I'm a giddy, silly little girl. I've just come back from the gym, where I saw RP for the first time in months. I was beginning to worry that he'd found some other gym. Of course I only waved at him after he waved at me from his treadmill. He has this nervous little habit of adjusting his baseball cap. Oh. My. God! Next thing you know I'm going to start writing his name on my notebook and drawing little hearts around it.
I suppose the longer I put off talking to him, the bigger an event it becomes, and if I make it a big enough event one of two things will happen. Either I'll wait long enough and he'll start dating someone else, if he hasn't already, or I'll whip this up into such a monumental task that I'll simply walk away -- like trying to master brain surgery in a weekend. What would be the point?
It's not like I have all my self worth wrapped up in this. If I'm rejected and held up to public ridicule, exposed on the Internet as a delusional pervert, I think I could graciously survive that. But the question becomes do I have to? If I'm virtually assured of being shot down -- as I'm certain I would be -- then why do I entertain this fantasy? Probably because "virtually assured" isn't "absolutely certain."
And, he's really, really totally cute!
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Peaking Over the Edge of the Abyss
My final paper is a personal essay. This is a draft of part of it...
***
Twenty-three years ago, more or less, I had my heart broken for the very first time. Rather, I had my heart ripped from my chest and fed to a flock of flesh-eating aviary beasts and the man who did it sold tickets to the event. The details really are irrelevant at this point, but if I let myself think about it I can very easily get back to that black pit I spent nearly a year in.
From time to time, when I'm really trying to kill time, I run random names through Google to see what comes up. Tonight I ran his name through the search engine and didn't really discover anything particularly new, except that his life is thriving while mine seems to be stuck in perpetual development.
We'll call him J. J. went on to become an Episcopal priest and has developed quite a reputation within the church for his artistic outreach programs. He's now the director of what appears to be a quite successful program on the east coast. Of course, what I really was looking for was a picture of him fat and bald, preferably wheelchair bound, but alas there was none.
I have, however, run across one of his sermons which was posted somewhere, and I think after all this time I found a vague reference to me. He talks about his debiliating alcoholism and how it ruined many relationships in his life, especially one with a roommate. Chances are that's me, but who knows? He could have really messed up somebody else's life.
It was a brilliantly painful time that culminated in the two of us sharing a dorm room for four months not speaking. Not a word. He transferred the next year, and that should have been the end of it. For me, it wasn't.
I spent years trying to figure out why it didn't work between us. Finding his sermon helped a little, but there were two of us in that room, and from 1982 to 1996 I tried very hard to discover what my part in the failure was. I think from 1982 until about 1990, there wasn't a night I didn't go to sleep thinking about J. I was angry. A.N.G.R.Y.
And I'm sure he's never given me a second thought.
One of the websites had his phone number.
Of COURSE I called it! And of course, I knew I'd get his voicemail. But hearing his voice again brought it all back. I can't imagine what we would say to each other now, except maybe, "Weren't we a couple of immature little brats?" I think I might tell him that I really am glad he's done so well and maybe spend a minute or two getting caught up on details that I can't find on the Internet. But the truth is he was very important to me for about six months, and then the person I knew died; if in fact he wasn't always some sort of figment that I created and projected onto the poor kid who shared my dorm room.
But that person was funny. He made me laugh like few people had before, or since. He made me go to parties and I felt comfortable at them. He listened when I talked and remembered what I said. I thought that was love. He came from a very well-to-do family, and I came from poverty. In his pink button-down Ralph Lauren, he had more sophistication than I could have ever dreamed of having in my three-year old Sears sweatshirts. I let myself dream of a life that would never be and I convinced myself that he felt the same for me. He didn't.
The last time I saw him was the day his family came to take him home. He cleaned his side of the room and when he cleared everything out, without speaking, I took a rag and wiped his desk down. He came back into the room, took one last look around and then closed the door behind him. It wasn't even a soft close, or a slam. He closed it as if the room was empty.
