a late discovery
(Originally published on journalstar.com on 3/10/2008)
One of the things that made first grade different from kindergarten was that as first graders, we were allowed to check out books from the school library. We went as a class every Tuesday afternoon and everyone got to check out one book. Honestly, I wasn’t that impressed by this priviledge. The library was arranged by grades, and all the books recommended for first graders gave me the willies. You’d open them up and pages would be torn or there would be some kid’s booger in there sticking two pages together.
But one Tuesday I found a treasure on the shelf… (more…)
Travel
Odd, but I like that airport smell of stale coffee and cinnamon buns and alcohol breath and new luggage.
I like when people eye other people’s tickets while standing in line at airport gates, looking at seat assignments like they’re sneaking a peek at their new assigned partner for a junior high science project.
I like the way everyone’s heads simultaneously sway and dip in turbulence like we are all riders on the same big horse. We are all riding the same big horse and some of us are carrying hot coffee.
I like watching people dealing well, or not so well, with the lack of personal space. My elbow is touching your jacket. Your foot is kind of on my bag. There’s nowhere else to go but slightly on eachother. It’s awkward at first, but after an hour or so we’re more comfortable with overlapping than we were with some people we’ve dated. I mean, you’re spending hours with your faces at pre-kissing distance and then you’re sleeping next to eachother and waking up yawny and seeing eachother first thing.
Sometimes I’ll be in a crowd and I’ll see someone who feels so familiar, but I don’t know them at all. I wonder if maybe they are someone I sat next to on an airplane once. We look at eachother comfortably, not like strangers, but we don’t say hello.
Safe and happy travels this weekend.
going off about elevators
(Originally published 7/11/06 on journalstar.com)
I am bad at elevators.
They are little interludes of social awkwardness.
For example: What do you do when the elevator smells like b.o., or even pot? I work in a nice office building but it’s happened to me more than once. I get on and the elevator reeks. One floor later, the elevator stops to pick up some older, uptight-looking people. Part of me wants to blurt out “the elevator already smelled like pot when I got on here!” as soon as the door opens, but that seems a little over-eager. The other option, however, is to not say anything and have the new people get on, take a whiff, then look at each other all “there goes the neighborhood.”
Another thing: the elevator conversation is somewhat of an art. It feels odd to not at least say “hello” to someone you’re riding the elevator alone with, yet starting a conversation is tricky… you must try to match the conversation length with the number of floors the two of you have to travel together. I hate it when someone asks me a question that requires a complicated response right as we’re reaching my floor and I have to just walk out without really answering. But obviously they don’t want me to keep riding the elevator with them just to finish my answer , right?
And personal space: in an elevator you have none. The door opens, and unless the thing is packed full, it’s sort of rude to not get on. Even if that door reveals the creepy guy you’ve been avoiding, the one who always stands right in the middle of the elevator so you have to push by him to get on even when he’s the only one on there. You can’t shop for good elevator company. The opening of the elevator door is like a scarier version of the old “Price is Right” prize doors.
The only thing that eliminates a bit of the awkwardness between elavator riders is the mutual underlying fear that the cable will break, like in the movies.
he can have the song
(Originally published 5/22/06 on journalstar.com)
Warning: I’m a sap. And I’m feeling especially sappy today.
I am one of those people who attach certain songs to memories of certain people.
Don’t act like you never have.
It’s the song that was playing in the background at some pivotal moment, or the song he always turned up and sang to on the car radio (and his voice sounded nice even though he stopped singing and blushed a little whenever he saw you watching too closely).
And it’s not just songs… for me it’s been a certain brand of apple juice, an oddly shaped hedge downtown, or even the smell of diesel. (Okay, so I dated a guy that had a vehicle with a diesel-leaking problem. How was I not really worried about that? I was admiring him singing along to the radio, meanwhile we could have blown up at any moment! Hmm.)
Usually it isn’t until things go bad that we realize how we’ve twisted the two things together in our minds.
