We both know that there was a time, early on, when we didn't exactly get along. I resented you for disrupting my easy life with your myriad of personal problems, and you resented me for not showing you more patience and understanding. Slowly, over time and distance, we began to build a mutual understanding of each other. We were able to look beyond our differences. We found more and more reasons to tolerate each other, then respect each other, and eventually like each other.
Eventually you became a fixture in my life - albeit something of a background fixture. Metaphorically, you were like a painting hanging on my wall. I'm always vaguely aware of you, and often think of you, but rarely take the time to stop and really look closely.
Although we travel in different social circles, live miles apart, and rarely see each other anymore, I still consider you an important person in my life, and a great friend.
Which is why I have to tell you this:
Please stop with this nonsense. It's killing you.
You have been through more in the past few years than anyone should have to. I cannot imagine being in your place - I doubt I would have handled it with the grace that you did. You have proven yourself to be a strong, brave, intelligent, loving woman. You have taken a hell of a beating from life, only to stand up and wait for more. Life didn't keep you waiting long.
You have asked aloud many times, "Why me? Why is all this happening to me?" You always come around to the same answer. You say that your struggles are from God. You say God is testing you. You say God is putting you through this for reasons you don't understand now, but that will be made clear to you in the eternities.
You say that it brings you comfort, knowing that God has a hand in all this shit you've gone through. But it doesn't. Every time you claim that you're finding peace through relying on God, you are lying. After seven years of knowing you, of reading your creative stories and your poems and your blog, I've learned how to read between the lines. I can interpret your tone.
Your God is a fucking asshole. And you know it.
You don't find any peace in God. You only find familiarity. You don't know what else to think. You insist on serving a God you resent because you think that eventually, if you're patient and long-suffering, that God will relieve of you of your pain. You will spend your whole goddamn life waiting.
God did not make you sick. God did not take your children. Thinking he did, thinking there is someone up in the sky who has made things wrong and is just taking his sweet time before making things right is completely destroying your sense of self-worth.
You are worth so much more than the God you believe in will ever let you be.
You say that you need to rely on God until you can believe in yourself again. That makes absolutely no sense. YOU are here. YOU have proven yourself to be an incredible woman, with incredible attributes. You have so many friends and loved ones who admire and look up to you. YOU. It has nothing whatsoever to do with God.
Please, PLEASE, believe in yourself! Believe that you have what it takes to power through everything life throws at you! You absolutely can. You have before. You will again. Every time you rely on God to make you stronger, you are actually weakening yourself. You cannot curl up in a ball and ride out the storm because you want to believe that at the end of it all God will make it up to you.
This is it. This is the only life you get. Don't waste it. Don't waste away.
I hate that you have had to go through these things. But it hurts more to see you falling apart and just waiting for some mystical God to put you back together. It's not going to happen. Eventually you will put yourself together again, because that great source of strength and power that you so desperately seek is within you.
It's hard for me to understand how you could possibly believe in God. It was difficult enough for me, who has never been through anything remotely comparable to you, to tell myself I believed in God. How can you claim to believe that someone who would torture you for years without relief or explanation is any kind of perfect being?
Your God is a complete hypocrite who dishes out punishments and rewards on a whim. The idea that there is some afterlife where everything will sort itself out is absurd, particularly in Mormonism. You believe that if you handle this shitstorm of life to God's liking, he will give you the EXACT SAME REWARD as people who simply coasted through life with very few struggles and trials. Your God is unfair and highly immoral. And yet you allow yourself to wallow in self-doubt. Deep down, even though you say you know God is just giving you trials because he knows you're strong enough to handle it, part of you wonders if it's some sort of punishment for sins you didn't know you committed.
I generally don't have a problem with the fact that many of my loved ones believe in God. That's their prerogative, just as it is mine to be an atheist. I truly believe that if having faith in something helps you to become the best version of yourself, then it's good for you. I don't think that a belief in God is always a crutch - sometimes that's just the best way people can find to explain all the wonderful and terrible unknowables of life. But in your case, I honestly wish you would let go of that belief. I fear that you will focus so much on the unknown reward you believe God has in store for you that you will neglect to seek out happiness and beauty in this life. You are going to miss out on so much because you have decided to wait for God to make everything right rather than focus on the things that are already right.
I firmly believe that you will find great joy in your life. Unfortunately, when you do, you will tell yourself that the God who has for so long been so cruel to you has suddenly decided that you deserve a break. You won't credit yourself with becoming stronger, you will credit God. You won't credit yourself with finding ways to be happier, you will credit God. You are denying yourself the opportunity to know how amazing you truly are.
I would never wish the things you have been through upon my worst enemy. There are not enough words to tell you how impressed I am with the way you have conquered your life. It breaks my heart to watch you deny your own accomplishments, your own strengths, and instead give the credit to a supposed God who you believe is the reason you've suffered in the first place.
Please, friend. Please know that you are so much better than your God makes you feel. Please know that you are a truly beautiful person. Please know that there is so much to this short life that you should embrace and enjoy.
You can't wait forever for a God who doesn't exist to make you happy. You are more than capable of doing that yourself.
All my love,
Kristen
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
6.25.2010
3.22.2010
Patience
A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with a friend about some local politics. She's Mormon, but considers herself a feminist and definitely leans liberal. We were discussing a proposed bill that would criminalize women for having miscarriages if they engaged in 'reckless' behavior, and the conversation soon turned to sex education (or the complete lack thereof) in Utah.
She often complains about how, as a high school health teacher, she has to navigate the murky waters of the Utah education system, specifically regarding sex ed. She wants to be able to give her students appropriate and accurate information, but is forbidden from doing so. "The crazies say that teaching about how to have safe sex just encourages kids to have sex," she says. "The people that argue against it aren't educated on what is actually taught in schools. They say they want to talk to their kids themselves, but they don't! They're embarrassed or don't know anything themselves."
From here our conversation progressed to the Mormon church's often twisted views on sex, not only regarding teenagers but also between married couples. She told me how bothered she was by a friend's husband who "doesn't believe in birth control."
Then she got kind of quiet, contemplative. She took a breath and asked, "Did you know that Joseph Smith had twenty-nine wives?"
"Yes," I replied.
"And did you know that eight of them were married to other men?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Four were married to men who were in church leadership."
"I know."
"This really upsets me," she confessed. "The whole principle of polygamy is based on getting to the highest level of heaven. Those four women could have gotten there without Joseph."
I took a deep breath. My mind was going about a million miles a minute. Yes! She's finally waking up! I thought. She's finally realizing the church has been lying about its own history! It's only a matter of time before she realizes it's complete bullshit! I racked my brain for information I could use to help her see the truth. I mentally organized quotes from church leaders, articles citing DNA evidence, the publication dates of the various accounts of the First Vision. I had always thought that she was far too logical and analytical to continue swallowing everything the church was feeding her without questioning it. By the same reasoning, she would not simply accept anything I told her if I didn't have the sources to back it up.
At the same time I was trying to keep myself in check. I knew that if I were to start barraging her with information that disproved the church's claims she would do what she had been trained to do since Primary - retreat as quickly as she could, and turn to her "testimony" to help quiet any nagging doubts. I had to let her come to me, to ask me questions, to decide for herself that she was ready for the answers. So I picked my next words carefully.
