Tuesday, April 24, 2001
At precisely 3:30 pm EDT (it is EDT now, yes? no? I never remember) today*, I turned 19.
I have one year left of being a teenager.
This birthday marked the first year when I didn't actually look forward to getting older. There is nothing really special about 19 -- it isn't any real rite of passage, it's just another year older. The way I see it, the only birthday worth really looking forward to now is 21 and honestly, I don't really care that much.
For once, I want to be younger. I mean, like a lot younger. Like a little kid, and maybe I say that because I don't want to be writing papers or (thinking about, anyway) studying for finals. And I don't want to have weird issues and regrets and mistakes and all those other things that you get after like 19 years.
But all the same -- it wasn't a bad birthday. Aside from the fact that I was ridiculously overtired from the weekend's festivities, it was a pretty good birthday.
It was another sunny and beautiful day (perhaps a little too sunny and more importantly, too hot) which was, in a way, sort of uplifting and inspirational. We went out to dinner and even though the waitress brought me the wrong order (I said spinach enchiladas, she brought me chicken) it was good. (And one day, maybe I will brave and realize you don't have to put up with things like that, and well, things, but I digress.)
And I had fun and it wasn't bad -- no grand birthday celebration, but then, I have never been big on that. I wish Liz could have stayed today to celebrate together (this is, I think, the only birthday we haven't been together, although I didn't realize that until just now) but such things could not be helped, and she was here yesterday and I'll be home in three weeks so it's not that big of a thing anyway, I guess.
Last year, my birthday fell on Easter and it was, for a good number of reasons, really not a very good birthday. We went to Church, we went to brunch, we came home and opened presents and pretended there wasn't an odd and eerie tension there, but of course, there was. That night, Liz and I saw High Fidelity with Erin, then drove around, went to Dunkin' Donuts and stopped by her friend's house (whose name completely alludes me now) and ate some of their candy and sat around for a few hours before we came home and had a rather unfortunate and very long argument with my mother. Some classic lines were said -- that I don't think I'll ever forget and I'm sure she regrets, but alas, that was last year and I am no longer 18.
The year before we were in Italy, and in retrospect, it was probably my most favorite birthday in recent memory. Kathleen's birthday had been the day before so that at midnight, in a rather cheesy club in Florence, we officially celebrated. And I got to call Dan, which at the time, made me very, very happy (since that whole week, I'd been leaving random "Hi, Dan, it's me, we're in [insert city name here] It's beautiful, it's incredible, I miss you so, so much, I love you, bye!" messages from payphones across Italy). And the next day, we wandered around Florence and random boys from Bari hit on us and I still remember some of their names and have the big group shot we took together. And they were actually nice (or at least, did a good job of seeming so) which is more than I can say for a lot of the sleazy boys you meet in Italy.
My mom said how it was odd that I wouldn't be home for my birthday, but when I really think about it, I think I've been away for just as many birthday's as I've been home. At least, if home is what you consider that physical building that my family lives in.
I'm just usually with my family.
But the year I turned four, we were in D.C. We went to a Vietnamese restaraunt, which I still remember pretty vividly for a four year old. When I turned nine, it was Baltimore. Eleven was Disney World (the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue, and they sang to us), when I was 12, it was Baltimore again (we drove down for my little cousin's baptism, my little brother got sick and puked the whole car ride down, it was, most assuredly, the trip from hell). For 13, it was Marco Island, Florida; 14 was in the Virgin Islands (when, once again, people got the stomach flu).
It usually involves dinner in a restaraunt, strangers singing and blowing out a single candle on a cake of some sort. And the years we were home and were young enough to care, we'd light the candles twice, and I always got to blow them out first since I am (random trivia for you) ten minutes older than my sister.
At least this year, there were no singing strangers. My friends, thankfully, saved me that joy, I think partly because the restaraunt was very not crowded and they would've pretty much been the only ones singing, and nobody really wanted that. And our waitress was a bitch, anyway.
So anyway -- 19. One more year left of being a teenager, and only two more years 'til I can legally drink in this country. I am sure you are all waiting with baited breath.
