So I've got a confession. One that could not only damage my street cred, but one that could totally cost me social acceptance as a teen...
...Wait, who am I kidding? I have never had street cred or social acceptance...
Well in that case, I hate Fridays. Despise, dread, detest, abhor. They are the black hole of my existence. I pull into my driveway after a long week and realize that the second I get out of my car, I will have no joy until the next Monday. My 2.3 day break will consist of homework, mild technological social interactions, sleep, and incessant battles with my mother for my life spark. If I'm lucky I will get some sort of delicious high calorie food, and maybe an episode of Vampire Diaries. I will have no privacy, no time to listen to music, and no peace the second I enter my house.
I complain only because it is: a) presently an extremely bitter Friday after a horrible week, and b) because it's gotten bad - bad as in to a place where I don't even want to check Facebook on Fridays because I don't want to see all the fun everyone else is having. (Plus I know if I log on I will just end up alienating someone through all my life-sucks-and-then-you-die, I-hate-the-world *coughcough* I mean, winning optimism *fake smile*.)
Mostly, it's manageable. On Fridays, I avoid the computer, turn off my phone and go to bed at 8. Saturdays and Sundays I do everything in my power to sleep in as late as possible. But some mornings I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking how absolutely pathetic it is that I can't bring myself to get out of bed because I have absolutely nothing I will even remotely enjoy to look forward to.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Not So Fearless
For some reason, when I like a boy, there is no length I will spare to impress him. Maybe if I'm pretty enough, I tell myself, he might just like me. And I always do just this. Whether I will be seeing him for a few hours, or just might happen to pass him in the hall. I contemplate why I feel such a need to be perfect for someone else.
I stand, shaking, in front of my bathroom mirror. I scrupulously examine my face. I pry various tools of beautification from the corresponding cabinet, and on my clean face, begin to go to work. I apply, remove, and re-apply, going over my eyeliner 3 or 4 times. I run a comb and product through my hair. I spend 20 minutes trying on clothes-choosing the perfect pieces, matching them together with accessories, neatly returning the rejects to their proper folded places. I brush my teeth, examining my appearance, contemplating any improvements; do I look thin enough? am I wearing enough make-up? should I pull my hair back? do I look too nice? too casual? I run all possible scenarios of the next few hours over in my head, cross-referencing them with previous conversations, experience, and Seventeen magazine articles. I come up with a few witty things to say at key moments-the first hello, the goodbye. With one last look over, I slip a lip gloss into my bag, and head out.
This stressful disposition is not aided by my natural response to unpleasant circumstance. Growing up, whenever anything went wrong, it was my fault-this pattern seems to have followed me into my attempts at love. I try to control as much of the relationship as I can, knowing that when it's all over, I will blame myself.
Consider a recent example: I have been talking to a guy I am quite smitten with. I really could end up just being friends with him and would be fine with that, but there seemed to be inklings on either sides of our conversations that indicated there was a mutual interest in perusing more. After several weeks of broad-based communication, we agreed to meet up. One afternoon we hung out at Starbucks and then walked around the mall. Much like our previous conversations, we didn't run out of things to talk about. And though in the secondhand, the concept of wandering aimlessly around a shopping center for a few hours might sound somewhat lame, at the time there seemed to be no feelings as such. Any awkward was devoured in laughter, witisicm, and pleasantry. It was cutesy and nerdy and perfect. We parted ways on a positive note and he asked to see me again. We talked again for several weeks and then agreed to meet up again. I left the itinerary up to him, yet come the date and time we were set to meet up, I hear nothing. It is presently Monday, we were suppose to hang out Saturday, I have not heard from him since Friday-not a phone call, text message, or carrier pigeon. And somehow, even though all signs point to the fact that I have done absolutely nothing wrong in this circumstance, I have been, for the last 3 days, thoroughly beating myself up over it. (Did I say or do something?, Was I not pretty enough?, Too awkward?, Maybe he just found someone better, etc, etc)
In recent times (ironically the evening following this little stand up of which she has no idea), my mother has told me that the fact of the matter is, any non-whore of a teenage girl must simply accept the fact that she is going to be alone. ...Although, on the other hand, my mothers idea of a harlot is someone who kisses on the first date... so perhaps I should not take this particular bit of wisdom quite so personally... *coughs*
In any sense, she did propose a trinket of wisdom among her unconventionally Amish-valued little lecture. The fact of the matter is, most 17-year-old's have quite a bit more romantic experience then me. They've lived the "baby-steps"; things like awkward middle school dances and first kisses at camp and so on and so forth. When one meets me, they assume me to be quite a bit more experienced then I am. They see that I'm not a shy dresser, listen to my "that's what she said" jokes, and see my maturity, and assume (well, as one lovely Cherub put it bluntly) that I'm kind of a whore. The fact of the matter is, that unless you count this "hanging out" coffee debachal, or one lovely but unconvential cafeteria lunch at leadership camp, I've never so much as been on a date (*gushes shyly and juvenalistically as means of defense and self-justification* I did hold a hands with a boy one time though). And as my mother rather Hallmarkly pointed out, because of the fact that I've never lived those baby-steps, things like hanging out, dates, the concept of kissing, and things that other teenagers find so rhudementary, mean so much more to me because for me, I'm doing all of it for the first time. (So basically I have to awkwardly point out to any guy I like that I'm like 13 on the inside...yeah mom, cause they were all just lining up when they thought I was normal *eye roll*).
