Inside a Starbucks

There’s an old man sitting cattycorner to me in the leather chairs at Starbucks. He’s falling asleep. He looks like a perfect candidate to be drawn, if I knew how to draw. He has the white gotee and the white thinning hair, but long enough to be scraggly and reminds me of most old man characters on TV shows. I half expected him to have a cane and yell about “kids today.” Looking at him I wonder if he’s alone. He doesn’t have a ring on. He’s here alone. Did he have a love once but lost her? he’s gotten up just now and I discovered that his hair is not what I thought it was. It’s in a long matted ponytail almost like dreds, despite being a white guy. He left the shop carrying a few dollars, leaving his things behind. I realize now that it’s not just coffee and newspapers, it’s a rolling suitcase and a couple of grocery bags. Is that all his belongings? Does he carry it around with him? Everyone has a story. You can’t make it through life without one. Even if you’re a vegetable unable to live your life, your story carries on. The people that care for you are your story. The things they learn from you, without you even knowing it, are a part of your story. He’s back, the old man. He got a cookie from the Subway next door. He looks clean enough to not be homeless, but whose to say? I wonder if he’s lonely or if he’s accepted his loneliness, that it doesn’t even register with him anymore? He’s easily in his late 70s or 80s, maybe older. How long has he been alone? I don’t want to live till I’m in my 80s, if I’m still alone then. I can’t imagine adding old age and a decaying body to that. I don’t want that life. At least now I can do things I love to do like go to Niagara Falls, Canada or hike around the mountains of Colorado. If I’m too old to do that and STILL have no one to share life with…I just can’t bear it. I can’t even imagine. According to his cup his name is Jim. According to mine, it’s Christy. No one ever spells my name right, I’m used to it. I do always applaud someone and verbally recognize it when they spell my name right. They deserve that credit. He kind of reminds me of this old guy I remember who would always feed the birds at the pond by my old apartment complex. He always wore a wool hat, even in the summer. He always had his Walkman on his belt. An old school cassette Walkman. I used to smile and wave at him as I watched him feed the birds the bread or crackers he brought. I’d be sitting there on the grass writing or listening to music, looking out at the water hoping to catch the elusive beavers that I saw lived there for awhile. He’d smile and wave back. He also seemed alone. You could tell who was alone and who wasn’t, at least I thought I could tell. The walkers and joggers of that pond area in the Village who were not walking with someone had a look about them if they were truly alone. They didn’t need to walk too fast to get home to someone. They weren’t talking to someone on the phone while they walked. They had no ring on. They had all the time in the world to sit and look out at the water and ponder life as I did so much when I lived there for several years, both before and after Colorado, when I was in my 20s. Apparently Jim here does have a buddy. A fellow old guy sat down across from him in the brown leather chair next to me and they clearly know each other, in the way they are talking. Glad he has someone. Even if it’s just a friend. Sometimes I feel like I don’t even have that. Sure theoretically I have friends. They exist in some virtual world via internet or in text form when they can respond, but they don’t exist in face to face form. I can’t see and touch them. I can’t be sure that I’m truly being heard by them, because their presence isn’t known. When or where they read my words said to them in unknown. I can’t even be sure that they really heard me. In person at least I can ask them. I can read their face, I can get a hug from them. I sometimes feel like a friendless friend. I try less and less to maintain friendships based on how many times they’ve been unable to hang out with me when I've asked them to, even with reasonable reasons, which they always are. It just gets too hard. It's been too many years since college, since friendships were taken for granted at how abundant and readily available they were. I think the greatest gift the universe has to give is to be connected to one person. At least one. To share your life with them, even if it isn’t your whole life. I look around the Starbucks, guy/girl couples all around. But there are a couple women like me (and one guy), on their computer, on the internet somewhere. I don’t think they are writing, as they aren’t typing very often and I am feverishly typing. With the soft piano music playing in my ears, I can still hear the whir of the machines making those lattes or cappuccinos. There’s also the light chatter of those who are not alone today. I’m just grateful it’s Saturday and I’m off work today. That I get to spend the day in Starbucks writing, is a gift in and of itself. I get to enjoy this Trenta sweetened iced green tea. That’s enough for today. Now to get back to the story I’ve been writing since December. Book 1 of the trilogy “yet to be named” (that’s not what it’s called it’s just ‘yet to be named’). Its current title is "1995" as that is when it takes place. It’s 159 pages and counting. Another thing to be grateful for. My writing. My imagination. My ability to give a voice to characters and a voice to myself, even if I’m not the best at it, out loud.

