Eighth grade attitude

The other day I was at Trader Joe’s, and I was in kind of a bad mood. I walked up to the cashier. He took one look at me, furrowed his brow, and said, “Uh oh…looks like somebody needs some stickers!” He then proceeded to hand me a sheet of stickers they keep behind the counter for children. Then he fist bumped my boyfriend.

This is a true story.

My mood rapidly went from bummed out to mortified to semi-delighted (I mean, who doesn’t like stickers?). Then he gave my boyfriend a lollipop because he “didn’t want him to feel left out.” But besides making me love the cashier and confirming that Trader Joe’s is the happiest place on Earth, this incident left me feeling slightly concerned. I mean, he looked at my face and instantly said “uh oh.” That…is not great.

I’ve written before about how my face gives me problems. And if people think something is wrong based on my facial expression even when I’m happy, I guess it would make sense that my unhappy face would be…alarming? But still, it’s a bit embarrassing that it was that obvious to a perfect stranger.

One of my earliest recorded eye rolls

The thing is, I’ve never really been good at concealing my feelings. They’re always written all over my face. But it’s one thing in particular that has gotten me in the most trouble over the years: the eye roll. When I was a kid and got called out on it by my parents, I’d feebly protest, “I wasn’t rolling my eyes – I was just looking up!” And every guy I’ve ever dated has at some point during an argument frustratedly exclaimed, “Don’t roll your eyes at me!” (“I’m not,” I’d reply, rolling my eyes.)

But the worst incident happened in seventh grade. My English teacher that year adored me, but by June, the feeling was far from mutual. One day, she was lecturing us about something and, without even realizing it, I rolled my eyes. She stopped and stared at me icily. “Apparently,” she announced to the class, “some people think this is a joke and want to roll their eyes. Some of you already have that eighth grade attitude.” Everyone in the class turned to look at me. My face got hot. “See who’s the teacher’s pet now,” she snapped. (Note to teachers: never publicly identify a student as the teacher’s pet!)

I’m proud to say I now have that eighth grade attitude under control, and no longer roll my eyes at authority figures. If you’re my boyfriend, sister, or woman who cut me off in the supermarket line, though…you might still be fair game.

Hey, I’m working on it. That, and my exasperated sighs.

Backwards motivation

My sister (the one who actually reads my blog) said to me the other day, “I noticed your blogging has slowed down a bit. Have you just been really busy?”

That would be a logical assumption, but…no. Actually, the opposite. When I was at my busiest, with work and class and research papers, I kept blogging right along. But as soon as I ceased to be busy, I also ceased to be productive. You know that saying, “If you want something done, ask a busy person”? I think that’s part of it…productivity breeds productivity and laziness breeds laziness.

For me, though, there’s a much more immature explanation: I just really like to be doing anything but what I’m supposed to be doing.

It basically goes something like this:

What I should be doing	What I am doing
Writing a paper	Cleaning my apartment
Cleaning my apartment	Baking cookies
Reading for school	Blogging
Blogging	Watching Jerseylicious
Showering	Laying in bed whining
Laundry	Showering (whoops, can’t do laundry now, totally need the hot water)
Going to work	Going to work (but desperately wanting to do any of the above)

The trick for me to be motivated to do anything is to feel like I’m getting away with something. For some reason, I get major satisfaction out of it.

This is…stupid. I know. But I don’t think it’s just me (?) – at the end of one semester of grad school, my group-mates and I discussed the fact that our apartments were all abnormally clean. This was, of course, because we were avoiding our group project.

Hence, as the amount of things I am required to do decrease, so to do the things I would normally do to avoid them. This could become a particular problem for me as I enter my period of funemployment. I’m thinking I may have to create lots of decoy obligations for myself just so I can look for productive ways out of them.

As I see it, I have two options…get it together and do things exactly when and how they should be done (just seems unlikely at this point), or embrace my peculiar motivation structure and manipulate it to maximize my productivity. And my method really can’t be that bad, can it? After all, everything always gets done in the end. Except laundry.

