Priority Use

My dad really likes to learn things. He's always reading about 10 books at one time. When I was little, he would always bring a book to whatever restaurant or movie theater we were headed to just in case, and it would drive me crazy. I never understood why he couldn't just talk to me should, god forbid, there be a moment when nothing was happening. One of our favorite things to do when I go home is to go to the bookstore. He and I can (and do) spend hours at the bookstore. He, picks something new agey, or something about psychology or health. I head right to the cookbook section to browse recipes for good ideas and we meet at the comfy chairs in the middle.

My dad will often call me from the bookstore and tell me about something interesting he just read, or a book he just saw. And then we'll talk about it and he'll tell me that next time we see each other he'll take me to the bookstore to see it myself.

Another bit of background: Every once in a while, my dad will decide that he was a bad father. And he'll tell me. He's not telling me to make me feel sorry for him, or to make me feel sorry for myself. He's just telling me. And then he'll reference some book that he read and we'll talk about how that makes me feel.

Okay, moving on: Yesterday morning, he called me when I was on my way to class to tell me about a fascinating book he had just found at Barnes and Noble. He's in New Jersey right now, on business, and he stopped off at the bookstore (they can't open too early, or stay open too late) on his drive to his meeting. He told me that he really wanted me to read it and that he would buy it for me if I said I would (he's always buying me books). I asked what was the book. He told me that it discussed children of divorced families. A little help connecting the dots: I am the child of a divorced family (sobs, please). He told me the basic philosophy of the book: children are supposed to be the center of a family, but when parents get divorced the parents become the center and, basically, the child gets screwed up. Okay, whatever. I'm game. I told him that I would read it and he told me that he would buy it. I think I made his day.

I figured that was that. But then, he asked for my address. He wanted me to read this book so badly that he was going to send it all the way to Chicago. He doesn't like the USPS, so, chances are, he'll even FedEX it. So basically, I'm 2-5 business days (depending on whether he uses ground or air) away from finding out how messed up I am.

Which brings me to my next point:

I'm pretty sure that on some level I have some serious issues. Or at least I should. My family is not particularly "normal." Yeah, I know. No one's family is "normal." But, believe me, on a scale of normalcy (10 being the most normal), my family ranks below zero. Let's just say I'm pretty good at hiding the family history. Or at least pretending it doesn't exist. But, this isn't really my point. My point is that I don't really think I'm that messed up, perhaps not as messed up as I could be. Truth be told, I actually feel pretty okay at least 76% of the time. Admittedly, I'm pretty good at making things not exist, so I'm sure there's something wrong somewhere. But I'm sure my shrink can fix it all should I ever decide to get one. Okay, but this still isn't my point. My point is, that when my dad gives me all of these things to read--all of these things which are supposed to make me better, happier, I ponder. Am I not good? Am I unhappy? I'm sure that the fact that I even wonder these things points to something unresolved. I just can't quite put my finger on it.

Well, now I really must go read my hilarious book. I have to finish it in 2-5 business days (Saturday's included), in time to be fixed. Even though I don't really feel all that broken.

Sometimes I get to a point where I just can't think any longer. Three hours into studying (well, almost 3), I got there.

I've been invited to do a crossword puzzle and just can't muster up the energy to join in. For one, I'm terrible at crossword puzzles and this would just be a really good way to ruin the false sense of confidence I just got from studying. And two, I have a terrible headache from thinking too much. Or maybe it was the chocolate chips. Both hold equal potential.

Now all I really want to do is read. Curl up in my bed--it's soft now that I bought a mattress pad (The fact that I got the pad at a discounted price because I just asked to get a discount--one of my brightest moments, I'll say--somehow makes it that much softer)--and read. I'm reading this great book. It's nothing philosophical or academic. It's not intelligent or difficult to understand. But, it's hilarious. Sometimes I feel stupid for not being able to read or like challenging books (you know, the classics). I tried to read The Adventures of Augie March by Saul Bellow this summer and didn't get past the first 30 pages. I felt terrible. I hated having to admit to the person who recommended it to me that I just couldn't do it. I think if I associated with people who weren't so damn smart I wouldn't care. But I do. So, I do. I know, lame excuse. But, that's okay. It's my lame excuse.