 

reading and writing but never arithmetic

 

I'm kind of ashamed to admit I don't read much as an adult. I think if you call yourself a writer, you really should be reading other people's writings as well. You should be an avid reader. It's almost like you should be training yourself as to "how to write appropriately" (as if following the way someone else writes, is the way to go). But I read so many books as a kid, that maybe it makes up for it somehow. I used to win "lunch with a teacher" at school (which I don't think would be that much of a prize to kids nowadays, they'd probably rather win "Tablet time" or something electronic-based) for reading the most books in class. I remember my name being on the chalkboard a lot, at the top. I much rather read than talk about whatever kids were into at my age. I was shy too, so there was that. I don't really see myself as shy today, but more so averse to socially interacting with most adults I come across. It's not that I see myself as "better" than someone else, please don't think that. I just don't connect. I don't like small talk. I like to talk about things most people have no interest in talking about, or they would find it to be kinda sad that I cared so much about it to begin with; that I clearly have no life if THAT is what I want to talk about.  But reading was my escape as a kid. I could live in a world that was magical and wonderful. I could even live in a world that was sad and challenging. It didn't matter what the world; I didn't have to talk in it and that was a relief. I continued to read into college, but it lessened greatly due to the fact that I had so much more to read that was required of me and involved entire textbooks. I don’t remember reading anything in college that I enjoyed, at least class-wise. In my personal time I remember reading an amazing book called Redeeming Love. I don’t know what I would think of it if I were to read it now, but at the time, it was the best book I had ever read. Then the Harry Potter series came out and my boyfriend at the time got me hooked on those and that carried me past college along with other books like The Secret Life of Bees and The Lovely Bones, both chilling and sad but beautifully well written. I’m sure there are so many more out there, but it takes a lot to interest me to even crack open the book to read the first page and even more to keep me reading till the end of the book. The Hunger Game Series was the last to do that for me. That series, to me, was even better than Harry Potter, and I thought I’d never say that. So I was surprised when I found myself wandering the book section at Target last night and even more surprised that I took home a book. The title jumped at me, though. The Opposite of Loneliness. It’s a collection of essays and stories, written by a Yale college student, who died tragically 5 days after graduation. That last part is sad, but not why I wanted to read it. I haven’t read much of it yet, but I can tell she writes honestly and with unabashed truth, and that’s exactly how I like it. And how I write too. In the long run, I don’t know how much about what she writes, I will relate to, since I’m not 21 but I always appreciate women who write the truth and not what they think you want to hear. The writer, Marina opens with “We don’t have a word for the opposite of loneliness, but if we did, I could say that’s what I want in life.” She’s writing this essay as she is leaving college to go out into the world and she’s scared of losing “this elusive, indefinable, opposite of loneliness.” Which she is referring to as college life. I completely get that. Like 100%. There will never be a time in my life again where I will have 30 friends or however many I had at the time. There will never again be a time where everyone else is in the exact same stage of life as I am, the same age as I am, and live about 5 feet from where I live. College is an amazing once-in-a-lifetime, time. She also speaks to her fellow students reminding them “…that we can still do anything. We can change our minds. We can start over. Get a post-bac or try writing for the first time. The notion that it’s too late to do anything is comical. It’s hilarious. We’re graduating from college. We’re so young. We can’t, we MUST not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all we have.” Although what I find comical is that college students need a pep-talk to remind them “it’s not too late,” because c’mon, they’re 21. They have so much time to figure it out…except sadly some, like the author, did not. But it seems to me she figured it out a lot sooner than most. But generally speaking, 21-year olds have so much time. They have time to figure out what they want to do, who they are going to be. They have time to try new things and live wherever they want. They aren’t tied down to a family yet, and they don’t need to be truly responsible adults quite yet (at least not completely). You can make mistakes and everyone will be like, “Eh, you’re young.” I see her message as more for someone much older than herself and her Yale peers. At any age you can change your mind, start over, try something new. It’s a lot harder the older you are, logistically, financially, time-wise, energy-wise. You have responsibilities and a sense of settling down, which may hinder this process, but it doesn’t have to kill it. Hard work and determination are the 2 key elements to anything you want to accomplish. Most people, correction- ALL people struggle with both of those at some point in their lives. In school I had both of those qualities because let’s face it, you had no choice. At least I didn’t, in my mind. I couldn’t be a 20-year-old still trying to graduate high school, or spend more than 4 years in college because the cost is astronomical and I was the one that would have to pay it all back. 4 years was plenty. I switched degrees half-way through and lost a lot of credits but I worked hard and had full schedules and still graduated in 4 years. And even with an equivalent to an “A” in my degree (but not overall thanks to those early classes that no longer counted). Of course grades don’t matter in the real world, only the degree does. You have to work hard and be determined in the job which pays you to live on your own and enjoy the little things in life. But without all those pressures I just mentioned, it is definitely difficult to accomplish anything else. If I was paying 20k a year and had 4-years to find a spouse, would I work a little harder at finding someone? Or worse, settle for just anyone? If I was being paid a salary to write a book or I’d get fired, would it push me to finish it quicker? Or would it be sub-par because I felt rushed and pressured to make it perfect? I know I move slow-paced, but I’m kind of okay with that. I can waste entire days all by myself watching a brilliantly written TV show but it doesn’t feel wasted to me. And I always throw in other stuff too, like laundry, cleaning, as well as other creative outlets like writing or scrapbooking. It’s rarely just ONE thing. And of course I also spend time giving Mollie lots of love and attention, whether she wants it or not. I often don’t even realize I haven’t talked to anyone, or seen anyone. It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that I know they can’t or don’t have time for me, so why even bother? And trying to seek out new friends and make new connections is so daunting it makes me want to faint with boredom. But I suppose the day will come again when I give it the ‘ol college try. And then another year will pass and everything will remain exactly the same as it is in this very moment…as it always does.

