This weekend, I had a massive cell phone purge. It was jammed packed with the numbers of shitheads I really don't ever plan to call again. Shady? Poof. Farmer? Poof. My old temp agency? Poof. There's something downright liberating about all that. I decided that it would be the best thing to do to stop brooding because I am good for that crap. Out of plain sight, out of mind is my motto which explains so much really.
Meanwhile, I think that I'm regressing. It's fitting because I'm fully settled at home, going to work, and living life not in my living room in a way that I haven't been since the summer before Wes....as sad as that sounds. All that's missing is a trip down South. (Oh wait, check.) I was bored at work last week and I Googled my focus boy. He has a blog-type deal (doesn't everyone?) which hasn't been updated in a while yet it is semi-interesting to read. He has a secret non-work life just like I could sense he did, making electronic stuff for fun. (We'll ignore the girlfriend I discovered on my Friendster search. It's not like I want more than to be all fashionable and dark together at work anyways.) I wish I could talk to him about it in a way that wasn't stalker sounding, but I'm at a loss. I need to step up my chatting at the copier game, pronto! Anyhoo, I realized that he reminds me of someone else I know who I've been becoming friends with recently, down to the cowboyish boots. After I hung out with that one for real the first time, all I could think was it was like being 17 again and so enthralled by this boy B in my class.
I'm a sucker for the dark-haired musicians a little too smart and mouthy for their own good. A little broody and complicated. B was the type of guy only a high school girl could love. We sat next to each other in calc and he complemented me on my The Colour and The Shape tape and always tried to cheat off me in tests. He had this stupid looking leather jacket and slightly too long hair, just a little curly. Just when I thought we were getting somewhere, he started going out with this superbland ultraWASP blonde girl. In my school, they always chose the blondes -- and if none were available, as close as you could get, with girls that looked like me (like the 10 of us) being the farthest from that and hence, invisible. At the time, I was devestated and began to hate him as I realized he was really just a prick who thought he was the only guy in the universe to like the Sex Pistols and Nirvana. He went off to Williams and proved himself to be even lamer. I heard a rumor later on that he broke up with Blandy over IM frosh year of college. Last fall, I was strolling down E 10th Street on my way to meet a friend when I noticed myself about to pass him. He gave me a quizzical "I know you" look waiting for me to say something, looking as if not a hair had changed since '99 and still wearing that stupid jacket. I feigned playing with my phone and walked right past him. Good riddance.
The problem with regressing to 17-year old likes is I'm back to my 17-year old initiative -- that is, none. At 17, I was all dreams and no action because I didn't have the first clue of how to be a girl chatting up a boy. That was the tailend of my tomboy phase when I was still extracting myself from the oversized clothes. I couldn't relate to guys except in playing sports or talking about music. Even at 23, I've really got no skills. I'm always amazed when I fall into something. I've gotten over the inner spazziness (for the most part), but first moves are not my bag. Life would be so much easier if you could just tackle them into falling for you. Or babble nervously and inanely to you but smartly cynical and funny to them until they jump you. (Oh wait...I do that second one already. Works like a charm.)
The real solution I suppose is embrace getting older and get some balls. Natch. If only it was that easy. Meanwhile, I'm off to write in my journal -- or actually IM Jay-V -- about how Focus Boy and I shared a moment passing in the kitchen -- and how he almost caught me looking at his site by appearing over my shoulder at the copier. Eek. A little silliness never killed anybody.
Posted by Candicissima at June 1, 2004 04:22 PM