Spinster

First week of school and resolutions have already been broken. The procrastination? It has begun (although not too badly, since I did a bunch of photocopying this afternoon and plan on reading tonight). Paying attention in class? I’m writing this from Introduction to Bibliographic Control. (It’s not my fault that it’s boring, though, right?)

Ok. Let’s talk about my burgeoning relationship with my military man. We spent Saturday night/Sunday morning/Sunday afternoon together, and as usual it was great. At this point, we’re still learning about each other and I think that the all-too-human aspects of our personalities (and by our personalities, I mean my personality) and differences in worldview have begun to emerge.

I guess that I’m specifically talking about certain traits that I have that aren’t wonderful and that can make me a difficult person to get along with. (Although I like to think that these same traits make me a complex and interesting person, but that’s neither here nor there.) Can I just be honest for a second? (Hell yeah, I can. This is my blog!) See, I’m not the nicest or most altruistic person on earth: I don’t love babies, sometimes I hate people because their clothes suck or because they’re too cheerful in the morning (loud girl in class, I’m talking to you!), and I can be really selfish. My boy, on the other hand, is practically the definition of “kind.” He reserves judgment, or tries to, until he actually knows a person–I’ve heard this is called “giving people a chance,” but what the hell do I know?–and certainly would never claim to hate anyone simply because they don’t hate mornings. He’s in between activities at the moment, and so he’s volunteering at the SPCA, a nursing home, and a soup kitchen. The last time I volunteered? Was cause I didn’t feel like getting a job and needed something to put on my resume. (And it was at a historic house, not a soup kitchen.) Compound these aspects of my personality with my impermeable (so far) tendency to see the glass as half-empty, and I wonder how long someone as good as my boy will be sticking around.

However–and this next bit is simply to assuage my own self-doubt–I hope he can see beyond the crotchety surface. I may not like everyone in the world, or even humanity in general, but I love those I do like. I don’t suffer fools gladly, but I like to think that means I have standards. I can be a fiercely loyal friend. I try not to be careless with others’ feelings (though sometimes I fail, inevitably). I love animals and hate money. I believe fervently in human rights. I am, at the very least, aware of my shortcomings, for whatever that’s worth. Basically, while I may not be the next Mother Theresa, I also don’t think I’m a candidate for the fiery depths of hell. I guess that, right now, he’s still up on the pedestal–even though he was teetering over the weekend, he hasn’t fallen. I kind of wish he would, cause then I wouldn’t worry so much about how undeserving I am of my own pedestal.

I saw Al Gore’s movie, An Inconvenient Truth, last night. I don’t even know what to say about it. I mean, I loved it. To me, there’s nothing more important than protecting our planet and all of the life on it, and it pisses me off infuriates me that there is so little action being taken about the mess we’ve made of things. I’m sorry that cleaning it up would require such painful things as switching to fluorescent light bulbs and turning off our electronic appliances when they’re not in use. It is tragic that the United States would have to invest in public transportation infrastructure, as well as completely overhaul our gas miles per gallon standards.

I just don’t get it.

I don’t understand how and why people are so reluctant to believe and understand that global warming is not only real, but is happening currently, and is only going to get worse.

I don’t understand why people are so unwilling to accept our undeniable culpability. One of the greatest things about being the cause of a problem? Generally, that also makes it easier to do something about it. And the things that are often proposed really aren’t that painful. They’re depressingly simple, actually, and that’s what makes the specter of global warming so scary to me–if we aren’t willing to take the simplest of steps (using fluorescent bulbs, walking every now and again instead of driving, eating locally grown produce instead of fruits and vegetables flown in from great distances), what the hell are we going to do about global warming when it starts to really fuck with us? When the sea levels start rising in earnest? When we see hurricane seasons that mirror 2005 each year?

Why do people refuse to take this seriously???

I know that technically the new year begins on January 1^st (though I think that the new year should coincide with the advent of spring, but that’s another post for another day), but for me, the new year has always begun in September. I have been in educational institutions in one form or another since I was three years old. I took a two-year break in between college and grad school, but for twenty years of my twenty-five-year life, September equals the beginning of a new season, a new year.

Each year, come September, I would make the familiar school-related resolutions—this year I’m gonna study harder, get all of my homework done, not procrastinate. This year I’m gonna get all As. I’ll join clubs and take exercise classes and be outgoing and popular.

Of course, within weeks those resolutions would fade away, and I’d start blowing off homework for pleasure reading and the procrastinating would begin in earnest. I might have joined clubs but my shoddy attendance record would soon reveal my inherent dislike for organized activities—and I love the Groucho Marx sentiment of not wanting to be a part of a club that would have people like me as members. As for exercise, it’s not that I’m opposed to it when it comes to doing fun physical activities like hiking or snorkelling, it’s that going to the gym just bores me. I have never been accused of being an overachiever, and that’s the way I like it.

Still, there’s something so motivating and refreshing about starting a new school year. Classes haven’t begun so they haven’t had a chance to get painfully boring. My free time hasn’t been sucked away by homework and essays and lectures, so I can still spare some time for clubs and fitness. I can totally imagine throwing myself into school with gusto, and finally achieving those straight As.

So, in light of that, I’d like to present my completely naïve and why-the-hell-doesn’t-she-ever-learn New School Year Resolutions.

