Monday, July 29, 2002
I've been running through the days lately—one blurs into the next and suddenly, it's almost August.
It's almost August and it's sort of amazing how much things can change within a year. I remember thinking this back in December — did a mental comparison of the way things had changed so much — not so much from the year before, but the year before that. But the difference then was mostly negative. Now, not so much.
When I take the time to think about it, I suppose things are basically all the same. I mean, most of the really bad things that were happening a year ago were permanent sorts of things and none of them went away (or came back, as the case might be). But I guess now, having had a year to sort through things, they don't seem so bad.
Last year, I was counting off the days until I returned to school, taking secret delight in having to return to campus extra early. I reason I was one of the first people to move into campus. I'd been there almost a week by the time the minivans and SUV's from Long Island and New Jersey flooded Spruce Street as parents moved their freshmen into the Quad. I watched them leave in May, waited over a week, then left myself, taking not-so-secret dread in having to return home for the summer.
I tried to explain to someone why I was so afraid of home and more intangibly, the summer as a time of year itself, but I couldn't really. I know not all of the major events I categorize in the "bad things" column happened in the summer, but all of them seemed to have major tie-ins there. Somehow. And I was somehow afraid of that again.
Except now it's almost August and nothing bad has happened. Yet. I am not going to knock on wood about that, even if I should.
Anyway, time has been going quickly. And I have a feeling I'm going to miss this summer when it's all over, but I also think that there's more good to come soon.
[07:20 PM EST] [reply?]
Monday, July 15, 2002
Were I not a wimp, I would take a trip somewhere. Even though I don't have any money, even though I don't have any place in particuliar to go, even though it's not necessarily practical. Just for kicks.
I'd have money because I'd have a job that pays me because I'd have quit the one that I hate. (I'd keep the one that I like, which also does not pay me. Their not paying me is ok with me in my book because they're a publishing company and I'm an English major and we don't really expect to make money anyway.) But oh, the other job. I'd waltz into my boss' office one day, smile and tell her I don't quite think it's working out, and honestly, I really need to do something else more productive. I'd shoot off a snippy email to the impossible people they've had me dealing with, tell them I'm sorry, but not really. And then I'd go out the door and never come back.
I'd flirt with strangers on the T instead of just watching their reflection out of the corner of my eye. I'd ask for phone numbers, actually call them. I'd do something more than whistfully sigh and remind myself that in London, the world is mine (although, of course, it would/will be, were/when I am not a wimp).
I would IM him one night, out of the blue. I wouldn't even bother explaining some weird story about why — I'd just do it. Perferably with a bit of alcohol in me, just to make me click send. But it wouldn't be a sort of desperate thing, just a hey-I-thought-I'd clarify-this-for-me sort of thing. 'Cause I'm just wondering, y'know?
I'd tell my father what I really think of him, once again, just for good measure. And this time, I'd get out all the parts that actually matter (because he's apparently decided our relationship does not). The parts about me, the part about how I feel uncomfortable to be in predominatly male environment because you really can't trust those fuckers, the part about how quick one-liners about how much men suck just roll off my tongue and I mostly believe what I say, the part about how I don't think hours of therapy are really going to accomplish much to fix things. It's not that I'm crazy, afterall. They really do suck.
I'd say something to my boss, just to remind him that although he cannot see my cube from his spacious corner office, I do, in fact, exist.
That is, of course, were I not a wimp.
[08:01 PM EST] [2]
Sunday, July 14, 2002
It's enough of a distant memory now, so I can laugh about it. Actually, I can't even remember it all that clearly, so tramatic was that week. But it was real.
Early in the summer, we had noticed that our apartment had a tendancy to heat up. Even when it was relatively reasonable outside, it had a unique ability to bake your body. I purchased a large fan that, coupled with my smaller fan, I thought would do the job. It didn't quite work.
I bought a bigger, sturdier, metal fan from WalMart. A thirty-five dollar fan. I thought that it would do the trick. It did—sort of.
Then came the week from hell. No, actually to put it more accurately, the week that was hell. Hell may have actually been cooler—I'm not sure they battle that sort of humidity down there.
