I always break a nail at the most inopportune moment. I f-- up job interviews. More times than not I have a run in my stockings (and for men who complain about wearing a tie to work, try wearing pantyhose every day). I sing the wrong words to songs. It takes me a while to do simple math in my head. I'm sometimes late to class, and if I'm on time, that just means I've forgotten my homework. When I wake up in the morning I don't feel like doing my hair up in some perfect kind of coif. I feel like going back to bed. And I will never, ever be Skinny Enough.
Every woman has felt like Bridget Jones at one point or another. Sure it's the 21st century, but there's no denying that a single 35 year old man is a very different thing than a single 35 year old woman. That is a very scary future (or present) for all of us. Every woman has felt too fat, smoked or drank too much, burned a dinner, and dated the wrong guys while waiting for the right one. Bridget Jones is the clumsy girl who says the wrong thing at the wrong time in all of us.
And all we want is for someone to tell us they like us. Just as we are.
But besides that, it's not like we can't kick our bad habits, get in shape, and have an awesome career anyway.
I’d like to think that I’m above hollow phrases of congratulations or insincere condolences. I wish I had enough sensibility to detest jargon of every kind, and abhor language that has been worn and hackneyed beyond all sense and meaning. But alas, I’m a fisher for compliments, and a sympathy whore.
When I tell you I’m sick, I expect the utmost attention and well wishes to get better. I want you to OOO and AHH at my achievements and lay accolades at my feet. That paper I got an A on, that just slipped out of my book and into your hands was no accident, my friend. I want you to feel my pain, and rejoice in my success; and if you don’t give a damn, well I don’t give a damn—pretend you’re sad/happy for me anyway! I purposely get haircuts twice a year, so that when I do, people notice. As I sheepishly accept compliments on my stylish new look, I’d in reality be sorely disappointed if you didn’t say anything at all.
Call me shallow. Call me conceited. Call me narcissistic. But only in your head. Because to my face, you better call me awesome.
It’s hard getting past the debris, the little ways someone you used to love has littered your life. The song he would play in the car every time the two of you drove down to the beach. His favorite movie where he could quote every line. The sticker he put on the wall—the one you tried to peel off, but the sticky remains stick stubbornly in place. Encounter any of these… and all it does is remind you that the memories are really all that you have left of him. Time heals all wounds, but love has a carbon life—and it seems to linger even when it’s dead.
Growing up you learn something about long distance friendships. It’s all about what it’s worth to you, and how you learn to deal that decides how well you stay in touch. After high school, after college, after your first job, you move away—and you move away alone. It would be nice to take your best friend, your (soon to be ex) boyfriend, or even your parents, along for the ride, but the car’s only got room for one passenger, and you aren’t as thin as you used to be, so no squeezing!
But as people, we’re adaptive animals, and we learn to live without the ones we love inhabiting our lives every day. Soon, you get so used to not having them around, that you’d barely know what to do with them if they suddenly moved next door. You keep in touch with letters, or emails, or phone calls, but for the everyday headaches, and troubles, and happiness, and laughter… you find someone else to share those things with.
It becomes a different kind of relationship, a long distance one, and it doesn’t have to be any less deep, or close, or important, it just changes. I wish you could be here, you think into the cosmics, some random point on some random day, wondering if the person you love is thinking the same thing. But they’re not there with you no matter how hard you wish, and while it sucks, it’s okay too. Because if you did your job right, you know they’ll always be there for you, even if they’re a thousand miles away.
I lost my favorite pair of socks, and aside from wondering “How does one lose a pair of socks?” I can’t help but think, “WHY that pair of socks, of all my pairs of socks?!”
I never thought much of it when I had it. But suddenly, now that it’s gone, boy do I miss it.
It's warm and comforting, and gives one a feeling of preparedness. Whenever I'm filling something up, be it a box, or uh, some other kind of container, I can't help but self-congratulate myself with a "Good job, Christina! You're really doing something productive." It's like, I'm adding something to the world. With my stuff!
But thinking about it more, there are some instances where full things are not so fun. Usually because they smell.
The trash can.
These things are also unfortunate because instead of suggesting the completion of some kind of task, it calls for more errands and/or effort on my part.
Isn't it a funny thought, the importance and the meaning of a single, ordinary life? Is it fair to call a life ordinary? Who can say what counts as extraordinary?
There are obvious cases of the extra-ness. People who have touched thousands or millions of lives. (Michael Scott touched two lives, the moment he was born!) Whether it be Hitler, or Gandhi, or James Dean... but fame or infamy do not necessarily tell the whole story. For every Holocaust victim, the SS officer who watched them burn was a much more tangible threat than the mastermind himself. The world watched Gandhi strike, strike for rights and freedoms they supported, while they themselves ate their dinners that night. We admire the rebel without a cuase, but our own rebellions, whatever they may be, were for our own causes.
There's an old movie with Judy Holliday and Jack Lemon. She becomes famous being the face of billboards around New York City, and he becomes her common sense.
"I'd rather mean something to a few people," he tells her when her 15 minutes of fame go to her head, "than a whole lot of nothing special to everyone." Or, you know, something like that.
Even the rare few who make it into the pantheon of immortal icons we fear or admire or strive to be only lived as great as those directly around them saw them to be. Life isn't a popularity contest. The most ordinary life won't make in into the history books, but it'll still be part of history.
I tend to get obsessive about things for a while, then get over it, and start to wonder what was wrong with me in the first place. Also, having no section for "Favorite TV Shows" makes absolutely no sense to me. That should tell you a lot right there.