Actually, it was yesterday if you're going by the top of the page since apparently, I did not finish this entry until aftermidnight. My birthday is, indeed, April 23. (return)
[02:20 AM EST] [2]
Friday, April 20, 2001
On the bad nights, I still cry my self to sleep.
On the good nights, or just every night it is, I suppose, I still hug my pillow tightly, pretending it's something real, that it's something substantial, that it's holding me back and I am not alone.
I am very much alone.
I wake from dreams, startled, drenched in a sweat I can't recall having created. I can't recall the sleep, but my sheets are warm to the touch and I can't imagine that a restless body lying awake at night could've generated such heat from just lying still. I must have been tossing and turning and kicking.
My tangled bedsheets are falling off the bed - which is too far off the ground anyway, and it is all I can do to reclaim them. They refuse to lie flat, straight and untwisted, the way sheets should lie, so instead, I just let them be a vauge and confused covering that keeps me from being naked and unsheltered while I sleep.
Except I am. I guess. I am very much alone, I am very much unsheltered and though I am wearing my pajama pants and requisite college t shirt, I am naked. Exposed. There. That Girl. She's alone. She doesn't really want to be. She's Alone Against Her Will.
Maybe someday, someone will make a band and call it that and it will be really cool. And the people in the band will get a lot of play from random chicks they meet on tour and pretty soon, they willl only be alone because if you're getting lots of random play, it's only socially acceptable to be alone.
On nights like this, I come home from parties. The people are fuzzy and I think I may have said silly things, but it is ok. I am drunk and young and single and in college, and this is, I think, vaugely how they say it is supposed to go. Big nebulous crowds of people -- the random faces I know here and there and the slurred greetings. Hey, how are you. Whassup. Dude!
And then I dance my heart out and my ass off and I come home, not as drunk as I was, and I have remarkable accuracy in hitting the keys and putting together email addresses and html tags, even when God -- if he were truly a benevolent figure -- ought to prevent me from doing such. And I write stupid things that make no sense and sometimes hurt people. Cause I hurt.
And I really should not be so ridiculously melodramatic because then I may have to hurt myself.
[02:06 AM EST] [reply?]
Monday, April 16, 2001
When all my friends from back home kept IM'ing me asking 'You coming home for Easter?' I sort of felt a twinge of sadness.
Nope. I can't, it's too far, I have too much work, it's too expensive and I wouldn't be back until too late on Sunday, or Monday, or just well, it wasn't really going to work. Fine, that's ok, I mean, it happens.
It's not like it's Christmas or something.
But then I feel like a big jerk, saying that, because the good little Catholic schoolgirl in me pipes up the old banter: Easter is an even more major holiday than Christmas in the Church. Silly secular Christmas, Easter is a real holiday that you ought to celebrate in your attempts to be more than just a secular person, stripping the meaning from all things festive.
I went to Church, but not until the 10 o'clock mass. The 9 am was just out of the question too early, same for the 11:30 (although I was up -- just not dressed and out, and all those good Church-going things). I hate the 5 on the principle that they sing lame, folksy music from the 70's that just makes me want to hurl. So the 10 it was -- the non-Eastery-feeling 10 at night mass.
My mother called me at 11 this morning to wish me a happy Easter, and I think because she felt bad. I felt bad too, and the moment the phone rang, I knew it was her and why she was calling. It made me sad.
"I made an Easter basket for you," she said. "It's sitting here with the others."
If things didn't seem really sad before, that was what put things over the top to just downright depressing. Great, so I have an Easter basket, sitting at home with all of my family, including my little brother who apparently didn't realize I wasn't coming home.
Not that I blame him, I mean, I'm not sure how much I realized fully I wasn't coming home either.
I know I don't talk about religion much, and I'm not always sure what I make of it all, but the fact remains that I am -- or at least have been and still identify myself as -- pretty religious. Not like super-religious, not religious in a really evangelical way, but religious in that quiet 'this-is-how-I-was-raised-and-I'll-feel-guilty-if-I-don't-but-I-believe-it-too' sort of way a lot of Catholics I know are.