"Well," I began, "I guess it all comes down to whether or not you believe that it actually is a principle to get to heaven or if Joseph Smith was just acting on his own desires."
"The more I learn about the early Mormons the more ashamed I am," she blurted out.
I nodded. I understood exactly what she meant. "Personally, I find Joseph's sexcapades one of the least troubling things about Mormon history."
"The teaching of blood atonment, and confessing your sins in front of everyone? That's not okay," she said. "I was always taught that polygamy was because there were a lot of single women that needed a man. But that's not true. There were three times more single men that women in Utah. I also have a huge problem with the lower status of women. HUGE."
At this point I couldn't resist anymore. "What it really came down to for me was that I realized the church was asking its members to approach it completely backwards. In the real world, it would be 'is the church true?' and then you read the scriptures and study the doctrine and figure it out. But in Mormondom, the church tells you, 'The Church Is True! And anything that contradicts that or disproves that is the devil.' Their logic is that because the church is true, only the church's version of history is true. Because the church's version of history supports its truthiness, then that must mean that it's true."
I was so excited to finally be having this conversation with my friend. She knew that I was no longer attending church, but we both had politely ignored the topic with each other to avoid getting in any kind of argument. She is not the type of in-your-face Mormon that is difficult to be around, and she never felt threatened by my apostate status. We both strongly believe in "live and let live." So I was thrilled that she was examining the church on her own, and that she had felt comfortable enough to discuss it with me.
In my fantasy world, I imagined that my friend and I would continue this conversation over the next few days or weeks, and that I would be able to help her step out of her world of Mormonism and into the light. Reality, however, did not match up. I suggested that she take some time to do a little thinking and research, and that I would do the same, and that we get together for dinner the next day, both better prepared for the conversation. She initially agreed, but ended up cancelling our plans last minute. We rescheduled, and she cancelled again. A few times I have tried to subtly bring up Mormonism in conversation so we could segue into it, but she knew what I was doing and refused to take the bait.
Part of me wants to grab her by the neck and shake her, remind her that she was harboring serious doubts only a few weeks ago and that it's not healthy for her to just suppress those without really examining them. But part of me knows that leaving Mormonism is a personal journey, and one my friend will have to take almost entirely on her own. I hope that eventually she won't be willing to ignore those first pangs of doubt anymore. I hope she will be anxious to talk again, and that she knows that I'll be here to listen to her.
But until then I just have to wait.
Patiently.
And not push her.
Even though I really want to.
Patience.
She often complains about how, as a high school health teacher, she has to navigate the murky waters of the Utah education system, specifically regarding sex ed. She wants to be able to give her students appropriate and accurate information, but is forbidden from doing so. "The crazies say that teaching about how to have safe sex just encourages kids to have sex," she says. "The people that argue against it aren't educated on what is actually taught in schools. They say they want to talk to their kids themselves, but they don't! They're embarrassed or don't know anything themselves."
From here our conversation progressed to the Mormon church's often twisted views on sex, not only regarding teenagers but also between married couples. She told me how bothered she was by a friend's husband who "doesn't believe in birth control."
Then she got kind of quiet, contemplative. She took a breath and asked, "Did you know that Joseph Smith had twenty-nine wives?"
"Yes," I replied.
"And did you know that eight of them were married to other men?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Four were married to men who were in church leadership."
"I know."
"This really upsets me," she confessed. "The whole principle of polygamy is based on getting to the highest level of heaven. Those four women could have gotten there without Joseph."
I took a deep breath. My mind was going about a million miles a minute. Yes! She's finally waking up! I thought. She's finally realizing the church has been lying about its own history! It's only a matter of time before she realizes it's complete bullshit! I racked my brain for information I could use to help her see the truth. I mentally organized quotes from church leaders, articles citing DNA evidence, the publication dates of the various accounts of the First Vision. I had always thought that she was far too logical and analytical to continue swallowing everything the church was feeding her without questioning it. By the same reasoning, she would not simply accept anything I told her if I didn't have the sources to back it up.
At the same time I was trying to keep myself in check. I knew that if I were to start barraging her with information that disproved the church's claims she would do what she had been trained to do since Primary - retreat as quickly as she could, and turn to her "testimony" to help quiet any nagging doubts. I had to let her come to me, to ask me questions, to decide for herself that she was ready for the answers. So I picked my next words carefully.
"Well," I began, "I guess it all comes down to whether or not you believe that it actually is a principle to get to heaven or if Joseph Smith was just acting on his own desires."
"The more I learn about the early Mormons the more ashamed I am," she blurted out.
I nodded. I understood exactly what she meant. "Personally, I find Joseph's sexcapades one of the least troubling things about Mormon history."
"The teaching of blood atonment, and confessing your sins in front of everyone? That's not okay," she said. "I was always taught that polygamy was because there were a lot of single women that needed a man. But that's not true. There were three times more single men that women in Utah. I also have a huge problem with the lower status of women. HUGE."
At this point I couldn't resist anymore. "What it really came down to for me was that I realized the church was asking its members to approach it completely backwards. In the real world, it would be 'is the church true?' and then you read the scriptures and study the doctrine and figure it out. But in Mormondom, the church tells you, 'The Church Is True! And anything that contradicts that or disproves that is the devil.' Their logic is that because the church is true, only the church's version of history is true. Because the church's version of history supports its truthiness, then that must mean that it's true."
I was so excited to finally be having this conversation with my friend. She knew that I was no longer attending church, but we both had politely ignored the topic with each other to avoid getting in any kind of argument. She is not the type of in-your-face Mormon that is difficult to be around, and she never felt threatened by my apostate status. We both strongly believe in "live and let live." So I was thrilled that she was examining the church on her own, and that she had felt comfortable enough to discuss it with me.
In my fantasy world, I imagined that my friend and I would continue this conversation over the next few days or weeks, and that I would be able to help her step out of her world of Mormonism and into the light. Reality, however, did not match up. I suggested that she take some time to do a little thinking and research, and that I would do the same, and that we get together for dinner the next day, both better prepared for the conversation. She initially agreed, but ended up cancelling our plans last minute. We rescheduled, and she cancelled again. A few times I have tried to subtly bring up Mormonism in conversation so we could segue into it, but she knew what I was doing and refused to take the bait.
Part of me wants to grab her by the neck and shake her, remind her that she was harboring serious doubts only a few weeks ago and that it's not healthy for her to just suppress those without really examining them. But part of me knows that leaving Mormonism is a personal journey, and one my friend will have to take almost entirely on her own. I hope that eventually she won't be willing to ignore those first pangs of doubt anymore. I hope she will be anxious to talk again, and that she knows that I'll be here to listen to her.
But until then I just have to wait.
Patiently.
And not push her.
Even though I really want to.
Patience.
1.19.2010
You Can Pick Your Friends....
I think one of the reasons that I had so many problems being a Mormon from such a young age is that the LDS church is so centered on socializing. From infancy you're taught that you're supposed to have friends that share your beliefs, so the church does everything it can to make sure its members are friends. From the toddlers in Sunbeams class to the cantankerous old bats in Relief Society, there is a constant assault of socials, parties, activities, meetings, and assigned duties designed to force church members into seeing the same faces often enough that familiarity becomes confused with friendship.