It echoed in the virtually empty room. I had very little -- a few books and enough clothes to pack in one suit case. The sound of the door wasn't a click or a thud. Whatever it was bounced off the linoleum floor and plaster walls and I felt like I absorbed the sound. I felt it in my chest and I sat on my bed for several hours afterwards while that sound became part of me. It was a beautiful late Sunday afternoon and the sun was gold. I don't even have to close my eyes to be back in that room. I was wearing a baseball t-shirt with green sleeves. He wore a navy polo shirt and boat shoes. I couldn't cry, and didn't even want to. I really just wanted to get through the next part, whatever it was and however long it lasted.
I've spent a lot of time mourning something that never existed and protecting myself from the sound of closing doors, but I think it's time to move on.
***
Twenty-three years ago, more or less, I had my heart broken for the very first time. Rather, I had my heart ripped from my chest and fed to a flock of flesh-eating aviary beasts and the man who did it sold tickets to the event. The details really are irrelevant at this point, but if I let myself think about it I can very easily get back to that black pit I spent nearly a year in.
From time to time, when I'm really trying to kill time, I run random names through Google to see what comes up. Tonight I ran his name through the search engine and didn't really discover anything particularly new, except that his life is thriving while mine seems to be stuck in perpetual development.
We'll call him J. J. went on to become an Episcopal priest and has developed quite a reputation within the church for his artistic outreach programs. He's now the director of what appears to be a quite successful program on the east coast. Of course, what I really was looking for was a picture of him fat and bald, preferably wheelchair bound, but alas there was none.
I have, however, run across one of his sermons which was posted somewhere, and I think after all this time I found a vague reference to me. He talks about his debiliating alcoholism and how it ruined many relationships in his life, especially one with a roommate. Chances are that's me, but who knows? He could have really messed up somebody else's life.
It was a brilliantly painful time that culminated in the two of us sharing a dorm room for four months not speaking. Not a word. He transferred the next year, and that should have been the end of it. For me, it wasn't.
I spent years trying to figure out why it didn't work between us. Finding his sermon helped a little, but there were two of us in that room, and from 1982 to 1996 I tried very hard to discover what my part in the failure was. I think from 1982 until about 1990, there wasn't a night I didn't go to sleep thinking about J. I was angry. A.N.G.R.Y.
And I'm sure he's never given me a second thought.
One of the websites had his phone number.
Of COURSE I called it! And of course, I knew I'd get his voicemail. But hearing his voice again brought it all back. I can't imagine what we would say to each other now, except maybe, "Weren't we a couple of immature little brats?" I think I might tell him that I really am glad he's done so well and maybe spend a minute or two getting caught up on details that I can't find on the Internet. But the truth is he was very important to me for about six months, and then the person I knew died; if in fact he wasn't always some sort of figment that I created and projected onto the poor kid who shared my dorm room.
But that person was funny. He made me laugh like few people had before, or since. He made me go to parties and I felt comfortable at them. He listened when I talked and remembered what I said. I thought that was love. He came from a very well-to-do family, and I came from poverty. In his pink button-down Ralph Lauren, he had more sophistication than I could have ever dreamed of having in my three-year old Sears sweatshirts. I let myself dream of a life that would never be and I convinced myself that he felt the same for me. He didn't.
The last time I saw him was the day his family came to take him home. He cleaned his side of the room and when he cleared everything out, without speaking, I took a rag and wiped his desk down. He came back into the room, took one last look around and then closed the door behind him. It wasn't even a soft close, or a slam. He closed it as if the room was empty.
It echoed in the virtually empty room. I had very little -- a few books and enough clothes to pack in one suit case. The sound of the door wasn't a click or a thud. Whatever it was bounced off the linoleum floor and plaster walls and I felt like I absorbed the sound. I felt it in my chest and I sat on my bed for several hours afterwards while that sound became part of me. It was a beautiful late Sunday afternoon and the sun was gold. I don't even have to close my eyes to be back in that room. I was wearing a baseball t-shirt with green sleeves. He wore a navy polo shirt and boat shoes. I couldn't cry, and didn't even want to. I really just wanted to get through the next part, whatever it was and however long it lasted.
I've spent a lot of time mourning something that never existed and protecting myself from the sound of closing doors, but I think it's time to move on.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Holiday Blur
A new view of the blog. Time to update and refresh!