I went out for Chinese food tonight, it was supposed to have been a bunch of us, but then one had relationship problems and another had a stat project and things sort of fell apart and just Dana and I went. As I ate my chicken lo mein, I forced myself to read my Chinese horoscope on the placemat to avoid crying. It just felt so emtpy. It wasn't Sunday Dinner (and by Sunday Dinner, I mean a large early-afternoon meal, in the dining room, with the nice linen tablecloth and some big meat dish like ham or lamb). It wasn't even brunch at the Sheraton (which my family opted for this year, so I guess there was no Sunday Dinner to be had anywhere anyway).
As I walked to mass, alone, in the rain, at ten o'clock, I couldn't help myself. I feel pretty stupid crying about not being home for Easter when I didn't really think I wanted to go anyway, and it's my own stupid fault that I didn't get more work done ahead of time so I could, and when there are much bigger, more imporatant problems in the world, but it bothered me. It felt really sad. Really empty.
Really not like Easter.
To try to not things on such an empty note, I will say church was consoling, and walking home in the rain, I encountered my hallmate Andy who was in a more pitiful state than I considering he had no umbrella and his dinner had consisted of two double cheeseburgers from what probably is in the running for the worst McDonald's in the world. Ever.
Not that I take joy in my neighbor's plight, I don't mean to imply that, but I just mean it was nice, I guess, to know that I wasn't alone in being alone. Anyway, Happy Easter, really.
[12:46 AM EST] [1]
Friday, April 13, 2001
Dear Person Whose Things I Took Out Of the Dryer:
I'm really sorry I had to do that. I bet you're going to be very unhappy when you come to get your nice, warm, dry things and find them not safetly tucked away in a dryer, but scattered about on top. For all to see. Including your underwear.
I'm sorry because I know that pain. I hate it when people do that to me too. I probably hate it even more than you do, but I still know it sucks and I don't mean to inflict that sort of suffering on you.
But.
But, dear friend, was it really necessary to leave them there? Really? I know how it gets, I mean, I really do. I hate doing laundry. It puts me in the worst of moods. That's why I waited like three weeks before I went and did it. I was putting it off.
Still -- there are some things you just should not put off. You should not put off getting your laundry if there are many people waiting, and if you care about not having your underwear put on display. I didn't want to touch it, I didn't want to go through it, I didn't want to move your stuff at all. That's suspiciously like work and well, we all know, I don't like that at all.
But I had no choice. You left it there, and I really, really, really need clean underwear, and today. Well, actually, no I can make it through today with the pair I'm wearing but you get the idea. It's getting desperate, and my clothes were wet and they needed a place to get dry because someone was awaiting my washing machine. There aren't enough here I know.
I hope you know that too, I mean, I don't want to sound critical, but when there are only so many washers and dryers, it would probably be nice to put as much as you think you can in one while still getting your clothes clean. It's just not fair to monopolize like ten of them, and, well, I think you did. And I think that sort of sucks. Just, I mean, I'm sorry, maybe that's something to please think about and consider.
Also, one of your socks fell down behind the dryer and I couldn't get it back. I'm sorry about that. Really, man. But just so you know, next time and all, if you get your stuff first, I won't have to drop your socks behind the dryer.
They were not even warm anymore, by the way.
Sincerely,
[10:08 PM EST] [2]
Monday, April 9, 2001
Today was perfect. Absotlutely, completely utterly perfect.
Caroline.
If you've ever read Dandelion Wine (Ray Bradbury, good book) it was one of those days, the kind of days you're supposed to bottle up and save for winter. Except you can't really do that, you can only sit out side with sunglasses and maybe a book to read -- but not one that you have to read, just one to keep you a bit entertained and pursoseful while you sit out and soak up all the sun and warmth and spring you can.
It's darker out now, though not totally dark thanks in part to daylight savings and my urban location which, even in the middle of the night, is never really dark from all the concern paid to making sure things are well-lit. But you can still sort of tell what sort of day it was.
