lone grazer

Of late, I have mastered the art of eating alone in public. Allow me to offer fair warning, this sport is not for the faint of heart and I advise you to read further only if you crave a challenge. Let's take today's experience for further anecdotal examination.

I arrived at the Centrum at 10:58 AM with the full intention of eating an early lunch as my first class for the day was cancelled. There are a few stragglers eating breakfast, and the sign indicates that lunch won't be offered until 11 AM. I decide to wait out the two minutes. The cashier patiently waits for me to approach, but instead we have a staring match from an awkward distance where I try to explain my situation through facial expression. I don't recommend this technique. Just because you're a loner doesn't mean you should go around accidentally eye fucking innocent employees. They don't get paid enough for that. After a minute of this awkward silent exchange I decide that these two minutes are personally out to torture me, and to take my own revenge, I cut one short and just order a bagel. It later turned out that the joke was actually on me as I left hungry and lunchless.

Next, the lone eater must choose seating wisely. If possible, don't be a jerk, save the 4-chair tables for 4 people. If you're eating alone it probably already means you don't have many friends. Don't perpetuate this by pissing off large parties of people. While choosing, I avoid a table that faced another lone eater. There's nothing worse than having someone in your line of "staring off into space vision" when you're trying to gnaw on a wrap. Although these people are alone as well, again you do not want an accidental eye fuck. It's impossible to gauge the state of desperation of another loner, and this could result in unwanted confrontations on your way to the bathroom.

Now that you've chosen your seat, it's time to eat. I recommend bringing something with you that makes you look smart. This does not include playing Words with Friends on your iPhone. It's wonderful that you just scored 70 points from a word you didn't know existed in the English language until Words with Friends accepted it, but everyone else is going to assume you're just pretending to text the friends you don't have. Instead, bring mystery to your lonely eating with a book- preferably in a foreign language. Today I read my French literature book even though I had no homework. This way, you'll most likely have a perplexed look on your face the entire time while trying to decipher the meaning. This says: I am choosing to eat alone because I'm worldly and quite frankly better than you.

My lunch turned breakfast was cut short today by a mosquito circling me. My frantic waving hands broke the last rule. Be invisible. Don't draw attention to yourself if you can help it. After several attempts to rid myself of the pest (including squatting down under the table where I knew it was hiding and plotting its next move in order to verbally threaten it), I decided enough was enough and it was time to go be alone somewhere more acceptable. Like here in the library. Like I said, kids this is no joke, but by feigning nonchalance and following these guidelines, you too can dine tout seul.

naked

I meet them under the arch as hastily planned minutes before. I can hear them on the phone behind his voice, those eyes conveying their intensity even when they're hidden. Since day one they've haunted me, they've paralyzed me, they've disarmed me. I'm a particularly difficult math problem they're trying to solve before a kiss, I'm the most fascinating human in the room during dinner, I'm a wretched odor after a dissenting opinion. Though the man behind them says little, the light green pair framed by impossibly long lashes has more power than any words I've ever heard.

It's been weeks since my last encounter with them, and though they've lingered every time I've closed my own, I'm eager to stand before them while they trace my soul. My carelessly chosen sundress and still wet hair falls away while I feel the exhilarating chill of being naked in the middle of the street. Maybe my decisions have wavered from my safe norm the past few weeks, but this exposure is the terrifying, adrenaline junky thrill I never knew I craved. Through having drinks they are kind and unfaltering. The mouth is talking now, and the sentence slips in without me even realizing. The message alone is heartbreaking, but the deceitful discrepancy between mouth and eyes is enough to make me vomit. While I was busy believing in the eyes' ability to read the life in me, I failed to recognize the death behind them. This addiction is like all others. The substance of choice is not of the living, and therefore can't need you the way you need it. Walking home I'm still naked, only this time I've been forcibly stripped of my defenses.

shit's messed up.

