A little reminder

Amazing, isn't it? Our propensity to forget. I mean human beings in general. I am making the self - serving biased assumption that all people tend to do this; because if it's a special characteristic of mine, then I'm in big trouble. Twice a year, every year I get to this point. The semester is over, final grades are coming in, and once again, I am kicking myself in the head. I am amazed that I managed to do so well relative to the amount of work I put in; but insanely disappointed with myself for not working hard enough to do much better . . . again.

I am thinking about all the hours I spent watching television, or pretending to multi - task while watching television. I am obsessing over midterms; and dreaming about how much better off I would be if I had remembered this feeling in the six weeks prior to that half - term evaluation. I am wondering if this is all because I convinced myself quickly that I was never going to do much better than I did at the beginning of my college career - if I am following some kind of self - fulfilling prophecy.

But once again, I am mostly thinking about other people I know who have found themselves in the very situation I am in now; and just how different mine their individual situations are. These people have to worry about jobs, about sending money home to their families, about paying rent, buying clothing - these people are adults, with adult problems and adult responsibilities. I, on the other hand, are as my father likes to say, paid to be a full - time student. So what is my excuse for not doing the work I need to be doing? I don't have one. At some point I think I became overly confident; and then took the plunge into severe self - debilitation. Mostly, I think I'm just lazy.

And here is the point of this extremely whiny post.

Remember this, older self: you are not a cruiser. Never have been. Never will be. I suggest you get off your ass and get to work. Pronto.

Something told me to run

"It is what it is."

"What do you mean, 'It is what it is'? I want to know what you think".

I think . . . I don't know what I think.

There were so many thoughts racing around my head that I couldn't figure them all out myself, much less put them into words . . . The only clear feeling I had was that it was time to go home. There was nothing more to say.

"It is what it is", I said, and reached for my jeans.

It started when the phone rang. The annoying buzz cut into my subconscious just before it stopped. And then it rang again. And it rang again five minutes later. I suppose I could have ignored it, but since it just wouldn't stop, I thought it might be a good idea for him to answer the darn thing. It turned out to be nothing - someone he was supposed to be tutoring and was currently ignoring, supposedly because I was there - so everything should have continued as planned, but I just had to make a joke of the situation so I said something about hoping that the caller wasn't his woman on the side. And then it came. The brick out of the sky that ruined everything . . .

"If it was another woman I wouldn't tell you because she would be relevant."

Warning bells went off in my head.

Um. Ha-ha? Relevant? What the heck does that mean?

I chuckled in reply and tried to put things into perspective. I told myself it had just been a joke and nothing more. That it didn't matter anyway because he had told me who was calling, because he would have ignored the phone if I hadn't said something about it, because he had ignored the phone until I said something about it. Turns out a long habit of mistrust isn't that easy to break. The bells would not be silenced. I waited for the first break between kisses I could get.

"Are you seeing other people then?"

"Sorry, can't answer that question right now. I'm busy." More kissing.

"Come on."

"I really can't talk right now, I'm doing something very important."

"No seriously, are you?"

Why won't you just answer the question? Say no so that I can let it go and everything can be wonderful again.

But he didn't say no. He didn't say anything. He just rolled off me with a sigh and grabbed a shirt. And that was when it started. The feeling I am certain a telenovela character gets when her car engine cuts out over train tracks and the seat belt is stuck and she suddenly hears a loud hoot accompanied by insistent chugging as the light in the distance gets closer and brighter. The prenotion of inescapable disaster.

"So then, what do you want to know."

I want to know that I can trust you. But more than that right now I really don't want this to end.

"Nothing. I don't want to know anything." I back-pedaled furiously and tried for a seductive look. "Come over here."

"Nope. Too late. You obviously wanted to talk so let's talk."

"Alright then. Are you seeing other people?"

"Why would you ask me that?"

Because I've barely seen you all summer. Because you never call me. Because I don't want to be used and I need to know what you are thinking so I can act accordingly. Because I think I might be falling for you.

"Well, we haven't exactly talked about it, this thing we're doing, and whether or not it is exclusive . . . "

"Hmmm. I guess we've been seeing each other these past few months. Yeah. Seeing each other. You could call it that."

I got the distinct impression that he was weighing the thought . . . and not particularly enjoying the feel of it.

"So now you want to give it a name; put a label on it, on us."

What's wrong with that?

"No . . . I just want to know where we stand."

We talked about what I wanted, or rather, what I didn't want. And why. Why I did not want him seeing other people. I gave some bullshit answer about not liking to share. This didn't exactly feel like a good time to pour out the contents of my soul; to tell him that I could not stand the thought of his hands on another woman, that the thought of someone else touching him made me sick.

"Look. I like you, and I like hanging out with you and I'm not seeing anyone else. But if what you want is for me to be able to point you out in a crowd and say: 'That's my woman', I don't think I can. I can't. I'm sorry."

