It's been quite some time since I last posted on this most-likely forgotten blog. It seems that my desire to write fell to the wayside as the glimmering prospects of real social interaction drew near. And though some of these interactions ended up landing me a job with my favorite Mexican restaurant, Lucha Libre Gourmet Taco Shop, they also paired me with a girl to whom my feelings flared.
Forever ensnared in that terrible trap, I will be. Forever searching for invisible personal boundaries which mustn't be crossed. Drawing ever so closer to the edge, a curious pinky finger on my right hand slips slowly and quietly, so as to not disturb the other appendages with his excited curiosity, over to the dark blue denim seam of my jeans. The others shuffle over in tow, slightly behind. The pinky scouts the white river between us. The cottony ocean, replete with billowy waves and frozen sea spray, coddles a slender leg, crossed under her. The Downy rift measures four inches in width and approximately 6 inches in length. As the other fingers crowd in for a better view, sudden, but deliberate movement is spotted across the pure and white body of cotton, it appears a delicate left Pinky finger has perched on its respective knee, as if to mark its territory. But could this be an invitation? Could it be a show of camaraderie? "Hey, your hand is on that leg, and mine is on this one. Might we share our knowledge of respectively foreign lands?"
But, no, no! Making important decisions based on assumptions could land one in a foolish position, bringing both shame and dishonor. The right hand convenes as a set of five digits. "It would be unwise, " says the Thumb, "to repeat our gaudy display to the hand across the bleached fabric ocean. It may find us repulsive and unbecoming of a gentleman-hand. We ought to retreat." Shaking his head, the Ring finger remarks, "But why else would that femmehand mimic us? It must want us to meet half way to discuss something. I don't know--maybe territory changes, whatever. All I know is she wants to communicate with us." The Index rebuts, "Is she wanted to communicate with us, she would have already done that. By wasting time, she is clearly showing aggression, staring us down because she wants us to back down. I say let's not waste our time here. It is clear we aren't wanted." The Middle shrugs. "All I know is she's got nice fingers." And all the while, the little Pinky was staring, intensely fixated on the gloss of the nails, the slender curves of muscle and skin that perfectly wrapped around each knuckle. His nail glossed over with all the wonder. And as the thumb, index, middle got up to leave, the ring, shaking his head and swearing under his breath, abruptly turned and grabbed Pinky. "C'mon, let's go. Assholes won't even allow dreams." But Pinky heard none of this. He was still far off in his world with all the wondrous opportunities popping around in his mind. And as the fingers began their descent into their dark, warm, cottony abode, Pinky caught on the edge of the pocket, to steal one last look at the girl's hand. The fingers slowly retreated out of sight, over the billows of the comforter mountains. Pinky sighed and made the climb up to the pocket, content with filling his dreams of bounding across the chasm and meeting the other hand.
I find that when I really like someone, I become extremely focused on all the little details of the moment. When I first meet someone, I feel like stapling my hands to the table so as not to have them spring up and run their fingers haphazardly through my hair, as if something awful could have made its nest within the past five minutes. I like to make eye contact, so when meeting someone who has trouble making eye contact, I rack my brain for reasons why I may be making them feel uncomfortable. Contrarily, if the eye contact isn't an issue, I try to decide on the appropriate times to suddenly break away and look at something else. And, then, do I look upwards? No! That could indicate that I was uninterested and that something, anything up there in the big blue sky, or as is more common, the white, acne-scarred, ceiling panel could entertain me more. Do I break down and to the right? No, the ground is never interesting. Do I look straight down? Never. It seems like you're hanging your head in guilt or shame, which could make for a very awkward conversation. But by no means do you lock eyes with your converser and stare them down. That could make you seem like an agent of hell, born without eyelids and tearducts to perfect their deathgaze.
During the movies, I never chew my popcorn softer. I listen intently to hear the rhythm of my date's chews so I can time them right, to minimize the amount of dialog we'll miss to the crunches. I also have never finished my popcorn while on a date. This is due to slow consumption, so as not to give away the fact that I eat like a troll when popcorn is thrust under my nose. But chewing softer, to reduce noise, takes longer than munching and crunching away on that cheekful of delicious, buttery corn.
