the girl's summer in denial comes to a screeching halt

I haven't written in so long.
That, of course, is an understatement.

I'm currently sitting in Brit's living room waiting for my homemade egg noodle dough to dry enough to cut into what will probably be my dinner (and the dinner of all my friends) for several days. I have been staying at Brit's house for over a week now, baby-sitting her dog and pretending that I once again live in LA. I've been seeing the boy regularly, going to dinners and shows, meeting his sister, brushing our teeth together and waking up in the morning to see him off to work. It has been nice. comfortable. Several times I have caught myself thinking, "I could get used to this...."

But like any complicated lie, the truth soon rears its ugly head. Brit returns tomorrow, and I will retreat back to OC to attempt to sell my car, give away an apartment worth of belongings, and begin packing for my move. My self-delusion will eventually give way to reality and all of the casual nights watching movies, taking dogs for walks, and generally playing girlfriend/homemaker will be replaced with "okay, so I can probably make it up next thursday, but only after rush hour, and only if I have a place to spend the night."

The truth is, I have enjoyed playing house back in my old neighborhood with a boy that takes me to my favorite restaurants and wants to spend every day with me. With only three weeks left, it becomes difficult imagining going back to the way things were a few months ago, meaning pretending that we're a couple and that i'm not going anywhere. In his painfully quiet way, I can tell the boy is feeling it, too. Instead of improvising, we've begun to make definite plans weeks in the future, trying to squeeze out every LA experience we can before I leave. I'm feeling the pressures of family, friends, and responsibility.

I still can't say whether or not anything would come of this if I wasn't leaving. Sometimes I let myself daydream about falling in love again, waking up next to someone who knows me best, spending holidays and weekends together as a complete unit, in sync with each other's moods and nuances, ways of speaking and telling jokes. I feel myself forcing myself to pull back, to assess the situation rationally, logically. I find myself questioning what the point of all of this is, what it's going to end up doing to me, or worse, to him.

It's always easier being the one who leaves. You have the opportunity to reinvent yourself, to change direction, to discover new things. Life isn't the same as it has ever been before. The person left behind, both physically and emotionally, is left with the same life and the same experiences, but without the person who has become a fixture in it all. I feel like a terribly selfish person when I let myself dwell too much on what's to become of him after i'm gone. In my own overly analytical and self-depricating way, I assume all responsibility for what becomes of this relationship, this friendship that I have allowed to develop. But is it really me holding the puppet strings? He has known, like all of my friends, that I am leaving. Isn't it ultimately his responsibility to take care of himself? Is he?

I'm not sure how to resolve this situation. I care about him, but i'm not in love with him. I've carefully distanced myself from those feelings on purpose from the beginning. I guess that all that's left is to enjoy the few, fleeting moments I have left, to embrace all of the good things that have happened to me this summer, and begin to prepare both myself and those closest to me for my imminent departure.

the girl and the boy

Life has sort of taken on a set schedule these past few weeks.  Monday through Friday I get up, go to the YMCA, come back and make myself lunch, study some French, watch a movie or surf the Internet, and then fall asleep by midnight utterly exhausted.  I don’t know where this fatigue is coming from because it isn’t like I’m working out that hard (or at least I haven’t gotten the results that I expected if I have been.) I go to my tutor twice a week now, feeling more and more ill prepared for Paris the closer I get to going.  I’m waiting for that lightening moment, like I felt in college, where all of a sudden I understood almost everything I heard on listening comprehension exercises and could express myself, although ineloquently, without stammering and racking my brain for the correct verb conjugation.  The website that my good friend Eva sent me has helped me to fit in a few more listening comprehension hours per week, and my Advanced French Review book is helping me recall all of those pesky verb tenses that flew the coop shortly after graduation, but I’m beginning to worry about how well I’ll do on my own. 

 

My weekends have become unexpectedly more interesting.  My “I’m a broken, lonely human being who feels unloved and superstitious about begininning the new year without a new year’s kiss” makeout partner, who then turned into my “we’re stranded and drunk so let’s try to get home safely” cinco de mayo karaoke partner has become, gulp, sort of the guy I’m dating? Spending time with? I’m not sure how to adequately describe our relationship, other than the fact that I sleep over sometimes, we go to the movies and to brunch, and he’s even gone to karaoke a few times with Brit, D, and me (which is admirable—most guys would run for the hills. Karaoke is a serious undertaking for us.)  He’s told me that I’m beautiful, he’s gotten up early in the morning after a night of drinking to get me a McDonald’s Diet Coke (my personal hangover cure), and he’s told me that he’s going to miss me when I move to Paris. 