It seems harmless on the surface, creating a community that fosters friendships based on deeply-held personal beliefs. But truthfully, it's just the church's way of ensuring that it keeps its numbers up. A large percentage of people go to church meetings simply for the socializing rather than the doctrine. And I suspect a large number attend just so their "friends" won't turn them into the next "reactivation project".
As a teenager, I loathed "Mutual" nights. It often felt like my only options were: A) spend a couple of hours every week with people you hate doing some kind of incredibly stupid activity, or B) rot in Hell for all eternity for skipping a church meeting.
Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration.
Some of the activities weren't that stupid.
Like when we went bowling.
But truth be told, I don't really like people. I'm pretty selective about my friends. I'd rather hand-pick a few people that I really get on with then have a large pool of people I can't stand who I just happen to see all the time.
All through my growing-up years, I never kept friends very long. With very few exceptions, one or two years seemed to be the maximum amount of time we'd have before even my closest friends and I drifted apart. The more I've thought about it, the more I realize that the majority of my "friends" were not actually people whose company I sought, but people in whose company I often found myself.
In school, I always had plenty of friends in each of my classes. I'd get along with a lot of people from a lot of different social cliques. I always had someone to eat lunch with and to walk the halls with and to ditch classes with. But I rarely had people that I would hang out with outside of school.
So the weekly Mutual activities which I hated became my primary source of extracurricular socializing. And I resented it. People I avoided the rest of the week, people who avoided me, were suddenly my buddies every Wednesday and Sunday.
Granted, some of those kids I probably could have been friends with in another world. What I truly resented was knowing that I was expected to be friends with them simply because we were in the same ward. I was allowed to choose my friends at school, but my friends at church were pre-selected for me based on only age range and local geography.
It's like when mothers arrange playdates for their very small children, except that we were teenagers with minds of our own who didn't base relationships on who had the coolest toys.
And so I didn't get along with a lot of them. I hated spending time with most of them. But I had to, because I knew that if I didn't I would be labeled one of those "inactive" kids, and that everyone else would bake me cookies and stop by to invite me to come back to Mutual.
Not because they wanted to be friends with me, but because the Prophet told them to be friends with me.
In the last year or so, since denouncing my Mormonity, I've met a lot of people who are outside of the circle I would otherwise be enclosed in. And I'm pleased to say that I've felt like a large percentage of them are people I could potentially be friends with.
That's a big step for me.
The next step will be actually spending time with these newfound friends.
Eh.
Maybe in another year.
It seems harmless on the surface, creating a community that fosters friendships based on deeply-held personal beliefs. But truthfully, it's just the church's way of ensuring that it keeps its numbers up. A large percentage of people go to church meetings simply for the socializing rather than the doctrine. And I suspect a large number attend just so their "friends" won't turn them into the next "reactivation project".
As a teenager, I loathed "Mutual" nights. It often felt like my only options were: A) spend a couple of hours every week with people you hate doing some kind of incredibly stupid activity, or B) rot in Hell for all eternity for skipping a church meeting.
Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration.
Some of the activities weren't that stupid.
Like when we went bowling.
But truth be told, I don't really like people. I'm pretty selective about my friends. I'd rather hand-pick a few people that I really get on with then have a large pool of people I can't stand who I just happen to see all the time.
All through my growing-up years, I never kept friends very long. With very few exceptions, one or two years seemed to be the maximum amount of time we'd have before even my closest friends and I drifted apart. The more I've thought about it, the more I realize that the majority of my "friends" were not actually people whose company I sought, but people in whose company I often found myself.
In school, I always had plenty of friends in each of my classes. I'd get along with a lot of people from a lot of different social cliques. I always had someone to eat lunch with and to walk the halls with and to ditch classes with. But I rarely had people that I would hang out with outside of school.
So the weekly Mutual activities which I hated became my primary source of extracurricular socializing. And I resented it. People I avoided the rest of the week, people who avoided me, were suddenly my buddies every Wednesday and Sunday.
Granted, some of those kids I probably could have been friends with in another world. What I truly resented was knowing that I was expected to be friends with them simply because we were in the same ward. I was allowed to choose my friends at school, but my friends at church were pre-selected for me based on only age range and local geography.
It's like when mothers arrange playdates for their very small children, except that we were teenagers with minds of our own who didn't base relationships on who had the coolest toys.
And so I didn't get along with a lot of them. I hated spending time with most of them. But I had to, because I knew that if I didn't I would be labeled one of those "inactive" kids, and that everyone else would bake me cookies and stop by to invite me to come back to Mutual.
Not because they wanted to be friends with me, but because the Prophet told them to be friends with me.
In the last year or so, since denouncing my Mormonity, I've met a lot of people who are outside of the circle I would otherwise be enclosed in. And I'm pleased to say that I've felt like a large percentage of them are people I could potentially be friends with.
That's a big step for me.
The next step will be actually spending time with these newfound friends.
Eh.
Maybe in another year.
1.18.2010
Big Chief
I took a deep breath before opening the door. I knew that the others were waiting for me, and that the moment I walked over the threshold all eyes would be on me.
I thought I knew how most of them would react, but I wasn't sure. This could go over badly.
Very badly.
I looked back at Steph and Mindy. They had ridden in the car with me, and so knew what I was about to tell the others - what I had to tell the others. With a slight nod Steph assured me that they'd back me up. With no compelling reason to put it off any longer, I turned the handle and entered my apartment. Half a dozen people stopped half a dozen coversations and whipped around to face me.
"Hey."
"What happened?"
"You saw what happened. I got pulled over." I pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and swung it around so I could sit and face everyone sprawled over the living room couches. Steph took a seat next to me. Mindy stayed back, eyes on the floor, and leaned against the wall by the entryway.
"Yeah, but for what?" asked Kiki. "We were in the car right behind you - you'd barely made it out of the parking lot before the cop turned his lights on."
A few hours earlier, the boys had announced that they were making a Denny's run and asked if any of us wanted to come along. It was well after midnight, and the truck-stop Denny's in Salina, a 45 minute drive away, was the nearest restaurant that would be open that late. Though most of us weren't big fans of the food, it was something of a tradition to make the long drive through the desert to fill up on rubbery pancakes in the wee hours.
We piled into three separate cars and caravaned through the darkness along the twisting highway, stopping for the occasional herd of deer or sagebrush pile that blocked our path. The restaurant was mostly empty, except for a few truck drivers and another group of college kids whose evening had thus far progressed much the same as our own. By the time we finished eating, our guts full of conversation and laughter and imitation maple syrup, our energy levels were shot through the roof.
Later we piled back into our cars to make the long drive home. Candice led the way, Kiki brought up the rear, and I drove between them.
When the cop pulled me over, Kiki rushed around and up ahead to catch up to Candice so they could pull off to the side and wait for me. Candice and her companions were too busy rocking out to the music blasting from her car stereos to notice his flashing lights in her rearview for almost two miles, so by the time the other two cars pulled over they were much to far away to see what was happening back at my car.
(Very few of us owned cell phones at the time, and those that did never bothered to bring them on road trips. There was no reception outside of town until you got all the way north to Nephi.)
As Kiki explained this to me back at the apartment, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded half-sheet of paper.
"So after we waited for a while we decided to come back here and wait for you," Kiki finished. "You took forever. What happened? Why'd he pull you over?"
"Well, it wasn't so much because of me," I said, "as it was because of us."
