(no subject)
I find myself coming back to this stupid old thing once a year. I should come more often, as not writing for fun has seriously impaired my ability to write for not-fun. I really need practice stringing together thoughts to produce some coherent piece of writing, if it is born of bitchiness.
I feel so old most of the time--which is to say, I don't let myself have an ounce of fun anymore. I just fuck around on Facebook--playing Words With Friends and stalking people I haven't seen in over ten years--and somehow convince myself I've had a good time. I ought to just go out and get tipsy and feel semi-guilty, rather than accomplish ABSOLUTELY NOTHING and still manage to wonder how I got nothing done. At least going out is a good excuse.
My boss, with whom Evan and I are extracurricularly friendly, ran into Evan at the bus stop this morning. I don't know the context, but knowing my boss, this was apropos of nothing: "I'm worried about Lacey. I think she's burning the candle at both ends again. Please tell her it's OK to take some time off if she needs it." This is on the heels of him telling me I looked haggard last week. Evan told him not to worry--that this is the only way I can operate, and that I'd get through it and be fine. Normally I'd say he's correct, but when I've got friends going to him about me, maybe there's something awful Evan and I aren't seeing.
"Again" is referencing the week when I was trying to finish the first draft of my thesis back in May. I didn't eat, couldn't sleep, and was trying to ignore the growing pit of doom in my stomach. I showed up at work because it seemed like the only thing I could do. I was a zombie, and I must have been a sight to behold. I'm not as bad off at the moment as I was then, but I'll have to get back to you once I meet with my supervisor tomorrow afternoon. Or not get back to you, as the case likely will be.
Did I say I felt old? On my end, it's only because I'm working/fucking around too much. I have environmental reasons enough to feel that way, as work is creating other strange anxieties in this vein. With the exception of a single male co-worker aged 26, I pretty much have nothing in common with my counterparts, the rest of whom are female and all under 21. In fact, male co-worker told me the girls don't know what I'm talking about most of the time--not that I didn't already have many clues to this effect. Nearly every story I tell or conversational contribution I make has to be prefaced by a history lesson. I wish I could say I felt like I educated them, but I know they don't give a shit. Even I don't give a shit, except that I often spout off things that sound bizarre and tangential, then feel the need to contextualize them. Today, I explained to a bunch of Canadians who weren't even alive in the 80s who Mary Lou Retton was, and they still didn't understand how awful it was of my mother to make me get my hair cut like hers. So I managed only to waste my time and theirs. Other recent disconnects: Edward Scissorhands and Keds.
I hope they don't think I'm trying to lord my age over them, as I do a fine job of it completely inadvertently. Maybe this would explain why one co-worker in particular likes to drop not-so-subtle hints that I might be going through menopause ("Oh, you're hot? Maybe it's menopause."). Man, I wish. I want to Kathy Bates at life so much lately. I wish I could say to her, "Well, I'm smarter than you and got into grad school on the first try." But not because I have Old-Lady-Hormone-Deficiency Rage. I just have Fuck-You-Asshole-Licking-Keener Rage, but that's another story.
So when the same girl said she feels "so old" when she hears Tokyo Police Club on the radio, of course I interpreted it as a bitchy invitation to best her at the age game. I silently declined. (I just told Evan what she said, to which he commented, "Tokyo Police Club? Didn't they come out four years ago?" According to Wikipedia, they've been around since 2005. But all its members are younger than us, so I guess it's relative.)
Is it any wonder I have more in common with our boss? Actually, it kind of is. He's 12 years older than me, but the gap in terms of life lived seems less. Maybe it's because I've at least got an ounce of experience for his pounds of it. I think a likelier explanation is that I'm a weirdo.
Here's my argument: as an only child, for the first ten years of my life, I was stuck in the world of adults. Of course I interacted with kids my age at preschool, and then at school--but from a very early age, I perceived a strangeness about myself. I got plenty of attention at home, but not all those hours could have been filled entirely with parent-child interaction. I learned early on to amuse myself, or to at least to avoid doing anything that would invoke the wrath of Daddy. Often, this meant being a quiet visitor to the adult world. I guess I started to enjoy it at some point. For example, I have yet to meet another person who, at the age of six, hid behind the dresser in her parents' room to watch MASH when she was supposed to be asleep.
My aunt recently described me as a precocious child. Now I'm starting to think it was because it was the only way I knew to conduct myself. This is not to say I'm a better person. Rather, I'm one not entirely in touch with the way normal people of a certain age act. My interests and preferences, while somewhat in my own time period, also draw heavily from my parents' era.