Anyway, the book I'm reading now makes me actually laugh out loud. Have you ever read a book that makes you laugh? Out loud? If not, I highly recommend it. It's probably one of the most amazing things--reading something and laughing. Out loud. I sometimes read these really funny passages and I just have the urge to share them with the people around me. But then I do and no one laughs. And that sort of takes away the comedic moment. So I tell myself that I shouldn't try and share the funny parts with the people around me. But then I get to a really funny part and laugh out loud and just repeat the embarrassing addiction of having to share the part again. Sometimes I just can't hold it all in. Usually, I am quickly reminded that I must try anyway.

I'm sitting here in my apartment finding interesting internet articles about Chicago gangs, procrastinating, eating these fancy chocolate chips from the freezer (my mom sent them to me to make Valentine's Day candies, and making myself sick. This place is too quiet when no one is around, so the only thing I can do to stay sane is turn on the tv with the volume turned all the way up. I'm not watching the tv--I'm not even in the same room with the thing--but the noise is quite a comfort.

I told myself that I would study tonight. I got home at 7 and tried to find the OC. Not because I wanted to watch it, but because I wanted to tape it for my roommate. But, I don't even know what channel it's on, and I lost patience.

Then, I said, well, I'll study at 8.

I made myself a salad for dinner, but it didn't satisfy anything--although the homemade croutons were mighty tasty. I really just wanted some chocolate ice cream or a cookie, but I don't have either of those things. My roommate has two containers of chocolate ice cream in the freezer, but I can't get myself to eat them. They're not mine and it just wouldn't be right. And, those (stealing or chocolate ice cream) are not habits that I care to start (not that a bag of chocolate chips is much better). Every time I open the freezer to see what's inside (2 bags of Trader Joe's "Soycatash," a giant bag of pink m&m's with only about 5 left, a jar of Svedka Vodka, a pint of fancy chocolate ice cream and a quart of dreyers), nothing new appears. It's been the same for at least 5 days now.

Now, it's five minutes to 8 and I just can't myself motivated to do any studying. I figure if I am not smart now, I'm going to be equally not smart on Saturday, too. But then there's that other part of me that says I need to at least try. My dad is always super supportive. I've been calling him every day for the past 2 weeks to say how terribly the studying is going and how terribly I've been testing and all he says is how I should relax and have fun with it and things will fall into place. What's the worst that's gonna happen, he reminds me. And, to me, he's totally right. I just can't get myself to relax enough to believe him, or to stress enough to really, truly care. A horrible place to stand.

3 minutes to 8.

I'm going to be serious about this.

2 minutes to 8.

I ate the last 5 m&m's.

Now it's 8. Time to study.

When I was on the train in New Jersey on my way to Philadelphia this weekend, I overheard a phone conversation that was mildly disturbing, and very much like something one would watch unfold on one of those action-packed, inner city crime shows.

Apparently (now, this part of the story came from his mouth to the guy sitting in front of him after the guy chuckled (?) a bit while overhearing the phone conversation--a nervous laugh, I'll never know. I certainly didn't have the courage enough to laugh, though I certainly felt like it) the guy on the phone--his name is Steve--was going around with a girl who he met at a bar down in Key West (I think Florida, but I didn't catch all of that part). So there was another guy there trying to hit on his girl, but the girl chose Steve, my train mate. I guess Steve and his chick have been arguing for a couple of months and somehow he's here and she's still there (wherever there is). So Steve was calling his homeboy to ask him for a little favor. He wants him to call around and see if the other guy is hanging around with his girl. And, if he is, then Steve told his homeboy that he'd have to go down and beat him up. Homeboy was assured that there'd be lots of money in it for him--he has lots of money somehow. Apologies for stereotyping, but something tells me his money might not be from legal professional endeavors. Steve's from the Bronx--now he's talking to the guy sitting in front of him on the train--and he don't play games (I believed him). He's 29 and this chick is 22 or 23. He's been around the block and just wants it told like it is.

