I think I spent too much time in recent years

consciously letting myself miss shots I knew I wanted to take. In fact, often actively preventing small vocal parts of myself from taking control and taking those shots. I sat around on my haunches and continued sipping at people I wanted deeper tastes of, or just breathing them in from across the room. Somehow, I let all of my 'What if...' wonderings be negative, ignoring the possibility that something good could come of my curious wanting. I out-hesitated hesitation and out-stalled stalling, moving straight into consciously ignoring. This eventually led to sort of taking what I could get, moving only when interest had been expressed. 

Making the first move was a silly risk, too big a gamble to take. I wasn't pretty/thin/smart/funny/sexy/cool/into-X-thing(s) enough for the person(s) in question. He was probably like that with everyone. It probably didn't mean anything. He liked White/short/slim girls. I didn't want to jeopardize our friendship. I had a nearly endless litany of excuses.

...I no longer want my feelings to be things I am embarrassed of or make excuses regarding. I don't want to push myself into a corner full of nos before I even ask my questions aloud. I don't want to keep cheating myself out of potentials. I don't want the only shots I take to be at myself.

I am far from being a supermodel, but I think I can be my own brand of exquisite from time to time. There are lots of things I don't know, but lots of things I know enough to have extensive conversations about. I make people laugh all the time. My sexiest place isn't necessarily the dance floor, but sensuality ripples in me. Like humor, I'm coolest when I'm not trying to be., I think I am full of flaws, yes, but I am just as full of fabulousness. It's not fair to everything I have worked and am working to be to discount one or the other when it comes to feelings I might catch.

This is all to say that I recently randomly met a person in real life and felt the strongest all-around interest I've ever felt in a stranger. And I want to uncharacteristically do something about this, because being chickenshit should not be characteristic of my life in any aspect.   

An excerpt from a conversation with KS from the other day that I can't stop thinking about:

Me: I can think of two Black guys on this campus that I would actually date--well, that I know well and would actually date. 

KS: Is [name redacted, 1] one of them? 

Me: Yes.

KS: Is [name redacted, 2] the other?

Me: No. [High school me would have dated him, which probably explains why freshman year me was somewhat obsessed.]

KS: *ponders who the other might be*

Me: You know, I'm starting to think that not making any moves towards something happening with [name redacted, 1] might be one of the things I regret most about my time here. He's moving to [location redacted] and he doesn't really love this place, so I'm not sure he'll be around at reunions all that often and I feel like I've run out of time. 

KS: So make a move! Call him up tomorrow and be like, "If I wanted to have babies, I'd have yours, but I don't..."


...I laughed at his ridiculousness then, and confessed that I'd been contemplating trying to hook up with him just so I wouldn't have to always wonder what it would have been like, but I keep hearing him say that in my head. What's keeping me from telling him how much more I'd like to be around him, at the very least? Why did we never actually act on any of the mutually-agree-that-we-should-hang-out-more-when-running-into-each-other-at-a-party things? What do I have to lose? 

[name redacted, 2] and I agreed to have lunch sometime this week, but I'm less sure about how I feel about him than I am about [name redacted, 1].

And speaking about people I want to hook up with, I'm trying to find a non-sketchy way to reach out to the female friend of mine who propositioned me earlier in the year about making that actually happen sometime soon, and maybe this is just my frustration talking, but I've started to notice that every time I'm in the same room as the first guy I ever hooked up with at Princeton, I think about giving him a round two.

Contrary to what I said a few days ago,

sex is evidently NOT the one thing I really wanted for my birthday, because a somewhere-between-acquaintance-and-friend of mine came to celebrate my birthday with me, proceeded to finish the last few shots of a bottle of cake vodka straight from the bottle after he was already drunk because we'd just won two games of three-on-three beirut (which some of you may inaccurately refer to as "beer pong"), walked me home, and then asked if I wanted him to come in, and I sent him home. He's slightly taller than me, not unattractive, and I've known him since I was a freshman. But as soon as he started getting flirty last night, I started repeating a little mantra in my head: 'Do not sleep with ****.' 

The question is, why? 