I just can’t help but overhear

“I don’t even want to get married, and I certainly don’t want to get married to a 21-year-old schizophrenic!”

The words floated over from the table next to me in a cramped little Mexican restaurant in Soho. Subtly, I shifted my weight to the right, angling my ear toward the now-intriguing conversation. The tables were so close, I really couldn’t help but hear as the man who had uttered those words went on to pathetically brag to his dining companion about the many women he was currently sleeping with.

When I heard him say, “I mean, my number’s got to be 50 or 60 by now,” I think I sprained my eyeballs from rolling them so hard and began to actively tune him out.

In floated another conversation from the table behind me. “You see, there’s what you know,” a man explained in the most pretentious tone possible to his female dining companion. “That’s the smallest piece of the pie. Then the next biggest piece is what you know you don’t know. Then the outer piece of the pie – that’s the biggest piece – is what you don’t even know you don’t know.”

Wtf is an “outer piece” of pie? I wondered. Does this dude cut his pie in concentric circles?

“You see,” he went on, “children don’t even have the outer piece of the pie, because children are full of hubris.”

“What is hubris?” asked his date. Oh no, I thought. There go her chances for a second date with this winner.

I looked up to find my boyfriend staring at me disapprovingly. “Who are you eavesdropping on?” he asked.

Okay, I admit it. I eavesdrop on people in restaurants all the time. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not like I bug their placemats before they sit down. I don’t “drop my fork” and then crawl under their table for a better listen. But if people are having a conversation in public that is audible to me without any extra effort on my part, I am probably going to tune in at some point. I just can’t help it.

And the above examples notwithstanding (the type of asinine conversations you overhear in the trendy neighborhoods of New York is a whole other post), I don’t listen to pass judgment. No – I root for people who are obviously on a first date, and delight in their giddiness when it’s going well. I silently empathize when a woman is out with someone like “outer pie” guy. I feel awkward by extension when I can tell two people are fighting.

My boyfriend finds this habit unsavory; I say he is partly to blame for taking the “man of few words” description to the extreme.

I’m just fascinated by how people interact with each other, and I have an uncanny knack for gauging a situation based merely on body language or a few lines of conversation. I guess that’s why I spent five years studying communication.

I am aware that this habit technically violates all conceptions of proper etiquette. Some might go so far as to say it’s rude or a bit creepy. But hey, people are truly weird, fascinating and funny. Sometimes you learn lessons from what you overhear; other times it’s just cheap entertainment.

And really, I don’t think I’m to blame if you choose to have a loud and salacious conversation in public. Restaurants, planes, trains, public restrooms – there are other people around you. And some of us might be listening. (And honestly, if you really think it’s okay to answer your cell phone in a public bathroom stall, we are definitely listening and judging you.)

My relationship with airport security: it’s complicated

The other night I was dropping my mom off at the airport and got to thinking how me and the security procedures at airports really do not mix. And by that I don’t mean I’m opposed to them – on the contrary, given my slightly paranoid nature, I say the more procedures the better. I will gladly take off my shoes, remove my laptop from its case and put all my toiletries in tiny 3-ounce bottles if it means protecting myself and my fellow man!

It’s just that, despite my love of security measures, they do not love me back. This first became apparent to me when I was about eight years old and going through the metal detector on a trip to Seattle. Of course, I set it off. The security officer glared at me. I could swear she actually said “spread ‘em.” Eyes like saucers, I stared up at her as I got into a wide stance and stuck my arms out to the sides so she could see if I was packin’.

Ever since then, my relationship with security has continued to unravel. For example:

-The time that, right after they implemented that weird machine where you stand in a tube and they poof you with a big burst of air, I was like the first person to be “randomly selected” at the Albany airport – and left the booth traumatized. It was like a full-body glaucoma test!

