I'm wearing blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and wearing my hair in a ponytail. I'm getting more "you look so cute" compliments than when I actually take pains with my appearance. It just figures.
High: Got to sleep in because I didn't have to be to work until nine.
Low: The flip side of that is that I have meetings that keep me at work until 6:00.
Getting the darned camping gear together for our trip next week. We keep putting it off.
Viv's update, resplendent with gorgeous pics of herself and Parsifal.
And I remember, I remember the worry.
How could I ever forget,
It's the first time, the last time
We ever met.
Phil Collins - "In The Air Tonight"
Who I Read
I find myself having to curb an automatic reaction to do or say inappropriate things. It's this perverse part of my nature that used to get me in trouble when I was little. I have since learned how to hold my tongue, and appease the goddess, Convention. I laugh out loud less. I run less. I sing in the hallways less. I am the model of professionalism and deportment, despite how I want to be, sometimes.
What that ends up doing is making me feel stifled. What is it about how life works that I had to learn how to be political, how to be polite, how to be correct in manner and behavior? At what point did I realize, or was made to realize, that my sense of the ironic should be relegated to thought only, and not pointed out or drawn attention to?
In effect, when did I grow up?
My automatic answer to that is, I didn't. At least, not in my head. I smile to myself instead of laugh out loud. I take the bawdy interpretation instead of the innocent (and intended) interpretation, but I don't make a snarky (snerky?) remark. I'm more reserved, and more internalized, than I used to be.
I sit still, when I really want to fidget.
I remember my friends' parents remarking, on more than one occasion, that I was excessively talkative and had an opinion about everything. In a few friendships that I can recall, I was the "leader". If there was trouble to be gotten into (climbing up on the barn roof, going over the Game Farm fence, exploring the fish hatchery (unbeknownst to the Game Warden), climbing out of the bedroom window at night to go catch frogs in the pond), I was generally the instigator. And the one who took the heat (and the spankings). Which ensured that whomever I got in trouble was willing to put their neck on the line the next time, too. Heh.
I still find myself wanting to get in some mischief. Sing at the top of my lungs in public ("Sunny day! Sweepin' the clouds away!"). Blast the car stereo. Dance around to a good song playing on the supermarket's Musac, and totally embarrass Marie. Generally be bouncy and silly. I get grumpy when I can't be, or am discouraged from being, mischievous. And if I've been told once I've been told three million times to "get my head out of the clouds" or "settle down". Or just get that *look* that I'm sure I correctly interpret as "Will you please just grow up?".
Cheerfulness = optimism; optimism = feet not firmly planted in reality.
I whisper in Church. I snort in meetings. I roll my eyes during lectures. I grin during arguments. I stamp my foot when I'm pissed. I giggle when I tell a secret. I quote movie lines. I revel in inside jokes.
I'm a big ol' almost-27-year-old kid. Yet I have a certain role to maintain. The responsible, professional, hard working, organized, intelligent, calm, wise, together role.
It's all an act. Because I'm really hyper, scattered, bubbly, bratty, sensitive, and silly. I just put on a really good grown-up act when I have to. To the point that most folks think I'm quiet, and shy, and mousey. Hah!
I'm very fortunate in my choice of life partners, because Calvin is much the same way. And poor Marie, who really isn't unless she's with a gaggle of her friends, is relegated into the role of the more mature family member. She's the one who tells us "Will you guys be quiet?" or hollers, "Hey, cut it out!" from the next room when she hears us wrestling (in the non-bawdy sense), teasing, and carrying on.
I'm *not* refined. I like cheap beer, and fast food, and slapstick humor (not as much as Calvin, but I still giggle). I shop at Ross and Target more often than The Gap. I go out of the house without make-up. I like hip-hop. My fingernails are short. My wine has a screw-cap. I can polish off a 600-page book and a whole bag of Lays Salt And Vinegar chips in one afternoon. My lounging clothing of choice is cotton pajama bottoms and a white cotton T-shirt. If it ain't comfy, I ain't wearin' it. I swear a lot. I'm never *not* in the mood for pizza. I'm always humming, whistling, or singing some tune.
For the sake of AcronymCo, I wear the professional act. Which is probably why I'm so worn out by the end of the day (suppressing perpetual motion is actually more tiring than being in perpetual motion). On the drive home, I'm perking up and reminding myself that it's now okay to sing at the top of my lungs to the Bananarama song on the radio. By the time I get home, it's time to play grown-up to some extent (making dinner, cleaning up, doing the grown-up-speak of minutiae life-business details).
But at the very least, the bra comes off first. Ahhh...
Michael's Update Box
Hoping for a letter in today's mail!