Something to remember…

It seems as though every generation has it’s teen sitcom. Whether it’s Dawson’s Creek, One Tree Hill, Saved by the Bell, Friends, or something else, everyone has a show that they grew up with. You measure the status and importance of your relationships with the opposite sex, gauged on what you’ve seen on TV. There’s these larger than life men, that always come sweeping in with grand gestures and romantic one liners that make your heart hurt just a little bit. It hurts because we know most men really aren’t like that. That the cheesy one liners never really happen in real life, and we remind ourselves that it’s not real. Until it is.

When I complain about how horrible men are sometimes, I only remember the bad. I only remember how many time I’ve been let down, hurt, or disappointed by someone else’s actions that really have nothing to do with me. It’s not very often that the fleeting great moments I’ve had come to the top of my mind. But when they do, all I can do is smile.

I was 19, and I’d just moved to Wilmington, NC. I’d already made my way through one boyfriend who turned out only to be a two weeker. And I was possibly moving on to my second. This guy was sweet. And gentle. And kind. And for the first time, I didn’t feel pressure to really do anything I didn’t want to do, which was nice. It was probably a Sunday– I say that because I remember I had school the next day—and we were both bored, with nothing to do. We hadn’t kissed yet, and were still in the friends stage of things, which really isn’t always a bad place to be. Everything is fun in the friends stage, no drama, no hurt feelings, just fun flirting. But back to the story. It was a Sunday and I was bored, and we both decided we wanted to do something fun. I had told him how someday I want to go to Myrtle Beach, just to see it. Everyone made such hype about it, yet it was only 45 minutes away from where I currently was. So he suggested that we just go. Hop in the car, drive down, check it out, and come home. Even though it was only a short drive away, it was still across a state line. And I’d never driven myself across a state line before, and weirdly enough it was that that made me nervous. Not any other part of it. Just the driving across the state line.

Just the same I agreed to go, if he drove. He said he didn’t mind. And we were off. I don’t remember what we talked about when we were in the car. I remember we go to Myrtle Beach though and trying to find some place to hangout, if even just for a bit. Somehow I got into a Senor Frogs, and I didn’t want to even try to drink at all because I didn’t want to chance getting kicked out of a bar in a state I didn’t even live in. But I stood with him at the bar and saw they had Mecheladas on the menu. I hadn’t seen or heard anything about that particular drink, since I lived in Mexico. It’s a beer with lime juice, and chili powder, amazing perfection. So I went to sit down so he could order, and he came back with two Mecheladas. One for him, one for me. I was so excited to be drinking it. I thanked him profusely. And I was even more excited when I actually drank it. I can’t remember exactly what he said. But it was something along the lines of “anything that can make you smile like that is worth it”. Now mind you, I was only 19, and didn’t truly know how to appreciate a line like that. But I swear that’s how it happened.

On the way home, I told him about how much I hated thunder and lightning storms. They just kinda freaked me out, I don’t know why that came up. We were probably just rambling off random facts about ourselves.  We covered every subject. There was not a single pause in the conversation the whole way home. We didn’t get home till about 2 am, and I had class at nine. I told him goodnight, when he dropped me off outside my apartment, and thanked him for just a fun night.

I went into my little apartment, changed out of my clothes, slipped into bed, and shut off the lights. What a perfect night. I fell asleep in no time. Only to be woken up three hours later by the clap of thunder and flashes of lightening. I sat up in bed, waiting for the next sound. Another clap. The storm was close. With my hatred of storms, I crawled out of bed and went into my living room, to flip on the TV to see what the weather man had to say about this storm. Growing up as a kid, if the weather was bad enough, there was always people on the TV talking about it. Yet there was nothing. This was the south though, things could be different. I went back to my bedroom, sitting on my bed. Thinking to myself that I’m an adult, I really shouldn’t be this freaked out by something that can’t actually hurt me. I glanced over at my clock, it was 5:15, at the time I didn’t have friends, or even know people who were up at that hour. It was just me, afraid, in bed, during the middle of a storm.

That was when I heard my phone buzz. Someone was calling. I looked down, it was the guy. I picked up the phone. He laughed and said he knew I’d be awake because of the storm, and he called to make sure I was ok. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How is anyone really this sweet? We talked for the next 45 minutes until the storm passed and I was ready to go back to sleep. Then for the second time that night he wished me good night.