1. I will attend each and every lecture.

1. I will be interested in what I am supposed to be learning; after all, if I’m going to make a career out of this stuff, I might as well enjoy it.

1. I will not procrastinate.

1. I will do all of my homework.

1. I will be an involved member of the ALA student chapter.

1. I will sign up for and actually attend two fitness classes (ballet and step aerobics this time).

(Right off the bat, I can tell you that Resolutions 1-4 will be broken, probably by the second week of class. Resolution 5 I might be able to swing, but Resolution 6 is clearly wishful thinking. Oh well–to thine own self be true, right?)

Last night, my roommate and I were discussing the pitfalls of new relationships—namely, Getting Your Hopes Up Syndrome. I’m in this new relationship, right, and I’m still figuring it out. It’s only been 2 weeks, but I really like the guy. There seems to be some concern, from my roommate at least, that I might be too enthusiastic about this, too hopeful, too soon. I know that Lorien cares about me and doesn’t want to see me get hurt; in warning me about GYHUS, she’s essentially trying to protect me from myself, cause for all of my flippancy and who-gives-a-shit attitude, I am, unfortunately, emotionally fragile.

I appreciate Lorien’s concern, but I’d like to say a few words in defense of hopes and single girls.

Single girls are nothing if not hopeful. I’d say, in dating and relationships and intimacy and love, it’s all we’ve got. A lot of us—most of us—have been in love, have had our hearts broken, have dated jerks and guys who were nice but were just not that into us. I’ve watched my friends go through the same shit, and each time, it’s always the same. It always begins with hope.

How can we not get our hopes up? How can we meet guys who are (finally) all of whatever it is we’re looking for, and who tell us that we’re beautiful and smart and sexy and perfect, and not be hopeful? The day I hear those things and feeling nothing, or even worse, jaded and cynical, is the day I die.

Yes, being cautious is probably good. Having an instinct for self-preservation is undoubtedly better. But if I am always cautious and always looking for and waiting for someone to mind-fuck me, isn’t that sad? Shouldn’t I allow myself some mental masturbation?

I mean, I am the last person on earth to fantasize about my wedding day, and I never go around naming my children with someone. I don’t believe that love is roses and candles and poetry, puffy clouds and fucking rainbows, but I would like to believe that love, whatever it is, whatever form it takes, is possible. For better or worse, I hope for that.

Fact: It is possible to turn this

into this

in two days and 13 episodes of Six Feet Under, which is my new favorite show.

Fact: I have lots of “new favorite” shows.

Fact: I might just be addicted to series television that I can watch on my computer.

So, yeah. I got a lot of knitting done this weekend and a lot of TV watching done, too. I did go out on a date on Friday night, which turned into Saturday morning, which turned into Saturday afternoon. It was excellent. I also went to a potluck last night, which was nice, except for the fact that I am a big fucking loser when it comes to social interactions. Seriously. My roommate’s father asks me a question, and I blush and stammer my way through an answer. I wish for an Invisibility Cloak, a la Harry Potter, so that I could just meander through life, making few waves and no impact. Yes, I took my medication today. It’s just one of those low self-esteem days that I try to remedy via retail therapy, which only serves to make me notice the size of my ass but also provides me with a new pair of shoes. Yeah, mom, we all know I’m a shoe whore. Moving on.

We broke up three years ago this summer. He was my first real love, my first real boyfriend, the first (and only) boyfriend I’ve ever lived with. We broke up about six months later than we should have and it COMPLETELY fucked me up. We’d just graduated from college and most of my friends had moved away. I had no job and no place to live, and he left for an overseas program in Ecuador with the tentative understanding that when he returned we would resume our cohabitation. I found a temporary place to live and then visited my parents for a couple of months. In the meantime, he returned from Ecuador, thought things through, and realized that our relationship was over and he was over it. We broke up over the phone when I was still in Miami.

As I said, it really fucked me up.

However, I don’t exactly regret anything that’s happened since. After that stumble, I picked myself up (and by I, I mean “my friends, family, and I”). I found a job and a different place to live. I started going out with other guys. Eventually, after a shitty post-graduation year in Portland, I moved back home and began the process of applying to grad school.

The ex and I are still sort of in touch. We sort of keep each other up to date on the events in our lives, including moves and grad school and new relationships. He lived in the Czech Republic for a year or so and met a girl there. I HATE that girl. Hate her. Have no idea what she looks like, acts like, who she votes for, what she wears, but I hate her. She has my birthday. It’s not bad enough that my ex-boyfriend, my epic relationship, moved on and found someone else. No. She has to have my birthday, too? Bitch.

Anyway, so this guy and I are back in touch apparently, cause he emailed me yesterday. I asked him a bunch of questions about his life in Barcelona, including (stupidly) “Have you hooked up with any Spanish girls?”

He wrote back, answering all of my questions, and in response to that one, revealed that he is–and I quote–”still hung up” on what I like to call That Romanian Bitch Who Has My Birthday And Should Die.

Ugh. I soooo thought that, at this point, after three years and three cities, one year of grad school and more boys than I care to count, I’d be over it. I am dating (I think) a boy who is cute and smart and sweet and interesting and WHO FUCKING BROUGHT ME FLOWERS THE OTHER NIGHT, and I’m still gonna get a little disgruntled that my ex-boyfriend has some long-distance pseudo-romance with a floozy girl? What is wrong with me?