 

That’s the problem, though.  I’m moving in two months, so I can’t determine whether I’m spending time with him because I genuinely like him, although he Is definitely not my usual type (which is probably a good thing), or if it’s just sort of a “practice dating partner” in order for me to get over my heartbreak, soothe my bitterness, and be open to falling in love again. I like that he’s seven years older than me; therefore, he’s not an arrogant asshole trying to go out every night to bars in order to sleep with as many 21-year-old aspiring actresses as humanly possible.  I like that he is extremely intelligent, especially about history and politics.  I like his apartment—superficial sounding, I know, but I happen to believe that how you decide to live says a lot about you.  His walls are painted in complimentary colors, he has actual furniture that goes well together without being too matchy, and he keeps his alcohol in those antique decanters with the silver labels hung around the necks on tiny chains.  I love those things.  I love that he takes me to Jazz Brunch in South Central LA and to grab drinks at the Frolic Room.  I love that I’ve known the entire time that I’ve known him that I’m going to Europe, so I’ve been able to be myself without caring what he thinks about me. If he is turned off, so what? I’m going to be having an illicit affair with the City of Lights.

 

He’s really shy, though, which bugs me.  Sometimes I don’t know whether he’s having a good time or is wishing I would leave. There’s none of the infatuated, silly conversations that guys I have dated before initiate late at night and in the morning.  He doesn’t try to impress me, which although refreshing to my independent feminist side, sort of smashes my idealistic feminine sensibilities of courtship. 

 

I don’t know if there would ever be a future for us, or even if I would want this pseudo-relationship to develop into something more.  I haven’t let myself entertain the thought.  When he mentions coming to visit me, I sort of smile and answer in a polite but non-committal way.  I have no way of knowing what direction my life will take, so I’m afraid to hurt anyone’s feelings.  I’ve mostly decided to let go of my suspicions and questions and just allow myself to have fun with someone without expectations.  I’ve never had this type of relationship before, so I’m treading in unfamiliar territory here, but it’s really my only solution to the realities of my own situation, without giving him up altogether.  And I guess that the fact that I don’t want to end our friendship is an indication that I should just roll with the punches, take things as they come, and generally simplify my last months in LA. 

 

I’m happier than I have been in awhile, and I guess that’s what counts, right? I feel like I’m mostly too neurotic and over-analytical, especially about friends and lovers. I find it difficult just to let things simplify themselves naturally, allowing people to come in and out of my life like the tide. I get scared, bruised, and end up needed to hold onto people tightly in order to make some sense out of things, when in actuality, the universe would continue unfolding whether or not I understand what exactly is unfolding around me, why people are acting the way they are, and how I’m supposed to be dealing with the sometimes messy world I’ve constructed for myself.

 

 

Random Update.

I've been incredibly lax in writing lately.  I could blame it on the good weather, the almost random extended weekends that i've had with friends in LA, or the fact that I haven't thought of what i've come to call THE EVENT in quite some time, but I can't pinpoint it exactly.  

I got my visa quietly, without fanfare, on May 5, Cinco de Mayo.  That day was overshadowed by an almost desperate need to celebrate one of LA's most revered holidays.  To me it has always heralded the beginning of summer--of pool parties and weekend trips and spontaneous, sun-soaked adventures.  This year I ended up stumbling around the east side in platform shoes, drinking tequila, sangria, and imported beer; watching hockey, catching up with friends and almost-friends, singing karaoke, and making bad decisions.  Getting my visa wasn't nearly as difficult as I thought it would be, so I breathed a deep sigh of relief and found myself embracing LA once again, acting like the kid I had been last year, when ambition was upstaged by simple happiness and idle days.  I probably wasn't the most responsible person, but I hadn't been so happy since college. . . .

I booked my ticket two days ago.  My move has been talked about at length, but it still seems so far away.  I now only need to secure my student loans to be completely prepared for my new life.  I've begun thinking a lot about how a drastic move forces (or allows, depending on how you look at it) someone to reinvent themselves.  Do I tend to move so often because I honestly love meeting new people and experiencing new places, embracing the personal growth that goes along with feeling alone in unfamiliar situations? Or is it some kind of personality flaw--moving when things become too difficult, or too banal; when people and things become oppressive it's better just to rip the seams and begin anew, building upon what was learnt during the last stage of mistakes?  I honestly hope that it's the former.  The Fiona Apple lyric comes to mind:

"I'm good at being uncomfortable so I can't stop changing all the time."

I think that when we leave a place, we think of the people we leave as just shuffling along as usual, making the same mistakes, sleeping with the same people, working at the same job.  It's a selfish thought, that we alone are embarking on some sort of idealistic idea of a "big life", while our counterparts are not willing to make one of their own.  We lovingly place memories into alphabetized compartments, taking them out in order to be comforted on lonely days, or to impress new friends with our witty world view. It's not a fully formed idea, just some random thoughts that have been filling my head lately.  I'm sure I'll come back to them in depth later.