Thursday I picked up dog shit from the sidewalk voluntarily. Two hours later, with endless pavement around me to hit, a bird with a wonderful sense of humor decided my arm was a more suitable place for his feces. While I don’t blame the pigeon for fulfilling his own prophecy, lines of communication were crossed somewhere in between the asking for shit and receiving it without my consent. You’re not supposed to let shit in. It comes out of you for a very specific reason that is both medically pertinent and in which necessitated a colon even long before the days of list making and general laziness in sentence formation. But listen: it’s no coincidence that expelling shit away from the body is the natural order. The second you have no pressing incentive to be in contact with shit yet choose to anyway, you’re opening a can of worms…figuratively, yet potentially otherwise. And still. Down I knelt with a scented baggie, and gingerly scooped the steaming pile into my hand. In that moment the universe took note that this woman will take shit without a complaint. Hell, she will do it without asking. Cue pigeon. My first inclination is to show the universe a bird of my own, but let’s take a moment and examine. It’s my own damn fault for picking it up in the first place. So next time when that pigeon comes in the form of a judgmental friend or an overly demanding boss, I won’t just yell, “fuck, that’s gross!” I’ll set things right with the universe again and throw a stick at them.

MIA from the PTA

I have a big time major fear of being stuck. The list includes: elevators, quick sand, coffins, traffic, Chinese finger traps, on a math problem, in the middle, and ....up. But even above those (yes, even above the gut wrenching sweaty brow panic that those damn finger traps ellicit) is being stuck in one single place. At this moment the idea of marriage and a steady job and the whole shabang called being a grown up makes my brow start to glisten. Growing up a lot of us see this shining beacon of the finish line. You envision yourself at about 37 with the ass of Jennifer Aniston and the hair of...who are we kidding...you envision yourself at about 37 looking exactly like Jennifer Aniston. Ignore the fact that I did the whole highlights thing and it doesn't work for my skin tone, or that my ass doesn't look like that even NOW. It's a whole new ball game because at 37 in your fantasies you automatically get reborn as a hottie actress from Friends. Yes, I know, I will age extremely gracefully.... into a different being entirely. Your husband is dark haired and handsome with a mean backswing in tennis and you live in an unnamed suburb on a quiet street that looks something if not identical to that in Father of the Bride. Your son and daughter are active in extracurriculars and you spend your spare time working on the PTA. You also have a terrific sex life and you drive a fuel efficient SUV.

I don't really want my finish line to come yet, though. As wonderful as my life with my hot husband could be........where's the adventure???? The finish line means the race is over. You don't get to feel the rush of adrenaline and endorphins take over as you run miles and miles. I don't want my happily ever after tied up with a neat bow and a Hallmark card on the side. I want to travel and experience the world and my freedom before I'm stuck. Because maybe then stuck won't feel so stuck...it'll feel more like luck. So I'm gonna go for a run and I won't stop until I create the life I want, and not necessarily one in which I ask, why is Jennifer Aniston on my family Christmas card?

the only gut gushing post you will ever see on this blog

I've lived three very different places, each 3,000 miles away from each other or more....and thought about him. I spoke new languages and unknowingly ate blood sausage and layed on the beach and kissed boys to prove to myself that I am an independant woman...and thought about him. And I've mourned and I've partied and I've strengthened my relationships with my best friends...and I thought about him. I met people I could love and I kept my distance. Because I was thinking about him. I've been a free person wandering and learning, making it a priority to myself to stay that way. I've valued this sense of liberation from all things tying me down. I am dancing with my uncertainty. I am running around breathlessly happy, endlessly energetic, 7 feet tall! and then we have lunch. Just lunch. And I'm 2 inches again...and I'm paralyzed with the uncertainty.

