The Love that I Love
I love Jason Mraz.
I think one of my problems here is that I have not done enough to hold onto myself. I stopped writing, reading, listening to my music- lost faith in love for a while. Where did I go? I stopped dreaming and it’s nearly drown me out. Well, I’m back, full force. I want to be a starry-eyed romantic. I guess I worried that being in college meant beginning ‘real life’; it meant growing up. I feared that if I didn’t this big scary real world would chew me up and spit me out- just as everyone thought it would. So I hardened myself; my outlook, my attitude, and more than anything else, my heart. In doing so I nearly lost sight of myself. There is a young pretty girl in a flowing white dress with wide eyes and an even bigger heart, and I put her behind bars. She withered. But all I need is room to run, to laugh, to dream and I’ll be back. I need more of ME in my life. The influences of my own personality, because otherwise I’ve become this tangled web of everyone around me and it has made me miserable. I want the Princess Bride, Beauty and the Beast, Jason Mraz, fields of wild flowers, daydreams that make me late (instead of laziness) and an appreciation for beauty.
My roommate asked me if she was high-maintenance to which I scoffed allowed and said, yes- yes you are. She asked what it was and whether it was a bad thing. I defined it as having high expectations for your relationship and significant other: demanding a lot of attention in the forms of time, effort, money etc. And decided that it is not necessarily a bad thing in small doses but that it is often abused to the point of gaining a bad rep.
Then she asked if I was high-maintenance. Again, I scoffed. I think I am the most low-maintenance girlfriend I’ve ever met. Well, my other-soon-to-be-roommate is, I suppose. But she’s been with her boyfriend for over two and a half years now, so I credit a certain amount of that to their level of comfort and security as a couple. I, on the other hand, am in a fairly new relationship and am still ridiculously low-maintenance. I don’t wait around for phone calls, or even expect them really. I hardly get jealous, and never to an extreme level. I don’t expect my boyfriend to pay for anything and don’t expect gifts except perhaps on my birthday. (Not even on Christmas because my birthday is so close to Christmas I am accustomed to getting Birth-mas gifts. And I think Valentine’s Day is a joke.)
I am about as low-maintenance as they come. The only thing I expect out of a relationship is loyalty and honesty. But gaging my most recent track record, I’d say that’s expecting a lot. The thing is, I return it. I am not saintly enough to say that I have never cheated. I was young and stupid and in love with someone else for years – and even those are not good enough excuses to make up for it. The boy I was with at the time has no idea and I could never tell him. We are too good of friends for me chance ruining it over something that happened long ago. Aside from that, it was a secret affair (which made it all the more appealing and thrilling at the time) and what good are those if everyone knows about them. But because of this, I am loyal to fault now. I am extremely trusting, loving, and adoring while I am with someone – and would not cheat were an opportunity to come up. I am sure of this in my heart. Even if Fred were to come home – as much as stupid heart still longs for that kind of love – were he to appear at my doorstep and beg for me back, I would go to Alex before anything else.
I guess I should come to a point, because I could talk myself in circles coming up with examples, scenarios, and analyzing my behavior patterns — I don’t love like other people do.
When I love, it is not shallow or fleeting, or forgettable. When I love, it is deep, sincere, wholly, life-altering (for me at least). And easy. God, it’s so easy for me to fall in love. That kind, the serious kind. The kind with implications. I almost wish that my heart had reins so I could hold it back before I fall on my face and get hurt. But it doesn’t. And after my train of thought today, I’m glad. Because if I were able to do that, if I try – like I have been recently, I lose myself. I lose a part of who I am. That is a major part of who I am and rare enough that it ought to be treasured. I’ve just got to find the right person who will do so. I’ve got to find someone who I can trust it with, who deserves it.
I need to be more picky. I wonder if that will make me high-maintenance. I don’t think I care.
Camille
I am in an odd mood.