I woke up three hours later to get ready for class. I was tired, crabby, and mildly regretting my last minute late night trip so late at night. The boy texted me a good morning, and asked me what I like to drink. I wasn’t sure what he meant. I mean such two statements are usually said at opposite ends of the day. Morning: Good morning. Night: What are you drinking? He told me he was stopping by a coffee place and asked me what I wanted. I was touched again. I told him my drink order, hoping that he wouldn’t be too late, as I was already on the verge of being late for class. He showed up five minutes before I needed to leave and said “if you’re going to stay up that late, and still make it to class, you deserve this” and handed me my vice of caffeine in a cup.

Once upon a time, in one night, I had three very sweet, pseudo cheesy moments, with one guy. And when my bitter cynicism gets the best of me (more often than not), I think back on those moments and am thankful that there’s hopefully still some good, even in all the bad.


Sneaking out

When I was sixteen I snuck out of the house. It was probably around midnight or one in the morning on a school night. It’s really not a big deal. What the biggest deal of it is I think, is how I didn’t get caught. My bedroom was on the third flood of my mother’s house. Not a big deal. The big deal is how I got down two flights of annoyingly squeaky stairs. Even now when I go home to visit, I can’t go up and down the stairs at night because the stairs are too loud. Every step you make on the wooden steps squeaks.

I remember when I snuck out. It was to see a boy. He had convinced me to come out and see him. I had told him to meet me at the bottom of my long drive way. We live on top of a hill, so I knew he wouldn’t be seen. But just the same I told him to turn off his head lights when he got close to my house. I carried my shoes in my hand stepping on the balls of my feeting, making sure not to put all of my pressure on any step in fear that the stairs would rat me out with a loud squeak. When I finally made it to the bottom, I let out a large sigh of relief and then made my way to the backdoor, because like the stairs, the front door was really loud. Sneaking out the backdoor and down the drive way, I climbed into the car that was waiting for me. I couldn’t believe it, I’d made it out. And it was some time later that I returned home and creeped back up the stairs and into the comfort of my bed. I felt so alive. I’d snuck out. Mom didn’t know.

I think there’s something to be said in the fear of knowing that what we’re doing is wrong, and even more for not getting caught. Living on my own I realize how much I love making my own rules, going home or to bed whenever I want. Just the same I miss the deviant feeling of knowing that I’m breaking the rules. Sometimes even after we break the rules we wait around just waiting to get caught.

It’s the feeling of deviance, or even awkward tension that makes me feel alive inside. It’s like when all hell is breaking loose and there’s shots going off, fists being thrown that I best learn to duck out of the way of the jabs. Instead I just watch, always on my toes, in case I too have to throw a punch. I can feel my heart beating faster in my chest waiting to see what happens next in the moment of insanity happening around me.

I remember one Christmas. My cousin had given something to my grandpa that he didn’t agree with, and he voiced his opinion as such. I remember watching this happening, and understanding it. And then five minutes later, one aunt was crying, one of my cousins was inconsolable and three other cousins sat on the couch looking extremely uncomfortable. I asked one of them what was going on.  Even though I’d been sitting there the whole time, if felt like I’d missed an event crucial to all the crying. It was only after my aunt told me she just simply hated conflict so much and wished it didn’t exist, that I became slightly aware that nothing big had really happened. Simply that someone had done something that the other person didn’t see as right.

So I guess deviance is really the root of it all here. How can I still be deviant when I’m living by my own rules?  There’s no one living with me telling me when to come home. The girl down the hall sometimes notices when I come rolling in at the lovely hour at 3 am. And she doesn’t notice it in a way that is condescending or judgmental. Just in a way that lets me know she heard me sneak in. Even though I really wasn’t sneaking.

Ah yes. How can I forget. There’s always society and it’s rules and regulations to keep me doing what I’m supposed to. No drinking and driving. Weed is in fact illegal. Don’t forget, you need to get married sometime. Don’t drink and dial. A few pounds less could make your life easier. Don’t drive too fast. I guess there is still chances for me to break rules and not get caught.  It’s comforting to know that I still have ways in which I can not only mess up, but revel in tension. Just the same, while deviance is more fun, the blow back is usually too complicated to even want to dip your toe in the pool of breaking societies norms. And even though I’m 23, there’s still the tiniest thrill I get when I get home at a time that even I know is too late.

Various shades of grey

July 8th, 2011

The movies make everything look so easy. Boy and girl meet. Boy and girl decide they like each other. They like being around the other person. So naturally they end up together. I mean that just makes sense. Doesn’t it. Now if only movie logic applied to real life.

I think its easy for people to forget that movies are written by people. And these people write stories on how they wish things actually happened. More often than not its not how it actually happens. “Let’s write about that one time when…. And then just change the ending so it ends this way instead of that.” Ugh.