1. Okay, well, he used to date a friend of mine. And before you say that that obviously hasn't stood in my way before, I mean with a good friend of mine, and it ended badly, rather than with an acquaintance who later became a friend and after a situation that ended at least somewhat harmoniously. And he had a weird interaction with the good friend of mine whom he used to date once last year after getting similarly drunk at an open bar at Quad and from what she told me was kind of harassing her. And he may have been in a relationship then, because he was dating a girl seriously enough to be sharing a car with her when I ran into him on the train like a month later. (Hmm. There may not need to be more reasons after this, but I will continue anyway.)
2. I once hooked up (though only 2 bases worth) with his current roommate, who had also been at my little birthday celebration, but left before he started getting all touchy-feely. But feelings had actually been involved in that hookup, and I wouldn't want the guy I didn't do anything with to brag to the guy I did stuff with, because though we were never anything but friends, guy-I-did-stuff-with matters to me.  Though attractive somewhere-between-friend-and-acquaintance is like, the perfect level of knowing someone to develop a buddy, which is not unappealing to me at this time, I'm just uncomfortable at the idea of becoming involved in any way with roommates, particularly roommates for whom my level-of-caring-about differs so greatly.
3. There was neither pretense of romance or lust. In the past, I have been fine with one or the other leading to sex, but just we're both drunk and we're both single is insufficient reasoning. I'm not necessarily against doing something just because it's there, but...idk. It just didn't feel right in this case (though this was heavily influenced by reasons 1 and 2). Changing the terms of a relationship is a tricky situation, and I felt no need to introduce sex into ours, I suppose. I have learned that I can be physically intimate with people I am emotionally intimate with, either in the course of romantic relationships or friendships that won't be complicated by seeing the person often, and that I can be physically intimate with someone with whom I have no emotional connection at all, but anywhere between these sections of the spectrum is dangerous territory, it seems. In retrospect, it almost seems like he felt entitled to hooking up with me because I have established a capacity for casual sex, and no one is entitled to the wonder that is me but me. Forever fact. 

Anyway, five minutes after I'd sent him home, I was opening YouPorn and preparing for a little private birthday fun with The Conqueror and wondering why I didn't let him stick around to be part of it...but when I put it like this, that wondering ceases and I'm glad I don't lose my ability to be rational and make smart decisions when I've been drinking for hours. Important life skills ftw.

Question for furthering pondering that this analysis prompts: I have firm beliefs about which practices constitute safe sex from a physical standpoint. Should I establish a similar set list of situations/things that constitute safe sex from a personal (or even emotional) standpoint? I conceptualize overall safety in more ways than just physical...thus it seems like I should conceptualize other things for which I have developed specific ways of being safe in terms of more things than just the physical too. Does that make sense? This was a situation in which I was uncomfortable hooking up, and I want to think more about other such situations. To a hypothetical better understanding of safe sex! 

So I quite regularly participate in fMRI experiments on campus

because the psych department needs people to be in their studies, and I like knowing I'm helping to make science, and they pay me quite handsomely. I made $52 today for about 2 and a half hours of my time. I just got a small raise at work, so I'm now making $11.70/hr to do nothing in the basement of a library, but only the Psych department really seems to understand how much my time and minimal effort are worth.

Anyway, it's a wonderful system and everyone wins. 

The only slightly annoying thing is, I can't have any metal on my person when I go into the scanner. This means no makeup (because evidently some makeup is made of very small bits of metal that could burn your face in the scanner...not cute), no bras that have wires or clasps (i.e. the one sports bra I own), and no pants with zippers or buttons (i.e. sweatpants). Basically, I go to these things clad from head to toe in Princeton gear and sneakers, and look like a bum with a lot of Princeton pride. Sometimes in the spring I can get away with wearing a dress without a bra, but it's cold in those scanners...

And it's break right now, so not that many people are on campus. I've been wearing cutesy outfits and not even getting compliments on them, because all week I've only really been hanging out with K and very occasionally a couple of other Quad people. After my friend and I rescheduled our lunch date to tomorrow, I decided to put my fMRI-required sweatpants early this afternoon and hole myself away in the student center doing work with K.

Then I was thirsty and had a package to pick up--my winter hat!--so ran downstairs and ran into a cute friend of mine, who hung up on whoever he was on the phone with to have a conversation with me about the take-home midterm we have for a class we're both in and how break is going.

If it was just that, this day of sweats wouldn't have been so bad. I would say that I came away from it relatively unscathed. But no. Then when I was on my way back to the student center post-fMRI and dinner, in a Pton hoodie on top of my Pton t-shirt and Pton sweats, I ran into another friend of mine whom I may or may not have had a small, back-of-my-mind kind of crush on since April of 2008 coming out of the student center, and he wanted hugs and convo and then asked if we could do dinner or hang out when he emerges from thesis-hole in a few days! Of course I flashed my best smile and said yes, but inside I was just cursing myself for being a shapeless lump in sweats instead of the form-fitting sweater I would have worn was today not an fMRI day. 