-The time that, after becoming besties with the champagne at my cousin’s wedding, I arrived at the airport the next morning still rocking my updo – neglecting to consider the fact that I had approximately 675 metal bobby pins in my hair – and set off the metal detector repeatedly. The TSA agent gave me a look that very clearly said “Are you kidding me?” as I explained the situation and the fact that it would probably take a good 10 minutes for me to get them all out.

-The time I had the game “Catch Phrase” in my carry-on bag but apparently hadn’t turned it off properly; just as my bag went through the x-ray machine, it started: beep……beep……beepbeepbeepbeep.” “Ma’am, what is that!?” the TSA agent demanded. (First of all, don’t call me ma’am.) “It’s just a game! I mean, it’s Catch Phrase! It’s like Taboo, but…nevermind! It didn’t turn off, I’m sorry!” “Ma’am, open your bag!” (Seriously with the ma’am?) I swear he was about .2 seconds away from pulling a gun when I ripped open my bag and produced the game for inspection. At which point I received the “Are you kidding me?” look again.

-The time I was detained entering the country when I came back from Costa Rica because they were apparently on the lookout for someone with my (incredibly common) name. I had taken the anti-anxiety pill I use to fly (is it any wonder I have anxiety about flying??), so I was already kind of out of it and more than a little concerned about this new development. Then, as I waited in my quarantined area wondering where I would stand trial after my false arrest, both the TSA agent and I began to notice an odd chemical odor emanating from my suitcase. “What is that?” she demanded. “I…I don’t know,” I said. Oh my god, I really am being framed, I thought. “I’m going to have to open your suitcase,” she said. “Okay…” I replied. This is not happening. Can I call my dad…a.k.a. my attorney? Turns out, a bottle of nail polish had broken open in my bag, coloring coral my TSA-compliant Ziploc of 3-oz. liquids. The agent laughed; I attempted to stop shaking.

So there you have just a few examples of my volatile relationship with airport security. I love to travel…..but man do I hate flying.

The perils of standing still

Today in Ben Folds Explains Life to Me: And if you’re paralyzed by a voice in your head/It’s the standing still that should be scaring you instead

Um, story of my life.

When it comes to major (okay, sometimes even minor) life decisions: I freeze.

Hmm, what college should I go to? I don’t know, I’ll just wait until the absolute last possible second to decide so my dad will be at FedEx overnighting my deposit at 4:50 p.m. the day before it’s due.

Should I break up with my boyfriend whom I despise? Allow me to ruminate on that for six months while we continue to date.

What should I go to grad school for? Why don’t I just ponder that for a few years before getting my Master’s in exactly what I got my Bachelor’s in?

I think I’d like to buy a new shampoo – time to read dozens of Amazon reviews and/or stand in Target for half an hour looking at labels!

Yeah…it’s fun to be me. (Seriously – no one will go to the drugstore with me.) 

I guess it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to determine that this issue stems from perfectionism. I can’t just make a decision – I must make the perfect decision. In some cases, this mindset is semi-understandable – things like where to go to college or whether to go to grad school are important. Still, they’re not actually the end of the world.

                The inside of my head

And the bigger issue is – there is rarely a perfect decision to be made. Sure, sometimes in life there’s a really clear, black-and-white, right or wrong thing to do. But the vast majority of the time, there are pros and cons. Plusses and minuses. Benefits and drawbacks.

Besides, those “wrong” decisions are usually what we learn, you know, everything from… can’t get through life without ‘em.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, as there are some fairly huge life decisions looming before me. And as with people who don’t eat when they’re stressed, I resent/envy people who can make swift and confident decisions about their lives.

How much time have I wasted, not only standing in the aisles of Target (although that is significant…), but too paralyzed to make a change in my life?

Going back and forth, over-analyzing, thinking thinking thinking.

Sometimes, it’s because you know what you should do but are scared to do it. Other times, it’s because there’s no way to be sure.

Obviously, to a certain extent, thinking decisions through is a good thing – but it can also reach a level where it’s only holding you back.

