i am nothing if not genius.

Me: “Did you hear that of that American couple that was on the flight from Brazil, the man was a Clemson grad? He was from Greenville.”

The roommate: “No, I was reading CNN.com.”

Me: “Well, it was in The State paper today. I read it while I was waiting on Steph to pick me up for the gym this morning.”

The roommate: “That’s just God telling the world not to go to Clemson.”

Me: “I just think it’s just all so sad. All of it.”

The roommate: “And that is why I am never going to get on a plane again.”

Me: “That should make for an interesting life.”

The roommate: “It’s just… can you imagine knowing for a whole 5 or however many minutes that you’re going to die? And there were 7 kids on that flight. Can you imagine explaining that to your child? Telling them what’s about to happen to them?”

Me: “No. They said early on that if there were no survivors it would be the worst airline disaster since 2001.”

The roommate: “No, I think this is going to be the worst ever.”

Me: “When was that one I remember? Um, TI-89…”

Me: “…wait. That’s a calculator, isn’t it?”

[For the record I was referring to TWA Flight 800. And I was 11 at the time it crashed. And therefore, probably knew a whole of a lot more about a TI-89 at the time.]

the race.

“You remember Kristin, don’t you?” he said, speaking to his son, The Farmer, as I walked up to the house from my car Saturday afternoon. The Farmer was cute. Just as cute, if not cuter, than he was the last time I had see him, two years ago when he walked into my federation’s fundraiser and straight towards me at the check in table I was sitting at. It took a coworker’s nudge for me to come out of my daze then and I was at risk of losing myself again.

I met his family and a cooler of Miller Lite. I got a plate of barbeque and went to sit down across from the roommate to eat lunch under the shelter by their lake as we listened to the buzz around us of the evening’s race and felt the steady breeze across our faces.

When we left we followed The Farmer to the track to park. And then to a golf cart where he drove us to the infield to our box. “I’ve got to head out to drive around some clients per Dad,” he said as he left and just before the roommate looked at me and offered, “I don’t think he’s in to either of us. He was pretty quick to leave.”

There’s a part of me that just doesn’t want to hear these things. Even if they’re probable. Even if they’re true. I don’t want to hear it. And so still I drank and laughed and drank as the cars whizzed by right in front of us.

And he came back. With his father. And as I stood and talked to his father about work and the day he pulled out his cell phone and showed me my name and number where he’d stored it. “Yes sir, that’s it,” I told him. “I’m going to give this to someone,” he said to me. “Who?” I asked, watching him turn around, saying nothing, and just smile as he walked away.

“The Farmer asked for my number,” the roommate said to me, no more than 10 minutes later.

And my own smile was gone.

“Yea, this other guy was asking for it and he said, oh yea, I need to get your number too,” she continued.

And so I kept drinking. Because that’s what you do.

i'll call him "pal."

Last night I was sitting at my computer, home from work and already in sweats, about 2 steps from a trip to the Social Pig with the roommate to acquire the necessary ingredients for chicken spaghetti, when my phone rang. From a number I did not know.

“Maybe it’s Otter!” the roommate shouted from the kitchen, mocking me. “No,” I said, sighing, “I have his number.”

For the next hour I was a giddy sort of amused. (I tend to dance around aisles if no one else is around and I am not required to do any buggy pushing with mom the roommate.)

About an hour after that (or maybe two – whenever Two and a Half Men ended and the depression that associates with Intervention set in) I got in that shaky sort of “I’m exhausted” mood that I tend to achieve. Also see: overdramatic and fussy.

Sunday night a friend of mine had sent a text saying she was in the company of the boy I had met last week. “Is he still cute?” I asked her. “He’s still cute and still has a girlfriend,” she responded. We’d done our facebook research, I’ll admit. And his “In a Relationship” status was enough for me.