Whatever, the day is still looking like an overall win. :D

A detailed account of why you didn't get laid:

Dear Asian Kid from Thursday Night,

I think your name was Patrick, but that's unimportant. Kid seems more appropriate. I know there's no way you'll ever see this, but maybe by writing this, I will help someone else out who might be planning to fuck up the same way you fucked up and thus end up with zero fucking in his immediate future.

The situation: It was somewhere between 1:30 and 2 am. We were on the dance floor at my eating club. I was dancing in a circle of sorts with some girls of mine and you came over and joined our circle. I semi-recognized you from when I'd been on tap duty earlier, and I always feel bad for lone dancers on floors full of circles, so I didn't side-eye you out of our space. I also (somewhat racistly, oops) figured you were trying to dance with E, and was preparing myself to be entertained by her shutting you down. But then the song changed and you disappeared from my peripheral vision, and all of a sudden there were hands on my hips and a groin perfectly poised for me to push up on, and I was surprised, but it was on. 

I was mildly impressed by your ballsy approach, just starting to dance with me rather than asking me to dance, despite the fact that you were this skinny Asian kid who was shorter than me and whom I'd never seen before. It had been a while since I'd danced with a man who was sexually interested in women (which I presumed you were, given the situation), and I saw no reason not to back up on you. The music was bumpin and we had a nice rhythm going, so I'm not gonna lie, I kind of liked it when you slid your hands forward and wrapped your arms entirely around my waist. When one song ended, we transitioned seamlessly into the next, a feat I'm usually unable to accomplish. (My grinding abilities increase exponentially with my levels of drunkenness. Part of it is probably drunken recall, but most of it is just a drastic lowering of inhibitions--which I what this semester/year is devoted to anyway. When I am wasted, I am not shy.)

 You somehow maneuvered us over to a column where I could push up on you good, and I was running my hands up my thighs and playing with my skirt as you inched your hands closer to not-in-public zone, and you leaned in and said, "You're so fucking hot. Do you wanna get out of here?" 

Dude. We didn't even know each other's names. What kind of girl do you think I am? "No, I'm alright." You questioned this response somehow, and I said I don't really roll like that. That could have been the end of our encounter, but you didn't stop dancing when I dashed your dreams, so neither did I. The couples started to break apart when the DJ played "You're a Jerk," and you asked me if I could jerk. I said no, but that you could if you wanted to, and you said you didn't want to let me go. I was simultaneously flattered and creeped out. 

After "You're a Jerk," the DJ played Rihanna's "What's My Name?" and while we were singing along, you--in the one truly smooth move you played all night--leaned forward and whispered into my ear asking, "What's your name?" I told you, and you told me yours, and then you asked the question that let me know I needed to get out of this embrace of yours asap: 

"Do you go here?" 
RED FLAG. ALERT. ALERT. Of course I go here, why, where the fuck are you from, kid?  "Yeah...I'm a senior." 
"Wowwww. I'm a freshman at Rutgers."
 Seriously?! *cue record scratch*

I leave that one unanswered, and he starts going on again about how fucking hot I am and at one point even says something about my "booty". I know, I should have been long gone by this point, but it was a hardcore case of My mind's telling me No, but my body, my body is telling me ye-e-esssss! It felt so good to be dancing with someone who wanted me and feeling that he wanted me (not like that, you dirty minded scoundrels), and I felt like people were watching me give it to this guy (which turned out to be true, based on the comments I got on Friday), and I wanted to continue both of these things for as long as possible. I felt hot, but I also felt kind of skeeved out...I just let hot win for a while.

Then we made our way to the tap room and he got another beer and K ran over to tell me "Get your man, girl!" You came back over and I asked what brought you to Princeton tonight, since you go to Rutgers and all, and you said you were here with some friends, but they left and now you "have nowhere to spend the night," as you tell me in a voice that's begging me to take you home with me. Brain screams, 'ALLOWABLE LEVELS OF CREEPINESS OFFICIALLY PASSED, ABORT MISSION LET THIS GUY MAKE YOU FEEL SEXY!!! REPEAT, ABORT MISSION!!!' You started asking where I live and whether that's close to here, and I try to counter by asking where your friends are staying, but you "don't know". And then, by the grace of alcohol, you have to take a piss, and I run over to K and beg him to save me. He laughs me off, so I decide to run upstairs and hide, and he doubles over laughing as I run off.


I wait upstairs for a few minutes, hoping that you'd lost interest/found someone else to sketch on, and then made my way back downstairs and joined another circle of girlfriends. E said K explained that I was running away from you, and thus when you tried to join my new circle, my girl J started grinding up on me to prevent you from taking that spot. Later, a female friend whose name also starts with K and one whose name starts with B both took on this role, much to the delight of a male friend, R. You were across from me in the very large Pianoman circle, looking cockblocked, dejected, and like you were so drunk you were barely supporting yourself. I felt less skeeved out and more entertained when I realized that, and as soon as the song ended, I grabbed E and we walked home arm in arm, laughing at you all the way. 


