Priority Use

I don't believe in collecting for the sake of collecting. I believe in purposeful use. Dust. Cars. Antiques. Whatever. I believe in having things that are useful and enjoying their use. Having 10 roadsters and getting satisfaction from their use is one thing. Having 10 roadsters and keeping them in your oversized garage to polish on Saturdays is quite the other.

As it is with friends. The facebook and my space kind. Perhaps it's not nice of me, but if you're not my friend in person, I don't see why you should be my friend on-line. I've been fairly loose with this in terms of facebook. I'll confirm the friendship so long as we have met. It doesn't matter if we've ever shared juicy gossip over a pizza pie and huge chocolate chip cookie. But "my space?" Well, I think I gotta be a bit more picky.

Today, I got a friend request for my "my space" account. It was for A. I wracked my brain trying to figure out who this shady A figure was while waiting for the invite to load. The only one I could think of is a friend from high school. Sure, I'd be her friend. Cause, well, I am. But where in the heck did she ever find my profile? Wow, word gets around.

Well, it turns out it wasn't that A. Instead it was an A who doesn't usually have time to smile at me as we pass in the quads. It's okay, I understand. Making snooty, "bug-like" faces takes long enough. I wouldn't want her to be late for class.

I don't really want her to be my "my space" friend. I mean, I guess it's no big deal. But she's really not my friend. I don't even know if she's an acquaintance. She just is. And that's all. Does having her as my "my space" friend diminish the friendships that I actually do have? "OMG, I'm in your top 8!!" Or is it all just a silly on-line game to which I'm giving way too much thought? I'm not sure. But, it shouldn't matter. I mean, I get to choose who I hang out with, right? I choose with whom I share bits and details over ice cream, right? So why not choose who gets the, echem, privilege of being my friend? No, not a privilege, just a truth.

Don't get me wrong, I believe in the power of networks and not burning any bridges. But, I'm not a big fan of this fake on-line cordiality embodied in the competition of most friends or the race to build a strong network. To be honest, having 9 friends is more telling than having 9 billion.

Okay, so I'm sort of stealing this idea from someone else, but it's something that I've been thinking about for a while and my thoughts started making a lot more sense after a brief conversation I had about this yesterday.

I am a fairly pleasurable person. I do a lot of stuff because it's what I am supposed to do, but I also do a lot of stuff because it just plain makes me feel good. Take eating for example. I really like to eat. I like to eat foods that make me feel nutritionally satisfied, for the most part. Salads, bananas, soybeans, yaddah, yaddah. At the same time, I get a great deal of pleasure out of a big ol' hunk of chocolate cake. Nutritional value? Nope. Pleasure? Hell yeah.

I've always liked people who eat. A lot. People who don't eat much, or who are super concerned about what they eat rub me the wrong way. I never really knew what it was. Maybe just because I tend to be on the self-conscious side of my--let's just say--healthy appetite, I am even more self-conscious around people who have a great deal of self-restraint? I'm not sure what it is. It's not as if I don't like people who don't eat much, it's just a sort of pleasure that the two of us can't share together. And, being as that's a pretty big part of my life, it makes it hard to be comfortable in that sort of way. I'm not sure what it is.

So, here's where it gets juicy. To me (and the person with whom I was talking), food is like sex. Sure sex has some practical purpose. But only in the "salad, banana soybean" sense of the word. In the "chocolate cake" side of things, it's purely pleasure. Chocolate cake, like sex (daily, weekly, monthly, however often them kids are doin it these days--for non-reproductive purposes) just feels good.

My friend commented that one reason why she's a bit apprehensive when it comes to guys who eat less than her is this possible connection.

Let me elaborate (this is me, now, not her), because I totally agree:
Sometimes I wonder if I eat more than a guy if it means that I will want too much. If I will want to do things for pleasure more than him and if he will not be able to keep up. Not in a judgmental way, just good old fashioned compatibility. Does that make sense? Like if compatibility in eating is a predictor of compatibility in bedroom practices, at least in the frequency and (echem...intensity) departments.

Perhaps this is getting a bit graphic.

Take Juan for an example. (Now's probably not the time to get all friendly with the names, but what the heck, I'm feeling courageous). He liked to eat. Bad things. Things that made him happy. Chocolate things. I liked to eat most of the same things, but I was much more timid when it came to the quantity. I always ate less than him. Maybe just because I wasn't totally comfortable around him, I don't know. And, in the bedroom department, he was definitely, well, hmmm...let's just say he liked to eat.

