I realized I am getting at least one thing out of this

online dating thing, even if it isn't any actual real world dates. I am doing something that terrifies me. I am doing what this cute little bit of sidewalk advises passersby to do:

Reblogged from 18° 15' N, 77° 30' W

And it can be hard sometimes. And it can be intimidating. And okay, I still blatantly ignore men who are obviously not worth my time and attention, so sue me. But, I am TALKING to people I don't know--I'm even having long and substantive conversations across a wide variety of topics with a couple of them. One guy even publicly left a compliment on my page about my conversation skills and how easy I was to talk to last night. And yeah okay maybe part of the difficulty I generally find in that is removed when your communication is via message or text, but I'd like to think that having these digital conversations with men I don't know will give me at least some practice, some idea of what to say and how to begin and how to not be the most awkward thing ever when someday I see a beautiful specimen on man in a coffee shop (or at the train station, or at the student center) and want to introduce myself. And so I think I'm going to keep doing it, at least for a little while. I don't really think it can hurt. It might even be doing me some good.  

Something to Cross off the Bucket List:

I kissed a stranger! Maybe it was just a little peck, but still!

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day 16: Letter to the Last Person who Complimented You

Dear Greeter Lady at the Zimmerli Art Museum,

Way back in a time that seems like eons ago but was really probably less than a month and a half ago, while I was at home trying to come up with summer goals because my then-boyfriend had asked me about mine, I made note of the fact that your museum was free on the first Sunday of the month. I evidently even had the foresight to make an event on my Google Calendar for the hours the museum is open on the first Sunday of July and of August. And thus, today when I was recovering from a relapse in okay-status, I decided to put on a push-up bra and a low-cut dress and do my makeup and my hair and take myself on a date to visit the museum. I hadn't yet embraced doing things by myself in New Brunswick like I did in Chicago last year, and as I have to get used to being on my own again generally, now seemed like high time.
I walked the 8 minutes from my house to the museum and came inside. I knew today was a free day, but I wasn't sure if I was allowed to just stroll on in, and you weren't at the desk when I got there. But I was only confused for a moment or two, because then you walked out of the little back room, cheery as ever, and welcomed me to the museum. You told me I looked "so pretty" and asked me to please check my [make-rainy-days-fun! sunflower] umbrella because they weren't allowed in the galleries. Then you put a sticker on my hand and said today was a free day, and told me to enjoy. I realize you're a customer service employee and it is actually your job to be nice to me [been there, done that], but I want you to know you made me smile today. I wanted to treat myself to something and take care of myself, and you noticed, and that just...felt nice. 

So thank you for your sunny disposition on a grey and drizzly day. You made my mood less grey and drizzly.


Maya

I thought I looked cute too. :)

"I don't read books. I devour them."

An interesting character on the train today (actual real-life character, not one from the book I was reading) reminded me today that we, readers, bookworms, bibliophiles, are a rare and perhaps dying breed. Maybe we're just being replaced by these newfangled Kindle/Nook e-book readers. [Sometimes I wonder if an alien who was coming to observe our planet would think humans derived their energy from portable electronic machines, the way we're all so dependent on them--myself included. (Think about it, our headphones are chargers. Music on, world off, *regains strength*. Anyway...)]