Previously, I have said that I don’t want to let any guy “have” any of my favorite songs. After a relationship ended, I would fight hard to un-associate the two in my mind. I thought it was unfair to have something that used to be enjoyable forever ruined by a guy. What right did he have to make me always skip song 5 on my favorite mix cd?
I’ve changed my mind. Sometimes, he can have a song. In fact sometimes he can have five songs, a brand of soap… and a restaurant. I think I’ll concede an entire neighborhood.
Why? Because for certain people thinking of them isn’t sad in a way that makes you feel bad. It’s realizing that although things did not work out the way both of you had hoped, the experience was still worthwhile, and real. He started with hopes just as high as yours were, and he was honest the whole way through.
That’s something.
Maybe this is some higher plane of understanding everyone has already reached and I’m a late arrival here. Or maybe that kind of noble end to a relationship is mostly in my head, and I’m going through life ruining mix cd’s of guys everywhere… one song at a time.
craving rain
(Originally published 06/08/2006 on journalstar.com)
It’s interesting how cultures across the world have all associated water with emotion, from religion to literature to astrology.
Water is still humankind’s source of life despite all of our modern advances and growing disconnection with nature. There’s something very primal about that dependence. But what’s the purpose of tears? Losing a little bit of what sustains us for a pain that’s not physical… that isn’t science.
I like watching people get caught in the rain… people in suits and skirts with gelled hair and polished shoes. They try so hard to be mad, but usually do a bad job of covering the fact that it simply feels good to be rained on. For reasons they can’t explain.
*Also, for those not feeling particularly introspective today, here’s some good rain-related news: the designer rain boots that showed up in stores the last couple years are still very cute this year, and knock-offs are showing up everywhere.
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you already said it
(Originally published 6/23/2006 on journalstar.com)
“Long after people forget what you did and said, they remember the way you made them feel.”
That Tim Sanders quote was drilled into my head in high school. My business teacher wrote it on the blackboard to remind us of the importance of making eye contact and smiling in sales situations.
Being the hopeless romantic that I was, I of course applied this wisdom to daydreaming about relationships.
It’s true, though. It’s never the words that stay in my mind after time passes.
What does stay:
feeling him pulling away from you, just slightly, when you make a lame joke in front of his friends
the way your eyes cut through a crowd of people to meet his when a song that used to mean something to the two of you comes on the jukebox…funny how you both knew each other’s exact whereabouts in the room the whole time, even though you were pretending to be unaware of each other
seeing on his face that your passion about a topic flat out annoys him and he’s just waiting for you to stop talking
the way your eyes fall comfortable on his,and his yours, like coming home to your own bed after a long vacation of sleeping in hotels. Home. The feeling of missing someone is being homesick for a person.
Note: I should mention that this blog was not intended to be used as cop-out fuel for guys that don’t like to talk. There are still certain things you should say out loud.
possibly, the roots of overanalyzing
(originally published 2/12/07 on journalstar.com)
I remember every year in grade school, we spent art class the week before Valentine’s Day making a mailbox out of a shoe-box and construction paper. This was, of course, for the Valentine’s party when you would go from desk to desk and deliver a Valentine to each of your classmates’ mailboxes.
I always spent a long time deciding which valentine went to which person. Even in boxes of My Little Pony valentines, there were definitely some more platonic messages and others that were obviously flirty. I was stressed for days deciding which boy would receive the valentine that showed a pink My Little Pony looking right at you and just said, “Be Mine” – heaven forbid that should go to the wrong person.
Then after the party I’d take my stack of little cards home and re-read each one, wondering if that person had meant something specific when they decided to write my name on that particular card. I mean, that Transformers valentine that said “Valentine, You’re High Voltage!” was so flattering that it made me blush every time I read it. I saw which card that same boy gave my best friend – it only said something like, “Have a High-Powered Valentine’s.” How impersonal. I thought she handled the low blow pretty well … almost like she didn’t notice.