Because the thing is, when you’re too afraid to make a decision – any decision – you can’t go anywhere at all. And isn’t that actually far worse than making a “wrong” decision? At least the wrong decision moves you along. No decision at all just has you treading water.

And so I think as nerve-wracking as these decisions can be…it totally is the standing still that should scare me instead.

Celebrity crushes through the ages

I’ve had several conversations about celebrity crushes recently, which got me thinking about my own over the years. My celeb crushes (and real crushes, for that matter) have generally been pretty questionable and all over the map. While I’ve been holding steady with my current loves for a few years now, many others have been cut along the way. Let’s take a look back…

Note: this is not an exhaustive list

Rider Strong, roughly age 8 -11

I was so never into JTT like all the other girls in my grade, but Rider is the first intense celebrity crush I can remember. I pined hard watching Boy Meets World every week — so cute, so brooding, so damaged! I could fix him!  (Foreshadowing for later in my life? Yes.) My love knew no bounds… until I saw a horrifying poster of him in Tiger Beat, in which he sported super hairy legs and Teva sandals.

Those sandals put me over the edge — I was done.

Rider Strong

 

Stephan Jenkins, age 12-13

A whole portion of my bedroom wall was plastered with pictures of Stephan, cut out of various magazines as I sang along to every word of Third Eye Blind’s first album. They were the first band I ever saw in concert, at the Merriweather Post Pavilion in Maryland when I was 12. Even though we had lawn seats, I could swear he was singing right to me as he tossed white roses into the crowd (how romantic!?). A year or so later, after I’d moved to Albany, I saw them in concert again. This time, Stephan threw condoms into the crowd, and a middle-aged man grabbed my butt. I kind of soured on the whole situation after that.

Stephan Jenkins

Johnny Rzeznik, age 14-?

             Seriously, what was up with that hair?

Down came Stephan’s pictures and up went Johnny’s. This one was intense. Johnny is from Buffalo, NY, just a few hours from where I live. I was filled with melancholy over the certainty that I’d been born in the wrong time and place. We would have been soul mates, otherwise. I listened to “Name” non-stop, and even made a boy I knew learn to play it for me on his guitar. It was pretty sweet, but he was no Johnny. This crush simply tapered off as I started listening to better music.

Johnny Rzeznik

Chris Brown, age 22-24

                    He used to be so innocent.

This took place during a phase of age-inappropriate crushes. But you know when he sang, “Mama you may be three years older but you hot”? I considered that my go-ahead.

I THINK WE ALL KNOW WHAT HAPPENED WITH THIS ONE.

Chris Brown

Michael Cera, age 23

This was pretty short-lived. At the time, I had recently broken up with a Peter Pan-ish type. I had just discussed at length with my best friend how I needed a real man now; we both agreed it was a must. Moments later, she mentioned that her friend from college was friends with Michael Cera. I flipped out and started scheming ways for her to set me up with him. She just stared at me. “What?” I asked. “Kelly!” she said, sharply. “You JUST said you’re looking for a man and now you are swooning over the epitome of a man-child!” I couldn’t argue with that.

Michael Cera

Present day: Paul Rudd (4 life), Jay-Z, Joseph Gordon-Levitt

 

I recently told a guy friend my three celebrity crushes, and he replied:

“So basically…your ideal man is a skinny, charming, semi-intellectual, awkward rapper.”

Exactly.

I just want it to come back

I’ve mentioned before that I babysit a three-year-old girl. I’ve been with her for a long time now, and one thing I’ve realized about kids is that their sweet little emotions are kind of like a microcosm of all the bigger, badder emotions of adulthood.

Like when she’s really tired and becomes unable to function, draping herself over her trampoline and weeping dramatically – I get it. Because that’s pretty much how I feel on a regular basis; just as an adult, it’s minus the weeping (mostly) and the trampoline (almost always).

Last Halloween, she dressed up as a princess and I would guess it was one of the happiest days of her life. She was just pumped about every single moment of that day. The next day, though, she was totally out of sorts – crabby and whining and emotional. I really felt for her, because I knew exactly what was causing it.

