First off, thank you all for the nice comments about the last entry. I'm okay -- a little disappointed, but hey, shit happens, right? It'll all work out.
I'm way behind on the June Journal Smackdown, so you get a sordid tale today. Good trade? You decide. This is a combination of two topics, because they're so intertwined that I can't separate them into two stories.
I really didn't date much before college. I had a couple of pseudo-boyfriends in high school -- you know, those weird situations where you're "going out" with someone, but since neither of you has a car, it mostly involves holding hands in the hallways and maiking out at school dances? Yeah. I had a couple of those, but nothing else until college. I left small-town Vermont and moved to Boston two weeks before college started, because of an ill-advised desire to join the intermural soccer team. (I'm the worst soccer player ever. No, really.) I was one of only two people on my floor in my dorm -- the other was a lovely girl named Sue. She and I became friends quickly, and spent most of our time together, wandering the city. The day everyone else arrived, I was doing laundry, and was dressed in a ripped-up pair of jeans and a ratty t-shirt. In between loads, I wandered to Sue's room to see what she was doing. She had company -- I could hear her talking to someone as I approached her door. I hesitated before knocking, not wanting to disturb her, but she looked up and saw me, and invited me in. Her guest was a guy who lived on our floor. It was weird -- it still is. I mean, I don't believe in love at first sight. It's a corny notion, and just not possible. So I don't know what this was. I walked in, and looked at him, and... well, that was it. I was floored. It wasn't looks, though he was awfully nice to look at. It wasn't charm, because he hadn't spoken yet. It was... I don't know. But I was smitten from that first look. We sat and talked -- at least I think we did. I have no idea. I probably just sat there and gibbered until I thought of an excuse and fled, weak in the knees and feeling foolish.
Later that night, we had an orientation activity -- a hypnotist. My roommate and I went, and I drove her crazy craning my neck to see if this person who had had the strangest effect on me would be there. He walked in, and I thought of a lame excuse to move and sit next to him. We sat and goofed around during the show -- both of us failed that little test to see if we could be hypnotized -- you know, the one where the hypnotist tries to convince you that you can't open your fists? Yeah. We failed, and spent the rest of the show trying to figure out who was faking it, and laughing until our stomachs hurt. Afetr the show, I couldn't let him leave, so I (oh, the shame) asked him to go to a frat party with me. He said yes, so we followed the crowd to a dark, dilapidated brownstone, where we paid $5 for a cup, and then pissed off the frat brothers by sitting in a corner talking all night. They finally told us to leave, saying we were "bringing the party down." We spent most of the next week together -- I was trying desperately to hide my feelings for him, because I was so sure he wouln't feel the same way. My roommates wanted to fling me out a window, I was so pathetic. Finally, the last night of orientation came: a cruise around the harbor. I asked if he would go with me, and he said yes -- but he laughed at the idea of being my date, which shrivelled my little heart. We went together anyway. and while all our classmates were dancing up a storm to the DJ on the boat, we sat by the rail and talked. I was cold, having ignored the advice to wear long pants and a sweater. He gave me his jacket, and put his arms around me -- to warm me up, he said. I finally blurted out something about having fallen for him, so hard... and he said nothing. Nothing, for so long... (though it was probably a few seconds. I don't know.) Then he sighed, and said he was relieved, because he'd fallen for me too, and didn't know how to tell me. That was the start of my first love -- it was brief, but very sweet.
We were both clueless about the whole relationship thing. We were so afraid, because we'd been friends first -- we didn't want to ruin it. We were afraid to go too far, I think... and we hadn't really dated at all. We went from friends to a relationship overnight, literally, and we weren't sure how to handle it. We came close do doing the deed a few times, but each time, I chickened out. I was afraid I'd do it wrong, and would panic. I was willing, but afraid, until he told me that he was a virgin too, and was just as afraid of messing the whole thing up as I was. He told me he wanted to wait until we were both sure, because he loved me, and he didn't want to ruin the relationship we were building. So, we waited, until one afternoon when his roommate was out, and a tickle-fight turned into something else altogether, and we ended up in his bed. It was funny -- he looked up at me and said "What flavor?" I was confused until I remembered that one of his high-school buddies had sent him a box of flavored condoms as a gag gift. I laughed then, and told him to surprise me. I think he chose passionfruit (which resulted in another prolonged fit of giggles). It was sweet, and awkward (I remember him confessing that he didn't even know if he was in the right spot, and me laughing and saying "If you weren't, I think I'd know!") and it hurt, but not much -- when I winced, he wanted to stop, but I told him it was supposed ti hurt, and it was okay. There was a lot of laughing, and much sweetness, and then it was done, and we didn't quite know what to say to each other. We lay there together for a bit, and then somehow decided to go get ice cream, and that's the story of my first live, and how I lost my virginity. We broke up a few months later -- he was quitting school and I was staying, and we couldn't figure out how to make it work. The friendship is strange -- on-again and off-again. Right now it seems to be off, but that's okay. The baggage is too heavy, I think. We planned to get married once, ten years ago, and now we aren't in love with each other anymore, and that transition was too hard to make, I think. But I loved him then, and still do, and always will.
