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I haven't written in eight years.
I think about this site a lot, and I reread my old entries from an old account, with a long-forgotten password and an impotent email address. I must have been quite the idiot at fifteen. So deliberately, unnecessarily and excessively vague, that I don't even remember who or what I was talking about.
So, I decided I'm not going to do that anymore. I'm going to tell the truth. At least this way, I can look back on these and know who, when, or where I was writing them. Here goes.
I am in a long-distance relationship. His name is Andrew. I live in Colorado and he in Philadelphia. Our respective jobs give us the ability to see each other more or less once a month, but I've gone nearly 60 days in between visits before. Videochatting helps a lot. So does trust.
It is amazing to me, how much trust we have. It's freeing, knowing my man isn't worrying about me, or feeling insecure or nervous about what I do without him around: "Not the jealous type."
But is it so bad to be just a little bit jealous?
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder,"
"Out of sight, out of mind,"
My dad likes to ask me which idiom applies best to my relationship, and honestly it's a little bit of both.
If I spent every waking moment surrounded by thoughts of Andrew, I'd go crazy because no matter how much I think about him, he'd still be miles and miles away. And then I daydream about the life we may have someday, and then I go crazy with affection. I see a future, that's all. An itty bitty glimmer of a future.
I think I'm crazy either way.
Andrew is on this kick where even though our first date was December 27th of the previous year, we haven't actually been dating for that long because it has been predominately long-distance since I left in January. So, I did some math, and the amount of actual time we've spent in each other's physical presence is about 2.5 months. But, how do I factor in the 2-3 hours logged in daily videochatting? It's not like we stopped talking in the time between visits. I think that's when we got to know each other the best.
Sometimes I wonder how functional I'd be in a regular, no-distance relationship. The last one I had was freshman year of college. Which, incidentally and irrelevantly, was three years after my first and only batch on this site. A lot has changed in my life since then. I've become more pragmatic, but more open as well. Most of the time I am pretty unafraid of saying exactly what I am thinking. Maybe that would be bad if I were always around someone who's supposed to love me all the time. But it still remains to be seen, I suppose.
I feel like I'm trying to fool people into believing that I'm a functional adult who has her shit together. Surprise, I'm not, and I don't. I can do it, temporarily, in short spurts, and then all I want to do is go home and watch TV on Hulu until it's time to go to bed. I ignore the burned-out light bulb in my kitchen, the dirty dishes (I can't see them in the dark), the piles of clothes
, and my general disregard for checking voice/emails and responding to people in a timely manner. I suck.
I used to sit on the couch in my family room when I was younger, all by myself. I sat in the left corner, and whenever something funny came on TV I would look to my right and imagine someone sitting next to me, in the opposite corner, watching the show and laughing with me.
That's the kind of love I want in my life: where you can be sitting on opposite ends of a couch and watch TV together, just laughing and enjoying each other's company.
Now, it's Andrew. The only problem is that we're on two different couches.
I had some professional photographs taken today, by a friend who has a nice camera and a good eye. She sent me some of the proofs, and wow some of them are really bad, but others are good, like, almost too good. Like it's not even me in the picture. I did a double-take seeing them because it made me feel like I was looking at someone else's proofs.
I guess it was a relief to feel pretty again; I shy away from photo opportunities sometimes because I know there are pictures from my past in which I'm thinner.
I wonder sometimes if I actually have a "type." Like, it used to be tall, with dark hair and light eyes. Now I'm dating a wonderful man of average height, with dark hair but even darker eyes.
Apparently some girl at work told him he looks like Matthew Broderick and asked if he was married to SJP. Andrew responds with, "No, my girlfriend is way hotter than her." I feel awesome knowing this now! Though, I never thought she was particularly good-looking.
I think my type now is: intelligent, smart, mature, and a little lazy with the compliments sometimes.
I'm musing about what gifts are appropriate for having dated someone a year long-distance but only 2.5 months in local-distance.
I wonder also what he's planning for me, if I can be so vain and self-centered. But, I promised myself I'd be painfully honest here, and so far this is my secret truth-blog.
I like to think I tell the truth a lot, when I can, and when I can do so tactfully. I used to lie a lot, for oftentimes no reason at all, but now I tell the truth, and it surprises people.
I just heard about the new TSA procedures for patting down or scanning passengers. It makes me sick. I'm not one of these people, but what about those who are devoutly protective of their bodies for religious reasons? Do they have to submit themselves to such degrading and invasive procedures? It makes me angry because the government is growing to a monstrous size. I don't consider myself ardently political, but I hate big government getting into my business. It feels like such a violation of privacy.