On the one hand this relization makes me feel like a complete freak; but on the otherhand, I like the fact that I'll get to experience all of these things now that I'm old enough to actually enjoy them and have them actually mean something (when your 12, you will most likely not whind up in a relationship with the first boy you kiss; at 17, it's a little more likely). I think I'm mostly just hoping that knowing this about myself it will help me try to control-less and stop frantically stressing in front of my poor mirror, but also that maybe if forementioned boy ever actually gives me another chance, I can use what I know to my advantage with him.
*sigh* I don't know...I'll keep you posted
I stand, shaking, in front of my bathroom mirror. I scrupulously examine my face. I pry various tools of beautification from the corresponding cabinet, and on my clean face, begin to go to work. I apply, remove, and re-apply, going over my eyeliner 3 or 4 times. I run a comb and product through my hair. I spend 20 minutes trying on clothes-choosing the perfect pieces, matching them together with accessories, neatly returning the rejects to their proper folded places. I brush my teeth, examining my appearance, contemplating any improvements; do I look thin enough? am I wearing enough make-up? should I pull my hair back? do I look too nice? too casual? I run all possible scenarios of the next few hours over in my head, cross-referencing them with previous conversations, experience, and Seventeen magazine articles. I come up with a few witty things to say at key moments-the first hello, the goodbye. With one last look over, I slip a lip gloss into my bag, and head out.
This stressful disposition is not aided by my natural response to unpleasant circumstance. Growing up, whenever anything went wrong, it was my fault-this pattern seems to have followed me into my attempts at love. I try to control as much of the relationship as I can, knowing that when it's all over, I will blame myself.
Consider a recent example: I have been talking to a guy I am quite smitten with. I really could end up just being friends with him and would be fine with that, but there seemed to be inklings on either sides of our conversations that indicated there was a mutual interest in perusing more. After several weeks of broad-based communication, we agreed to meet up. One afternoon we hung out at Starbucks and then walked around the mall. Much like our previous conversations, we didn't run out of things to talk about. And though in the secondhand, the concept of wandering aimlessly around a shopping center for a few hours might sound somewhat lame, at the time there seemed to be no feelings as such. Any awkward was devoured in laughter, witisicm, and pleasantry. It was cutesy and nerdy and perfect. We parted ways on a positive note and he asked to see me again. We talked again for several weeks and then agreed to meet up again. I left the itinerary up to him, yet come the date and time we were set to meet up, I hear nothing. It is presently Monday, we were suppose to hang out Saturday, I have not heard from him since Friday-not a phone call, text message, or carrier pigeon. And somehow, even though all signs point to the fact that I have done absolutely nothing wrong in this circumstance, I have been, for the last 3 days, thoroughly beating myself up over it. (Did I say or do something?, Was I not pretty enough?, Too awkward?, Maybe he just found someone better, etc, etc)
In recent times (ironically the evening following this little stand up of which she has no idea), my mother has told me that the fact of the matter is, any non-whore of a teenage girl must simply accept the fact that she is going to be alone. ...Although, on the other hand, my mothers idea of a harlot is someone who kisses on the first date... so perhaps I should not take this particular bit of wisdom quite so personally... *coughs*
In any sense, she did propose a trinket of wisdom among her unconventionally Amish-valued little lecture. The fact of the matter is, most 17-year-old's have quite a bit more romantic experience then me. They've lived the "baby-steps"; things like awkward middle school dances and first kisses at camp and so on and so forth. When one meets me, they assume me to be quite a bit more experienced then I am. They see that I'm not a shy dresser, listen to my "that's what she said" jokes, and see my maturity, and assume (well, as one lovely Cherub put it bluntly) that I'm kind of a whore. The fact of the matter is, that unless you count this "hanging out" coffee debachal, or one lovely but unconvential cafeteria lunch at leadership camp, I've never so much as been on a date (*gushes shyly and juvenalistically as means of defense and self-justification* I did hold a hands with a boy one time though). And as my mother rather Hallmarkly pointed out, because of the fact that I've never lived those baby-steps, things like hanging out, dates, the concept of kissing, and things that other teenagers find so rhudementary, mean so much more to me because for me, I'm doing all of it for the first time. (So basically I have to awkwardly point out to any guy I like that I'm like 13 on the inside...yeah mom, cause they were all just lining up when they thought I was normal *eye roll*).
On the one hand this relization makes me feel like a complete freak; but on the otherhand, I like the fact that I'll get to experience all of these things now that I'm old enough to actually enjoy them and have them actually mean something (when your 12, you will most likely not whind up in a relationship with the first boy you kiss; at 17, it's a little more likely). I think I'm mostly just hoping that knowing this about myself it will help me try to control-less and stop frantically stressing in front of my poor mirror, but also that maybe if forementioned boy ever actually gives me another chance, I can use what I know to my advantage with him.
*sigh* I don't know...I'll keep you posted
Sunday, November 15, 2009
First Date
In my mind, it's going to be perfect.
I plan every little detail in a realm I can control.
There will be no awkward moments.
I will be confident and fearless.
Everything will be perfect.
In reality, it was better.
There were unexpected twists, things I couldn't control.
The awkward moments were filled with laughter.
I was terrified, but not foolish.
Mostly, it was real.
But in retrospect, the doubt creeps in.
Am I remembering it right?
Was it more awkward then I new,
Myself, not enough?
What if it wasn't perfect?
I plan every little detail in a realm I can control.
There will be no awkward moments.
I will be confident and fearless.
Everything will be perfect.
In reality, it was better.
There were unexpected twists, things I couldn't control.
The awkward moments were filled with laughter.
I was terrified, but not foolish.
Mostly, it was real.
But in retrospect, the doubt creeps in.
Am I remembering it right?
Was it more awkward then I new,
Myself, not enough?
What if it wasn't perfect?
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