Everyone knows I'm in over my head
So for the past few weeks, I've been sick. To the point where I actually took time off from work and stayed home and confined myself to bed. I don't normally take an entire day off to be sick. Instead, I tough it out until I can't make it and then go home at 3 in the afternoon and fall asleep and wake up at 11 at night and wonder if I should go to work or not the next day. I always go into work.
I slept for 8 hours during the day, after I'd gone to bed at 10 and woken up at 9. I just slept. And kept sleeping.
Sleeping is something that I don't unfortunately do for all that long. It's not that I don't like it, because I really do like to sleep. It's closure. And when do you ever get closure? There are a few days when I'll look up at the clock and it's 11 and I bolt out of bed and wonder how I could've stayed in bed for so long. Probably because I needed to. I mean that makes sense, doesn't it?
I don't know who wound me up but I've been going and going for awhile now. I've realized that I don't really relax all that often. I'm always doing at least two things at one time. I think it's genetic. My mom is like that, always doing something even when she's relaxing, she'll have a magazine or her legal pad (she's notorious for to-do lists) while she's watching tv or a movie. But she's hardly ever watching tv, she's always up and on her feet doing something, running around, doing something, anything.
Her father, my grandpa, is the same way. He's 70-something years old and he must burn over 8,000 calories a day the way he just keeps going, moving from one task to the other. It's unreal.
I don't have it that bad. Remember, I'm partly my father too, which means I'm petulant. I don't mind being spoiled. I don't always want to do everything for myself. Or to put it like Vince Vaughn in that new Jennifer Aniston comedy, "Why would I want to do the dishes?"
It's a damn good question if you ask me.
I think my sickness is in part due to over-extending myself. Running around like an idiot, driving 12 hours on no sleep, trying to squeeze in the gym and my walks, working so hard at my job, just trying to keep everyone happy with a string of yesses. I think I burned out. Not the first time, and certainly not the last.
In part it's also due to the weather. If the weather declines, I decline. I know that the strings that pull upward at the corners of my mouth are directly tied to the sunrise. I heard a rumor that the sun made an appearance today. If the sun can do it, so can I.
Except that I keep getting sick. I push it because I can't be inactive. I can't sit here and recuperate. I get BORED. I found myself cleaning the house on Sunday because I couldn't go outside in the torrential downpour and I needed to do something. I chose to do the dishes. I chose them over watching another rerun of America's Next Top Model. I like TV but I can't sit for more than an hour. Movies are exceptions but they have to be pretty good ones or I have to be with someone else, or else I just get up and do something else.
The good news about my 23rd year is that I'm learning a lot about myself. There were things I always thought were a part of me, but I'm realizing now that some of those things were just complete bullshit. They were situational attributes that didn't hold up when you got right down to it. Or they were things I thought I had to be, but now I'm realizing that I just don't need them.
I LOVE that. I like breaking open my own shell. I've realized that at this stage in my life, I can only afford someone who's going to see all of the quirks and love them. Not tolerate them, love them.
I have a hard time balancing what people perceive me to be and who I really feel I am. One of Ethan's roommates put it best: They were discussing playing a sport this spring and Ethan suggested softball and Carolyn said that they should get me to play. To that, Fonz (roommate) says, "Wait, Krissy plays sports?"
But he's only seen me in my going out element. In a bar or a club, dressed in dark jeans and a black, white or pink shirt, a (fake) gucci purse, makeup on my face, with a drink in my hand.
I'm no wallflower, yeah. But I don't do shots either. No hard alcohol. Not even for Kristin. I'm not as much of a party girl as I could be. I have fun, but once or twice a week is good enough.
And as for sports, hell yeah I do. I grew up with Robby and my Dad. I played softball from age 6 through 18. And I coached it after that. I'm actually coordinated (sometimes) too. That's what happens when you've taken lessons in:
teeball, softball, tennis, basketball, golf, karate (go ahead laugh), horseback riding, swimming, dance (ballet, tap and jazz), gymnastics, and I'm sure there were other ridiculous things that I did that I've blocked out willingly.
I don't make sports a part of my daily life, but I'm pretty sure that I go to the gym more than you do. And much more than Fonz does.
He also didn't know about the nerdy me. I love the nerdy me, it's probably my favorite part. It's certainly the most comfortable. It's just good that I have the other parts to offset it a bit.
Right now, I'm sitting in hideously ugly blue and red checked flannel pants with yellow alpha chi letters hot ironed on the butt. The A is falling off but instead of yanking it off, I just let it flap around like a tail. I have Jon's New England Patriots sweatshirt on. That poor guy, I wear it all the time. It was his favorite "lucky" sweatshirt. I'll tell you what though, I am 110 times more likely to get over the relationship and you hurting me, IF (and only if) you make sure you give me a parting gift. I watch game shows, it's programmed into me. Write this stuff down.