So when he called from that unknown number I was shocked. SHOCKED. And when I listened to the message and heard that he was calling to see what I was up to this week and if I wanted to get a drink, I WAS MORE SHOCKED.

Obviously I immediately called my friend. “He called,” I started off. “WHAT THE FRENCH??” she interrupted. Mind you, she says that about most everything.

Sitting on the porch listening to the rain, I called him back. He told me about his weekend and his whereabouts. And when he asked what I was up to this week I told him that again we were doing our weekly hangout and he should meet up. So he said to call him. And I will. I’ll call him the same thing my dad called my mom the entire time they dated. I’ll call him “pal.”

Because that’s what you do when you find yourself in the same place you’ve been before, just with a different someone.

just another day in the neighborhood.

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting on the front porch, enjoying my newly acquired food baby from Adriana’s, rocking back and forth in my rocking chair, and gawking. I think it was first the length of the shorts. Or really, just how much leg I was seeing. Then it was the pink polo. Because when dumpster diving? I think a pink polo is really the best thing to wear. Then there was something about the hair. It was pretty sexy.

All of this I thought before even beginning to tackle the idea of the empty grocery buggy. And the man woman that was following behind him. With a backpack.

“Oh great, word’s out that our street’s got some good trash,” the roommate commented. I couldn’t peel my eyes away. You know that whole saying about things being like a train wreck when you just can’t turn away? Well this was train wreck central. Because they started with the pile (and they were quick!) and then they went to the herbie curbie. And they were all up in that.

And I would like to add that I’m kind of concerned about the manners they teach on the streets. Because that man? He totally had his woman pushing the full buggy all the way home.

“Do you think they’re lovers?” I asked the roommate. I’m all about some drama. I think that has intensified since I no longer get my daily fill of Young and the Restless (of which I might have worked my class schedule around in college).

“Probably just living together out of circumstance,” the always pragmatic roommate answered.

That was just before we heard The Wife yelling to Mr. Strung Out, “No I’m not gonna let you take it all so that you can sell it for pills so you can get high. I DON’T DO THAT.” Blah blah blah.

I think I’ll let them know when we have our next block party. I bet they like PBR too.

vulnerability.

Last night the roommate and I sat, in participation of our own weekly date night, discussing the honest truth.

“When did you go to the doctor last?” she asked me.

“Um, October 07, when we went together,” I told her.

“Kristin!”

The thing is, I’ve been thinking about it. And I meant to go this fall. But my life is different. So much happened then. Things have changed. And… and… it scares me.

“While we’re talking about this I need to tell you what’s been going on with me the last couple of days,” I told her.

“It’s a thickening – ” I started.

“A thickening can be scar tissue…” she interrupted.

“My mom used the word thickening,” I added.

“I’m scared,” I continued.

“I’m becoming her,” I added.

And I cried.

And then I realized how tired I am of being scared. Of feeling out of the loop. Of wondering and then trying to cease wonder and then feeling overwhelmed and the next minute underwhelmed. Of worrying if it’s something or if it’s nothing, or if it’s real or if it’s tissue, of thinking I’m overreacting or if I might be under-reacting.

And what it comes down to is that I’m vulnerable. And I’m really really tired of being so.

progress report.

The roommate and I decided last night that we were going to start 2009 over again. You know, because it hasn’t been going exactly the way either of us really wanted it to.

Talk less, listen more. I do find myself listening. A lot. To the roommate. To my mom and my dad. To my brothers. To my friends. I find myself listening and making trips to visit with the people that want me around and tell me so. And I have found that in the first month of the year, I have made a really good effort to spend time with the people that seem to care about me. But I’m still talking. Damn it. I’m still frustrated with things and sharing that frustration in what sometimes comes off as my hopes to get closer to the people I open up to. (Some warped idea I came up with in my college days. Be open and honest and people will love you, I had thought. Bullshit, I now know.) Thursday night around midnight I received a text message from a [gossip mongrel] friend I’d seen earlier in the evening. I was asleep at the time. “So what’s going on in your love life, Special K?” he asked. I woke up the next morning to it and all I could think was, “Whatever it is it’s none of your bidness dude.” And so I didn’t respond. And I wished I’d never answered that question from anyone in the past month at all. None of your beeswax, people. And I don’t care if that response is r-u-d-e.