I'm on vacation this week and much will be spent at my desk at home working on final papers and short stories. Time to put this degree-in-progress to use!
With the end of school, focus now shifts to the concert. It's going to be great! www.cgmc.org for tickets!
And the holidays. Out to A&J's for Thanksgiving. Arizona for Christmas! The opera tonight. Movies tomorrow. I have to clean my house and decorate. Gifts to ship. Cards to send. NO BAKING! It's all good, and I'm exhausted before I even get started.
Now, I'm off to the gym and back to write my paper. More when I have a minute.
I'm on vacation this week and much will be spent at my desk at home working on final papers and short stories. Time to put this degree-in-progress to use!
With the end of school, focus now shifts to the concert. It's going to be great! www.cgmc.org for tickets!
And the holidays. Out to A&J's for Thanksgiving. Arizona for Christmas! The opera tonight. Movies tomorrow. I have to clean my house and decorate. Gifts to ship. Cards to send. NO BAKING! It's all good, and I'm exhausted before I even get started.
Now, I'm off to the gym and back to write my paper. More when I have a minute.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
I Need a Vacation...
I've tried to write several entries, but the fact of the matter is I'm in such a lousy misanthropic mood I honestly believe I have nothing of any entertainment or informational value to share. I hate humanity for its stupidity and self-absorbtion and I want nothing more than to sit in a quiet room and read.
But, experience tells me that when I think everyone in the room is a raging asshole, chances are pretty good that there is really only one asshole in the room and I can't see him without a mirror. I have no real idea why I'm in such a foul mood.
****
So, I spent an hour rehearsing my music for the Christmas concert and I feel much better. The music is glorious. I get to sing a very pretty duet. I feel like there is more to my life than just my job and school.
So much better. I'll let them enjoy their party downstairs in thumpa-thumpa peace.
But, experience tells me that when I think everyone in the room is a raging asshole, chances are pretty good that there is really only one asshole in the room and I can't see him without a mirror. I have no real idea why I'm in such a foul mood.
****
So, I spent an hour rehearsing my music for the Christmas concert and I feel much better. The music is glorious. I get to sing a very pretty duet. I feel like there is more to my life than just my job and school.
So much better. I'll let them enjoy their party downstairs in thumpa-thumpa peace.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Life is Good
I'm nearly recovered from the flu -- or something like it. I'm not a brave sick person. When I'm running a fever I want my mommy, Campbell's Chicken Soup and a cocoon of blankets on the couch where I can watch One Life to Live. I become ten years old again, and that's what I did when I was sick and stayed home from school.
My CEO at work seems to be on medication, so things are calm. The CFO is going to be fired on Monday, and my direct boss -- the COO -- is in danger of losing his job -- again. On the plus side, I was moved into an actual office with a window and a door. I got grief from some people who thought there were others who should have it, but I always answered with, "The HR Manager should have a door." So all has calmed down. Now I have to find stuff to put on the walls. I work in the sports industry, and I've told them that I'm not putting any memorabilia up. I'll resist the urge to put up opera posters. I'm going shopping.
And I've been working on a new short story. I'm afraid that when I write, I don't have a very good attention span at the early stages. I almost need distractions until the piece clicks. Once that happens, I can spend hours on it. The new piece hasn't clicked yet. But I think it's going to be good. Anyway, one of the distractions I use is to log into a chat room on AOL.
There was a time when chat rooms were used to meet and converse with interesting people from around the globe. Now, for the most part they're used by prostitutes and the people who love them. I'm not one of those people. However, every now and then someone sends a message and for ten or fifteen minutes we send messages back and forth. Then, inevitably, they will ask me to send a picture and I decline. That invariably ends the conversation. I'm not interested in meeting anyone on line -- and certainly not interested in a sex romp. If you're reading this from a link on my AOL profile, take note...I'm not looking for sex!
But these conversations can be entertaining. They usually begin with someone reading my profile and sending me a line complimenting me on it. I say thanks, and it goes from there. Now, I don't list my age on my profile, and so most of the conversations are short because most of the men in chat rooms aren't interested in anyone who has completed puberty. I'm endlessly entertained by men who are too old to date themselves and who have such refined tastes that a thirty-five-inch waist offends their aesthetic sensibilities. That is, excluding their own gellatinous midsection, which is described as "beefy."