But, we weren't compatible. So, maybe what it comes down to is shared eating (etc) reflects a deeper connection. A good start to a relationship? Or, at the very least, it's something.

Okay, I don't really have anything else to say, though I am completely aware that there's no good ending to this post.

I am trying to write a paper, but I have nothing to say. Instead of writing, I am incessently checking facebook and my space (it's a new addiction) for some new, last minute update. Though nothing's being updated. I keep checking the fridge, but I'm not hungry. I think, perhaps, if I open it enough times there will (1) be something I want to eat, (2) I will be hungry or (3) my paper will write itself. So far, I'm 0 for 3. I also keep walking by the mirror. For once, I actually like the way I look. Today, anyway.

For some reason people think I am their mother. Or that I am somebody's mother. Or, at least that I am motherly. Almost everyone I know has commented to this extent in some way, some time, over the years. While their comments are usually not meant to be negative, it is still something rather unpleasant to hear. Mothers are kind and good and strong, but they are also didactic and old and patterned (or at least in what they symbolize). I am 22 years old. Why would I want to be seen as a mother? I don't know, does this mean that I am boring and stagnant? Do people not do certain things around me because I am too much like their mother? Does caring about people, being friendly and organized while enjoying keeping my room clean, checking in and (every once in a while) baking cookies make me seem like a mother?

Today, my motherly-ness was brought up twice. Once when a friend kicked a piece of paper under a desk instead of picking it up, and the other when a friend wanted to "double check" with me about whether or not he could wash his baseball cap without damaging it. Both of these may seem innocent enough, but it is the context, rather, that heeds cause for alarm. I looked at friend A (the one who didn't pick up the paper) and smiled which caused her to pick it up and tell me that she has to be good around me because I am like a mother. What she didn't know is that my smile came after she bent to pick up the paper from the recognition that kicking away trash and then feeling guilty and picking it up is something that I often do. She, however, being that I am so motherly thought that my smile came pre picking up and that it referred to her neglect of doing what's right. Now, friend B agreed with me that his cap, could indeed, be washed. He even went so far as to tell me that he'd gotten other people's opinions, but he wanted to double check with me to make sure. Okay, well, who made me the washing expert? He doesn't even know me very well!

I suppose I am sort of motherly. But, I didn't think it was that obvious. I mean, both friend A and friend B are hardly my best buddies. They know me in certain contexts, but not very well. Yet, they still see me as a mother?

This sort of worries me. While I don't mind being a mother eventually, I'd rather not be one now. Mothers are no sexy (at least not to people who are not the fathers of their children). Mothers don't do fun, spontaneous things late at night (unless they're fun, spontaneous mothers, but this generally does not go hand in hand with "morality" and washing baseball caps). Mothers don't do bad things. And mothers, certainly are not 22-year-olds' best friends. All of this is highly questionable and quite a lot to think about.

I really dislike it when people sign their emails best. I mean, what does best really mean? It's sort of like the close-but impersonal, good friend-but gift certificate kind of closing. Like you want to sound nice. But not too nice. It's reserved for those people who maybe mean something to you. But, not too much. Because then it's also used for people who really mean nothing. Or not much. I don't know what it is. It just really bothers me. Especially when it comes from a friend who is really confusing and sends about a bazillion different conflicting signals and gives you a headache with all of the thinking.

Whew. Cheers. Don't get me started on cheers. Unless you're from England or a former British colony--in other words, if you speak with a "non-American" accent, well, just don't get me started.

For the sake of honesty in past preview notices, I am going to post on this topic. But, I'm no longer really into it. That's the problem with previews. It's like seizing the moment. If you don't seize it, then it passes and, well, you can no longer have whatever you'd wanted to have in that particular moment. So as with posts. I can't just wait to post something. If I don't post it when I feel it or think it or do it, then it's just too late.

Anyway, this all sort of works because I was talking about flirting with a friend today at lunch. I have a crush on this certain someone in a certain class and apparently the vibes are somewhat mutual. Problem is, my flirting, I fear is just being construed as friendly. At least that's what my friend thinks. I think that in the right moment, I'm actually quite good at flirting. Or, at least that's what I thought. Maybe I'm just good at being friendly.

In any case, this crush of mine is going to be practice. I mean, what have I really got to lose? Well, I don't want to think about that, nevermind. Mostly, it's not that big of a deal. I'm only going to be here for 3 more weeks so I may as well stop being so nervous that I don't do anything.

Today I was bold and waited for him and then I went out of my way to say hi and we talked. It gave me butterflies and I felt like a little girl all over again. Man.

Okay, I have nothing else to say.