I want to be a starving artist. Bone-thin, tall and gangly because of it, and jealous of girls with natural curves. I want to have a shitty apartment that is dirt cheap and maybe a little dangerous. I want there to be a gray cat waiting for me when I come in from my minimum wage bistro job. He’ll be named after the brooding main character from some great literary work. I’ll walk in, pet the cat for a little bit and then turn left into the kitchenette that has dingy linoleum countertops that match the yellowed and peeling linoleum floor. There will be some terrible brown and orange tile pattern on the back wall above the counter leering out at me from the midst of whatever hell the 70’s retired to. I’ll open a faded painted wood cabinet to one bag of cat food, a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of PAM cooking spray, and a can of stewed mushrooms. I grab the cat food and pour Heathcliff, who is curving around my legs a bowl of food. “It’s a feast for you good sir.” I mutter as I bow to him and my own stomach growls. I stare at the cabinet for a moment and then at the cat, who is happily munching away on his banquet. I walk into my bedroom that barely fits a twin mattress and a beat up dresser, and begin dropping all of my bags and coat and scarf etc – until I’m in nothing but my skimmies. I bend down and scrounge through the mess I just made until I find a thin cotton t-shirt and pull it over my head. I walk back into the kitchen, grab the single clean spoon from its drawer and before reaching in to grab the jar of peanut butter, lovingly ruffle the cats head. Into the living room I go, I settle onto the sagging couch with it’s horrid flower pattern (if the pattern on the linoleum and the kitchen tile had a baby and it barfed all over – it would be the color of my couch) and reach under the seat cushion for the remote. If I leave it out Heathcliff will press the buttons all day, turning the tv off and on and spiking my electric bill. I turn on the fuzzy tv and flip through the 3 channels I get with my foil antenna and settle into my life.
Sorry I come with Strings
It just occurred to me how terrified I am to leave for the summer.
The realization did not spawn from some jealous moment or instant of obvious insecurity, but instead because of how preciously I was treating each moment I spend with him before that time comes. I don’t remember ever feeling this tender toward someone. It’s just that there is nothing wrong thus far – and that in itself, being aware of me and my history of relationships – seems wrong. But it’s not. It’s wonderful. And he’s pretty wonderful. I’m just so happy spending time with him. The last few days that we’ve been at his parent’s house to watch his younger brother have just been amazing. Not in the sense that anything spectacular happened, in fact, mostly because nothing spectacular happened. We watched went out to dinner, did laundry, watched a movie, made pizza, cleaned up the house a bit, mowed the lawn, lounged- all normal weekend activities. It just seemed so normal, like we did it every day. And it was so nice being able to be around him whenever I wanted. I love how casual we are with each other. Something changed this weekend, deepened. We are no longer a new couple, I can feel it. We crossed some imaginary line that advanced us into a new comfort zone.
He just walked up to me, kissed me and when I paused for explanation, he said, “That’s it.” and walked away. It’s official, I’m pretty crazy about him.
But knowing that, and knowing that I am leaving for the summer has made me treat each moment that I am with him as if it is something beautiful and fragile. I suppose this is not a bad thing, but for what it means to me. You see, I often take things for granted and if I am not it is for a reason. I am making this time worth it because I worry it will be all we have. It’s not his fault I was cheated on last summer and therefore wary of long-distance relationships ( although truth be told I had very good reasons to be wary before but wasn’t wise enough to ) And so I feel terrible knowing the in my subconscious I have trouble trusting men. I suppose all I can do is be grateful that I am happy and able to appreciate it (no matter what the reason behind it is)
WordPress Virginity
I don’t think I’ve truly grasped how intricate the WordPress world is yet. I just did a bit of a scan through my homepage and realized how many options I have ignored. I have no categories, no pictures, have not imported or exported anything yet. I felt brave and adventurous, the way you do after your first kiss – that is, until you learn about sex and everything in between and realize you’d just stumbled onto the tip of an iceberg and have opened the door to a world you’d been previously unaware of. You know what they say; kissing leads to other things. I only wanted a new blog but now I’m worried that I’ve gotten myself into something I won’t be able to get out of – I will just get more and more involved in the wordpress community until I no longer have a life outside it! And lose all identity except that of my wordpress blog!
Okay, so it’s not that serious, but honestly, I can see myself spending more and more time on here. Though I’ve decided that is no tragedy, my vocabulary could use the encouragement. I haven’t read a novel for myself in longer than I would like to admit to myself, and having abandoned journaling for the year, I have avoided any kind of enriching activity therefore demolishing the vocabulary I had painstakingly built over the years. It’ll be refreshing.