I think that putting your arm around someone can be a nice touch of intimacy, but also an incredibly cliched and corny ploy to pull at someone's heartstrings. I say, if you put your arm around her/him at the beginning of the movie and keep it there, then it's ok. But if you pick the sad or dramatic part of the movie to float your arm up there, then you might as well admit it to yourself that you spent $20 to put her in a friendly headlock. Hope it was worth it.
I have a fairly strict 3-strike policy for potential girl friends. It helps me keep out the riff-raff, and holds me accountable to three of the most important personal traits one could possess. But I have to say, talking while the movie is on is awfully close to becoming a 4th strike. It pisses me off like no other. I paid good money to hear what the screen has to say, so please let me hear it. It's as simple as that. Conversations were made for the café across the street, or on the benches outside the theater. If the movie is not entertaining you to the point where you feel you must interject some of your own dialogue to help it along, just leave. You've already wasted your money, don't waste ours on the way out.
My train of thought has rambled some. I've gone from describing the panic that borders ecstasy and nervous-breakdown upon meeting a girl I like to bitching about movie etiquette. I guess it all falls under paying attention to details. Since I pay attention to details when I care about someone, I feel gut-hurt whenever I can't remember one. I feel like I haven't been paying them enough attention, or that the other person will believe I just don't care. The funny thing is that I don't hold others to similar expectations. If someone forgets that I've already graduated college, I brush it off, chalking it up to the fact that we haven't seen each other in a long time. If someone forgets where I'm from, I tell them, "No worries. You've met so many people in college, it's not easy to keep track of them all." However, when I forget something important about someone, say, their major, their hometown, their boyfriend/girlfriend's name, I find an idiotic temptation to lie about it by playing along. As if I need to save face in a world that is chock full of individuals of extremely varied backgrounds, I feel a need to deny that I have forgotten, or at least avoid it altogether.
Oftentimes I don't do this, and instead face the music and try to remember. But the fact that I feel that I have so slighted somebody for forgetting their favorite band, or that they've already taken their LSATs, is unsettling. Maybe I'm onto something. Maybe, in a world where personal information is becoming so available and internalized by internet networking sites (Facebook, to name...one), to not know the information that is voluntarily displayed is a sign that you must not be a very caring friend.
Every year, on my birthday, I get dozens of friends writing on my wall, congratulating me for surviving another year. However, the vast majority of these "friends" haven't spoken to me in over year, sometimes more. In fact, I seriously doubt that they'd make any proactive effort to contact me on a day outside my birthday for any reason. How can I call these people friends? Are they really too absorbed in their own lives that the only time they have for me is a 5 second blurb on my Facebook wall because Facebook chooses to tell them its my birthday? Hence, the birth of the Facebook Purges. I have a monthly routine of weeding out "friends" from my friends list and removing them. Nearly all of them were friends to me at one point, but are no longer close to me. Sometimes, it's because we ended up at different schools, states, even countries. The circumstances were beyond our controls, and our lives shifted course. And while this makes maintaining a close friendship very difficult, it's still definitely possible. I will admit, I am no good at maintaining long-distance, close relationships. It's all too hard to feel plugged in to someone else's life, even through Skype. You never meet the friends and coworkers that shape the lives of your distant friend, and as his/her world changes, yours changes too, but not alongside, instead it breaks off the path and makes a fork in the road. And the further you trek along your path, the further from your friend you become. The rift turns insurmountable. Awkward reunions franticly scrape around, looking for the vestiges of a past that one was shared, and we are left with only fond memories and aborted dreams of a future that was forever to be ours, but now not to be.
I'm going to skip the Red Sox section, because, frankly, I'm too tired to complete it. Suffice it to say that Wakefield went 7 strong innings, and the Sox won 3-2. As for the Celtics, they lost a disappointing Game 3 in Boston of the NBA Finals. Pierce and Allen didn't show up to play at all. We'll need all of our starters to be effective if we have any shot at putting up another banner.
Good night, all.
-JoesOs
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