While watching Amelie tonight something struck me as interesting. At the end of the movie during the only "possibly-could-be-construed-as-post-sex" scene, she is holding Nino. They are laying together and his head is on her chest and she is holding him. Like taking care of him, or something. And, it struck me. It's the man who always gets held. At least for me that's how it has always been. In "life" the man takes care of the woman. Protects her. Tells her it's okay. Keeps her from harm. Or at least this is how it's supposedly supposed to be. But, in bed, it's the woman who takes care of the man. It's the man who is cared for--motherly--almost. I've always thought this was interesting--it's not really the first time that I've noticed it with my experiences, but tonight it was strange to see it portrayed in a film. I guess, in a sense, a woman takes care of a man's well-being (of course, all that I'm saying is not necessarily true and real, it's just how we're told it's to be--and, well, often how it is): cares for the home, feeds him, etc. So, why not hold him in bed? To keep him safe in a way that is different than what he is supposed to do for her. Truth be told, I've liked this. I like feeling as though I am responsible for protecting someone in such a vulnerable state. Making someone comfortable, caressed and held. Maybe that's how lots of women feel. Maybe this is common beyond just me. Hmm..well, that's all. I guess I don't have anything else to say about that. It just seemed interesting.

It's amazing how my self-confidence changes daily. Generally, though, the older I seem to get the more comfortable I am. The more I see (or understand) that I have a place in the world. A place that is my place. One that doesn't depend on anyone else, except for me. Physically, I struggle to feel good about myself. It seems to me that this is more the norm than the aberration. I no longer see that as necessarily bad, though. Perhaps feeling good about oneself comes with time. Comes with development and comes with the ability to see that personal identity can be separate from the rest of the world.

I always wanted to be able to wear stretchy shorts. Or shorts, really. I always wanted to be one of those people who looked good and who felt good about it. I go to the gym, but it doesn't really seem to do any good physically. Though mentally, I'm a nut case without a good workout. Anyway, my cousin gave me some stretchy shorts a couple of years ago and it's been my goal to be able to put them on and feel good about myself. For the sake of liberation, I don't know. I'd tried it a few times and never got out my front door more than once or twice. There was always some imperfection--some grand imperfection--that kept me from feeling as though I should be allowed to dress in such a way. Instead of wearing what I wanted, I could never get past what other people would think. Or, what I thought other people would think. Which, I come to realize, is a really unhealthy way of being.

The other day, though, I tried again. I put on the stretchy shorts and knew that I didn't look that good, but I felt good for the first time in those shorts. I felt strong and sexy and liberated. I felt as though I had a right to wear them even though I knew I wasn’t perfect. Other people could look at me and think whatever they wanted to think and I could just be me. The thing is, I couldn’t actually get myself to look in the mirror. It’s like I have this understanding with myself that whatever I think is fine—because it is just a though—but to test the thought with reality somehow threatens its truth and reinforces the fantasy of it all.

Since then, I’ve worn them a few more times. Each time, I look in the mirror more and more frequently. Gradually, though. And, each time, I feel less justified. I am back to wondering if imperfection deserves to be revealed. Yesterday, I actually talked to someone I knew in those shorts. I even rode the bike next to him. I was embarrassed and ashamed, but I didn’t let on. I think it’s as much a mental game as anything else. If I can convince myself that it’s justified, then somehow of course it is.

For the sake of my own personal triumphs, I’m going to try and get past thinking that it’s not okay. I’m going to put them on and be proud. Try and not care about not being perfect and just be whatever it is I am and feel justified in doing that.

I am really very tired of reading my paper. I'm about to do it again for the millionth time--but, truth is, I probably haven't done it enough. I think I've put a lot of work into this, but, truth is, probably not enough.

Sometimes I can't tell if I'm too hard on myself or if I just don't do things to my fullest. Or, maybe I just don't perceive my amount of work, sweat, tears as being near equivalent to those of others. It could be that I perceive the complaining, the whining of others (and their really hard classes) as being bigger than they really are--like the bark is bigger than the bite, or something like that. I've taken hard classes, I think. I've been stressed, I know. But, I get through it. And, I (generally) do really well. But, I don't feel like I work all that hard. I mean, I don't study all the time. I don't study nearly enough as a I could (dare I say should). Maybe I just get lucky. I'm not sure. Maybe hindsight is 20-20 (or 20-10) in that the big picture, looking back, is that it is what it is. I forget the stress. I forget that maybe, in fact, I did give it my all. I'm just honestly not sure. I mean, what does it all mean? Do I give it my all if I choose to stop working at some point before it's perfect, before I get it, before I'm the best? Then, is it really my all?