What always kills the conversation is when they ask for a picture and I decline. Exactly how stupid do you have to be to send your picture to a total stranger who is trolling the Internet for a random, anonymous sex hook-up? Well, however stupid that is -- I'm not. And some of them will offer to send pictures of themselves first, or just do it without asking, hoping I'll be shamed into reciprocating. Almost without exception the picture is a nude with the head cut off, positioned in what must be imagined as some sort of provocative pose.
Now, I have no pretensions to class or breeding. Yet, I'm quite sure owning a nude picture of oneself that is used to advertise for anonymous sex is not considered a demonstration of either class or breeding. And some of them appear to be professionally taken! So either the sender is so vain that he's hired a professional photographer to photo his manhood in all its glory, or he's so arrogant to believe that the recipient doesn't think he's stolen the picture from some porno site. Yes, the cream of the crop can be found on the Internet. For the record, I do not have any of those pictures either.
But on a rare occasion I will meet someone who is able to carry on a conversation. I do enjoy those, however brief they may be. I've discussed politics to shopping, and they're fun little disposable conversations that provide the perfect distraction from my serious writing. Just like my blog!
My CEO at work seems to be on medication, so things are calm. The CFO is going to be fired on Monday, and my direct boss -- the COO -- is in danger of losing his job -- again. On the plus side, I was moved into an actual office with a window and a door. I got grief from some people who thought there were others who should have it, but I always answered with, "The HR Manager should have a door." So all has calmed down. Now I have to find stuff to put on the walls. I work in the sports industry, and I've told them that I'm not putting any memorabilia up. I'll resist the urge to put up opera posters. I'm going shopping.
And I've been working on a new short story. I'm afraid that when I write, I don't have a very good attention span at the early stages. I almost need distractions until the piece clicks. Once that happens, I can spend hours on it. The new piece hasn't clicked yet. But I think it's going to be good. Anyway, one of the distractions I use is to log into a chat room on AOL.
There was a time when chat rooms were used to meet and converse with interesting people from around the globe. Now, for the most part they're used by prostitutes and the people who love them. I'm not one of those people. However, every now and then someone sends a message and for ten or fifteen minutes we send messages back and forth. Then, inevitably, they will ask me to send a picture and I decline. That invariably ends the conversation. I'm not interested in meeting anyone on line -- and certainly not interested in a sex romp. If you're reading this from a link on my AOL profile, take note...I'm not looking for sex!
But these conversations can be entertaining. They usually begin with someone reading my profile and sending me a line complimenting me on it. I say thanks, and it goes from there. Now, I don't list my age on my profile, and so most of the conversations are short because most of the men in chat rooms aren't interested in anyone who has completed puberty. I'm endlessly entertained by men who are too old to date themselves and who have such refined tastes that a thirty-five-inch waist offends their aesthetic sensibilities. That is, excluding their own gellatinous midsection, which is described as "beefy."
What always kills the conversation is when they ask for a picture and I decline. Exactly how stupid do you have to be to send your picture to a total stranger who is trolling the Internet for a random, anonymous sex hook-up? Well, however stupid that is -- I'm not. And some of them will offer to send pictures of themselves first, or just do it without asking, hoping I'll be shamed into reciprocating. Almost without exception the picture is a nude with the head cut off, positioned in what must be imagined as some sort of provocative pose.
Now, I have no pretensions to class or breeding. Yet, I'm quite sure owning a nude picture of oneself that is used to advertise for anonymous sex is not considered a demonstration of either class or breeding. And some of them appear to be professionally taken! So either the sender is so vain that he's hired a professional photographer to photo his manhood in all its glory, or he's so arrogant to believe that the recipient doesn't think he's stolen the picture from some porno site. Yes, the cream of the crop can be found on the Internet. For the record, I do not have any of those pictures either.
But on a rare occasion I will meet someone who is able to carry on a conversation. I do enjoy those, however brief they may be. I've discussed politics to shopping, and they're fun little disposable conversations that provide the perfect distraction from my serious writing. Just like my blog!
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