In other news, I have joined the YMCA, and love practicing pilates and yoga with my (mostly) senior citizen classmates.  It's a nice, healthy distraction (and release) from my intermittent bouts of stress and boredom.  It's located at the base of the Upper Newport Bay Nature Preserve, so sometimes after class I hike through the quiet hills of indigenous plants, watching hawks and water birds. It's peaceful and fulfilling, something that seems to validate my presence on the planet, and yet allow me to escape to something that is so outside of myself. 

I feel like so much has happened lately that I can't adequately discuss it all, so I'll leave it at that for now. I need to get my writing groove back.

slacker

so much to tell! i've been so neglectful of my blog, but i'll catch up soon on:

visa

nous non plus

french tutoring, part deux

book reading

sewing

i promise!

Tomorrow is the day . . . .

Visa appointment at the French Consulate in Beverly Hills. 

I've heard horror stories, so I've made five copies of everything, just in case.  

Wish me luck!

Feeling Good

In honor of the beginning of May, when legions of workers revolt, immigrants rally for equal rights, and the rest of us feel the rejuvenating effects of Spring hit us full-force, I have decided to fight for a change of my own.  For months (what seems like years) now, i've been complaining, suffering, and generally feeling lonely and unlovable. Going to Paris seemed like an incredibly long-off plan, which after the first flush of excitement became a passing thought only experienced when some new paperwork needed to be filled out. 

But, in the words of Nina Simone "Freedom is mine, and I know how I feel. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me. . . ."

I should be happy.  I am incredibly lucky to have this opportunity present itself at just this moment--it really is a gift.  Yes, some incredibly callous, insecure people hurt me.  Yes, I made mistakes, too.  Yes, I long sometimes for people and things that probably weren't good for me.I have gone through an extraordinary amount of change and upheaval this year, both emotionally and physically.  Ultimately, I have to remind myself that the outcome is Paris--and not everyone gets an opportunity to reinvent themselves.  Even less get to start over in a place they have wanted to live since childhood, getting an education that will enable them to to something positive for the world.  

I have always thought that I would do something important, or at least that I wanted to do something important with my life.  This Spring, I am shedding off all of this emotional baggage and making the decision to accept the warm winds of change into my life.  I can't help what happened before, but I have the power to follow my dreams, even in their somewhat unformed infancy, to wherever my soul desires. I am young. I am intelligent. I am free.

I'm ready to set my compass due northeast (and maybe my iphone's GPS as well).

I'm ready to really focus on myself, my happiness, and everything that needs to be accomplished for Paris. 

I'm ready for my heart to play a little catch up as well.

I'm just ready. I can feel it in every morning, every sunshine-soaked day, every glimpse of a palm tree or taste of salt spray.  I'm saying goodbye piece by piece. 

I'm feeling good.

My New Obsession. . . .

I have always loved history, especially personal or family histories.  I think I was the only person in my family to dig out photo albums and scrapbooks with any regularity.  Photographs not only record the events of daily life, or mark the passing of special occasions. They also evoke strong emotional reactions from the viewer.  I think that the creation of that instantaneous emotional recall is incredibly interesting.  Family dynamics, the state of relationships between groups of people, and the mental state of the subject can all be inferred from the few seconds it takes to snap a shutter.  Looking over the personal mementos of people my grandparents' age or older makes me wonder if we are all so very different, or if the human condition, i.e., growing older and finding our place in the world is more universal, just told in a different way.  I see photographs of young women in the 20's preening in their dress-up clothes and lipstick in much the same way that a group of contemporary girlfriends would pose before a night out.  I see children riding high on their father's shoulders and whole families piled into a sedan.  In these sepia-toned prints faded and torn, the people may no longer be living, but the essence of what they were remains.  They blew out birthday candles, curled their hair, baked hams for Easter and posed proudly in front of their first car or house.  We may have access to more information and therefore have more decisions to make about what we ultimately want our modern life to be, but a day at the beach with friends or a family backyard barbeque will always retain the same warm memories, just as photographs of ex-lovers and deceased loved ones will always evoke pain.  Photographs are haunting, emotionally-charged remnants of our past. I think that it is incredibly important to remember that our daily triumphs and trials have been experienced before, and are essentially what makes us all human.

Lately I've been spending hours pouring over snapshots from the 1900s-1970s on the Square America archives site.  I especially love the photos of the circus and the summer vacation snapshots.  Check it out on the Square America website here