May 28, 2010

Goodbye

There have only been a few times in my life where I felt the unique sadness that comes with the thought that you will never see some one again.

Even if it's not even someone you're incredibly close to, just some one that fills up your days, it's sad to let them go. You lose the security of knowing that if you ever did want to talk to them, they would be there. The familiar faces you've come to know will soon be replaced by strange ones, ones that do not know you or your past. Most of the time, I consider this an exciting idea, but today, as I did many things that I've done for the past four years for the very last time, I couldn't help but feel fond of a sea of familiar faces.

I think I often under-appreciate the simple feeling of sitting in a room full of people that know you. They understand your quirks and your mannerisms, they know where you came from, and they know where you want to go. A room full of people bonded from similar experiences is truly a great thing.

And when you're about to leave it, it's so sad.

The first time I felt this, I was about eight, and I came home from school and sat down on the couch beside of my mom. She told me we were moving to Texas. I remember just crying and crying. By the time my tears had dried, Mom was on the phone in the kitchen. I got up and wrote lengthy notes to my two best friends, begging them not to move on and forget me. Of course we've long since forgotten each other; it was but first or second grade. While I only have a few vague memories of them, the sadness I felt while writing those notes remains sharp in my memory.

The next time, I was leaving the place I'd so dreaded moving to--Texas. Leaving was the hardest thing I'd ever done, and now (seven years later), it still ranks pretty high. I loved all those people so much and I still remember a lot of my time there, but again, the strongest memory is of writing a note. I was sitting in a classroom in my new town, fuming. I missed my old school and friends terribly, and hated the new one with a passion. We had some random free time, and I yanked a piece of notebook paper out and scribbled a furious note about how much I hated everything in Virginia to my Texas best friend. I remember the smell of the black pen's ink, all the strength it took to hold back my tears, and the relief I felt after I mailed it. I don't talk to her anymore, but the kind reply I received to that angry, angry letter carried me through the next few months in a place I hated.

More and more of these are coming to me as I type, and I just keep getting sadder and sadder, but still I write.

I remember the last time I saw another Texas best friend. This time, it was he who was moving. I ran to his house, the grass where I'd run so many times before worn into an oft-beaten path. He was sitting in the back of his moving truck, possessions piled high behind him. He threw a gift at me--a beanie baby cat that I still have. I don't remember the conversation we had, but I remember the realization that I would never see him again as that truck pulled out of view.

The most recent time I remember (excluding today) was the last day of middle school. While I wasn't truly going anywhere this time, I knew I'd be at a different high school than most of my classmates. It was kind of surreal walking to the bus after that final day. I remember looking around, walking alone, at all the people around me saying goodbye. Even though I didn't really love middle school, I was grieving for the familiarity of it all. The sea of familiar faces. There was nothing left to fear there, nothing unknown. While this a great comfort, it also means you have to get on that bus for the last time and pull away.

Now it's time for what is the greatest goodbye yet. While I know there's next year, I also know it won't be the same, and it's the loss of the familiarity and safety of my high school class that I grieve for. I hate counting life in "lasts" but it's simply unavoidable. I'll never be in that place again, and for that I'm horribly sad.

I may really suck at being sentimental, but I'm great at feeling sad.

May 19, 2010

Freshmen

"Please tell me we weren't like that when we were freshmen!"

I hear that sentence a lot. And what's scary is, we probably were. I choose not to think about it too hard for fear of remembering too vividly.

I do remember various parts of my first day of freshman year quite well. It was a pretty important day in relation to the rest of my life, looking back. I finally got the perfect reassurance that I'd made the right choice regarding my secondary education. What reassurance that was!

I remember what I wore and I remember walking sheepishly into the auditorium for the first time. I remember scanning around for a familiar face and making a beeline towards it, and even though those faces weren't entirely familiar, they accepted me without question. The auditorium clumped into middle school groups.

I remember the Bon Jovi song "Welcome to Wherever You Are" blaring, and the line "that right here, right now, you're exactly where you're supposed to be" sticking out to me. I sat there, pulling at my already-annoying nametag, and hoping with all my heart that Bon Jovi was correct. He was.

I remember my teacher (who would later become one of my favorite people in the world) telling me to write on the poster cause I looked like I'd have good hand writing, and panicking inwardly cause my look is deceiving. I remember being scared of a large, gothic kid, who would later become a good friend and the most unscary person I know.