On Wednesday, we had a half day at work. At 12 pm, I was sort of obligated to leave the nice, cool, air-conditioned office and step out into the boiling streets. Ok, I figured. That's fine. Nice to have an afternoon off.
Now, I do have to walk a teensy bit of a distance between work and my door, but mind you, it's nothing extreme, and I certainly don't run the distance on a hot, hot, hot day. But by the time I arrived home, I was dripping with sweat. I was red in the face. I looked much, much more out of shape than I really am, I swear.
I took a cold shower, thinking it would make me feel better. I propped my giant WalMart fan in the window, sat in front and ate a popsicle.
I didn't move for hours, except to make trips to the bathroom for another cold shower, or to the kitchen, for another popsicle. When my sister finally returned from work, I announced we were heading to the grocery store around the block. Or the movies. I gave her my options. She said she'd only go to the movies if I paid for her ticket. So I did (despite the fact that she actually gets payment for her job and I, sadly, do not).
After two and a half hours in a darkened, cold theater, I thought maybe, just maybe, I could face the night. Afterall, when the sun sets, the temperature goes down, does it not? No, no, it does not. Not when the humidity remains ridiculously hot and all you can do is sit in front of your fan in front of the window, which is also, incidentally in front of the tv, where all they talk about is the weather. Except there, they say things like "Maybe Friday night you'll be able to open your windows again, but for now, turn up that AC because there's no relief in sight."
Well, that's just lovely and all, if you have an air conditioner, but for those of us poor saps who thought they'd save on their electric bill, this is not an option. Nothing is an option except more cold showers.
I went to bed in a fit of sweat. I woke up, hotter than before. Why, when a mere forty miles away central air, a pool and the sweet, sweet ocean breezes awaited me did I remain in the city? This my friends, I cannot explain to you.
The following twenty-four hours passed by in something of a haze of cold showers, popsicles and ice cubes applied liberally to the body. My friend Erin supposedly had an air-conditioner. Supposedly, this would make our Fourth of July celebrating much more comfortable. Supposedly, however, is not good enough.
The AC did not work. Her refridgerator even stopped working at one point, causing us to tromp over to the 7-11 for ice which melted all too quickly. The day was long, unbearable and I think I almost died a couple of times.
Sometime after the fireworks had ended but the heat wave had not yet broken, we found ourselves sprawled out on the lawn in front of the apartment building, desperately waiting for any sort of breeze. Frantic phone calls to friends with air conditioning turned up no leads. Another hot and sweaty night without any sort of sexual gratification was in store for all of us. Very disappointing.
Happily, that weekend, I joined the sweet, sweet world of freon-controlled living and plunked down $150 for an air conditioner from Best Buy. This, I'm sure, will gaurantee the mercury will never rise above 70 for the rest of the summer, this negating the entire need for an air conditioner, but I don't care. I like to think of it as buying peace of mind and a good night's sleep all the same.
[12:53 AM EST] [1]
Thursday, July 4, 2002
It was 326 miles, round trip; roughly three hours each way—long enough to roll the windows down, turn the music up to damaging decibel levels and sing—safe in the knowledge that no one could hear.
There was time enough to marvel at how shockingly smooth things have been going lately. Since Christmas or so, I suppose, my life has been on a general upwards curve—but in a way, that was to be expected (or at least, the part-optimst in me wants to believe that given the law of averages, only so many bad things can happen at once—eventually, something will turn out). But part of that was really only a shallow illusion, which, I am embarassed to admit was largely brought on by the appearance of a male distraction.
We've gone our separate ways now, though, and in some ways, that's given way to a much more pure contentment. I know it's not some stupid flirtation that gives me an extra spark when I get out of bed, and I know my problems haven't evaporated. But somehow, I'm fairly confident that things are going to be ok in the end.
Of couse, there's always that nagging voice in the back of my mind—waiting for the bottom to drop out, the other shoe to fall, the shit to hit the fan or an army of cliched bad things to come marching in. It probably will, eventually. But for now, I am hoping that if I just turn the music up loud enough, I can drown it out.
[12:40 AM EST] [reply?]