I wish I could tell someone that he's just a person I barely know. Ah, yes, him...we met once or twice, it was fun. I could say that. I've even said it to myself a few times. But I can never seem to make eye contact or drown out the voice telling me I'm wasting my time with that false truth. Because that liberation?? It's really only as far as him. I don't need to find my footing with him, I don't have a rare disease of which his love is the only antidote, I don't need Webster to put his picture next to my name. I just need him. After a long time of putting myself first and figuring it out, I'm actually allowed to say that. I'm allowing MYSELF to break an uncrackable, super humanly strong image I've created for myself...to admit that I want someone...and that I'm not sure that I will ever get it. ...And in that, finding a peace with the inevitable.

go directly to jail; do not pass Go; do not collect $200

Last night my loving cousin uttered probably the dumbest grouping of words ever to be assembled and repeated by millions of pathetic guys all over the country in attempt to somehow justify their unacceptable actions. Now, my cousin is a smart man. His wisdom ages my own by a few years, and I've trusted him to give me sound advice when it comes to the wayward and illogical ways of the opposing sex. Since I suppose he was just doing his job, it was almost his duty to remind me of the key lesson they want us women to take away from their stupidity: Don't hate the player, hate the game.

I have a lot of beef with this phrase. First of all, excuse me. I can and will hate whomever I please, especially if you're absolutely deserving of it. When you're 16 and your mother disapproves of your boyfriend, do you immediately break up with him and ask your mom to become your own personal matchmaker, or do you continue to date the loser out of sheer spite? Exactly. You ignore that his band is really just a mix of random powerchords and screaming, and you love him that much more because the authority told you not to. Same thing here; I go all teen angsty and hate the player 10 times more. Besides, if you're a douche with commitment issues, just own it and invest in a sign for your forehead to spare us unsuspecting women instead of blaming some illusive game that only exists in your mind.

Secondly, who the hell gets off running around calling themselves a "player"? Are you Chingy? No. Do you have grills? Not the last time I checked. Since you've been so busy playing the..."game", when was the last time you even liked the person you hooked up with? Was she sober? Does it make you feel good to know you'll die alone?

Which brings me to my last point of beef. I don't understand the rules of this game or why it's necessary. It's like I just purchased a highly complicated board game and the manufacturer left out the instructions. What happened to just saying what you really mean? Recently I have totally disregarded all traditional dating rules, and I seem to be doing just fine. Hell, I am doing great. I see no real reason for them other than maybe as means to hide behind and avoid your own insecurities and fear of rejection.
Since when am I more of a man than most I've been meeting these days?...playa please.

not so silly putty

Last night I had a discussion with someone about my readability. This wasn’t the first time that someone has told me that when it comes to talking, I can do some damage. The only problem is that I somehow defy all logic and never say anything during my ramblings. I am the master of taking the simplest sentence in the world and caking on the foundation and false eyelashes until it’s so fancy that its original identity is unrecognizable. That sentence could have started as a boy and ended as a…well…a drag queen. The point is, even getting to my point has taken me 7 lines and an unnecessary reference to a group of men who embrace self tanner and panty hose. I always mean what I say, but I rarely actually say what I mean...excluding my dreaded Napoleon Complex under which I am plagued with asserting my assertiveness on anyone who’s done me wrong, perceived or otherwise. But when it comes to the real stuff…that ooey gooey part inside of me that laughs when you tickle it and cries when you abandon it…I keep that behind a brick wall.

The ooey gooey is just that…it’s soft and vulnerable and I can’t just put it out there on its own! I bring along my padding of words and jokes to ensure my ooey gooey’s safety. I like to call this technique self-preservation, but maybe a better term would be stupidity.

I’ve always thanked my parents for allowing me to be whomever I wanted. When I was 3 years old and watched Aladdin for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, my mother hand sewed my Princess Jasmine Halloween costume. When I was 12 and convinced I would someday be a scientist, my father drove me all over 2 states to find materials just so I could go on to win the 6^th grade Science Fair. And when I was 18 they let me move across the country on my own to continue creating myself ... Not as a scientist due to an acquired allergic reaction to math, but whatever else I wanted. I haven’t been giving myself the same opportunities or credit by over protecting my feelings. Sometimes ya gotta risk it to get the biscuit and let your ooey gooey do the talking, or people will never know you. Taking down my brick fortress may prove to be difficult … and maybe I’m still not exactly sure what I want to be when I grow up… but I sure as hell know that I don’t want to be a chemist OR a wall without windows. Princess Jasmine still sounds pretty good though…