You were doing so well in the beginning. You made me feel sexy and wanted and were a good dancer. I was horny, and though it was an unfortunate time of the month for sexytime, I might have at least made out with you if you'd just shut the fuck up and danced with me. If you'd made me feel like hooking up with you was my decision because you made me feel good, rather than like you were trying to worm your way into my room/pants. You shot yourself in the foot, kid. Boys and their stupid mouths.

When I was telling him about how I wanted to get away from you the next day, my friend C made a joke about how this dude wasn't even a 16, meaning that I'd had 16 drinks and still wouldn't sleep with him. But it was really his attitude that was past a 16, not him.  

I really don't want my whole blog to start revolving around him, but

he asked me the other day when I realized I liked him, and I rushed my answer a little then. I want to explain it better. 

Dear You,
I won't lie; pipe-cleaner heart was a bit of a shock. But it was one of the most pleasant shocks of my entire life, and above that it was incredibly intriguing. I instantly popped into my room and fell back on my bed and twirled it around in my hand and contemplated how incredibly different receiving this felt from receiving another Valentine earlier in the day. This was full of giddy excitement; this required concocting a plan to get to know you better. 

That plan started with inviting you to drink and chill with some fellow Dranglers and I on Valentine's Day night, but inviting you late enough that it didn't seem like I'd put too much forethought into it. K said taking the initiative like that might be bad, but I don't like being told I can't, so I did. And you came, and I stopped cuddling with my gay boys to sit next to you. And then a day or two later you came to Quad to study, and I did something for you that I've never done for anyone other than K before--I left my desk for you, just like I left my snuggles for you, because I wanted to be close to you more than I wanted to lay claim to the things that were mine. And you stayed with me til we were tired, and then you walked me home again, and at my door I hugged you and began to wonder. 

When we basically did a rinse and repeat a few days later, I knew something was officially up. And we were walking back to my building, I was wondering whether three walks home warranted a kiss on the cheek, but I chickened out when we actually reached my front step. The same thing happened at four. Confession: You may not realize this, because it hasn't really happened with you, but I am notorious for being a scared little bitch when it comes to guys. I can hold my own in almost any other situation, but my heart is usually too terrified of breaking to even step out on the ledge, let alone take the fall. I had to fight my heart out onto the ledge for you. I did it because this is...different. But I'm getting ahead of myself now.

But somewhere around that fourth time, the Social Chairs sent out an email saying we were going to have this members only event before the party on Saturday: 80s Prom Date Night. We'd be paired off and compete against other pairs for the title of prom king and queen. And while dates would mostly be random, if we emailed N we could rig the system. And as soon as I read that, I knew I wanted to be paired with you. That's the answer I gave you, the moment I realized I liked you. But it's more complicated than that.

Realizing that I want to do something cute like rig the system is one thing. Actually emailing N to ask her to sign me up with you was another entirely, but I wouldn't let myself chicken out of it, because more than just thinking this would be cute, I couldn't stand the idea of being paired with some random soph and seeing you with someone else. I wanted to be your 80s prom date. So I emailed her, and then I started pretty intensely researching 80s fashion, because despite actually hating the 80s, I wanted to show you that I cared about this. And seeing you walk in with that wig to rival my fro, I knew that being my date meant as much to you as it did to me, and a small part of me was honored. I didn't care that we didn't win any of our events; I was on your team and that was all that mattered. When the party actually started, you reminded me that dancing with you makes me feel beautiful. And when you suggested we slow dance like this was middle school, I almost melted. When I felt your lips meet my collarbone, my knees nearly gave out. 


This was different. And that's a long story, but I'm not done yet. You don't know how much of a mess I was in the 14-ish hours between our two conversations that Tuesday. We'll talk about it someday, maybe. Being a mess isn't the part I want to talk about now. The fact that I pushed through being a mess and retreating to calling boys stupid and blaming myself to talk to you again--that I, miss hides-and-cries-under-the-covers-until-the-world-gets-less-scary when it comes to guys, sought out a potentially crushing experience--that I couldn't be right with myself until I had talked to you again, and figured out what had gone wrong and why, that's how I knew I really liked you. That's how I know this is different, because I avoid conflict with guys like THE PLAGUE. But not with you, even though I was terrified...because depending on when you started counting, it had been somewhere between three days and two weeks, but I already knew that I wanted this to work. It took every ounce of strength and willpower I have, but I pushed myself and fought myself for you. That's how I knew I liked you in a different way that I've ever liked anyone else. 