I don't mean to chronicle this conversation in an effort to belittle or to have a laugh at other people's situations. It was more that I was just amazed at what I was overhearing. I'm probably sheltered, but still. This conversation was whack. I didn't even understand some of the words that Steve was using. They might have made some sense otherwise, but contextually, I couldn't figure out how they all fit together: flanking? roll? X-10? licked?

Bizarre.

Anyway, that's all. It was probably more interesting to be there. It would have been one of those situations where all you can do is share a little eyebrow raise with your friend sitting next to you. Unfortunately, I no friends, and I didn't much trust anyone around me enough to share anything other than an "Excuse me" or "Thank you."

I have done a fair share of crying at airports. I don't tend to be one to cry in public; when it comes to airports,though, I have no problem. I have been the one to sit against the wall, tears streaming down my cheeks, face in my hands, between my knees, completely oblivious to the world. For some reason, I classify airports differently than other public locations. I don't feel like I need to hide my emotions when it comes to matters such as coming or going. Airports are like the free for all when it comes to things felt in the heart--desire, love, lost, loneliness, confusion, sadness, frustration, happiness, pain, anger, nostalgia--and sometimes it is such a relief to embrace the openness of it all.

Last night I sat in the chairs across from the check-in counter, on the phone, crying. On the one hand, it felt so decadent to admit defeat. It felt scandalous to concede--to let my heart take over my brain and unveil weakness to everyone around me. But, on the other hand, it was such a relief. Sometimes tears are the perfect antidote for discomfort. The perfect release for pent up stress and frustration. And, there is something even more satisfying to do it from outside the safety of a closed door. I take comfort in knowing that I am acknowledging in front of the entire world that I am not perfect. Every once in a while, it just feels really good.

It is generally believed that I am smart. It's not that I think this isn't true. But, rather, I'm not sure that "smart" in the traditional sense of the word is one of the first characteristics that I would use to define myself. I am smart in the sense of knowing how to get along with people; smart in the sense that I am independent and can take care of myself. I am smart because I can solve problems and communicate with those around me. But, I don't know many historical facts, or grammatical terms. I don't always remember to ask "may I" instead of "can" and I certainly don't understand even half of what I read, or even see, each day.

So, I'm studying for a pretty important test right now--well, one that's important to me, at least. One whose outcome probably won't make or break the rest of my life. It's not a test that will define my happiness or assure my life journey is successful, but it is a test whose results do have the ability to define the next few years. I've been studying for about eight weeks now, yet I still feel wholly unprepared. The stakes are high, and the pressure is intense. Ultimately, I know that I put more pressure on myself than could anyone else, EVER. But, at the same time, I have developed the sort of reputation where people assume that I am smart. I feel pressure to do well because if I don't, I will be exposed, or worse, I will just have nottried hard enough.

The guy sitting next to me on the plane looked over when I was studying last night. Apparently he works in Chicago and took the test a long time ago--afterwards he went to Northwestern. I told him I didn't know where I wanted to go to school next--or even if I did want to go to school again, any time soon. I told him that I was a 4th year and where I went to school. I said that I was nervous about doing well on the test and he said "considering where you go to school, you'll probably do just fine." That's just the sort of pressure that I put on myself and that drives me crazy. It's like I need to do well because of where I am in my life. I need to do well in order to validate all that I have worked for in the past. And, the terrible thing about this, is that I know it is all ridiculous. I just can't always get over it.

I know that being smart is more than going to Harvard, but sometimes I find myself falling into the same traps of conventionality--smarts, success, aesthetics--that I am able to criticize among so many others. I know that really being anything is more than conventionality. But, it's just not always that easy to remember.