"Us? Who?"
"Us. All of us. Because of the statue."
Next door to Denny's was a Sinclair gas station. Like so many others, this one featured a six-foot high brontosaurus in the yard. Part of the Late Night Denny's Run tradition included climbing on this little dinosaur for a picture.
This particular Sinclair station, however, went the extra mile. In addition to the dinosaur, there was a 14-foot bronze statue of a Native American on a pedastal, wielding a tomahawk and wearing a loincloth.
"No way."
"Yes, way."
"I don't believe you. He pulled you over because we were climbing on the statue?"
"He pulled me over because he thought I was driving drunk. He was in the parking lot across the street, saw us all scaling Big Chief, and figured we must all be plastered out of our minds."
Kiki and the others just stared at me. I had a history of telling tall tales, and they were all wary of my stories. None of them were eager to swallow this one, until Lynne spoke up.
"She's telling the truth. I can tell."
"No, she's not," Kiki said.
"I've lived with her for two years, Kiki. I know her better than you. I can tell when she's lying," Lynne insisted.
"I'm not lying to you. He made me get out of the car and walk the line and everything. Had to take a breath-a-lizer. That's why it took so long," I said.
Kiki looked to Steph for confirmation. She nodded. He turned to Mindy, who was still staring at the ground, silent.
"Min?"
She didn't say a word, just kind of shrugged.
"They made us all do it," I said quietly.
The others instantly understood. No wonder Mindy was so quiet - how embarrassing for someone to think that we'd be drinking! We hardly looked like the kind of people who would drink. We were good Mormon kids, smart, about to graduate from junior college! Most of us weren't even of age yet. For someone to think that we would be so devious as to drink alcohol was insulting.
"But obviously you weren't drunk, so it was fine."
"Well..."
I dropped the folded piece of paper on the tabletop. Kiki reached out to pick it up. He opened it carefully and skimmed over it. I took a deep breath before blurting out the bad news.
"We have to pay a fine. For disturbing the peace and vandalism."
"WHAT?" Some of the others leapt from the couches and crowded close to see the ticket in Kiki's hand for themselves.
"Where does it say that?"
"She's lying."
"If she was lying, why'd she get the ticket?"
"I dunno, speeding?"
"We were pulling out of a parking lot; there's no way she could have been speeding."
I let them all argue for a minute, then decided I had to speak up. "Guys," I said, "the way I see it we have two options. We can either fight it or pay it. But since graduation is in a couple of days, and we'll have to go all the way to Salina to see a judge to fight it, it'd be at least a two hour drive for any of us. And we don't really have a reason to fight it, as we were climbing on the statue.
"So our other option is to pay it. Since it's in my name, I'll send the check if everyone just gives me cash for their share."
Everyone nodded in agreement. Almost.
"I'm not paying anything," Candice said.
"What? Why not?"
She tossed her hair behind her shoulder and rolled her eyes, as if the answer should be obvious. "I didn't climb Big Chief."
"Yes you did, we all did!"
"No, I just leaned against the base. I'm not paying."
"Don't be a jerk."
"I'm not being a jerk! I'm just not going to pay a fine for climbing on a statue when I didn't do it."
The conversation continued for a while longer. By now, dawn was approaching and our late night pancake buzz was nearly worn off. Mindy had long ago slipped off to her room to go to bed, without adding a word to the discussion. I glanced at Steph. Through a long yawn she gave me a look that clearly said, "That's enough, do it already."
"Guys?"
Once again, all eyes were on me. I took a deep breath.
"Gotcha."
"I hate you."
"I knew you were lying," Kiki claimed.
"You lying sack of crap."
I laughed. "You guys totally fell for it! Come on, I had to have one last good one before we all graduated and moved away."
"So what'd you get the ticket for?"
"He pulled me over because he thought I'd run the stop sign. I told him that wasn't me, it was Candice in the car in front of me. Since our cars are both white and it was dark, he must've gotten mixed up. But my insurance expired last week, and I don't have the new card. It was mailed to my parents' house, and since I was going back there in a few days I hadn't bothered to have them forward it to me. So I got a ticket for not having proof of insurance."
Most of them laughed along with me now. "Good one."
"I don't know why I ever believe a word you say."
"I really thought you were telling the truth!"
"Well," said Candice, "it's a good thing I wasn't going to pay my part of the fine."
I thought I knew how most of them would react, but I wasn't sure. This could go over badly.
Very badly.
I looked back at Steph and Mindy. They had ridden in the car with me, and so knew what I was about to tell the others - what I had to tell the others. With a slight nod Steph assured me that they'd back me up. With no compelling reason to put it off any longer, I turned the handle and entered my apartment. Half a dozen people stopped half a dozen coversations and whipped around to face me.
"Hey."
"What happened?"
"You saw what happened. I got pulled over." I pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and swung it around so I could sit and face everyone sprawled over the living room couches. Steph took a seat next to me. Mindy stayed back, eyes on the floor, and leaned against the wall by the entryway.
"Yeah, but for what?" asked Kiki. "We were in the car right behind you - you'd barely made it out of the parking lot before the cop turned his lights on."
A few hours earlier, the boys had announced that they were making a Denny's run and asked if any of us wanted to come along. It was well after midnight, and the truck-stop Denny's in Salina, a 45 minute drive away, was the nearest restaurant that would be open that late. Though most of us weren't big fans of the food, it was something of a tradition to make the long drive through the desert to fill up on rubbery pancakes in the wee hours.
We piled into three separate cars and caravaned through the darkness along the twisting highway, stopping for the occasional herd of deer or sagebrush pile that blocked our path. The restaurant was mostly empty, except for a few truck drivers and another group of college kids whose evening had thus far progressed much the same as our own. By the time we finished eating, our guts full of conversation and laughter and imitation maple syrup, our energy levels were shot through the roof.
Later we piled back into our cars to make the long drive home. Candice led the way, Kiki brought up the rear, and I drove between them.
When the cop pulled me over, Kiki rushed around and up ahead to catch up to Candice so they could pull off to the side and wait for me. Candice and her companions were too busy rocking out to the music blasting from her car stereos to notice his flashing lights in her rearview for almost two miles, so by the time the other two cars pulled over they were much to far away to see what was happening back at my car.
(Very few of us owned cell phones at the time, and those that did never bothered to bring them on road trips. There was no reception outside of town until you got all the way north to Nephi.)
As Kiki explained this to me back at the apartment, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded half-sheet of paper.
"So after we waited for a while we decided to come back here and wait for you," Kiki finished. "You took forever. What happened? Why'd he pull you over?"
"Well, it wasn't so much because of me," I said, "as it was because of us."
"Us? Who?"
"Us. All of us. Because of the statue."
Next door to Denny's was a Sinclair gas station. Like so many others, this one featured a six-foot high brontosaurus in the yard. Part of the Late Night Denny's Run tradition included climbing on this little dinosaur for a picture.
This particular Sinclair station, however, went the extra mile. In addition to the dinosaur, there was a 14-foot bronze statue of a Native American on a pedastal, wielding a tomahawk and wearing a loincloth.
"No way."
"Yes, way."
"I don't believe you. He pulled you over because we were climbing on the statue?"
"He pulled me over because he thought I was driving drunk. He was in the parking lot across the street, saw us all scaling Big Chief, and figured we must all be plastered out of our minds."