I remember the cheesiness of getting little pieces of metal with words of inspiration on them. A level of cheesiness that was to permeate my high school experience.

But what I remember most of all was sitting there with my pencil poised above the first fresh sheet of notebook paper of the year, trying to figure out where I was from for my poem. I don't really remember what I said, but I'm pretty sure I'd write a totally different version now. I'm from this weird school and these exceptional classmates and this strange ride I embarked on what feels like so long ago.

This week, I've been standing in front of groups of freshmen with four years of experience behind me. They couldn't even fathom what the next four years hold in store for them. Knowing what I know now, I would want freshman me to jump at the chance to talk to an ECHS Senior, though I know I was just as naive as those are, and wouldn't see the value. There are just some things you have to learn on your own.

I never really appreciated how much maturing occurs during those years until I was staring it right in the face. I'm both glad it's over for me and jealous of their unfolding opportunity. I feel so old.

My "I Am From" poem may change many more times as I meander through life, but I'm pretty sure "I Am From ECHS" will be a permanent fixture.

May 17, 2010

Huddy

Why do people get so emotionally invested in television couples? I am the world's worst for this and it's particularly weird considering my lack of investment in real life couplings.

I just repressed uncharacteristic squeals (but couldn't stop the grin) as I watched Cuddy FINALLY admit she loves House and them finally share a kiss that wasn't a hallucination induced by Vicodan! I've been waiting for that ALL SEASON. But why??

I'm sooo invested in their fictional relationship that I was mentally willing them to have scenes together. It's imperative to my well-being that those two are firmly together. And they're not even real!

They aren't the only tv couple I've given a little piece of my heart to. I can count many. Most notably Tommy and Jude of Instant Star, who I felt were eternally gipped. I was completely depressed for a week after the botched series finale in which Jude breaks off their engagement and goes off to live in London. I still get sad w hen I listen to the show's soundtrack, especially their duet.

And nobody can forget Ross and Rachel. Oh the agony when he steps off that plane with another chick and Rachel's left there by herself! The sadness!

And Eric and Donna on That 70's Show. Even in a wholly comedic setting, you can't help but be completely and utterly sad every time they break up. Though the show ends with them finally kissing again, you can't help be a little dissatisfied.

And oh, Buffy and Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She freakin has to KILL HIM! I can't watch it without tearing up a little! When I was little, I even wrote their names on my Jenga blocks (yeah, I don't understand that either) and always made sure they were beside each other when we played. That episode just breaks my pathetic little heart.

But by far the very worst is Luke and Lorelai from Gilmore Girls. I was already far too invested in that tv show, but when they broke up the really bad time and didn't get back together for the whole season, I thought I might die. It's a really good thing that I watched them mostly in rapid, box-set-dvd succession so that I didn't have to suffer the agony of waiting week to week. Though it's also hinted that they end up together, I wanted to see them married so bad I still get mad when I think about it.

It's absolutely irrational. But the writers of the shows set it up so that fans feel inclined to set up entire websites dedicated to tv couples and come up with cutesy little combined names for them. You think the general public would get tired of this formula of touch and go couples, but they don't. I obviously don't, considering they appear to pull me in every single time.

Am I trying to make up for something lacking in my own life? Wouldn't that mean that everyone is also trying to fill this gap, evenly the happily married? Is it a human desire to see "true love" prevail? Is it a need to feel a craving for drama? Why, oh why? It causes me such stupid agony.

Now it's time for me to watch Big Bang Theory, where my heart can bleed for Penny and Leonard. Lord have mercy, what's wrong with our culture??

Also, did I mention how excited I am that House and Cuddy are finally together? Cause I am.

May 15, 2010

And the lightning strikes and the thunder rolls

Sometimes I wonder if lightning was invented purely for my entertainment. I know that's ridiculously self-centered, but as I sat in my car in a never-ending line to pick up my brother last night, I couldn't help but think that I was the only one in the world staring out of my windshield as the streaks danced across the sky.

It was eerily quiet. Even the traffic seemed reverent, muted. All the cars were anticipating the storm to come, waiting for something bigger than themselves.