So I'm sitting on the train, I put lipstick on and then pull my book back out of my bag. [Currently reading How to Read the Air by Dinaw Mengestu. I read his first book, The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears last summer and loved it, so when I saw this at the library, it had to be mine for two weeks.] Out of the corner of my eye I notice this guy (middle-aged, overweight, semi-broke-down looking black man) drinking what appears to be a 1.5ish L bottle of Arbor Mist straight from the bottle alone on the train at 4pm, half roll my eyes, then open my book and continue reading along. A few minutes later, I have the distinct suspicion that I'm being watched, so I cautiously raise my eyes at the next page turn, and sure enough, Mr. Cheap-Fruity-Wine-o [I can't hate too hard, though, I love Arbor Mist, haha. Fruitiness+alcohol=my favorite] is looking at me. *does not acknowledge him in any way, returns to book* Minutes go by, and the next time I happen to glance up to see where we are in my journey to Princeton, I notice that Mr. Cheap-Fruity-Wine-o is speaking, and looking in my direction...oh, is he trying to talk to me? *cautiously takes out one earbud* 
This is a paraphrase of his spheel: "I was just looking at your book there. I was just saying how nice it is that you're reading. Don't think I'm some pervert, it's just, that's not something you see everyday on the train, a young girl reading. And I know you're actually reading too, cuz you're turning the pages, that's how I know you're reading. Otherwise you'd just be sitting there on some stupid shit. *realizes I might be offended* Oh I just--that's just how I talk. These just my words, man. Yeah, but you readin. That's, that's what's up." Me, interjecting in my faking-being-sincere-voice: "Thank you!" *tries to put headphones back in* He beats me: "I could tell you some real good books to read. Books that'll flip your mind. Cuz I read them a long time ago and they flipped my mind..." His phone rings. It's his mother. I escape back into my book.
First off, what is it about me that makes strange men think they can just talk to me? Is there an invisible sign above my head saying Open to Conversation? Someone teach me to turn it off. 
Secondly...he's right though. I take the train to and from Princeton everyday, and I see lots of people on their cell phones. I see lots of people listening to music. I see people on their laptops. I see people sleeping. I see people chatting and drinking coffee. But I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone else reading. I even have friends at Princeton who simply do not, under any circumstances, read things that aren't for class. And I mean, okay, guys, we are the raised-by-TV generation, but come on now. I love movies and music just as much as the next girl, but I've never reacted to any tangible object the way I react to a good book. I love the chance to be inside someone's or someones' head, to have their thoughts presented to me as if they were my own. I love wrapping myself up in their relationships, applauding their successes and dreading their downfalls. I love both being able to predict what happens next (because real life rarely works that way) and being surprised by a plot twist (because real life works that way). I have learned not to read series, because when they come to a close I feel almost as though I have lost a group of friends. I may never travel to India, or Pakistan, or [insert name of some random small Midwestern town here], but I can know the lifestyle and culture and feel of these places and their inhabitants from the comfort of my...wherever because a book is entirely transportable and will never run out of batteries or overheat. I love the ability to get lost in someone else's life, even if I'm in love with my own--no other medium of entertainment can give me that. 

Long story short: read. Evidently it sets us apart from the train-riding masses. Maybe it says you, sir/madam, are an intellectual. Maybe it says you're a thinker or a dreamer. Maybe it just serves as an icebreaker for sketchy middle-aged men. Regardless, read. It will serve you greater purpose than solely being interpretable, I promise. 

#ThingsThatAnnoyMe:

Older black women [or any other person of any other race and/or gender, for that matter] who think they can touch me without permission. This most often happens with regards to my hair, which often beckons the touch of complete strangers (I welcome touches from those I know and love, but randos are a whole different story...). Today's situation, however, went a little something like this:

Me: [approaches register with very full shopping cart at ShopRite. Doesn't notice tank top riding up to expose her lower back.]
Random older black woman: [Reaches over and pulls my shirt down while saying] You should pull your shirt down, okay? 
Me: [stiffens noticeably at the feel of strange fingers on the small of my back, turns around to glare at her]
Her: Okay?
Me: [decides I don't have time to give this woman a propriety lesson. Storms off.] 

What gave this woman the right to think she could just touch me like that? I have two words for her: PERSONAL FUCKING SPACE. If the fact that MY shirt is riding up to expose MY lower back is somehow offensive to YOU, the appropriate thing to do is to keep it to yourself. The also fairly appropriate thing to do is to discreetly mention to me that I might want to fix my shirt. The absolutely inappropriate under every possible circumstance thing to do is to fix it yourself. 

If I hadn't been in a rush, you would have gotten smacked, fyi. Consider it my good deed of the day that you didn't.