Run, run, run. Um. Let it be known that every time I do get in a running groove I inflict injury on myself. This is an ongoing thing since high school. And it is really freaking awesome, let me tell you. I then have to wait a week and see if it heals, and then sometimes I have to wait another week, and then I have to start all over again. And then, you know, there are weeks like last week when I NEVER EVEN LEFT THE OFFICE. “Kristin, have you been running?” Dad asked me yesterday. “WHEN!?” was my response.

Be a happier person. Yea, dude, I am not a happy person. And that, in itself, makes me sad. Which is kind of ironic, methinks. At lunch on Saturday one of my best friends from college looked at me across the table as we caught up on the past 6 months since we’d last seen one another and she said to me, “You don’t look happy, Kristin.” Yea, sad. Because I feel like I’m doing everything I can and I don’t know what else to do. I’m on the go, I’m keeping busy, I’m learning the ropes of work and responsibility and maintaining friendships to the best of my ability and yet I can’t find happiness. I WANT TO KNOW WHY, damn it. I am honestly asking all of you. Why?

Save more money. Shut your trap with the emails, J.Crew. I am only human. I am no Bella Swan with self control.

Read 100 books. To the best of my calculations, in order to catch up I will need to read approximately 11.5 books in the month of February alone. One book every 2 days? Psshit.

So I’m starting 2009 over again. Bear with me.

in honor of my not so productive yesterday.

Sometimes what you really need is just a wasted day. And I am pleased to say I am quite good at seeing that through. Yesterday I woke to the roommate’s voice coming from her room as she talked on the phone. I reached for my book as soon as my eyes were open and started getting more into Breaking Dawn.

Of course, I started having thoughts about lunch, too.

When the roommate finally came knocking on my door, letting the dog in my room and into the bed with me along with herself, we started discussing lunch strategy. She would throw out options and I’d play baseball with them until we came to a decision.

A pimento burger it would be.

Post lunch, mid food coma, I put back on my pajama pants and crawled back into the bed, the Felicity pilot already playing. It was then I started wallowing a bit in Sunday afternoon self pity, feasting on an internalization buffet.

“You relate to Felicity, don’t you?” the roommate said to me, half smirking, as I became engrossed in my favorite show.

Well. Duh.

“I guess I’m learning little by little that we decide what our lives are going to be. Things happen to us but it’s our reactions that matter.” Sally Reardon, Felicity.

I started off 2009 so content that I was going to make it different. I wasn’t going to do the same ole same ole I’d been dealing with the past few months. I wasn’t going to be anxious or take things so personally or let things leave me so affected. I was going to succeed.

Instead I have let people directly affect me or influence me or cause me some kind of inner pain. Does that make me a strong person? No. Does that make me self confident or attractive? Hell no. Does that make me weak and vulnerable and insecure and someone no one really wants to be around? I’m sure.

Saturday night the roommate and I had had our typical weekly butting of the heads and I had cried, for the first time in a while. But for once I could explain. I could explain that I am bothered and irritated and frustrated. And I am weak. Yea, I’m a pretty weak person. Particularly for someone who is so damn independent. I reek of insecurity.

And I let people affect me. That’s really just the truth of the matter.

Because I have expectations.

Yea me, miss non-committal and not needy and cool. Um, yea.

“Oh the one hand, expectations can inspire you. But then again they can really let you down. I’m just not ready to be let down quite yet. But you know me. I still have hope. That one day – maybe even pretty soon – I’ll take a chance again, the horrible face of expectation, and maybe it’ll be worth it.” Sally Reardon, Felicity.