Silence.

So what have we been doing all this time? I'm good enough for you to fool around with but not for you to tell people I'm the one you're with?

I bit back the urge to ask the question burning on the tip of my tongue. Why can't you tell people I'm your woman? Is it the way I look? I felt like I should be angry, like I had every right to be angry. All I felt was a tightening in my chest and a sinking sensation in my stomach. I always knew it would come to this, didn't I? The oncoming train had hit, but it didn't bring me the relief that is rumored to come when you cross the divide. I felt a stronger need than ever to protect my feelings from discovery. So I rolled over to hide the sadness in my eyes, and just lay there, quietly. My heart felt like it was pounding even though it simultaneously seemed to have stopped.

I felt his fingers toying with my hair. He had always like my hair. The hand he placed on my hip reminded me just how much I liked it when he touched me.

"What's up?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing. What are you thinking?."

"If you want me to say 'That's my woman', I don't think I can. I can't".

The words echoed in my head, as they would continue to do for so long afterward. As they still do now. I wanted to reason with him, to beg even. To make him see that neither of us could be happy if we walked away from what we had had just moments before. I would try again on more than one occasion to undo what I had done. To fix the dreadful mistake I made with a single utterance. I would wonder how things would have turned out if the phone never rang, or if it had been on silent mode. If I had let myself be wrapped up enough in him not to hear the buzz, if alarm bells hadn't gone off in my head when I did.

So much else was said that night that I cannot remember now. He seemed concerned that I would think he had just used me for his fun. I promised not to turn him into a monster for my own comfort. He explained to me again how he had decided he couldn't be with anyone other than his ideal woman. He said he wished he had never decided on it in the first place. He told me again how much he enjoyed being with me. All I heard was that I wasn't up to snuff. He tried to guide me into being closer to his ideal, told me she would take what she wanted. I wondered how I could possibly try to take by force what he seemed so reluctant to give. I remember thinking that what I wanted most was for him to give it freely. To me. No questions asked. I'm sure we talked about his fear of being in a relationship. I seem to remember that him saying long ago that he wasn't good at them. I remember thinking I could make him see that that just wasn't true. He asked me again what I was thinking. I was thinking that it was over . . . again.

"It is what it is", I said, and reached for my jeans.

To new beginnings . . .

My previous attempts at prolonged, sustained writing have failed. Every last one. I have never kept a diary longer than few months, and by a few months I mean 4 or 5 days of feverish writing separated by month-and-a-half long pauses; and from what I hear that is quite unusual for a young lady of a my age.

The first blog I ever started was a group one, I think because I was worried that I wouldn't have enough to say on my own. I soon found that the people I had chosen to collaborate with either had much more to say than everyone else or nothing to say at all, leaving me with a blog run mostly by two members, who were pretty good friends and soon decided they could bounce ideas around without the added hassle of having to use spell - check.

This first foray into the blogosphere was born out of my increasing with frustration with the inadequate length of time left for discussion in an interesting class I was taking. I wanted to write the things I never had the time to say . . . difficult to do when the people you're working with are not reading the same things you are. This next attempt is a little different. For one thing, I am being a lot more honest with myself; and for another, the inspiration behind it is nothing like that for the first. I don't want to hold witty cyber - discussions with people I know about things I have seen or heard; I want an outlet for something I cannot as yet name.

I recently found a book on my roommate's desk containing letters written by successful women (such as Maya Angelou, Queen Noor, and Madeline Albright) to their younger selves. Reading the first few letters highlighted something that I have been grappling with a lot lately - the fact that nothing in life is certain, and that one often cannot possibly conceive what the future holds in store. Some people might find this concept exciting; I do not care for it. I like to have as much certainty in life as I can possibly attain, and the amount of time I spend studying train schedules each time I have to take a trip is testament to this fact. Yet even in my few years on this crazy planet, I have come to discover that the things I worry myself sick over turn out to be inconsequential in the light of subsequent problems or triumphs, and I can never quite figure out what I was so scared of in the first place.

The purpose of this blog then, is not to find myself - that would imply that something, some or all of me, was somehow misplaced, and this is not so - but to leave behind a trail of some sort, with breadcrumbs or broken bark, whatever it is trails are made with these days; something to remind me of where I've been and what I've done and what I've have seen and heard and provide some insight for whatever new and seemingly insurmountable obstacle I happen to be trembling before. That said, I do not intend to start another diary/journal. I think I'm too old for that now and I have never managed to see the use of recounting the day's events to myself . . . I was there, is that not enough? I neither assume, dear reader, that you want to hear all about every last happening of my life. For the most part, it isn't that interesting. I do hope that you will enjoy reading some of my thoughts, and perhaps even be moved enough to leave the occasional comment. Otherwise, this will serve as my letter to myself: long, wordy, and perhaps somewhat repetitive, but always just a little bit wiser than before.