You! Out of the nest!

Continuing in my everlong quest for growth and maturity, I now am being greeted with the adult delights of Complicated Income Tax Returns served with healthy side portions of Car Repairs and Professional Dues, to be finished off with a refreshing dish of Dude I Need A Good Haircut And Maybe I Should Visit The Dentist Sometime.

The people I sit with at lunch are almost all young married couples. Our topics of conversation, while often humorous and enjoyable, frequently return to the abundant issues of being a homeowner.
We're redoing the bathroom.
Window treatments. How 'bout 'em.
We had to replace the flooring in this one room.
We need a new dryer.
Can you believe these property taxes?
Mortgage blah blah blah.

Of course, there isn't anything bad about what they're talking about at all. That's just life. That's just what happens when you get married and buy a house. You think about it. It's your home, your castle, your project. I guess if I had invested in a house, I'd be thinking about it a lot, too.

But man. I eat off of a card table, and I'm happy. I don't want a kitchen table; I want a weekend trip to New York City.

Thing is, I'm willing to bet the others felt this way when they were in my position in life. I'm sure there was a time where they said to themselves, "screw the lawn. let's take a bartending class." And then something happened. Maturity? Reality? Inevitability? I don't know. Obviously I don't know, because it hasn't happened to me. Yet.

What IS that thing that happens? Is it a good thing or a bad thing-- or neither? Can it be escaped? SHOULD it be escaped? Is the alternative being a sad sack of a fortysomething who spends Sunday morning alone with a crossword puzzle and a martini in her cat-riddled Manhattan apartment?

retinal damage

I'll admit it-- I've been sitting here for a long time, really determined to write something. It's not like I don't have anything substantial to think about, but nothing in my brain is able to get past the "Is this appropriate? Is this interesting?" filter and onto the weblog.

When I search my mind for something to write about, I always get dragged into some existential quicksand trap in my head. I start to throw myself odd questions about what life really means, and do any of my mental journeys have a point? (which they usually don't.)

And I wonder how long I've been staring at this computer screen, reading news articles and blogs and webcomics and Facebook profiles. My head hurts. I'm chipping away at my years left of good eyesight with every hour I spend frying my retinas with the screen. I'm gonna go home and find red, bloodshot spots in my eyes.

We all just want to be understood.

my bedding smells of pine

I feel like a hamster in a cheap plastic cage, running my little legs off on one of those spinny-wheel things. You plug away and plug away at life on your little wheel, and at the end you've made no progress. Your purpose is the entertainment of the young of higher orders of life. They take you out of your cage and squeeze the living daylights out of you. If you're really lucky, they'll put you in a plastic ball and laugh their heads off as you roll yourself down the basement stairs.
WAA HA HA, LOOK AT THAT HAMSTER GO!

*thud*
*thud*
*thud*

And try as you might, you can't escape. And even if you did, what would you do with yourself? You'd get sucked up by the vacuum cleaner, that's what.

This year read more like a Bronte novel than a sitcom.

For the first time in my life, I wished that I weren't the youngest child in my family.

This Christmas, while full of thoughtful gifts and lovingly-made treats, was haunted with a heavy cloud. The cloud reeked with the passage of time and the inescapable end of a long era of familiarity for many of us in my family (that is, those of us who are not off living new lives with families of our own). Well, maybe I should just speak for myself. I moved out this year, and things just ain't the same back home.

We keep trying to make Christmas as magical as it used to be. We watch the same VHS-taped TV specials. We eat the same kinds of Christmassy snacks. We play the same taped-from-radio Christmas music cassettes that Dad made in 1986. But it doesn't work anymore, and nobody wants to be the wet blanket who comes out and says "It's not the SAME. We have problems and sadness that Christmas just can not fix this year. We don't have the money we used to, we have an uncertain and uncomfortable future ahead of us, we don't even have that dumb dog to cheer us up anymore-- and damn it, we TRIED! We tried to make everything as good as it used to be."

I wish I could preserve the sense of tradition and childlike wonder that has always accompanied the holidays. I sort of feel responsible for striking the final blow to my family Christmas. Nobody has done anything to make me feel guilty for it, but it doesn't matter. It's just how it works, being the youngest. As long as I believe in Santa, there will be presents labelled "from Santa" under the tree (which there aren't anymore, but that was just meant to be an illustration of a point). But I can't stretch it out anymore, the childlike tendency-- and we all know it.

It's the same as it was with that poor, aging dog we put down. None of us wanted to be the one to say "okay, that's it--" and pull the plug. But we knew that any more efforts to prolong her life would be fruitless, and maybe even a little cruel.

One day, I may have another dog. And one day, I rather intend to have a family of my own where Christmas can be everything I'm used to it being. In the meantime, Christmas will just end up taking some new form. I just hope I like it.

I actually have that one in paperback AND hardcover

When I came back home today, I spent some time in my old room looking at the obscene amount of books I've collected. I never sold back any textbooks-- for me, the payoff was not equal. I would rather have the resource of information in my posession than twenty sorry dollars that I'd probably just blow on, like... half of a sweater or something.