Expectations? Hope when you shouldn’t have hope? Sensitivity to the words and actions of people that shouldn’t really have that much hold on you? Trust in the untrustworthy?

All these things are really just bitches.

this may get confusing.

I’m trying to figure out where the beginning is so I know where to start.

Last week, across the dinner table, I sat there looking at him. Mr. Perfect, in all his togetherness. Talk of family, of running and biking, of work, of life. I sat there and couldn’t help but think of where in the big picture he sits. Yes, I have always had in on a pedestal. You know, the kind where you have known someone for a long time, know all of their good parts (and their bad parts too). Know their family and their take on God. Know that a part of you maintains an innocence so that you will be good enough for someone like him. Someone like him but not him. Because with him it just isn’t there. Not 8 years ago and not now, anyway. And that’s irritating. Because here is someone that seems to have, you know, atleast a good percentage of the 20 must haves. And that should be enough, right? Enough for me, at least.

I left the restaurant and didn’t think of him any further. Not in the way I like to have a guy I want to be with occupy my thoughts. Because, well, he just doesn’t occupy my thoughts so much.

A couple of days later the roommate and I were planning a really thrilling evening. And by thrilling I do mean the discussion went from mexican to pizza to carry out or eat in to whether we were going to go to Blockbuster and really branch out to just planning on watching the Sex & the City movie. Yet again. It was Friday night and we are very popular, you see. (I am being sarcastic, for all those who might not be able to tell.) I walked into my room to grab my phone as we set to head out the door and as I looked at it, I saw that The Ballplayer had texted me. Texted to let me know he was headed to the restaurant I too was about to set out for and asking if I was interested.

So we joined he and his friend. For dinner and beer and then to another restaurant for more beer and shots. And then yet another. (Because you know, as I told the security guard when I’d left the office at 5:30 pm, I’m not drinking tonight.) We talked casually but not much of significance to me. We laughed, because the evening was light and fun.

Sitting on a barstool I saw him. My first kiss, the bitter Mr. Athletic. He appeared genuine with his hi hellos. As he always does. And yet I’m still unnerved by the fact that we can’t be the kind of friends that call each other and make plans like we did way back when and like he can with all of our other friends. Not wanting to be your girlfriend in high school does not a bad person make you. In my opinion but apparently not in his.

“Kristin, I just don’t understand why you care that much what he says to others about you. Why is it such a big deal?” the roommate asked me as he walked away. I will explain why this bothers me the same way I explained to my Charleston best friend’s husband today why she is allowed to be unnerved by a coworker’s rude “you gained a lot of weight during your pregnancy” comments to her a few months back. We want people to like us and be nice to us and treat us equally to other people they like and are nice to. I am, unapologetically, consumed with other’s impressions of me. Maybe my heart is warped, maybe my ego is at fault, maybe I’m too damn sensitive. Maybe it’s as simple as something chemical about me. But I want to feel unjudged and missed and loved. From EVERYONE.

There. I said it.

And so, his shit bothers me. It bothered me and kept me from apparently paying attention to The Ballplayer and realizing what the roommate seemed to see so clearly. That he is apparently way into me. And I am apparently crazy for not getting that.

And honestly, for once again, not feeling the same way.

Good guy. Sports fan. Lives with his sister in town. Actively pursues me and clearly doesn’t take “not tonight” for an answer. Makes sure I get home safely and sends me “night sweetheart” texts.

And I’m just, not into him. What the hell is wrong with me?

Friday night was my moment of rehash. Sitting on the final barstool that evening I found myself 4 stools over from The Nice Guy. Oh yes, the teetotaler was at the bar. Not drinking. Duh.

Between he and I was a girl that dated, albeit briefly, Cute Boy.

