Random

“No offense… but I can’t even imagine the kind of person you would be in a relationship with.”

Me: “Well, me neither!”

When I want to tell you that you’re not ready for what you think you’re ready for, am I really just saying that I’m not ready?

I’m trying this new thing: being honest with myself.  In some ways it’s exciting and refreshing, and in another it’s like quicksand.  My own mind is disorienting, and I’m not sure if I’m working my way through a tunnel towards a light that will eventually appear at the end, or if I’m going to realize that I’ve been digging downward in a landfill where there’s no bottom to be found.

The other day I was leaving the bathroom and I caught my reflection in the mirror, and in that moment I was struck by how very strange it is that I am living out my existence in such a body.  Is what I was looking at me?  Is there any part of me that is separate from this awkward physical form, or is my soul somehow tied up in my pale skin and stubby fingers?  Would I still be me if I was tall? 

When is the last time you looked at the reflection of your face and just marveled at the fact that somewhere behind it you were forming thoughts and processing the bizarre idea that you were, in fact, looking at yourself?

Just me?

Currently Reading Candide (A Norton Critical Edition) By Voltaire see related

I hold on to things. 

All sorts of things, all the time.  My friends make fun of me because I can never seem to set down my purse when I arrive at my destination.  I’ll look down at my hand three hours after a meal and notice that I’m still clutching a napkin.  My piano teacher was working with me this year on my releases: unbeknownst to me, my thumb and pinky have been holding on to notes longer than necessary, probably for the last decade or so of my piano-playing.  I hold on to people, too.  I never really “get over” people and I don’t forget the ones who have been important to me.  My girlfriends laugh at the vestiges of my adolescent crushes that never really seem to go away.

Right now I’m working on moving back home.  I got back over a week ago, but a large amount of my belongings are still sitting in the downstairs hallway because when I got here, my room was already full.  My room (at home) has been consistently messy for as long as I can remember, largely because I have more things than will fit in it in an organized fashion, despite its size.  Going through my room to try and create space for everything has been like a journey through my life… it’s interesting to sift through the things that I haven’t been able to get rid of.

The nice thing is that I really feel like I’m at home, even though I’ve had no social life whatsoever.  In a way it’s like I never left. It was extremely, uncharacteristically, easy for me to leave school.  To let go of the places and faces that I will be away from for at least a year and six months.  I’m not sure why that is, exactly – although parts of it were the grey skies, a few less-than-stimulating classes, and my lack of freedom (transportation-wise as well as time-wise).  I just know that I couldn’t muster up a single tear when I was waving goodbye to four visibly emotional people who have been good friends to me the last two years.  For whatever combination of reasons, I was so ready to leave.  I know that they were ready for me to leave, too, regardless of what they would like me to think.

Summer is refreshing because I’m allowed to take things one day at a time.  Even though I’m working full-time, I don’t feel stressed.  It’s nice having a job that I don’t hate (although I’ve only worked two days, so maybe I shouldn’t speak too soon).  I have been blessed with a week or so of sunshine and moderately warm weather.  I’m slowly adjusting to the fact that I don’t even have practicing piano hanging over my head—for the first time since I can remember.  I can play if I want to, what I want to, and I don’t have to feel guilty for not putting in the effort that would be respectful for my teachers.  I’m looking forward to the little things, like taking the day off for an old friend’s wedding in a couple weeks.  That will be enough.

In three months I will be in France.  It still doesn’t seem real and I’m not sure that it’s going to until I’m there.  I have a lot of logistical things to do to get ready (plane tickets, visa, etc.) and there’s definitely room to work on my linguistic abilities and cultural knowledge, but I think I’ll be ready to let go of home when the time comes.

I doubt that, in my first two years of college, I’ve collected any volume of knowledge close to reflecting the amount of money spent on my education.  However, I know that I’ve gained wisdom.  Is it presumptuous to call myself wise?  There’s certainly time to disprove that sentiment, but for the moment I’m relatively confident in it.  I’ve learned that I’m not necessarily that intelligent—above average, sure, but that doesn’t mean much.  Overall, though, I feel like my wisdom surpasses that of many of my peers.  I’ve always been patient and I am even more so now.  It’s getting harder for life to surprise me, and that’s not because of a pessimistic outlook: I suppose in a way it comes from expecting the unexpected, good and bad.  I am learning to accept my limitations and setbacks and the actions of other people, along with the tiny sparkling pieces of beauty in daily life, with quiet resignation.  I don’t pretend to know why things happen or what’s right and wrong but I know that I’ll be okay.  Even if I let go.

Currently Listening Infinity on High By Fall Out Boy see related

So I’m supposed to write a short letter (in French) introducing myself to my host family-to-be.  Not a big deal, right? 

Well, sort of.  Aside from the problems phrasing things in French that really shouldn’t be a problem at this point (“pendant” or “pour”? hmm…), I never know what to say for these things.  I have the standards: my school, my majors, where I’m from... and then I always seem to get stuck after “I play the piano”.  This is funny to me because, although I’ve been playing piano forever, it’s not such a big part of my life.  It’s on the side—way on the side.  But I can never come up with anything more salient to describe myself.

I even get stumped when someone asks what my interests are.  Music, again?  Does that count? Is that really even an interest for me?  I have all these “empty” interests: I like reading but I never read, I suppose I’m interested in international affairs but I know nothing about the world or what's happening in it, I like languages but I’ve only ever studied one.  So I sort of feel like I’m lying if I say any of those things.

Basically, I have an all-consuming love/hate relationship with myself.

“Bonjour, je m’appelle Lindsay…”

Presque…

I am almost intelligent

I am almost happy

I am almost joyful

I am almost pretty

I am almost optimistic

I am almost friendly

I am almost likeable

I am almost faithful

I am almost unique

I am almost motivated

I am almost talented

I am almost hard-working

I am almost independent

I am almost compassionate

I am almost loving

I am almost ready to meet you

I am almost ready to let you in.

I am almost done with my projects

I am almost ready to leave

I am almost gone.

I am almost bilingual

I am almost done with school forever

I am almost the ideal candidate

I am almost a “grown-up”

I am almost a potential wife.

You and I are almost friends

You almost care

You almost miss me,

Almost.

     Mais, c’est la “presque” qui compte...