I sat her down. “Sweetie, what is bothering you?” I said.

Her little chin quivered and she burst into tears. “I just want Halloween to come baaaaack!”

I hugged her, and my heart broke – not because I didn’t realize she’d be over it by the next day, and that Halloween would certainly come back again and again – but because I knew exactly what she was feeling. And I knew that, just as Halloween would come back, unfortunately that feeling would come back all throughout her life – and mine.

As a kid, it’s the after-the-birthday-party feeling. When you’ve just had more fun and, probably, sugar than you could ever imagine, and suddenly it’s over, and both your blood sugar and emotional state crash, and you throw yourself on the floor and cry.

But as an adult, it’s the “is that part of my life really over?” feeling. When you look back – on college, maybe, or a past relationship; past friendships, or a past experience – you look back on something and you think, “I just want it to come back.” But unlike Halloween, you know it won’t come back. It can’t.

Another time, she had gone to a block party with her family over the weekend. A few days later, I was driving with her in the car, and we passed the street where it had taken place. She sat up in her car seat and looked concerned. “Oh no!” she said. “Where’s the block party??”

In her baby mind, the block party was something that just existed. Something that was going on whether she was there or not – something she could always just go back to if she wanted. It floored me when she said that, because I think to myself some version of “oh no, where’s the block party?” kind of all the time.

You walk away from certain people or things in your life, but on some level you think you can always go back. And often, for a while, you can. And sometimes it might even suck to think the party is going on without you, but there’s comfort in knowing at least it’s still there. But inevitably, at some point, the party just ends. Everyone packs up and goes home, and you realize you could never go back now, even if you wanted to.

And sometimes you really want to. Sometimes, you just want it to come back.

Not guilty, just pleasures

I have a long-standing issue with the term “guilty pleasure.” People seem to feel obligated to say it whenever they confess to liking something that’s not sufficiently hip/cool/intellectual/indie/whatever. Like they can shield themselves from judgment by having the decency to feel guilty about it.

I, for one, do not feel guilty.

People are complex, and the things we like serve different purposes. I look at it like food…There are those healthy, home-cooked meals you savor because they nourish you. And then there’s the stuff with no nutritional value whatsoever that you chow down on just cause it’s delicious.

I love good music; it feeds my soul. I fully credit the Avett Brothers with getting me through my everyday life.

But then I have my snack music – the cheesier the better, and best consumed while jamming out alone in the car. Britney, Beyonce, Miley? Bring it on. Ludacris, Nelly, Lil Jon? Okay! I’ll sing along to a little T-Swift and not feel bad about it. Hey, I was once caught belting out a Ryan Cabrera song – I just don’t care!

It’s all terrible, but that’s not the point – the point is, if you can hear “Party in the U.S.A.” without nodding your head like yeah, we can’t be friends.

It’s the same with movies. Do I enjoy documentaries and thought-provoking independent films? Yes. Do I also enjoy Bring It On 1, 3 and 5? Yes. (Not 2 or 4; come on, I have standards.)

And don’t get me started on my utter lack of guilt for watching reality TV. Listen, I think a lot. My headspace can get a little overwhelming at times. So if I wanna shut it down and watch some real housewives throw drinks at each other and argue about who is or isn’t classy – that’s what I’m gonna do.

People have tried to shame me for this many times. “Why do you watch this crap?” “You’re a smart person, how can you like this?” “I can’t believe you are listening to this right now.”

Sorry – don’t care. We all have these indulgences, so let’s just drop the guilt. I’m not saying yours are the same as mine; one person’s guilty pleasure is another person’s torture chamber, for sure. But if you’re the type of person who‘s “above” having guilty pleasures at all, see: we can’t be friends, above.

I’d also just like to add that I’ve hung out with more than my fair share of music snobs, believe me – and I have seen every single one of them rock out to “MMMBop.” So let’s just stop pretending.