I have a cardinal rule for myself. Never stay somewhere for a guy. Never let a guy keep you from moving on with your own life. And never ever break that rule. You’re worth more than that… That rule sounds so simple on paper it really does. Every time I leave somewhere there’s always a guy where things could have maybe happened. And now isn’t any different. I’m fresh out of college, and I told a person when I first met them that I am leaving before I get a chance to think that maybe I shouldn’t. And now, three months later, and a few failed attempts to leave, I’m still here. And I like this boy a little bit more.

And it’s complicated. Something else I feel like movies tend to avoid. How complicated things can be. We started hanging out the day after we met. And now two months later, we’re finally making our way out into the public. I thought the first outing would give me an idea as to whether or not things were going somewhere. Well it didn’t I’m more confused now I think.

We agreed to dinner and a movie. Except we went to the movie first. I always let the man go up to the box office first to see if he’s going to pay for my ticket… he didn’t. Right off I was peeved and realized this wasn’t anything, he and I, I mean. Well then the small small town America that I happen to live in wasn’t accepting credit cards so he ended up paying for it anyway. And then he did get dinner. Well… at first I was like what the hell. But it’s never the big moments that make things so worth it, it’s the little moments. They way he looked over at me during the movie, and I’d look at him and he’d just smile. The way he grabbed my hand for a moment in the car. The way that he and I both wish we lived closer to the other (we’re an hour apart). I told him I like seeing him. He responded with “Me too 🙂 “

I don’t know what to think about any of this. Do I pursue it? Do I leave it be and let it be? I wish I could know what do here? I wish I knew at what point I should tell him that I could honestly be interested in seeing where he and I could go… outside of the bedroom.

The end of an Era… or decade. Whatever.

Ah, ten years since the 90’s. It seems weird to think that I was 12, ten years ago. I mean I very clearly remember being 12 years old. Ok. Past that though. Tonight I shall ring in the new year (2011) with family. A drink in hand of course. But it’s off to the lake house this afternoon to drink and be merry with friends.

I’ve been running lately, trying to jump on an early new years resolution. I would think that if I do it now, it can be habit by the time new year comes. Okay, well the habit part is taken care of. Now I need a new new years resolution. And it needs to be good, because this next year needs to kick ass.

So here it is.

I’m going to do whatever I want, and stop thinking about things so much. I’ve always had a habit of thinking if I do X and Y, I will get Z. And while I hate X and Y, Z will make me happy. More often than not though, I realize I’m miserable through X and Y, and I seldom ever get Z. So in the next year, I’m going to do what makes me happy, and have fun with it, and throw very little caution to the wind.

The art of kissing.

I’ve been kissing boys since I was slightly younger than 16. And I’ve done it in many countries, with many countries. I’ve kissed men from Mexico all the way to Croatia. Some friends look down on me for it, and some see it the same way I do, just kissing. I mean I could be doing a lot of other things that would much more risky towards my health. If you know what I mean. But no, more often than not I’m just kissing. I’ve kissed tall guys, short guys, thin guys, and fat guys. I’ve kissed guys with beards, guys with no facial hair, drunk guys, sober guys, stoner guys, and loner guys. I’ve had my practice. More often than not it’s nothing, it’s just kissing. That usually happens with someone I’ve kissed before, it’s familiar. I’m not thinking about hands, or how much clothes each of us may or may not be wearing. It’s just kissing. Most of the time there’s no sparks involved in that section. Then there’s I’m hot for you kisses. Sometimes it’s a hot guy in a club, or a bar, or someone you’ve just met you CANNOT wait to touch them. Man. Those kisses are almost always hot. Driven by passion and a want to be there in that moment. They leave you going home with a new skip in your step, and a fun story to tell all the girls over breakfast the next day. Those are so common that I sometimes forget about the third kind of kiss. The first two I see often enough that I’m familiar with them. More often than not, it’s the first kind. The kiss that means nothing, and there’s really no passion behind it, it’s just boredom. A time killer. So it’s no wonder I forget how good kissing can be. See, the bored kissing, well it’s just kissing. There’s no chemistry, not matching, its just nothing. The second one, well it fits okay but it’s not perfect, and sure it’s fun, but no big deal. Lastly, this kind of kissing… It comes around so seldomly that I often forget what it feels like, let alone that it even exists. Oh man. This kiss. Wow. It’s a kiss where there’s sparks and everything is just perfect. If a camera was rolling during this kind of kiss, it would look like it does in the movies. His hands fall in the perfect places, there’s tongue but not too much. It’s soft, but passion driven. The annoying voice in your head thats usually telling you that kissing random people is wrong goes away, because even that voice is enjoying the kiss. Then he pulls away and you just look at him. This kiss, it’s the kind of kiss that leaves you smiling for days, for no real reason.Your head is light and everything is great.