Kiki and the others just stared at me. I had a history of telling tall tales, and they were all wary of my stories. None of them were eager to swallow this one, until Lynne spoke up.
"She's telling the truth. I can tell."
"No, she's not," Kiki said.
"I've lived with her for two years, Kiki. I know her better than you. I can tell when she's lying," Lynne insisted.
"I'm not lying to you. He made me get out of the car and walk the line and everything. Had to take a breath-a-lizer. That's why it took so long," I said.
Kiki looked to Steph for confirmation. She nodded. He turned to Mindy, who was still staring at the ground, silent.
"Min?"
She didn't say a word, just kind of shrugged.
"They made us all do it," I said quietly.
The others instantly understood. No wonder Mindy was so quiet - how embarrassing for someone to think that we'd be drinking! We hardly looked like the kind of people who would drink. We were good Mormon kids, smart, about to graduate from junior college! Most of us weren't even of age yet. For someone to think that we would be so devious as to drink alcohol was insulting.
"But obviously you weren't drunk, so it was fine."
"Well..."
I dropped the folded piece of paper on the tabletop. Kiki reached out to pick it up. He opened it carefully and skimmed over it. I took a deep breath before blurting out the bad news.
"We have to pay a fine. For disturbing the peace and vandalism."
"WHAT?" Some of the others leapt from the couches and crowded close to see the ticket in Kiki's hand for themselves.
"Where does it say that?"
"She's lying."
"If she was lying, why'd she get the ticket?"
"I dunno, speeding?"
"We were pulling out of a parking lot; there's no way she could have been speeding."
I let them all argue for a minute, then decided I had to speak up. "Guys," I said, "the way I see it we have two options. We can either fight it or pay it. But since graduation is in a couple of days, and we'll have to go all the way to Salina to see a judge to fight it, it'd be at least a two hour drive for any of us. And we don't really have a reason to fight it, as we were climbing on the statue.
"So our other option is to pay it. Since it's in my name, I'll send the check if everyone just gives me cash for their share."
Everyone nodded in agreement. Almost.
"I'm not paying anything," Candice said.
"What? Why not?"
She tossed her hair behind her shoulder and rolled her eyes, as if the answer should be obvious. "I didn't climb Big Chief."
"Yes you did, we all did!"
"No, I just leaned against the base. I'm not paying."
"Don't be a jerk."
"I'm not being a jerk! I'm just not going to pay a fine for climbing on a statue when I didn't do it."
The conversation continued for a while longer. By now, dawn was approaching and our late night pancake buzz was nearly worn off. Mindy had long ago slipped off to her room to go to bed, without adding a word to the discussion. I glanced at Steph. Through a long yawn she gave me a look that clearly said, "That's enough, do it already."
"Guys?"
Once again, all eyes were on me. I took a deep breath.
"Gotcha."
"I hate you."
"I knew you were lying," Kiki claimed.
"You lying sack of crap."
I laughed. "You guys totally fell for it! Come on, I had to have one last good one before we all graduated and moved away."
"So what'd you get the ticket for?"
"He pulled me over because he thought I'd run the stop sign. I told him that wasn't me, it was Candice in the car in front of me. Since our cars are both white and it was dark, he must've gotten mixed up. But my insurance expired last week, and I don't have the new card. It was mailed to my parents' house, and since I was going back there in a few days I hadn't bothered to have them forward it to me. So I got a ticket for not having proof of insurance."
Most of them laughed along with me now. "Good one."
"I don't know why I ever believe a word you say."
"I really thought you were telling the truth!"
"Well," said Candice, "it's a good thing I wasn't going to pay my part of the fine."
1.06.2010
Habla Espanol
I've always wanted to learn another language.
For years I lied to myself (and others) and said that I just didn't have much of an aptitude for it. But I no longer believe that's true. I took French in the 8th grade and still remember enough that I just scored an 80% on the online French grammar test I took.
Proof:
I took this class thirteen years ago, for one school year - during half of which Mme. Trelease was out on maternity leave and we had a substitute. So clearly my powers of retention are greater than a goldfish.
So then why do I not know how to speak French? Or Japanese, which I took for two years in high school and another in college? Why am I only marginally able to communicate in ASL despite four semesters of it?
I'll tell you why.
Because I am lazy.
La...
...zy.
A few years ago I was living in an apartment and befriended some of the boys who lived downstairs. They all spoke Spanish, and often used it when talking to each other.
One day I was down there when one of the roommates, Chad, stormed in. His usually cheerful disposition was hidden beneath a dark cloud of seething rage. One of the other roommates noticed, and carefully phrased a question so as to not upset him further.
"Dude?"
Chad opened his mouth to spout off something when he noticed me sitting on the couch. He clamped his jaw shut and muttered, "Nothing."
"Dude. What?"
With a long glance in my direction while he decided whether or not I should be privy to this information, Chad took a deep breath.
"Bienvenidos y rojor el taquitos rancheros de que pasa Casey un ustados unidos chica de frijoles y pollo mos caliente!" he said.
Or something like that.
I had no idea what he was saying. But I did distinctly hear the words "Casey" and "chica." And I, being well aware of the drama going on between our other neighbor Casey, Casey's girlfriend, and Chad, was able to figure out the basics.
Chad's roommates switched into "comforting bro mode."
"Dude..."
"Get over it," I chimed in. "Casey's just a jackass and not worth your trouble."
Jaws dropped and eyes leapt to me. The boys were aghast, as if I'd somehow stumbled into their secret world. "You understood me?" Chad asked.
"Yes, Chad, I speak Spanish."
(p.s. No, I don't.)
For several months, however, I was able to deceive all of them into thinking I was fluent in Spanish without every speaking a word of it. Every time they started having a conversation in Spanish, I'd nod my head or laugh along or roll my eyes and they thought I knew what they were talking about.
I don't understand Spanish, but I do understand body cues.
Also, I'm really good at lying.
I don't really know why I get such satisfaction out of knowing I pulled off a good lie. But I do. And I've managed some winners in the past. But this blog is all about the truth, so whenever I tell a story about a lie I told I'll label it "Less Than True."
So now you know.
Glad we got that out of the way.
For years I lied to myself (and others) and said that I just didn't have much of an aptitude for it. But I no longer believe that's true. I took French in the 8th grade and still remember enough that I just scored an 80% on the online French grammar test I took.
Proof:
I took this class thirteen years ago, for one school year - during half of which Mme. Trelease was out on maternity leave and we had a substitute. So clearly my powers of retention are greater than a goldfish.
So then why do I not know how to speak French? Or Japanese, which I took for two years in high school and another in college? Why am I only marginally able to communicate in ASL despite four semesters of it?
I'll tell you why.
Because I am lazy.
La...
...zy.
A few years ago I was living in an apartment and befriended some of the boys who lived downstairs. They all spoke Spanish, and often used it when talking to each other.
One day I was down there when one of the roommates, Chad, stormed in. His usually cheerful disposition was hidden beneath a dark cloud of seething rage. One of the other roommates noticed, and carefully phrased a question so as to not upset him further.
"Dude?"
Chad opened his mouth to spout off something when he noticed me sitting on the couch. He clamped his jaw shut and muttered, "Nothing."
"Dude. What?"
With a long glance in my direction while he decided whether or not I should be privy to this information, Chad took a deep breath.