You can tell I'm not political because I'm only saying 100 words about it.
A lot of times I feel like I'm waiting. Waiting to go to bed, waiting for class to end, waiting for my coworker to get to the front desk so I can go home.
On a larger scale, I'm waiting for my voice to develop, I'm waiting for my boyfriend to finish residency, waiting for Opportunity to come along, change my life, and make me the kind of singer I know I'll be someday. It makes me think about my future all too often; whereas Andrew is all about living in the now.
Hopefully we can meet in the middle.
Iím so glad to be out of high school. Last time I wrote a batch on here, I was fifteen and in the absolute throes of the most imprisoned time of my
vita ante responsibiltatem.
Now, as an adult with rent, bills, three jobs, and getting a Masterís, I feel like I could have been so much cooler and possibly happier. Of course, whatís done is done and I canít change it, no regrets, but I wish that present-me could have gone back in time to give a pep talk to high school me:
ďYou will be happy. And broke.Ē
Which is worse, a girl whoís a very obvious bitch and everyone knows it? Or, the girl who is so sickeningly sweet and nice to everyone, but then says innocently bitchy things under the guise of naivetť?
Also, zero percent reliability: the only thing reliable about this person is the fact that you canít rely on her. This one girl, from high school, would pretend to be so nice, and then Iíd call her bluff, inviting her out to a movie, knowing sheíd blow me off. I think thatís the worst kind of bitchy. Iím glad we werenít actually friends.
What would we tell ourselves, if we could go back in time? Maybe Iíd tell my high school self that I end up getting tired of musical theatre and switch to opera within my first year of college, to stop worrying about Michigan and start working on classical rep a little fucking harder, NOW. Maybe Iíll console my lonely just-been-dumped college freshman self that Iím not meant to be with William, that someone wonderful is waiting for me in an unexpectedly familiar place. Now that I think of it,
could use a visit and some advice from a future-me.
Feeling nostalgic, I am listening to Jimmy Eat World. I havenít listened to this band in years, yet they were so important to me in my formative years. I wonder what it was about them, their angsty rock and gentle repetitive melodies would lull me into complacency on long frustrating drives with my family, or driving home by myself after a night out. I remember how I used to listen to ďOn A Sunday,Ē on Sundays, because I hated going to church and I hated doing homework and I had to do both on Sundays.
Now, I donít do either.
I go through bouts of productivity. It's almost like a sneezing fit, where suddenly I will seize with the urge to wash dishes, or pick up the trash that's sleeping on my floor. And then, just as quickly as it began, it ends. I am left with three clean bowls of varying sizes, two cups and a plate. All the silverware is still in the sink.
Clothing, makeup, old mail, and different containers are populating my apartment. It's so obvious I live alone and have only myself to answer to. I wonder if I could stand a roommate ever again.
Two of my friends are finally engaged, after five years of dating. They asked me today if I would sing for their wedding ceremony, and honestly I am torn. Iím a professional musician, I obviously love what I do and I jump at the opportunity to perform, but sometimes itís more important for me to just be a spectator and not be ďworking.Ē This is especially important at a wedding of close friends. I think Iíll probably do it anyway, but I wish people realized that it is
for me, and not some honor to sing at your events.
Five year plan: Do I even have one?
I hope that in five years I'll have my voice figured out so I can start working. That means the five aria package, the manager, the auditions all lined up. I also want to arrive at a healthy diet/exercise program that keeps me fitting into the clothes I love and doesn't make me feel like I'm dieting. I think these goals are reasonable by twenty-eight, considering how much I've accomplished in my life since I turned eighteen.
Andrew and I mutually agreed that our five-year-plans include each other.
I think Andrew and I had our first, "shit just got real," conversation since we've begun dating. He adamantly stated that there is no way he would ever live in New York City, and asserted that I would probably hate it, too. This may be true, I argued, but it's the one place where I'll be able to coach, take lessons, and audition for major opera companies without having to pay for travel.
Despite my logical need for this convenience, Andrew wants to move back home to Detroit after residency.
I wonder when this is going to pose a problem.
My college roommate just got married, and she's pregnant. They moved the date of the wedding because they're Catholic. SO Catholic, that when they had forbidden pre-marital sex, they didn't use any protection whatsoever, because, "it didn't feel right." Yep, she's the dumbest person on the planet.