It’s so funny because with the first two kinds of kisses it means nothing. And kissing quickly becomes something that just happens. It’s no big deal, fun, but nothing special. The last kind of kissing though… makes you wish you didn’t kiss lots of people. Makes you wish you had only just kissed that person, and not dozens of others before him. The kisses are real, but they’re rare.

If every kiss was like the third kind of kissing… I’d be in so much trouble.

Not exactly my best

I always thought that if I saw you again I’d… wait no. I never thought I would see you again. When we met you told me “I will go back to my home country in two years” well that was three years ago, and yet you’re still here. See, I left, and even now when the realization of being back is just starting to set in, the chunk of time in which I’ve been else where is becoming less evident. When I see you though, it’s not like that, not at all. Looking at you and listening to you say “Hey. How are you?” makes me remember that my whole life has happened since I was here before. I made movies, I cried, I fell in love, I got taken advantage of, I had a job, and so much more. A whole life happened since the last time he had held my hand. The first time I saw you since I’ve moved back was across the room at some bar, I was chatting it up with some guy who was the hiring manager at an apple bee’s (I knew this was not a job someone would lie about to make themselves sound better) and you just came waltzing in. My world stopped for a split second and I watched you go up to the other end of the bar. Then you left.

This time, well on Saturday, you saw me. I was downtown, carrying a nice wine buzz that left me ambivalent to anything I should really care about. Just the same though as I was walking up to the second level of this bar– the same one I had seen you at before– you grabbed my shoulder and said “hey. how are you?” in an accent that I never really liked on anyone except you. I looked hot, but it probably wasn’t my best. Considering that I wasn’t in charge of anyone that night, my words might not have even come out completely clear. I smiled and pretended that a whole world hadn’t passed since the last time we talk and as I walked away this time I looked over my shoulder and told you to look me up on facebook (wow I can’t believe I said that, I MUST have been a bit… well yeah) and that we should get together soon.

Waking up the next morning I vaguely remembered having said that to you and regretted it almost instantly. When did I become that girl that wanted to get together just to shoot the shit with a guy from the past. Oh wait. No. That’s not me. I’m sure we’re different people now, but with the same conflict. He’s pushy, and I’m arrogant.

So there you go.

Wasn’t it easy…

So in my new strange city, I am located an hour from my family, and the house that I grew up in. That was definitely one of the top things on my list when I decided to move here. And I enjoy being able to see my family more than a few times a year. But being back in my hometown more often than not  is still strange. I’ve lived away from it long enough, that I got used to not seeing certain people.

A lot of people seem to have people/persons that take them feel a different way, like going back in time. Maybe its a first love(er?), an old friend who isn’t so much a friend anymore, someone who knew you before all the rest. Well those people that I do have are mostly in my hometown, and some of them I’d just rather avoid. And I usually do a good job at not seeing these people. I don’t go to Walmart there– unless its absolutely necessary– and I generally only to go out to dinner if it’s with friends. I’m not a recluse by any means… but I’m not usually reaching out when I’m there. With that said.

My father called me today and asked me if I would be interested in going to lunch. I didn’t even think about the place he had suggested. So I agreed and met him there (along with my step mother). And in the middle of appetizers I looked up, and there that person was. It was a person who had had such a profound grasp on me growing up in high school, that just looking at them across the room, I wasn’t sure what to do. Could my step mom (who was sitting across from me) see the mix of shock and nervousness on my face? People always said they could read me like a book so I didn’t really know how transparent I was being in that moment. Had this person seen me come in? What do I do? Where do I look? What’s going on? And then suddenly that person looked at me too, and our eyes met, and in the brief two seconds I knew that person was suddenly as shocked and nervous as I was. Then they smiled, and I smiled back, feeling a little strange, and unable to pin down the feeling. Turning my attention to the family I prayed no one had noticed my brief mental freak out.

Five minutes later, as I’m cutting through my meal, I look up, and there that person is staring at me. We meet eyes yet again. Then they smile. And I realized where I’d felt all of these things. It was familiar, I just couldn’t pin it down before. Where had I felt this way before? Oh wait. I remember. I was sixteen.

Now that I’m 22 and rapidly losing any idea of whats going on around me, I remembered 16. Hiding, being nervous, and uncertain, and not knowing how life could end up for me. Okay that kind of sounds like me now, but now (unlike 6 years ago) I have life experience behind all those feelings.