I don't ever want to move to California or Florida or one of those warm-weathered places where the days like this pile up on top of each other in endless stretches. Maybe it's partly the New England blood in me, convinced from the time I was very small that while it's nice to visit other places, there really is no better place to be living. (Not that I'm actually living in New England right now, but same coast, maybe a few hundred miles away.)
Because I want to appreciate this. I think crappy snow and rain and smelly mud build character, and anyway, life just wouldn't be the same without that crisp smell that fall has, but more than that -- they give you contrasts.
Today is beautiful because the other days were not so beautiful. Tomorrow won't be as nice and yesterday wasn't really either. It gives that very nice day a sense of urgency, you must enjoy it now, before it's gone. You won't get another one like this later, or maybe you will -- but you can't count on it.
I wore a skirt, which I rarely do, and sat out on College Green for the one hour in the middle of the afternoon that I was free. Though tempted, I did not skip my Art History class (we watched the Godfather, a movie which I had never seen, which probably makes me un-American or something, I don't know, but I figured my culturally-deprived self really ought to watch it anyhow) and I pitied myself for spending such a beautiful afternoon in the basement of Meyerson Hall.
But that just made the afternoon more beautiful and wondrous and all those other happy adjectives that make you want to wear bright colors and put on sunglasses and smile at strangers.
I, of course, have a bad habit of breaking sunglasses -- pretty much every pair I own has at some point suffered a tragic, cracked, twisted or otherwise mutilated fate (except this one, rather hideous pair I bought as an emergency pair one particularly sunny afternoon while skiing -- why is it always the ugly ones that stay with you?) But I am holding out hope for my latest pair -- they've already survived a few weeks which is something of a feat for me. Alas, we shall see. (Hah, get it? ...Sorry)
This month -- already one-fourth over (what is it with me and measuring time in fractions?) I hope to really enjoy. I'm a little apprehensive about going home for the summer and dealing with all the well, boredom that awaits me there so for the next three weeks or so, I am set on enjoying myself to the fullest, even if the weather doesn't cooperate. Which it will, I say, with slightly forced optimistic assurance.
[07:54 PM EST] [6]
Time has taken on the shape of a big, oozy blob. It's like those toys you get from the machines outside the grocery store -- stick a quarter in, get this weird capsule with goop inside. It moves too fast, I can't grab hold of it and it stubbornly refuse to take shape.
It's slipping away from me.
I am 19 -- in two weeks or so, that is. I am one-fourth through my college career (in a month or so, that is) and somewhere around one-fourth the way through my expected lifespan. I have no idea what I am doing.
"This life has been a test. If it had been an actual life, you would have received
instructions on where to go, and what to do."
(Ten points if you can identify that quote.)
But really, I don't know. I mean, I do -- sometimes. Very rarely, I get these glimpses of what things might turn out like if they turn out well -- happy, successful, self-satisfied, and all those good things. Every so often, I get this reassurance that in the end, whatever may come, I will be, more or less, OK, or even, maybe Very Good. I like that, I cling to that idea, that hope -- the stuff with feathers on it.
But that too often alludes me. Many times, I end up somewhere else, somewhat confused, the vision of happiness completely muddled. I don't know what I'm doing, what I want, who I want to be when I grow up.
Shit, I am almost grownup. How did this happen? I don't know.
What it really comes down to, or what it comes down to many times at least, is my attention span. That I don't have. A whole weekend -- a weekend I pronounced "Time to get things done in" has come and gone. And I have written about four sentences of Italian and that's about it. I have not started (or finished) my Sociology paper. I have not thought of topics for my History paper. I have not written my Art History paper, or my Communications papers.
I haven't cracked a book.
I am getting worried. It's Sunday night. I have a few weeks of school left, I have a few hours of my weekend left, I have piles of homework. I am typing up an entry for my Webpage. There seem to be inconsistancies here.
I panic, but do not take action. I care, but in a sort of nonchalant way. I work, but well, not really.
I have no idea where things will take me, but I remain relatively convinced that, as they have all my life, things will eventually make sense, and someday, that big blobby time will crystalize into something beautiful and solid and quantifiable.
Or maybe I'll just melt and get stuck in a big clumpy pile in the rug that smells a little.
[12:07 AM EST] [8]