HELLO, I’m aware this is all too much and it may be difficult to keep up with ALL OF THE GUYS I AM NOT INTERESTED IN. We shall call them my discard pile. Mr. Athletic, The Nice Guy, Cute Boy, etcetera, etcetera. I really wish happily ever after consisted of a road made up of yellow bricks. And not speed bumps.

Tonight I sat at home thinking that maybe my perfect guy, my One, is with someone else right now. Maybe he’s with this girl, or that girl, or SOMEONE. Someone that is not me. That is funny. And beautiful. And everyone loves her. His family and his friends and her friends. (Sad that that’s even a one up on me.)

And maybe it’s okay. Okay that I have these standards and that that great guy with all these great things about him might not ever come around my way. Or maybe he has and he took one look at me and said, “That’s not what I want right now.” And he went off and found someone that fit him for the moment. Or maybe for forever. And that’s okay.

Because maybe if I had my One right by my side right now, I wouldn’t really have all that much to write about.

dear abs, where did you go?

It is January. Freaking JANUARY. And all I can think about is June. And July. And heat. I actually want the humidity back right about now. Gasp. (I realize 40 degrees to some people is really not all that frigid.)

One of my albeit many resolutions this year (or more so a necessity) is to actually get back in shape. Not to be able to run again without death closing in. And not to lose some pounds. Been there, done some of that. But to actually achieve that I know I can’t be a freshman in high school again but I’m a version of that. With hips. (Well, some.) Duh. And I think even slightly bigger boobs. Maybe. That makes me laugh.

Last night I went to Publix (and was somewhat disappointed by their limited Kashi collection) and gathered up some oatmeal to replenish my work stash and some lettuce to use for salads for lunch.

When I came home, the roommate had returned from work and was ready to launch into a discussion about how I go on a kick and then I exhaust myself and then I’m over it for a couple of weeks. And then I start anew. And how she’s lived with me through these and so “all things in moderation, Kristin.” She also routinely calls my mom “crazy” and reminds me that I have “food issues.” But I digress.

Her point was what again? I don’t think it’s that detrimental to my overall wellbeing if I feel like getting up and being at the gym at 5:30 am right now, and not, say, next week. I mean, that’s between me and my resolution contract. (Oprah once said to sign a diet and fitness contract with yourself. Tried that. Broke it. Didn’t feel guilty. Not signing my resolution contract.)

Moving on, last night I sat on my bed, totally enraptured by Bromance, and went through my collection of Self magazine. For what, you might ask? Perhaps an elixir to make either my thighs disappear or my abs reappear. That I sadly did not find.

But I’m sure I can find some new magazines to go through tomorrow.

the high lows.

High: Making it to the gym at 5:30 am on a Monday. And running 2 miles in 20 minutes while there.

Low: The roommate waking up and walking into the kitchen as you tie your shoes and her looking at you and saying, “What are you doing up?” with attitude.

High: Getting to work 30 minutes early. LOVE being in the office when no one is around.

Low: Being at work on a Monday morning 30 minutes early.

High: Eating oatmeal for breakfast.

Low: Coworker that I do not like asking me questions about my personal life and having to dodge them Vince Vaughn style.

High: Feeling relaxed and put together with freshly painted nails and a newly pressed blouse because you made yourself productive yesterday afternoon.

Low: Having had to deal with the roommate coming home last night at 10 pm after 10 hours of drinking, ready to pick a fight because you didn’t call and let her know you weren’t going to come and meet up, when you never knew you were supposed to. And hearing you were “disengaged” at lunch. Disengaged = you were not fun.

High: Still enjoying the boss’ Friday words to mean coworker. “I got your email and yes, you can help with this project but KRISTIN IS THE PROJECT MANAGER.” Watching coworker pout out of his office and having him look at me, smile, and say “thank you”.

Low: LA best friend having to fly back to the west coast last night.

High: Getting to spend an exorbitant amount of time with her. That distracted us both.

Low: Realizing that now that she’s gone, things are going to start to get really boring and really lonely. Once again.