The radio seemed like a foreign thing, an after-thought, a disturbance. I turned it down and listened to the cracking of each bolt as it raced to the ground. The sound is so loud and powerful, you think us tiny humans would be terrified, but we simply go about our business while the storm rages around us. I felt so isolated within the manufactured capsule of my car, the blue and purple world outside draping over it but unable to seep in. Though I was surrounded by people, bumper to bumper, I felt blissfully alone.

I love thunderstorms. I think it's the feeling of being safe while everything is chaotic outside. There's nothing better than sitting in a warm, comfy bed while sideways rain beats against my window and lightning illuminates the dark room, for a split second making it seem like the middle of the afternoon, with a book and a clipped on light on my lap. It's such a counter-intuitive comfort. Sheer perfection.

May 13, 2010

Feliz Cumpleanos A Ti, Y'all

Today, the hostess lady at a restaurant pointedly asked my mother if she needed a kid's menu for me.

If I were in a regular high school situation, I'd be a month from graduation. I can vote. I can join the military. I can get married without parental permission. Courts would try me as an adult. I can buy cigarettes.

And I need the kid's menu.

There is a great disparity between how old I am, how old I look, and how old I feel. All three are different, and how is one to know which to use?

I cannot go with how I look. I do not want to be 12, in 6th grade again, ordering off the kid's menu. (Though I'm not entirely opposed to the promise of crayons.) My dad loves to tease me about the various things that happen because people think I'm way younger than I am. The most infamous incident occurred at movie gallery, where some lady told us we should come back tomorrow because I could get my face painted and ride a pony. I wonder if she noticed who drove the car away. The twelve year old, obviously. No, I don't like looking like I'm 12 because I don't like being treated like I'm 12. I didn't like being treated like I was 12 when I was 12. Mom jokes about how I wouldn't go to bed, even when I was really little, until all the adults did. I hated not being treated as an equal, sidelined because I hadn't lived as long.

But I don't think the age my birth certificate claims is right either. I'm not 18. I haven't lived nearly enough to be 18. Sometimes I think age should be counted in experience, not years. I think I would be much younger if it did. The number would match me much more. I look at people my age and think they're so much older than me, even though they aren't. It's a very odd feeling.

So I'm left with how old I feel. The question is, how old do I feel? I'm somewhere in between. I'm not an adult, but I hate being treated as a little kid. I cannot stand being patronized. So what am I? Being a teenager isn't fun either. That age comes with a ton of baggage, and automatic stereotypes.

I always joke that my parents are eleven and twelve years old. Even though my mom turned 46 today, you would never be able to tell from the way she acts. I love that they pretty much disregard how old they're supposed to act Perhaps I'll just stay how old I feel right now forever. I guess the cliche is true. You're only as old as you feel.

May 9, 2010

Mommie Dearest

I enjoy writing letters I never deliver, as you might possibly know. Here is yet another.

Dear Mom,

It's a running joke in our family how the only way we know that you're my mother is that the birth is on tape. It's true, we don't have all that much in common at a glance. The most prominent things are our short stature and propensity for messy living spaces. And detached earlobes and weird toes. Not exactly a huge list.

But when I look a little deeper, I can find the indelible mark you've made on me.

I hate it when you make disparaging comments about yourself and your ability as a mother. I would never trade you for all the world.

You try to be over-protective, but you never let it go too far. I actually like it when you're like that sometimes, because it shows you care.

You don't always agree with me, but you don't judge me.

You always assume I'm the smartest, most talented, most amazing person at school. It annoys me when you think my friends are inferior, but I know it's just because you think the world of me.

You never really show me that you're proud, but you brag about me so much to everyone else. Yes, I saw those Senior pictures in your wallet!

You can tell when something really upsets me, when most people can't. You understand why the smallest things can hurt the most.

You gave up working so I would grow up with a very present mother.

You defend me to your own mother.

You randomly know the answers to density problems but can't spell to save your life.

You ask me fashion questions and excel spreadsheet questions with the same intensity, and expect me to know the answer.

You bring me pants when I call you in the middle of day because mine ripped, or I forgot to email myself my powerpoint, or a countless number of other things. You always save me from myself.

The cliche is "my mom is my best friend!" and we both know that's not true, and that's part of the reason I'm so glad you're my mom. Moms shouldn't be best friends. They should be Moms. And you're the best mom I could ever ask for!

I know you hate mushy stuff, but I love you even if you don't know how much!

Love,
Sammi