<3

Ex-lovers and friends

So I have a friend who, when discussing her recent exes, always brings up that she wants to be friends with them after the dust has settled, not like my situation with J (just-the-letter J, not J******) where he keeps trying to hang out with me and I want nothing to do with him. I finally felt the need to clarify that I don't want nothing to do with him because we dated, I want nothing to do with him because...looking back on that chapter of my life, I have no idea why I EVER wanted anything to do with him. I like to call him all-the-rebellion-that-was-supposed-to-infest-my-teenage-years-balled-up-into-7-weeks. 

What I didn't remind her of, though, is that he's not the only ex I have, not the only situation for her life to be compared with. *sigh* We were laughing yesterday at a Yahoo article that said one of the worst New Year's Resolutions to make was to quit Facebook, because everybody uses Facebook. That's...not exactly true. More and more recently, I've found myself desperately wanting to Facebook-stalk one person I can't: my first ex, the one none of my friends like to talk about because they think I was being ridiculous about the whole situation. I'm not going to go through the whole thing again: he's been talked about before. I don't tell people this, but every time I'm home I hope I'll randomly bump into him at the mall or Wal-mart or somewhere. When I'm bored and randomly clicking around on facebook waiting for something interesting to happen in someone's life, I sometimes type his name into the search box just to see if he reactivated his profile, because I want to know what's going on in his life more than I care to admit. 

Don't ask me why. I don't know. I don't want to get back together with him, not in the slightest. I meant what I said in that tear-filled phone call from freshman year, and I will not retract those statements. But I hate that not wanting him romantically means I can't have him at all. I hate that I miss the way I feel when I'm with him, because I'm almost positive that what I'm missing is the naivete and sense of endless possibilities that encompassed the entire time we were close, but even more so I hate that we can't be friends. He has faded nearly entirely into person-I-once-knew status, and dammit, I want to know him. But sometimes that decision isn't ours to make.

[You're a] Good Man

I don't want this to be the India song I associate with your name, because it's far too beautifully tragic, and you're The Truth and a Complicated Melody already, but last night you said something that made me realize that you're a good man. Not only suave, witty, ambitious, handsome, brilliant--but genuinely good. One of the best I know. You commented on a father-son relationship in Love Actually and told me that you want your son to love you like that. You would have given me one of your dramatic looks if I'd told you this then, but I think that's beautiful. It's like, I already know you're going to be a great father someday. I can already tell that I'll be jealous of your relationships with your kids, not because I want kids of my own but because as much as I hate to admit this, I always wanted parents like that. The kind who love openly. I know your mother is proud of you, even if you aren't always proud of yourself. Hell, I'm proud of you, more and more so every single day. This is just another way I look up to you. I'd have kids if I could be like you. But though I can cherish all of my friends and love you all with open arms, I'm still learning how to love one other person with an entirely open heart.

Now Why'd You Have to Go and Do That?

I'm sure you have absolutely no understanding of how much your words can affect me. That's to be expected, I suppose. I am, after all, the ex-English-Major-linguistics-loving-poet. But still, I have to ask, do you know what you did today?

You were on the phone with a friend from your other, non-Princeton life, apologizing for having fallen asleep while talking with him last night. I was listening to your every word, like always, and laughing with you, like always. Your friend heard me laughing in the background (I'm loud and easily identifiable, lol) and asked who I was, and why was I in your room? You snapped back that it was none of his business who was in your room, and then laughed and explained we weren't in your room. He evidently didn't let up, though, because then you said "Well, maybe she's the reason I fell asleep on you last night..."

Why'd you have to go and insinuate that? If you only knew how hard I've been working to separate thoughts of you from thoughts like that. Because I love the person you are, and I love being around you, and I love the way you laugh, and I love the person I am when I'm with you, and I think you're incredibly handsome, and truth be told I would love to snuggle with you, but I am NOT sexually attracted to you. At least, 99% of the time I'm not. But when you go and plant images like this into my overactive imagination...you can't fault me for imagining what it would be like to wake up with my body wrapped around yours.

But I have something to tell you. Something you should know. I think I kind of like someone else. There is an avenue opening up on the road map of my life that I would like to explore. I don't love him in the ways I love you, but I like him, and I love the way he makes me feel sexy and feminine and like a woman. And unless I bitch out like a little pussy, the next time he kisses me on the cheek, I'm going to return his kiss, but on the lips. Knowing how it feels to grind on his hips is only a few steps away form knowing how it feels to ride those hips, and I don't want confusion about how I feel about you to keep me from feeling what I'm feeling for him.