Not that I have actually gone back to use this wealth of information, mind you. I was really amused by the books I kept from my European History and International Studies classes (not that I took very many, but they really like to load you up with paperbacks for those liberal arts classes). I wondered if I should read some of those books again, because I cannot remember more than a fraction of the arguments I regurgitated for all those term papers.

Then I realized that I have a sort of stupid presumption about myself. I always think that I'm smarter at the present moment than I used to be-- or, rather, that information given to me today will stick better with me than information I received at an earlier age. For example, I'm convinced that if I read Havel's The Power of The Powerless today, that I would, like, TOTALLY get it. Not that I read it three years ago or anything. I swear I read that book, but I can not remember a single thing about it. But I'm so much more in control of my mental facilities these days, you see. I won't forget anything. That was then. This is now. blah, blah, blah. (Is the sarcasm coming through clearly enough?)

Heck if I know what any of that means.

What am I going to do with all of those books? I create such high hopes for myself by keeping them all. I don't want to give up on them, because MAYBE I will need to look something up. Someday. Or MAYBE I just want visitors to think I'm more well-read than I really am. How disgusting.

Someday they'll be vintage (and obsolete, yes, but that's neither here nor there)-- and perhaps they will become an addition to a stunning university library. Naturally, that'll be after I cure cancer and have a university named after me. But one thing at a time, here.

But I'm not one of THOSE people, am I?

Sometimes, thoughts about the future make me panic like a spooked horse.

I think what I fear is choosing to do something, and then not being able to back out of it or change my mind. Or, perhaps, not being able to change my mind without unacceptable consequences. Experts may call that "fear of committment."

I never thought of myself as a "fear of committment" kind of person. I'm not one of them. I'm one of the good people! I'm someone people are supposed to be able to depend on. Or at least, that's what I'd like to be.

But I'm afraid of being trapped.

I don't like this. It's not a good way to be. I'd like to be able to comprehend committing to things that actually matter in life, and not be hung up on the what-ifs. I'm afraid that I'd always wonder if I had made the right choice or not, and maybe even hate myself for doing the wrong thing (or worse, maybe I'd be inclined to take it out on the unfortunate others I committed to).

As I write this, I recognize it as an immature attitude. This is not the person I want to be. I hope I grow out of it. I really do. But isn't there something to be said for recognizing the severity of the consequences of one's actions?

I feel that major decisions generally shouldn't be made if you can't really throw yourself behind your choice. Ah, but it's so hard to choose when so many things in life are no longer matters of black and white.

I suppose as we go along we just make choices and then live with them, and that there's really no way any responsible person can get around that.

I ain't got the time

I think music is a lot like books.

A bit too much attention is paid to the top 40 (in terms of books, that would be Oprah's Book Club or the New York Times Best-seller List)-- meanwhile, there are generations of musical works and literary works that-- if they're lucky and they play their marketing just right-- get their day in the sun and then are never appreciated again.

A good education usually includes knowledge of the classics, both musical and literary, and then one's own taste takes over in adulthood. Then most people's exploration of music rarely goes beyond the Top 40. I guess most people don't read a whole lot, either.

I think iTunes is the equivalent of Cliffs notes for music. And maybe blogs are the equivalent of radio for literature. It takes out the work/pleasure (depending on your view) of investing time in listening to an entire album or reading an entire book/article -- you just cut out the middleman, so to speak, and buy the one popular hit you wanted. Or you cut straight to the point of the story. Or, in cases of blogs and radio, you cut straight to what someone else thinks is important.

I wish there were radio stations that played not just to entertain and have background music, but maybe with programs that really explore sub-genres and artists and meaning behind music. A station where the DJs are not prattling nitwits that just provide noise, but are knowledgable about real music and all the things that go into the art.

I guess I could've gotten that knowledge if I had taken music classes in college. But I really didn't have time. What a shame.

Don't look at me.

I went to yoga class yesterday. I got there kind of early, so I had to stand around for a few minutes before I was allowed to go in the room (it's held in a room at a very large gym facility).

I wonder sometimes if I should take some kind of tranquilizer before going to the gym. While that may seem counterintuitive, the intent is that I could go to the gym and simply exercise without being visually hyperstimulated by the crowds of gym bunnies and meatheads flailing around on elaborate pieces of machinery.

The closest I can get to such a state of blissful ignorance is visual ignorance; i.e., not wearing my contacts. All the details of bright, reflective footgear, and ruddy, sweat-smeared faces aren't clear enough to distract me.

Also, there's nowhere to look when you're just standing there at the gym. Look to the right, and there's a legion of thirtysomethings on the stairmasters and rowing machines. Look to the left, and there's some dame doing her pre-yoga warm-up stretches. She's already got her shoes off and everything. How can ya walk around a gym barefoot? Like, "I am sooo spiritually centered that I want to be one with the energy of a thousand bodies sweating in unison."

There's something so vulnerable and intimate about seeing people exercise. I sure-as-pectoralis major can't do it, and darn if I want anyone watching me, either. I think it's sort of voyeuristic.

Taking actual classes at Das Gymnasium doesn't make me feel as violated, though. In the enclosed yoga room, nobody's there except for to take the class. We're all just a group of bendy chicks in awkward positions that render us unable to look anywhere except the backs of our knees.

Also, no cute guys in yoga. Ever. Thank God.