I know that, in my last post, I said I’d be blogging regularly again after taking nearly a year off… but you would not believe how much I’ve been sleeping. Basically, I have been sleeping instead of writing.
You also would not believe how much I’ve been working out.
You also would not believe how delicious a good cucumber salad is. Cucumber salad is pure bliss. I don’t know why we’re all not eating it RIGHT NOW.
There’s an old saying that’s been ringing through my mind as I’ve been processing the last year: When it rains, it pours. As a child, I always found that saying to be entirely foolish, because all of my bones are literal bones, and I kept thinking, “Well, duh… when it rains, it could also be ‘pouring’, because ‘pouring’ means ‘a rather hard rain‘, does it not? That’s rather obvious, isn’t it? Who came up with this saying and why is that person so stupid?”
In addition to my being a literal-minded child, I also wasn’t especially nice.
As I have matured, however, I’ve come to understand figurative speech, and that particular old saying has pretty much defined May of 2014 to May of 2015… because apparently, everything and everyone decides to try and KILL YOU when you’re completing a degree.
God help those earning a doctorate, you poor, sweet fools.
In the midst of more unexpected kookiness than I was expecting, multiple things that emerged from dark corners to distract me, and a host of family emergencies, I also slammed into a HUGE milestone last year at exactly the same time that I started my studies (TIMING!):
I met my first boyfriend.
He saw me across a crowded room, sussed out my personal information, and arranged to be introduced (albeit virtually, since he did not live in town). It was all very flattering, and slightly romantic, if you were ever the type to swoon and fall madly in love with Rossano Brazzi while he was singing “Some Enchanted Evening” in “South Pacific.”
*sigh* *heart explodes*
We conversed, and met, and after awhile, changed relationship statuses on Facebook, which triggered an almost alarming chorus of fervent congratulations which made me feel horribly and desperately overwhelmed and in need of a place to hide.
Seven months later, I broke up with my first boyfriend.
He was not abusive and I did (do) not hate him… but we were just not right for each other, a fact that became increasingly obvious to me over time. When the end came, I explained my feelings and convictions on the topic, and was left quite befuddled by the fact that he did not agree with me.
Sidebar: That was a weird, new-ish experience for me.
I mean… I don’t know… people usually agree with me, and having not done “the dating thing” before, and being an INTJ (or perhaps just an insensitive jerk), I assumed that once one had rationally concluded that there was no future in the thing, everyone else would naturally come to the same conclusion and just… stop.
Apparently… that assumption is incorrect. Apparently, I date like a Vulcan.
But, incorrect assumptions aside, here I sit on the other side of my first relationship, ya’ll, so… um… I suppose that’s progress.
Is it? I have no idea.
The official narrative is that I’m truly grateful for everything that happened, because I learned an immense amount about myself… what I like, what I don’t like… how I feel about certain things… what I want, don’t want, and couldn’t possibly care less about. I’m astonished at how much better I know my own mind, having been challenged on a number of topics and having been forced to define some of my more vague stances.
On the subject of bicycles:
I do not want to learn to ride a bike. I do not like them.
I do not like them in a box.
I do not like them with a fox.
I do not like them in a house.
I do not like them with a mouse.
I do not like them here or there.
I do not like them anywhere.
As you can see, I feel very strongly about this.
I also confirmed that I still hate answering phones. Phones are still the worst.
I’ve learned that, as much as I don’t care for, or particularly enjoy, being single (and not just because of tight spaghetti sauce lids and the never-ending onslaught from the spider community, although those things do plague me to no end), one really has to be with the right person (or one of a group of people of equivalent right… um… ness [I hate that word. That word is awful]). No matter how compatible two people may seem on paper, there’s a particular… blessing, let’s call it, that rests on two people who really should be together. I look at my married friends and there’s a rightness (I refuse to believe that’s a real word, but I also refuse to change it, because I am like the wind and you cannot contain me) to their relationships, no matter how much they might disagree or have opposing Myers-Briggs profiles, or seem like oil and water made flesh. Together, they make sense… even if, in some cases, it’s an irrational “how the heck are you guys even surviving each other, let alone enjoying this chaos” sort-of sense that runs contrary to all the laws of reason that I understand.
I suppose that’s my hope now… that one day, I will, making as much sense as I can by myself, met a guy who makes a certain amount of sense himself, and together we will make a perfectly respectable, not-too-shabby amount of sense together.
If not, one always makes sense with cats.
Cats are imminently sensible creatures, I find.