"Bienvenidos y rojor el taquitos rancheros de que pasa Casey un ustados unidos chica de frijoles y pollo mos caliente!" he said.
Or something like that.
I had no idea what he was saying. But I did distinctly hear the words "Casey" and "chica." And I, being well aware of the drama going on between our other neighbor Casey, Casey's girlfriend, and Chad, was able to figure out the basics.
Chad's roommates switched into "comforting bro mode."
"Dude..."
"Get over it," I chimed in. "Casey's just a jackass and not worth your trouble."
Jaws dropped and eyes leapt to me. The boys were aghast, as if I'd somehow stumbled into their secret world. "You understood me?" Chad asked.
"Yes, Chad, I speak Spanish."
(p.s. No, I don't.)
For several months, however, I was able to deceive all of them into thinking I was fluent in Spanish without every speaking a word of it. Every time they started having a conversation in Spanish, I'd nod my head or laugh along or roll my eyes and they thought I knew what they were talking about.
I don't understand Spanish, but I do understand body cues.
Also, I'm really good at lying.
I don't really know why I get such satisfaction out of knowing I pulled off a good lie. But I do. And I've managed some winners in the past. But this blog is all about the truth, so whenever I tell a story about a lie I told I'll label it "Less Than True."
So now you know.
Glad we got that out of the way.
12.29.2009
I Don't Hoe-Down.
I told you it would be another post.
You thought I was lying.
Jerk.
Have a little faith in me.
For years my friend Jen tried to get me to go hoe-downing with her. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept of a hoe-down, it is basically a social activity where people either pair up (sometimes with people they know, sometimes with strangers) and attempt not to trip over each other, or stand in large groups and perform awkwardly synchronized movements involving, but not limited to, foot stamping and/or hand clapping and/or hip swinging and/or grapevines in a large room, all while country music plays loudly.
I have a lot of problems with this.
Jen: "Do you want to hang out with Mandy and me tonight?"
Me: "Depends. What are you doing?"
Jen: "Well, there's a Country Sw-"
Me: "I don't hoe-down."
Jen: "It's not a hoe-down."
Me: "Will there be at least 5 people there wearing cowboy boots?"
Jen: "Probably."
Me: "That's a hoe-down."
I spent my first two college years in a tiny town in central Utah. It was in the middle of nowhere. The closest Wendy's was a 45 minute drive away, by which time it was only another 15 minutes to a real restaurant so it seemed pointless to stop at Wendy's anyway. I actually quite liked the fact that there was nothing to do - it lent itself perfectly to my I'd-rather-stay-in-and-watch-a-movie lifestyle.
But every Wednesday, the whole town would gather at the dance hall above the pizza parlour for its weekly hoe-down. And, as that was the only source of entertainment if the three movie screens in town weren't hosting any new features, I attended a couple of times.
I even took a class that taught you how to do some of the turns and things.
Don't judge me.
I needed the PE credit.
So the six class sessions and the two or three times I went "just for fun" have all been filed away in my brain in the drawer marked, "Time I Will Never Get Back."
We all have our regrets.
Several years after I graduated from that school and moved out of that town, I ran into an old friend I'd met there. His name was Stumpy Joe.
He'd picked that nickname for himself.
Seriously.
Stumpy and I didn't have a lot of time to catch up right then, so we exchanged email addresses. A few days later I had an email from him that told me a bit about what he had been up to the last few years. At the bottom there was a post script that left me completely confused.
p.s. Remember that time at country swing when I dropped you on your head? I still feel bad about it.
I remembered the hoe-down where I danced with Stumpy. I remembered how awkwardly he tried to lead me, and I remembered how we discovered two people with unnaturally short arms (hence the "Stumpy" moniker - what did you think it meant?) will have a hard time with a pretzel turn.
BUT I DID NOT REMEMBER BEING DROPPED ON MY HEAD.
This worried me.
Had he dropped me so hard that I had amnesia?!
One of these days I'm going to say to her, "Jen, don't tell lies. There were no cute boys there."
And Jen will say, "How would you know? You weren't there."
And I'll say, "Of course I was there. Did you forget?"
And when I explain to her that hoe-downs cause amnesia, she'll finally give up trying to get me to go. And then I'll tell her that she owes me twenty bucks.
You thought I was lying.
Jerk.
Have a little faith in me.
For years my friend Jen tried to get me to go hoe-downing with her. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept of a hoe-down, it is basically a social activity where people either pair up (sometimes with people they know, sometimes with strangers) and attempt not to trip over each other, or stand in large groups and perform awkwardly synchronized movements involving, but not limited to, foot stamping and/or hand clapping and/or hip swinging and/or grapevines in a large room, all while country music plays loudly.
I have a lot of problems with this.
- Problem #1 - Social Activity
- Problem #2 - Groups of People
- Problem #3 - Pairing up with Strangers
- Problem #4 - Strangers with Sweaty Hands Touching My Body
- Problem #5 - Performing Awkwardly Synchronized Movements
- Problem #6 - Foot Stamping
- Problem #7 - Hand Clapping
- Problem #8 - Strangers' Sweat Flicking Into My Face During the Foot Stamping and/or Hand Clapping
- Problem #9 - Grapevines
- Problem #10 - Country Music
Jen: "Do you want to hang out with Mandy and me tonight?"
Me: "Depends. What are you doing?"
Jen: "Well, there's a Country Sw-"
Me: "I don't hoe-down."
Jen: "It's not a hoe-down."
Me: "Will there be at least 5 people there wearing cowboy boots?"
Jen: "Probably."
Me: "That's a hoe-down."
I spent my first two college years in a tiny town in central Utah. It was in the middle of nowhere. The closest Wendy's was a 45 minute drive away, by which time it was only another 15 minutes to a real restaurant so it seemed pointless to stop at Wendy's anyway. I actually quite liked the fact that there was nothing to do - it lent itself perfectly to my I'd-rather-stay-in-and-watch-a-movie lifestyle.
But every Wednesday, the whole town would gather at the dance hall above the pizza parlour for its weekly hoe-down. And, as that was the only source of entertainment if the three movie screens in town weren't hosting any new features, I attended a couple of times.
I even took a class that taught you how to do some of the turns and things.
Don't judge me.
I needed the PE credit.
So the six class sessions and the two or three times I went "just for fun" have all been filed away in my brain in the drawer marked, "Time I Will Never Get Back."
We all have our regrets.
Several years after I graduated from that school and moved out of that town, I ran into an old friend I'd met there. His name was Stumpy Joe.
He'd picked that nickname for himself.
Seriously.
Stumpy and I didn't have a lot of time to catch up right then, so we exchanged email addresses. A few days later I had an email from him that told me a bit about what he had been up to the last few years. At the bottom there was a post script that left me completely confused.
p.s. Remember that time at country swing when I dropped you on your head? I still feel bad about it.
I remembered the hoe-down where I danced with Stumpy. I remembered how awkwardly he tried to lead me, and I remembered how we discovered two people with unnaturally short arms (hence the "Stumpy" moniker - what did you think it meant?) will have a hard time with a pretzel turn.
BUT I DID NOT REMEMBER BEING DROPPED ON MY HEAD.
This worried me.
Had he dropped me so hard that I had amnesia?!
- Problem #11 - Hoe-downs cause amnesia.