We used to be best friends, when we lived together, and when he came into her life it's like I never existed. In fact, when I emailed to ask how married life was, she replied that it was great to be living with her best friend.
Hm, I wonder what that's like.
Why hasnít he told me he loves me? Iíve been feeling it lurk inside my mouth all week. Every time I exhale, I feel like itís coiled to strike, unannounced and certainly unprompted by him. I know I canít force these things, it will happen when itís right, but I canít help panicking for one reason or another.
The other, more rational side of my brain understands that time is a good thing and that my patience will be rewarded; it also restrains me from risking the possible rejection if I say it first and he just says, ďThank you.Ē
Sometimes I feel like I live two separate lives. Here in Fort Collins, I'm single, I have three jobs, I sing, and I'm a teacher. I go to class, I do fun things sometimes, and I videochat with my boyfriend.
When I'm visiting Andrew though, it's so different: My entire life there is the one I spend with him. I don't have students, coworkers, classmates, bosses, or professors to answer to. It's just us, doing normal things together like eating and watching TV online. All the extra "stuff" falls away, and this becomes the life I want.
The only life.
It drives me absolutely nuts when my students don't listen to me. I have very little patience when it comes to this. I can't possibly understand, I guess. Maybe I'm lucky or maybe just arrogant, but I've never had trouble making a correction nearly immediately after an error is pointed out. So, I have a hard time being tolerant of teaching the same lesson over and over again without any sign of improvement.
I just wonder, "What the hell are you doing all day, if you're not fixing this?! No, that [a] vowel does NOT sound good outside your head!"
Family. Brother. Kevin Rose. Mama. Andrew. Hot water. Makeup. Alcohol. Days off. Music. The Nutcracker Suite. The fast-track at the Hahnemann Emergency Room. Stracciatella gelato. Nice hotel guests. Christmas bonuses. Bandaids. Free heat. The Clarisonic. The Rake's Progress. That I finally caved and bought myself internet. Google Video Chat. The photo of Andrew and me on my Blackberry. Previously prepped and seasoned turkey breasts at Trader Joe's. Potato ricers (someone has to appreciate them). My rechargeable bike light. Pandora. The iTunes gift cards my dad gives me but has no idea how they work. Showers (with company).
Andrew had to work Monday through Wednesday of this week, Thursday was his first day off, and what do I do? I accidentally drop the giant knife I was using to cut the turkey. Only after I noticed the sudden spurt of red liquid did I realize it had hit my foot. Though thereís no better company than a doctor for situations like these, I couldnít help feeling like I had ruined Thanksgiving.
Dinner waited for two hours, for two stitches, on the one day Andrew had been promised that heíd be free from entering a hospital.
I was getting on a train in Philly, and the operator was so rude to me, first telling me in a brusque voice to hurry up and get on the train because they were behind schedule (not my fault, jackass) and then rudely ordering me to move my bag from the aisle when I had barely boarded, in tears. I would have chalked it up to him having a bad day, if he hadnít immediately turned his attentions to flirting with the girl in front of me.
I am a different color than the two of them, is this racism?
Today, I am sad.
Today I had to leave Philadelphia. From my window seat on the plane, I can see mazes and swirls of lights, and I squint to see the skyscrapers downtown, because thatís where Andrew is. Heís probably already in bed, already discovered my note, and maybe heís already asleep, waiting for his 4:30am wakeup call tomorrow.
I wish there were some way to preserve how his fingers feel, intertwined with mine, or what his mouth tastes like. I find these sensations are the first things to go, and yet the things I miss the most of all.
I donít know what is going to happen. Andrew was commiserating with another doctor (while he sewed up my foot) about the malpractice rates being so high and how he canít see himself staying in Philly after residency. Not like I have anywhere to go after my stint in Colorado, but if Iím aiming for the east coast only for him to peace out two years later, what does that mean for us?If weíre going to make it as a couple while working simultaneously, we should be in the same place, and agree on where we're going to be.
I was talking with a girlfriend tonight after work and I reminisced about my Thanksgiving week last year. I started in Chicago, going out to the bars (and having an unsavory kiss with a fishy-lipped lawyer, gross). Then, I ran into a former classmate from Kerby Elementary, and he was also determined to kiss me. Friday, the bartender at another bar flirtatiously gets my number and takes me out to the DIA, culminating in make out number three. The very next day I see Andrew again for the first time since August and my heart falls through my feet.
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