The whole thing might crack

“Oh Kelly, you’re such a perfectionist,” my mom always used to say.

That was the only kind of negative feedback my teachers sent home from school, too. “Kelly is a joy to have in class. However, she is a bit of a perfectionist…”

At the time, I didn’t really see the problem. Wasn’t it my perfectionism that won me the damn coloring contest at Publix – and a free cake from their bakery to boot!?

It took me a loooong time to realize that, while perfectionism may be great for coloring inside the lines, it’s not always so great for, you know, living a happy life.

I used to particularly have an issue with trying to be perfect in relationships (my current boyfriend is probably like, uh…when?). I feared that any guy who loved me must have held this perfect, idealized image of me, and I was scared to do anything to mar it.

I remember once riding the subway with a guy I dated very briefly. We had had a little spat, and try as I might I just could not get past the horrible mood it put me in. When he pressed me on it, I admitted, “I just hate when things are…tarnished!”

“Well…that’s a lot of pressure,” he replied.

He was right, of course. I was always so worried at the beginning of a relationship about anything ­­nicking that perfect, glossy veneer. I was afraid it would be like when a pebble hits a windshield and spreads into a giant crack. If I did one thing wrong, I thought, the whole thing might crack.

I was once in a really happy relationship – so happy, in fact, that I was endlessly terrified something would go wrong, maybe not right then, but in the future. So I put a lot of pressure on everything – on myself, on the relationship, on him. I just wanted to get out ahead of anything that could ever possibly ruin us. Of course, in doing so, I ruined us.

I’ve gotten better about this. I think as you grow up you realize more and more your own inability to control things. I’ve let go thinking I can ever be the perfect anything, or that once something is “tarnished” it’s ruined. That’s not true…you can usually polish it up again. But if you put too much pressure on it, it will break.

I still struggle with this sometimes. I over-think things and fret about making the “perfect” decisions in my life. I’m trying to let go of that a little too. But I don’t know that I’ll ever be rid of my perfectionist ways completely. Maybe I should channel them into another coloring contest.

Stress volcano

The three-year-old girl I babysit recently informed me that if she took off her belly button, food would come shooting out like a volcano and get all over me. She then proceeded to exclaim, “peaches! blueberries! strawberries! yogurt! toast! soup! YUCK!” before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

Belly-button removal notwithstanding, I have to say that’s a lot like how I feel when I am really stressed out. Multiple research projects to do + papers to write + big life decisions around the corner makes me all, “bread! pasta! Goldfish! ice cream! cheesecake!”

You know how some people, when they get really stressed out, don’t want to eat anything? What is up with those people? Suffice to say, if this were Mean Girls, I’d totally be at the table with the girls who eat their feelings, not the girls who don’t eat anything (nor the preps, jocks, or cool Asians).

I mean, the stress eating doesn’t get out of hand or anything. Well…twice it kinda did. The freshman 15 is real, people. The “I live in D.C. by myself, know no one, hate my job and always think there’s a terrorist on the Metro” 15 is real too. But, other than that, it pretty much stays in check.

Still, every time I get stressed out, my usual affinity for healthy foods is immediately replaced by visions of a bagel and cream cheese dancing in my head. I glare disgustedly at the whiteboard where I write out the meals I’ve planned for the week and wail “I just want pizzaaaaaaa.” I go on rampages about how there are no good snacks in the house. I cut across lanes of traffic to get Goldfish at a gas station.

I mean, I know I’m not the only one… in college, I once came home to find my roommate sitting on the floor amid various wrappers, waiting to guiltily list off to me everything she’d just eaten while studying for finals. My sister once went on a Taco Bell binge that ended in tears. It happens.

You know what I was thinking, though? This phenomenon is always associated with women. I wonder, do guys actually not do it, or do they just not talk about it? I mean,  you never hear a guy say to his friend, “bro, I totally just stress-ate that cheesecake” – but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.

Hmm. I think I’m on to you, guys.