One of these days I'm going to say to her, "Jen, don't tell lies. There were no cute boys there."
And Jen will say, "How would you know? You weren't there."
And I'll say, "Of course I was there. Did you forget?"
And when I explain to her that hoe-downs cause amnesia, she'll finally give up trying to get me to go. And then I'll tell her that she owes me twenty bucks.
12.28.2009
A Toast, Jedidiah.
I was just catching up on reading through some friends' blogs, and this post by Sean really struck me. Take a minute to read it, and then come back.
I'll wait.
As I am dreadfully far behind on blogstalking people, Sean's post is rather old. According to the rules of internet etiquette I have arbitrarily created for myself, it is well beyond the acceptable time frame for me to leave a comment.
Also, I have no ideas for my own blog today.
Two birds, one stone.
If you knew me personally, you would know that Sean's post describes me almost perfectly.
Almost.
You know that feeling you get when you hear a song or read a book for the first time, and it's so disturbingly familiar it's as if it were written about you? Do you ever think to yourself, 'That's exactly like me, but I would never think to put it in those words?' That is the feeling I got and the thought I had when I read Sean's blog.
Let's break it down, shall we?
Sean says, "I can’t imagine being in a relationship because I do everything by myself. Almost literally everything. I sleep by myself, shop by myself, go to movies by myself, go out to eat by myself, watch TV by myself, crack jokes by myself... cook by myself, etc., etc."
Kristen says, "Ditto."
Sean says, "It’s not that I mind doing stuff with other people; it’s simply not part of my routine. And frankly, deviating from my routine annoys me. Hear that, friends? Quit asking me to do things with you. It cuts into my Farscape-watching time, goddammit."
Kristen says, "What's Farscape? If it takes you more than two words to answer, I won't care anymore."
Sean says, "This is making me sound like a self-centered bastard, and of course I totally am, but really I just don’t know how to have friends. And if I don’t know how to have friends—if the decidedly less onerous responsibilities of sustaining and maintaining a friendship are completely lost on me—how on earth am I going to be able to sustain and maintain a more intimate relationship?"
Kristen says, "Ditto."
Sean says, "When I imagine being in a romantic, committed relationship with someone, my mind simply boggles. The idea of constantly having to check in with someone else, having to coordinate every activity and outing, to sometimes/often do what someone else wants to do instead of what I want to do…"
Kristen says, "Almost."
You see, the truth is that I would rather enjoy having a relationship. I would enjoy having someone that wanted to know what I was up to, that wanted to include me in their day, that I could make coordinate activities with. Just so long as I had complete control.
Not in a Dominatrix-y kind of way.
Well....
Okay, I decided. Definitely not a Dominatrix-y kind of way.
Probably.
There's a scene in Citizen Kane where Jedidiah Leland (Joseph Cotten) accuses Kane of manipulating people's affection for him so he could get exactly what he wanted out of them. Kane lifts his glass and responds, "A toast, Jedediah, to love on my terms. Those are the only terms anybody ever knows - his own."
That line was another one of those 'this was written about me' moments.
"To love on my terms."
I would love the idea of having a boyfriend, as long as he was around only when I wanted him to be and always when I wanted him to be. I would love a boyfriend, as long as he acted affectionate when I wanted to be touched and distant when I wanted my space. I want a boyfriend that tells me how much he needs and appreciates me when I crave an ego boost and leaves me the hell alone the rest of the time.
Also, he should have dark hair and a British accent.
Is that too much to ask for?
Maybe I'm just selfish. Maybe I'm just immature. Maybe I'm just living in some kind of fantasy land, perpetuated by all those romantic movies I've seen, where relationships are just two people who fit together like two perfect puzzle pieces without any adjustment from either party. But at least we know I'm not crazy, because a friend recently told me that although he realized I was highly anti-social, he didn't believe that meant I was mentally ill.
Words of comfort.
I'll wait.
As I am dreadfully far behind on blogstalking people, Sean's post is rather old. According to the rules of internet etiquette I have arbitrarily created for myself, it is well beyond the acceptable time frame for me to leave a comment.
Also, I have no ideas for my own blog today.
Two birds, one stone.
If you knew me personally, you would know that Sean's post describes me almost perfectly.
Almost.
You know that feeling you get when you hear a song or read a book for the first time, and it's so disturbingly familiar it's as if it were written about you? Do you ever think to yourself, 'That's exactly like me, but I would never think to put it in those words?' That is the feeling I got and the thought I had when I read Sean's blog.
Let's break it down, shall we?
Sean says, "I can’t imagine being in a relationship because I do everything by myself. Almost literally everything. I sleep by myself, shop by myself, go to movies by myself, go out to eat by myself, watch TV by myself, crack jokes by myself... cook by myself, etc., etc."
Kristen says, "Ditto."
Sean says, "It’s not that I mind doing stuff with other people; it’s simply not part of my routine. And frankly, deviating from my routine annoys me. Hear that, friends? Quit asking me to do things with you. It cuts into my Farscape-watching time, goddammit."
Kristen says, "What's Farscape? If it takes you more than two words to answer, I won't care anymore."
Sean says, "This is making me sound like a self-centered bastard, and of course I totally am, but really I just don’t know how to have friends. And if I don’t know how to have friends—if the decidedly less onerous responsibilities of sustaining and maintaining a friendship are completely lost on me—how on earth am I going to be able to sustain and maintain a more intimate relationship?"
Kristen says, "Ditto."
Sean says, "When I imagine being in a romantic, committed relationship with someone, my mind simply boggles. The idea of constantly having to check in with someone else, having to coordinate every activity and outing, to sometimes/often do what someone else wants to do instead of what I want to do…"
Kristen says, "Almost."
You see, the truth is that I would rather enjoy having a relationship. I would enjoy having someone that wanted to know what I was up to, that wanted to include me in their day, that I could make coordinate activities with. Just so long as I had complete control.
Not in a Dominatrix-y kind of way.
Well....
Okay, I decided. Definitely not a Dominatrix-y kind of way.
Probably.
There's a scene in Citizen Kane where Jedidiah Leland (Joseph Cotten) accuses Kane of manipulating people's affection for him so he could get exactly what he wanted out of them. Kane lifts his glass and responds, "A toast, Jedediah, to love on my terms. Those are the only terms anybody ever knows - his own."
That line was another one of those 'this was written about me' moments.
"To love on my terms."
I would love the idea of having a boyfriend, as long as he was around only when I wanted him to be and always when I wanted him to be. I would love a boyfriend, as long as he acted affectionate when I wanted to be touched and distant when I wanted my space. I want a boyfriend that tells me how much he needs and appreciates me when I crave an ego boost and leaves me the hell alone the rest of the time.
Also, he should have dark hair and a British accent.
Is that too much to ask for?
Maybe I'm just selfish. Maybe I'm just immature. Maybe I'm just living in some kind of fantasy land, perpetuated by all those romantic movies I've seen, where relationships are just two people who fit together like two perfect puzzle pieces without any adjustment from either party. But at least we know I'm not crazy, because a friend recently told me that although he realized I was highly anti-social, he didn't believe that meant I was mentally ill.
Words of comfort.