So sweatshirt, flannel pants (in May! What the hell, Boston?), and glasses, face scrubbed clean, wearing white, comfy slippers. No pretenses, just me.
Since before I can remember, there have always been misconceptions about me. During my childhood, during my adolescence and in high school, during college, at work, everywhere.
"But you're so sweet. You're so nice!"
Tell you what. Be my priest for a moment and listen to this non-Catholic's confession.
Sometimes, when I'm driving home after being stuck in traffic, I find myself behind the worst driver on the entire face of the earth. I'd like to think that I've been assigned a special moron to make daily appearances in my driving life in order to remind me why patience is a virtue and I'm not the least bit virtuous. My designated terrible driver is the very same person who's not paying attention at a green arrow so that you watch it fade from green to yellow to non-existant and then they snap back to attention to peel through just as it disappears. So then while I'm left stranded, fuming, waiting another 10 minutes for the next arrow, my moron must pull over to wait for me or something. Because each day, he'll burn rubber to squeeze into the tiny opening between me and the car ahead of me and you think okay, he just hauled ass to cut me off, he must at least know how to accelerate. But no, he takes the speed limit as a maximum suggestion and never even reaches it. He slams on his brakes periodically because he don't know where he's going and he doesn't want to miss his turn. He also has no clue what lane to be in so he just swerves wherever it is I want to be. So I just can't win. Daily losses of sanity. I've accepted this.
There's a place on Commonwealth where I got pulled over once. The policeman was dressed in this bright orange parka, standing on the street with his speed gun and I thought he was just some deranged city dweller, until he shook his head and motioned for me to pull me over. I didn't realize until after he asked for my license and registration that he might give me a ticket. He didn't. Just a warning.
But now, I know. I only go 30 miles per hour over that hill. I've seen him 5 times since. I know. But not everybody else does.
So I get cut off in the double lanes going through the light at chestnut hill, still on commonwealth ave. It makes me so mad when someone cuts me off. There are two obvious lanes there and they match up before the light and after the light. Stay in your lane. So I have been known to rev my car, speed up to about 50 in a pretend effort to be ahead of the person who cut me off. So of course their natural instinct is to then speed up too and pass me, but then I slam on the brakes right when I reach the top of the hill, and they go sailing by at 55+ mph hour...right into the speed trap of my good friend orange parka policeman guy who just shakes his head, motions, and pulls them over.
And at a perfectly legal 30 miles per hour, I putt along past them. And smile sweetly.
I'm nice, probably nicer than 90% of people, definitely more aware of others than most. But I'm human too. Many different aspects of human. I'm still figuring it all out. And you (should you choose to accept this mission) get to come along for the ride.
I miss writing. I'm glad I got to do this tonight.
I slept for 8 hours during the day, after I'd gone to bed at 10 and woken up at 9. I just slept. And kept sleeping.
Sleeping is something that I don't unfortunately do for all that long. It's not that I don't like it, because I really do like to sleep. It's closure. And when do you ever get closure? There are a few days when I'll look up at the clock and it's 11 and I bolt out of bed and wonder how I could've stayed in bed for so long. Probably because I needed to. I mean that makes sense, doesn't it?
I don't know who wound me up but I've been going and going for awhile now. I've realized that I don't really relax all that often. I'm always doing at least two things at one time. I think it's genetic. My mom is like that, always doing something even when she's relaxing, she'll have a magazine or her legal pad (she's notorious for to-do lists) while she's watching tv or a movie. But she's hardly ever watching tv, she's always up and on her feet doing something, running around, doing something, anything.
Her father, my grandpa, is the same way. He's 70-something years old and he must burn over 8,000 calories a day the way he just keeps going, moving from one task to the other. It's unreal.
I don't have it that bad. Remember, I'm partly my father too, which means I'm petulant. I don't mind being spoiled. I don't always want to do everything for myself. Or to put it like Vince Vaughn in that new Jennifer Aniston comedy, "Why would I want to do the dishes?"
It's a damn good question if you ask me.
I think my sickness is in part due to over-extending myself. Running around like an idiot, driving 12 hours on no sleep, trying to squeeze in the gym and my walks, working so hard at my job, just trying to keep everyone happy with a string of yesses. I think I burned out. Not the first time, and certainly not the last.
In part it's also due to the weather. If the weather declines, I decline. I know that the strings that pull upward at the corners of my mouth are directly tied to the sunrise. I heard a rumor that the sun made an appearance today. If the sun can do it, so can I.
Except that I keep getting sick. I push it because I can't be inactive. I can't sit here and recuperate. I get BORED. I found myself cleaning the house on Sunday because I couldn't go outside in the torrential downpour and I needed to do something. I chose to do the dishes. I chose them over watching another rerun of America's Next Top Model. I like TV but I can't sit for more than an hour. Movies are exceptions but they have to be pretty good ones or I have to be with someone else, or else I just get up and do something else.
