spilling chocolate milk was the thing that started this conversation in my mind. Everything and everyone has a different point of no return, and it is avoiding these tipping points that leads to a potentially more peaceful life. I try to be a person who has a high tolerance for many things, but I have been known to lose it a time or two. I actually had a mild case of reaching my point of no return  about a week ago at my waitressing job-  just an issue of a perpetually disgruntled co-worker being unnecessarily disrespectful to me. As the night progressed, I thought to myself,  “If he says one more thing to me, I am going to let him have it." Say something, he did, and give him what for, I did. Even though my co-worker did not even pretend to be apologetic that night for being a complete tool, ever since he has been much better behaved, and on top of that all the other grouch-inclined people there have decided I am someone worth being at least a little nice to. 

      So limits are generally good. Ultimatums have their purpose. It is nice to know that I will never be fired by Mom and Dad, but it can be appropriate to give those people who act as thorns in your side a little fire from time to time.  I could delve a little more deeply into this topic, but alas I have another night of work to get to, even though I would rather be riding bikes.