So stop it, okay? 

<3, 

Maya 

Dear ******, or Men Everywhere,

I love the way you hold me when you hug me, and appreciate that you hug me all the time. I appreciate the compliments you give me: I'll be calling myself a boss bitch for days, lol. But at this point, I have to let you know that I no longer appreciate this drunken cheek-kissing thing we have been doing recently. It was cute for a while, but now when it happens or even seems like it's going to happen, I want to scream (read: whisper sexily into your ear) If you're going to kiss me, do it right.

Love,

Maya

*heartgrin*

New word/action I've made up. It describes how I feel at the end of the night when we stand in front of Frist in the cold finishing our thoughts before we go our separate ways, and you make an impossibly delightful promise, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Once I start, I can't stop

A Confession to a Dear Friend

Although it’s been said many times, many ways

I love you is the only thing I can think of to say

It’s an overused, undermeant phrase, and it doesn’t have the weight

I would like in the modern world, but like how I feel

it is simple and easy and fast. It is sure and it is true.

Now wait, before you get scared and run off, before you leave me

here in this chair that I abandon the spot I’ve lain claim to for

when you’re at the desk beside it, so that you may whisper to me intermittently,

and so that I may dangle my legs off the side and contemplate poking your leg

with my big toe. Before you join others in thinking I’m getting too heavy,

let me clarify that this is not to say I’m in love with you. This is not to say

I fantasize about your lips on mine, or the way your nipples taste, or the feel

of you filling the empty spaces in me. This is to say, simply, that I love you,

I love the person you are, the dedication you show to the things you do,

your mannerisms and idiosyncrasies, the tiny tight curls you won’t grow out.

This is to say that I just want to be close to you. That I will always abandon

that which is mine for the simple joy of sitting quietly near you, as we lose ourselves

together in vastly different academic worlds. That, though no one ever says this

to an ordinary person, I admire you, and have so much respect for the man you strive to be.

That if ever I were to have a son, I would want him to grow up to be just like you,

and that that may explain part of why I am always so overly concerned. That the way

you call me to ask a question that could have been texted makes me smile. That your

habit of touching my leg or placing your hand on my back while we’re talking makes me feel

like I’m at home. That pressure I put on you to lighten up is really just me trying to make you realize

 how absolutely wonderful I think you are. Simply that, for the rest of our lives, I am your friend.

More confessions

1. I am very easily impressed and turned on by men who cook for me. Like, the actual physical process of watching a man prepare me a meal from scratch...*melts*

2. I'm really happy that shit didn't get weird between me and J, and that he still thinks we're close enough friends that he can make dinner for me and J***. 

3. That being said, I can't yet handle hanging out with him and his new girlfriend, which is sad because I think she's really cool. But she came over after dinner and I had no idea she was coming and as soon as she got there I felt like someone had injected me with a giant shot of awkward and I was actually dying to rush out of there.

Compliments

Sometimes it's really hard to be sincere. There's this guy I know, and there's something I want to tell him. Don't even go there--this something is not romantic in any way. I just want to give him a compliment; I just can't figure out how to do it in a way that's a) not socially awkward, and b) that he won't laugh it off like I'm kidding, because I'm seriously not.

He impresses me. Hell, he downright amazes me, and though some of the brightest minds in the country are here, very few people are overall amazing to me. He pushes himself harder than most people I know, in every single aspect of his life, and everything he touches is golden. He's also nice and sweet and I just, I want him to know that I think this highly of him. I admire him.

I have this other friend, who I love equally and admire almost equally, who commented the other day about how I observe too many things about him, things most people would never notice. I wanted to say I watch him because, while it might seem like I'm always trying to change him, I sometimes wish I could be like him.

But people don't say these things. It's a shame.

Four-Letter Words

Some folk don't like them. (Sorry, had to make that whole sentence four-letter words, lol.) Fuck. Damn. Shit. Hell. I use these words a lot. Some would say too much. But there's one four-letter word I pepper my speech with possibly more than all the others combined, and that's L O V E. 

People say I'm a really affectionate drunk, and that I love everyone and everything once I've had a few. This is both true and untrue...most of the time, I just stop giving a fuck about what is socially normative in terms of affection and love when I've been drinking, and treat everyone how I'd like to treat them all the time. Because the people I grew up with, they taught me that a friend is someone you hug without asking, and whose back is comfier than any pillow, and who it's okay to contact 949379834 times a day, and for whom concern and worry are the most natural things in the world. A friend is only a strange half-step away from a lover, and that step might not even be down. And I love those definitions of friend; I'm not really ever going to be willing to give them up. I just attempt to tone (ha!) them down a little in daily life because other people are more reserved, or something, I guess. [And yet E talking about her wannabe boo who is so overly overtly physically affectionate like I want to be and how open and in touch with her emotions it makes her feel makes me consider dropping the normal act and--call me cliche, but--reaching out and touching someone whenever I get the inclination to.] 