I feel so old most of the time--which is to say, I don't let myself have an ounce of fun anymore. I just fuck around on Facebook--playing Words With Friends and stalking people I haven't seen in over ten years--and somehow convince myself I've had a good time. I ought to just go out and get tipsy and feel semi-guilty, rather than accomplish ABSOLUTELY NOTHING and still manage to wonder how I got nothing done. At least going out is a good excuse.
My boss, with whom Evan and I are extracurricularly friendly, ran into Evan at the bus stop this morning. I don't know the context, but knowing my boss, this was apropos of nothing: "I'm worried about Lacey. I think she's burning the candle at both ends again. Please tell her it's OK to take some time off if she needs it." This is on the heels of him telling me I looked haggard last week. Evan told him not to worry--that this is the only way I can operate, and that I'd get through it and be fine. Normally I'd say he's correct, but when I've got friends going to him about me, maybe there's something awful Evan and I aren't seeing.
"Again" is referencing the week when I was trying to finish the first draft of my thesis back in May. I didn't eat, couldn't sleep, and was trying to ignore the growing pit of doom in my stomach. I showed up at work because it seemed like the only thing I could do. I was a zombie, and I must have been a sight to behold. I'm not as bad off at the moment as I was then, but I'll have to get back to you once I meet with my supervisor tomorrow afternoon. Or not get back to you, as the case likely will be.
Did I say I felt old? On my end, it's only because I'm working/fucking around too much. I have environmental reasons enough to feel that way, as work is creating other strange anxieties in this vein. With the exception of a single male co-worker aged 26, I pretty much have nothing in common with my counterparts, the rest of whom are female and all under 21. In fact, male co-worker told me the girls don't know what I'm talking about most of the time--not that I didn't already have many clues to this effect. Nearly every story I tell or conversational contribution I make has to be prefaced by a history lesson. I wish I could say I felt like I educated them, but I know they don't give a shit. Even I don't give a shit, except that I often spout off things that sound bizarre and tangential, then feel the need to contextualize them. Today, I explained to a bunch of Canadians who weren't even alive in the 80s who Mary Lou Retton was, and they still didn't understand how awful it was of my mother to make me get my hair cut like hers. So I managed only to waste my time and theirs. Other recent disconnects: Edward Scissorhands and Keds.
I hope they don't think I'm trying to lord my age over them, as I do a fine job of it completely inadvertently. Maybe this would explain why one co-worker in particular likes to drop not-so-subtle hints that I might be going through menopause ("Oh, you're hot? Maybe it's menopause."). Man, I wish. I want to Kathy Bates at life so much lately. I wish I could say to her, "Well, I'm smarter than you and got into grad school on the first try." But not because I have Old-Lady-Hormone-Deficiency Rage. I just have Fuck-You-Asshole-Licking-Keener Rage, but that's another story.
So when the same girl said she feels "so old" when she hears Tokyo Police Club on the radio, of course I interpreted it as a bitchy invitation to best her at the age game. I silently declined. (I just told Evan what she said, to which he commented, "Tokyo Police Club? Didn't they come out four years ago?" According to Wikipedia, they've been around since 2005. But all its members are younger than us, so I guess it's relative.)
Is it any wonder I have more in common with our boss? Actually, it kind of is. He's 12 years older than me, but the gap in terms of life lived seems less. Maybe it's because I've at least got an ounce of experience for his pounds of it. I think a likelier explanation is that I'm a weirdo.
Here's my argument: as an only child, for the first ten years of my life, I was stuck in the world of adults. Of course I interacted with kids my age at preschool, and then at school--but from a very early age, I perceived a strangeness about myself. I got plenty of attention at home, but not all those hours could have been filled entirely with parent-child interaction. I learned early on to amuse myself, or to at least to avoid doing anything that would invoke the wrath of Daddy. Often, this meant being a quiet visitor to the adult world. I guess I started to enjoy it at some point. For example, I have yet to meet another person who, at the age of six, hid behind the dresser in her parents' room to watch MASH when she was supposed to be asleep.
My aunt recently described me as a precocious child. Now I'm starting to think it was because it was the only way I knew to conduct myself. This is not to say I'm a better person. Rather, I'm one not entirely in touch with the way normal people of a certain age act. My interests and preferences, while somewhat in my own time period, also draw heavily from my parents' era.