I don't really have anything to write about, but I just have this overwhelming urge to write about something, nonetheless. I have this urge to feel close to someone, to have a connection that no one has, and for some reason this urge is manifesting itself in my desire to express my thoughts. The problem with this blog thing, though, is that I'm not sure that I really want to express all my thoughts knowing that people I know--people that know me--are reading them. So, really, what's the point of this? I haven't totally reconciled everything and am not sure how to go about approaching the whole "blogging" thing. I have been wanting to write for the last week, but didn't know what to write with the new understanding of what it means to be public.

I'm not the type to use something like a blog to be passive-aggressive, or to subtly hint at anything directed towards anyone. The problem is, that I am the type to care that other people might take it that way. So, as a result, I don't write much. It's not even so much that I want to write about anyone, about anything, it's just that things happen, right? I feel certain ways in certain situations. I wish certain things about certain people and certain circumstances. And, I think. I think about all these things. There are very few moments in my life when I am not thinking. Even when I nap--which doesn't happen often--I find myself in a land of dreams. A five minute forage through a land of dreams. So, that being said, things happen, I think about them, and I want to write about them. Yet, I am not sure if this is the write place to do it.

I get no cell phone reception in my room. I had 4 bars for about 10 minutes while sitting at my window last night. It was like some sort of special treat. But tonight, I had to stand by the back porch and wave my phone around like a mad man begging for even just 2 bars of reception. What happens if I want to call someone while lying on my bed with the door closed and the lights off right before I go to sleep? Now that's something to write about.

This evening I sat in front of the TV and ate a piece of pie that I had made the night before while watching a few minutes of "The Biggest Loser" and waiting to be picked up by my dad. It was sort of an odd sensation. I wasn't really "stuffing my face," or anything like that. I had actually eaten very sensibly that day (we had the loveliest breakfast of warm, just-made corn bread muffins, yogurt and a pot of tea). But, anyway, there was just something odd about watching that show. I only watched it for 5 minutes, but I was already hooked--dangerously. There is something so demeaning about watching 20 people looking absolutely ridiculous on national TV, but at the same time, it's like an accident on the side of the road--you just have to see it. Or, like once when I saw an add for a Dateline special I wanted to see, so I scheduled myself for a workout, because the gym is the only place I know of with semi-cable. The program, I might add, was on eating disorders such as anorexia. Maybe it's a psychological thing: it feels good to know that you are not the worst case scenario. Well, then why are people always trying to get people to feel sorry for them. I don't have the answers to this one. The topic has yet to grace the pages of my bimonthly Phsychology Today. But, I sure hope it does very soon.

For the next 5 nights and 6 days, I will be in the wilderness, hiking with only 2 other people. Yes, I know it is only 6 days, and people do this sort of thing for months at a time, but they are not me. Not to say that I can't be strong, hang in there, but, you know, I've never done this before. Here is a tribute to the old me. The me that misses such novelties as toilets and fruit. For I am sure, that upon my return, I will be an absolutely, unmistakeably, completely, 180 degree different person. In fact, I probably won't even recognize my own self. I'd better find some new friends, too. Whew...it's amazing what 6 days can do for one's soul.

Toilets
Fruit
Vegetables
Water that doesn't have to be purified
Non-freeze dried dinners
Eggs
Clean hands
Fresh breath
Lightweightedness
Showers
Non-blistered feet
Pillows
Beds

But, you know me, there's always a bright side. Here is a tribute to all of the excitements that I have to look forward to:

Wilderness
Clean air
Quiet
Amazing starry skies
Bedtime stories
Oatmeal and hot chocolate for breakfast
Exercise
Good conversation
Good company
Tranquility
No people
A true appreciation for my feet
A true appreciation for modern times

Wish me luck. I will be back soon.....but, just in case, I'm bringing an id. My mom has taught me well: she's always said it's a good idea "in case [my] body has to be identified."