I didn't get the job in New Hampshire. I knew I shouldn't get my heart set on it, but damn it, it was perfect. I loved the library, the people were great... but I got a letter today telling me thanks, but no thanks. It sucks, but I was getting so stressed from the waiting that it's a relief to just be turned down.
What worries me is this: when I graduated from Emerson with my shiny new degree in journalism, I applied at every newspaper in New England. I sent out close to 80 resumes. The only reply I got was a form letter from USA Today, offering to let me freelance for them. I couldn't pay people to hire me. Now, I know that in 1996, when I graduated, that particular job market was very tough. Newspapers weren't doing well, what with the rising number of people getting news online. Most papaers couldn't afford to hire staff writers. And I know I was good at it -- the years as an editor of the paper and the awards I won proved that. But it scared me, and it scares me now. I'm afraid I'll apply to every job I can find, and get turned down by all of them. That's what's happened so far, and I've sent out more thaqn a dozen resumes in the past few months. Most of them I don't hear anything about. The rest I have gotten icy refusals on. Thios one seemed promising. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go feel sorry for myself for a while, then start trolling through the job boards again.
When I was a baby, my brother got mad at my mom because she wasn't paying enough attention to him. He stomped off to his room, packed up his favorite toys, packed himself a snack, and ran away from home... all the way to the next-door neighbors' house. My mom knew what he was doing, and kept an eye on him. After hearing my brother's tale of woe, the neighbor called my mom and said "Your son is here; I'll keep him until dinner time, and then send him home."
My mom told me this story earlier tonight. I knew it was either me or my brother that had run away from home, but I couldn't remember which of us it was. She says I never ran away -- I was always too happy at home, I guess.
I wouldn't mind running away now, though. Pack up my favorite toys and a snack, and just take off. Maybe I wouldn't go far, and I'd probably come back. But just to take a break, run away from everything familiar, have an adventure or two... that might be nice.
(This entry brought to you by the June Journal Smackdown!)
So, thanks to the lovely Claire and a graphic from the wonderful Patrick, I have a shiny new site! Whee! I'm keeping the LiveJournal, and will likely use it for weblog-type stuff and little brain dumps, and for now my archives will continue to reside at my old site.
So, on to yet more June Journal Smackdown...
I don't cry very often, and when I do, it's usually for a good reason -- or at least for reasons that are important to me. I cry when I'm heavily stressed out, little meltdowns that release a bit of the tension and leave me feeling more clear-headed, calmer, more able to tackle whatever is causing the stress. I cry when someone I care about hurts me. I cry at sad movies, but then, doesn't everyone?
There are annoying, stupid things that make me cry, though. Christmas music always makes me choke up -- not the crappy schlock you hear in malls and such, but Christmas hymns you sing in church. Silent Night always leaves me sniffling. Christmas Eve services are among my favorite things, but I can never get through them dry-eyed. Why? I have no idea. It's not like they depress me. Any music that strikes me as exceptionally beautiful makes me tear up, and when you combine Christmas hymns (which I love) with the soft candlelight that usually goes along with the service... it's just really pretty. And that makes me cry. It also annoys the daylights out of me -- I get distracted from the service by my attempts to keep from blubbering like a fool. (I'm not one of those delicate, pretty criers. No, I get all red and blotchy and hiccuppy, and my nose runs like a faucet. It's charming, really.)
The other annoying thing goes right along with what Chickie said. I cry when I'm angry. I have one hell of a temper, though I don't lose it often. I think I can count the number of times I've been really, really angry on one hand, plus maybe a finger or two. And when I do lose my temper, everyone around me knows it. I swear, I yell, I slam doors... and I cry. I absolutely hate it, but I can't help it. When I get angry, it's over some sort of injustice, something that has hurt me or someone I love. I get angry when I'm trying to find a way to fix that injustice, and confront the person responsible. The immediate crying just makes me feel weak, and that just makes me angrier, only at myself instead of the other person. I've tried all sorts of things to avoid it -- deep breaths, counting to ten, waiting to deal with whatever the situation is until I've cooled down a little -- it doesn't work. I have found myself avoiding problematic situations because I'm afraid the resulting confrontation will make me lose my cool, and that's not a good thing. I don't want to end up letting problems fester because I'm too afriad of the waterworks to deal with the situation. I like Chickie's idea for handling it, though -- don't piss me off, and we'll all be just fine!