So, anyway, here I go, having this gigantic assignment due tomorrow. I will be pretty proud of what I turn in, I think. But, I know it's not perfect. I know that it probably could be better had I stayed up late for the past week and not chosen midnight bedtimes, hours wasted at the gym and Charlotte Simmons. So, does that mean I didn't do a good job? Does that mean I deserve to do well? Does that mean I don't deserve to do well. I am honestly not sure.

Here I have this paper. The file, at least, is open. But, I'm not really working that hard. I have to do another read through, but I honestly don't know how many changes I'm going to make--how many changes I can make. So, if I turn it in less than perfect, did I somehow fail? Could I have worked harder? Should I feel as though I somehow slipped through the ambiguous cracks of achievement. Am I that one girl who "always" succeeds, but doesn't really actually do anything to get there? Is it bad of me to even think this?

All I know is that I've gotten far. More than just academically. Just far. I have friends, a family, a (fairly) stable demeanor and outlook on life, potential and education. But, what have I done to get it? Was I just dealt the ace? The lucky hand? Maybe I was. Maybe that's okay. Maybe I shouldn't feel as though I don't deserve what I have. But, I don't ever want to take it all for granted. Maybe it just means I have some greater duty in life. I was put here to do more than just well in school. To make someone, something, happy and complete.

I don't know. Maybe it's a dead end to think like this. Maybe I should just not be so hard on myself. Not question what is. Pat myself on the back as say you've done well. Good job. You've really done well. Or, maybe I should not be so naive to think that it has been all me. Maybe I'm meant to have it easy so that I can get to harder things. Get to moving mountains. I just worry, sometimes (most times) that I'm going to get to that mountain. I'm going to push on that mountain. I'm going to see how to move that mountain. But, I'm not going to be able to. It's going to be too hard and I won't know what to do. I won't know how to deal with something I can't handle--something I can't handle on the first try--and I'll just walk away. That, to me, would be the ultimate failure. And, the fact that I don't want to read my paper for the sixth, seventh, eighth (probably more realistic than millionth) time really makes me worry that that's exactly what's going to happen.

In an attempt to gain readership, I'm offering a sneak preview of a couple upcoming posts. Consider yourselves lucky.

#10
Perfection
Flirt

This is more for me than it is for you. I need to not forget these ever so important posts.

I am a keep-aholic. I'm organized in my keeping, though. I may have a lot, but I know where most of it is. I don't like throwing anything away. Just in case. Just in case. The thing is, I often actually need things that I could have thrown away but didn't. So that just reinforces the fact that keeping is good. Throwing is bad.

Emails. Oh, emails.

Another thing I'm bad at getting rid of. I'm too sentimental and nostalgic on one hand--I have cute emails that different (different) people have sent me over the years. Also, though, I keep lots of administrative stuff. I delete it out of my inbox, but it's all still there. Just the other day, though, I actually referred back to something I'd deleted way back when. So, you see? That's why I keep it.

Anyway, I got an email saying that I was way over quota--I don't know, like 230 units of whatever that unit is. Yikes! So, I went to check my folders to see what was taking up too much space. I deleted about 40 emails from my inbox (my inbox is actually rather organized, I must admit) and a few from some other random folders. Checked back. Somehow I'd taken up even more space in the process! Yikes. So, I took a better look at the storage space and, much to my chagrin, turns out the trash was taking up just about everything. Sad, sad, sad. I knew what had to be done all along, I just refused to believe it.

I had to make a quick move before I thought about it too much. Oh my god! What if I needed a brownie recipe that Dari had sent me 2 years ago?? Oh my god! What if I wanted to remember an email back from Summer Diaries 04? What ever would I do? Quick. It had to be quick.

I ran my cursor over the trash icon. Circled it a few times. Pushed down on the mouse. But I couldn't let go. I really just couldn't let go. The thing is, I knew I had to. So, well, I did. Pride. The trash-less page was taking a long time to load and I got to thinking about that brownie recipe and how actually I would like to read back from 2004. Think fast! I pushed stop. Nothing. Again. Nothing. So, I closed the page. Surely that would do it. I logged back in just to be sure....and....what popped up?

A svelte under-quota, trashless browser. It was sad. But, I think this is a good time to be cleaning out things. It's all symbolic. Yeah. That's it. I like symbols.

Anyway.

To moving on. To letting go. To purging my trash.

George was really a good guy (well, he's always a good guy, more that he was confident and well, different, I guess) on Sunday. And, actually, I still think I'm like him. But Sunday gave me lots of hope.