What I'm getting at here is that I'm a pretty loving person, and I'm usually pretty open about that, even when I'm sober. I love mozzarella sticks, I love the way B's hair feels when I run my hands through it, and "M, I love you, but [insert some criticism or refusal here]". I love my single, I love studying in the large library, I love my JP topic, <3s in my facebook wall posts and when I'm saying goodbye to anyone on AIM or Skype. It's, like, the opposite of a big deal when I drop an "I love you" in casual conversation; people seem to interpret this as meaning "I appreciate/enjoy your company", which is fine by me.


But a friend of mine is going through some drama with his boyfriend that is causing me to, at the very least, wonder about this emotions-wide-open-heart-on-my-sleeve philosophy of life. His boyfriend said he loves him for the first time a few months ago, and he has been unable to say it back. Truth be told, I was really surprised when he told me this,  because he's one of the friends with whom I can't part ways without exchanging i-love-yous. But once he explained it to me, it made perfect sense. It's like, right now, to the best of his understanding, he loves his boyfriend the way he loves me, the way I drop I-love-yous in casual conversation, in the I love being around you/I love the way you make me feel/I love the person you are and the person I am when I'm with you kind of way, but totally not on that I wanna ride off into the sunset on a horse with you and live happily-ever-after tip. He's having trouble recognizing the differences between the various ways of loving other people, and whether there is a middle ground worth recognizing between the point A and point B I just described.


I've never talked about this to anyone before, but here's a secret. I accidentally told J I loved him on like, the second or third night of our relationship. It was really late and we were on the phone and it just seemed natural, because I am that kind of person. And on one level, I did love him then. Because on some level, I draw no line between "I love X-cool-thing about you" and "I love you". I never have. But what's going on with my friend and his boyf right now has made me realize that someday, this distinction will become important. I will have to know when it is okay to say I love you to someone I'm romantically involved with, and what that means compared to with someone I'm simply emotionally involved with. I will have to understand what the difference is. Why does it matter that I love my hypothetical boyfriend any more/in any other way than I love my actual best friends? I'm not sure that even makes sense to me. I don't see love in the real world as sunsets and horses and the whole cast breaking into song and dance; love is compromise and love is work and love is building something to come after honeymoon-happy. Love doesn't automatically entail ever-afters, but I don't think that means you can't love if you're not planning on buying the horse, if that's not too much of a mixed metaphor.


And this may possibly be the root of my recurring boy issues. I throw the word and the idea of love around so much that my brain doesn't really distinguish friend-love from romantic love or familial love (for instance, I say I love my girls like my sisters, but I treat them SO MUCH BETTER than I treat either of my sisters, and would be hard pressed to say I didn't care about them more. Goddamn, I'm rude. Anyway.), and thus flip-flops around between the two when it comes to boys I absolutely adore. So maybe if I figure this out, my boys can just be my boys and that's it. 


I just like to love people. I love almost instantly (along with trust), and will love and trust fiercely unless/until something is done to ruin that love and trust. Call me a hippie, but I just want to be able to love everyone, and for it to not ever be weird. I wish everyone gave hugs freely and leaned on people's shoulders when they felt like it. The world would be a better place.

So unlike my dad, my mom always parks and goes in with me when she takes me to the airport. She goes through the line with me and stands with me near the entrance to the security check for as long as she can until it's obviously socially awkward that she's still there and she hugs me one last time and lets me go. I don't call her out on this, because part of me really likes it. 


There's something else she always does, though, while we're waiting in line to check in, or whenever she catches a glimpse of my PUID in my wristlet, or sometimes even if we come across an old picture or something: she sees a photo of me from back when I straightened my hair, and she says some variation of Oh look, there's my daughter. My daughter, with the long straight hair. My daughter, who was ashamed to embrace her own identity and spent the majority of her life trying to be something and someone she was not. My daughter, whose hair used to come out in clumps from all the heat and dangerous chemicals she put on it. Evidently that girl was my mother's daughter, and I am not. And I'm sure she doesn't event think about it when she says it, but a little piece inside me just crumbles whenever she says it. Like the person that girl was and the person I am will never be reconciled into one individual in my mother's eyes. Like she'll always want someone I'll never be again.