The good news about my 23rd year is that I'm learning a lot about myself. There were things I always thought were a part of me, but I'm realizing now that some of those things were just complete bullshit. They were situational attributes that didn't hold up when you got right down to it. Or they were things I thought I had to be, but now I'm realizing that I just don't need them.
I LOVE that. I like breaking open my own shell. I've realized that at this stage in my life, I can only afford someone who's going to see all of the quirks and love them. Not tolerate them, love them.
I have a hard time balancing what people perceive me to be and who I really feel I am. One of Ethan's roommates put it best: They were discussing playing a sport this spring and Ethan suggested softball and Carolyn said that they should get me to play. To that, Fonz (roommate) says, "Wait, Krissy plays sports?"
But he's only seen me in my going out element. In a bar or a club, dressed in dark jeans and a black, white or pink shirt, a (fake) gucci purse, makeup on my face, with a drink in my hand.
I'm no wallflower, yeah. But I don't do shots either. No hard alcohol. Not even for Kristin. I'm not as much of a party girl as I could be. I have fun, but once or twice a week is good enough.
And as for sports, hell yeah I do. I grew up with Robby and my Dad. I played softball from age 6 through 18. And I coached it after that. I'm actually coordinated (sometimes) too. That's what happens when you've taken lessons in:
teeball, softball, tennis, basketball, golf, karate (go ahead laugh), horseback riding, swimming, dance (ballet, tap and jazz), gymnastics, and I'm sure there were other ridiculous things that I did that I've blocked out willingly.
I don't make sports a part of my daily life, but I'm pretty sure that I go to the gym more than you do. And much more than Fonz does.
He also didn't know about the nerdy me. I love the nerdy me, it's probably my favorite part. It's certainly the most comfortable. It's just good that I have the other parts to offset it a bit.
Right now, I'm sitting in hideously ugly blue and red checked flannel pants with yellow alpha chi letters hot ironed on the butt. The A is falling off but instead of yanking it off, I just let it flap around like a tail. I have Jon's New England Patriots sweatshirt on. That poor guy, I wear it all the time. It was his favorite "lucky" sweatshirt. I'll tell you what though, I am 110 times more likely to get over the relationship and you hurting me, IF (and only if) you make sure you give me a parting gift. I watch game shows, it's programmed into me. Write this stuff down.
So sweatshirt, flannel pants (in May! What the hell, Boston?), and glasses, face scrubbed clean, wearing white, comfy slippers. No pretenses, just me.
Since before I can remember, there have always been misconceptions about me. During my childhood, during my adolescence and in high school, during college, at work, everywhere.
"But you're so sweet. You're so nice!"
Tell you what. Be my priest for a moment and listen to this non-Catholic's confession.
Sometimes, when I'm driving home after being stuck in traffic, I find myself behind the worst driver on the entire face of the earth. I'd like to think that I've been assigned a special moron to make daily appearances in my driving life in order to remind me why patience is a virtue and I'm not the least bit virtuous. My designated terrible driver is the very same person who's not paying attention at a green arrow so that you watch it fade from green to yellow to non-existant and then they snap back to attention to peel through just as it disappears. So then while I'm left stranded, fuming, waiting another 10 minutes for the next arrow, my moron must pull over to wait for me or something. Because each day, he'll burn rubber to squeeze into the tiny opening between me and the car ahead of me and you think okay, he just hauled ass to cut me off, he must at least know how to accelerate. But no, he takes the speed limit as a maximum suggestion and never even reaches it. He slams on his brakes periodically because he don't know where he's going and he doesn't want to miss his turn. He also has no clue what lane to be in so he just swerves wherever it is I want to be. So I just can't win. Daily losses of sanity. I've accepted this.
There's a place on Commonwealth where I got pulled over once. The policeman was dressed in this bright orange parka, standing on the street with his speed gun and I thought he was just some deranged city dweller, until he shook his head and motioned for me to pull me over. I didn't realize until after he asked for my license and registration that he might give me a ticket. He didn't. Just a warning.
But now, I know. I only go 30 miles per hour over that hill. I've seen him 5 times since. I know. But not everybody else does.
So I get cut off in the double lanes going through the light at chestnut hill, still on commonwealth ave. It makes me so mad when someone cuts me off. There are two obvious lanes there and they match up before the light and after the light. Stay in your lane. So I have been known to rev my car, speed up to about 50 in a pretend effort to be ahead of the person who cut me off. So of course their natural instinct is to then speed up too and pass me, but then I slam on the brakes right when I reach the top of the hill, and they go sailing by at 55+ mph hour...right into the speed trap of my good friend orange parka policeman guy who just shakes his head, motions, and pulls them over.
And at a perfectly legal 30 miles per hour, I putt along past them. And smile sweetly.
I'm nice, probably nicer than 90% of people, definitely more aware of others than most. But I'm human too. Many different aspects of human. I'm still figuring it all out. And you (should you choose to accept this mission) get to come along for the ride.
I miss writing. I'm glad I got to do this tonight.