12.14.2009
Humans Are Awesome
I once had a friend who was dating a guy I didn't like very much. I tried not to let on how annoying I thought he was. After all, she was a big girl, a smart girl, and if she wanted to date the douchebag that was her prerogative. So I never came right out and told her that I thought her boyfriend was a tool.
But I told a few other people.
A lot of people, actually.
Pretty much anyone who would listen.
One day, a few months after she'd started seeing him, she told me that he had instigated a DTR. He started it off by telling her that if she wanted to date other people he was okay with it, but that he was only going to date her.
I know.
Seriously.
I know.
"Was I supposed to say that I didn't want to date other people?" she asked me. "Because I didn't say that. I said he should date other people, too."
"How did he take that?" I asked.
"I don't know. He kept saying things that didn't make sense. Things I think he thought were profound or something but they really just weren't applicable. And I was really tired."
"Weren't applicable? Like what? 'Hey, you know how the polar ice caps are melting? Also, I think you're swell'?"
"Almost that random," she said. "Just stuff about humans and stuff."
She gave me a minute to pick myself up off the ground, wipe the tears of mirth from my eyes, and regain my breath before moving on. Oh, God, please bless that one day I'll be dating a guy who feels it necessary to supplement our deep, meaningful conversations with tidbits like, "You know what's really cool about human beings? They have thumbs!"
So now this friend of mine has decided that it's high time to end things with this guy who talks about humans and stuff. And it takes every ounce of self control I have to not say to her, "I told you so!"
Or, rather, "I totally would have told you so except I didn't want to offend you by telling you what a weird loser your boyfriend was, but if I hadn't had such high regard for your feelings I totally would have told you so!"
Maybe next time she'll listen.
But I told a few other people.
A lot of people, actually.
Pretty much anyone who would listen.
One day, a few months after she'd started seeing him, she told me that he had instigated a DTR. He started it off by telling her that if she wanted to date other people he was okay with it, but that he was only going to date her.
I know.
Seriously.
I know.
"Was I supposed to say that I didn't want to date other people?" she asked me. "Because I didn't say that. I said he should date other people, too."
"How did he take that?" I asked.
"I don't know. He kept saying things that didn't make sense. Things I think he thought were profound or something but they really just weren't applicable. And I was really tired."
"Weren't applicable? Like what? 'Hey, you know how the polar ice caps are melting? Also, I think you're swell'?"
"Almost that random," she said. "Just stuff about humans and stuff."
She gave me a minute to pick myself up off the ground, wipe the tears of mirth from my eyes, and regain my breath before moving on. Oh, God, please bless that one day I'll be dating a guy who feels it necessary to supplement our deep, meaningful conversations with tidbits like, "You know what's really cool about human beings? They have thumbs!"
So now this friend of mine has decided that it's high time to end things with this guy who talks about humans and stuff. And it takes every ounce of self control I have to not say to her, "I told you so!"
Or, rather, "I totally would have told you so except I didn't want to offend you by telling you what a weird loser your boyfriend was, but if I hadn't had such high regard for your feelings I totally would have told you so!"
Maybe next time she'll listen.
12.07.2009
Introductions
I don't small talk.
I also don't hoe-down, but that's another post.
There's nothing I hate more than being forced into mundane conversation with people I don't know. I hate when clerks at grocery stores go beyond the "hello, how are you today?" pleasantries and make comments about my purchases or what my plans are for the weekend.
Especially when my purchases are my plans for the weekend.
Why else would I be buying a package of Double-Stuf Oreos on a Friday night?
Social situations are not much better. It takes me a long time to warm up to people. In the meantime, I'm not very good at chatting with them. I never know what to say or what questions to ask, and I feel awkward and stupid. I hate being forced into these stiff conversations. This is why I rarely attend parties.
Oh, parties.
I'm not much of a surround-myself-with-lots-of-superficial-friends kind of person. I'm much more of a hang-out-with-one-or-two-people-that-get-me-and-that-I-feel-comfortable-with kind of person. But I go to parties occasionally because it's important for me to be a human being and not a hermit crab.
Or a hermit human, rather.
Whatever.
Potato, potato.
My favorite friendships - not necessarily my most meaningful, but my favorite - have been with people who have skipped the small-talk altogether. I have one friend from high school, Jaz, that I still see on rare occasions at baby showers and things like that. I love seeing Jaz, because every few years when we run into each other we don't play the "and what's new with you?" game.
Catch-up talk is just small talk with a different hat.
Jaz and I don't bother with asking each other about our jobs, where we're living, or what we've been up to for the last couple years. Instead we usually launch right into some topical conversation as if we were picking up where we'd left off last time we met.
I've had a few other people who, within minutes of meeting them, I've found myself having a discussion about whether a tiger or an alligator would win in a fight.
Tiger, by the way.
I would much rather get to know somebody by learning about their preferred chip-to-cheese ratio in nachos or what Disney character they would want to bring to life than by learning about their job or their family or their school work.
I figure if I get to be actual friends with somebody, I'll learn all that stuff organically and in due time. But for starters, let's make it a little more interesting and talk about that special on TLC where the guy had the bugs growing in his brain or if we'd rather have hands for feet or feet for hands.
Because if that's not the kind of random stuff you're thinking about anyway, we probably won't be very good friends at all.
Unless you bring me Oreos.
I also don't hoe-down, but that's another post.
There's nothing I hate more than being forced into mundane conversation with people I don't know. I hate when clerks at grocery stores go beyond the "hello, how are you today?" pleasantries and make comments about my purchases or what my plans are for the weekend.
Especially when my purchases are my plans for the weekend.
Why else would I be buying a package of Double-Stuf Oreos on a Friday night?
Social situations are not much better. It takes me a long time to warm up to people. In the meantime, I'm not very good at chatting with them. I never know what to say or what questions to ask, and I feel awkward and stupid. I hate being forced into these stiff conversations. This is why I rarely attend parties.
Oh, parties.
I'm not much of a surround-myself-with-lots-of-superficial-friends kind of person. I'm much more of a hang-out-with-one-or-two-people-that-get-me-and-that-I-feel-comfortable-with kind of person. But I go to parties occasionally because it's important for me to be a human being and not a hermit crab.
Or a hermit human, rather.
Whatever.
Potato, potato.
My favorite friendships - not necessarily my most meaningful, but my favorite - have been with people who have skipped the small-talk altogether. I have one friend from high school, Jaz, that I still see on rare occasions at baby showers and things like that. I love seeing Jaz, because every few years when we run into each other we don't play the "and what's new with you?" game.
Catch-up talk is just small talk with a different hat.
Jaz and I don't bother with asking each other about our jobs, where we're living, or what we've been up to for the last couple years. Instead we usually launch right into some topical conversation as if we were picking up where we'd left off last time we met.
I've had a few other people who, within minutes of meeting them, I've found myself having a discussion about whether a tiger or an alligator would win in a fight.
Tiger, by the way.
I would much rather get to know somebody by learning about their preferred chip-to-cheese ratio in nachos or what Disney character they would want to bring to life than by learning about their job or their family or their school work.
I figure if I get to be actual friends with somebody, I'll learn all that stuff organically and in due time. But for starters, let's make it a little more interesting and talk about that special on TLC where the guy had the bugs growing in his brain or if we'd rather have hands for feet or feet for hands.
Because if that's not the kind of random stuff you're thinking about anyway, we probably won't be very good friends at all.
Unless you bring me Oreos.
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