And speaking of straight-haired Maya as someone I'll never be again, this reminds me of the one thing that can snap me entirely out of ridiculous stupid not-crush phase with this guy: he has told me to my face that he thinks it's stupid that I have vowed to never straighten again. He thinks one of the things I should embrace about my hair is how versatile it can be. He thinks I should consider straightening it for special occasions or something--AS IF  STRAIGHT HAIR IS MORE SPECIAL THAN MY HAIR, as if I as myself am not special enough for a floor-length gown and a ball. He says I shouldn't feel like I'm conforming if I'm just wearing my hair in another style that looks good on me. I don't even know how to interpret thinking straight hair looks good on me; a) do I still think that?, b) do I think it because I think it or because I've spent my whole life with people telling me that's how my hair should look? Regardless, as much as I enjoy being with him, remembering that can kill any and every inkling of desire I have for something more. This is both relieving and unfortunate.

Conversely, to give some points to my father: When I first sent him a picture of me with my hair natural, he said it was the most ME I've ever looked. This is one of those things that he has said that I will never forget, but in a wonderfully positive way.

I wish I could chalk this up to friggin hormones...

...but I'm not even close to starting my period. So this is just stupid me being, well, stupid. I have absolutely no reason to miss you. I really and truly have absolutely no reason to miss you more than I miss my girls or the boys I'm supposedly *crosses fingers* like this with. There is no reason for my thoughts to keep drifting back to you. I'm worrying about you in that special way I only worry about people who are IMPORTANT. But I need to keep this in check, because I can't lay even the smallest of claims to you. And I shouldn't want to. I shouldn't take note of the fact that you are actually taller than me, or you're way more likely to call when a text would suffice. I shouldn't watch you study long enough to categorize your various thinking poses, or to know you once played piano because I spend that much time staring at your hands. And that night you took my survey and it almost made you cry? I can't yet tell if I shouldn't have wanted to hold you til the hurt went away. Because these are things I do with everyone, because being MY anything (even friend) means you get all of me in return, all of my worry, all of my love, all of my laughter and my adventure and my concern and my help and my hope and my weakness and my strength, attached to you with the tenacity of the loyalest of dogs.

FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE, CAN I PLEASE JUST ACQUIRE A NEW CLOSE MALE FRIEND WITHOUT GOING THROUGH THIS AWKWARD PINING PHASE?! Please and thank you.

Just so you know, I WILL NOT have a crush on you. This won't happen. Don't make me start singing Meg's song from Hercules. My heart needs to learn its fucking lesson.

"Without a sense of urgency, desire loses its value."

 This was a friend's facebook status. Well, a person-it-would-be-socially-unacceptable-to-not-be-facebook-friends-with-but-who-is-not-my-actual-friend-in-real life's facebook status. Anyway, I can't get over how it describes with incredible accuracy what happened between me and the guy that featured prominently in so many of my letters this summer. I guess people can be more rash, more inclined to give into their passions and desires, when the end (or in our case, I suppose an extended pause) lingers on the horizon. Kind of like absence making the heart grow fonder before the absence even occurs. And now that we're back in the same place, it's like, should we choose to take them, there are an infinite number of chances to make this work. So every time, we let the moment pass, thinking there will always be another moment. And for now at least, this is tentatively true. 

Confession: As much as I hate to admit this, because it makes me feel like a slut, if he'd played along Saturday night, his first view of my room would have been from pressed against the wall or in my bed. But he didn't, and as such, as I was wandering drunkenly back to my room at 2 AM, I started mumbling to myself about wishing he was with me. 


...I don't know if it was just because I saw him and then got drunk and wanted someone, or if it is actually him I want.

Confession #next: the first time I saw him once we got back to campus, and he hugged me and I felt his hands on the small of my back again, I finally understood what people mean when they talk about their knees going weak.


...It's just, weak from a desire that is specific or generalizable? That is the question.

So they say real women have curves

...and as much as I hate the "real women" qualifier (what the hell are fake women, anyway?), I'm pretty sure I've got that part down pat. 

...and yet, a close friend recently informed me that perhaps the guys in my life don't see me as a girl. Not the way I'd like them to, you know? This has caused me to re-evaluate the time I spend with my boys. I've come to the decision that I play one of two roles that come quite naturally to me around them: either hanging out as just another one of the guys, or as a worried protector motherly type. I'm either in the middle of watching a football game or debating the ethics of strip clubs, or worrying about a new injury and whether they're getting enough sleep. I suppose neither of these things is inherently sexy. 
I told said friend that I don't see how me hanging out with a few guys I'm close to is any different than me hanging out with a few girls I'm close to, and she says that therein lies the issue. Should there be a difference? 
I don't see why. I'd rather be thought of as being ME than as just a girl.