I am grateful though, that my words can haunt the internet. So many others do as well, so it’s not to say that it is actually an honor to do so, but I know that more than one person reads my blog, and that’s enough for me…for now. Maybe one day I will see my words on the pages of a book on the shelf of Barnes and Nobles, or maybe spoken by an actress on the big screen. But if neither of those things happen, I will survive. I will continue to write. I’ll never give up writing just because it’s not reaching the multitudes. I will continue to write raw and real. I will continue to call myself a writer. I think the best writers are those who aren’t ashamed to write how they feel. They aren’t ashamed to reveal themselves personally because there is always someone else out there that feels the same exact way and thinks they are alone in feeling so, but they aren’t. I write for myself, but I also write for you too. Here’s to you…and to me. 

summertime blues

Summer used to be my favorite time of year. Now I loathe it.
When you're a kid summer is the absolute best. No school, swimming at the pool, playing for hours upon end, riding your bike or rollerblading (apparently oblivious to the heat), climbing trees (and on the roof of my house in my case), getting Slurpees from 7-Eleven with your best friend who of course lived down the street from you. Plus as an added bonus, my birthday is in the summer. I loved having a summer birthday. I already didn't have school, so I didn't have to worry about that. I would have my party at the pool, in my backyard with little games set up like the one where you throw a sheet over the clothes line and cast a fake fishing pole with a clothes pin on it and your Mom clips little cheap party gifts, like plastic spider rings and rainbow erasers for you and your friends. My favorite birthday party spot was the roller-skating rink. It was the 80s and there was no better place than the rollerskating rink. I loved feeling the air against my face as I flew around that circle of wood floor paneling, in my very own skates, not the ugly brown ones with the bright orange wheels, that everyone else had to rent. I had my own pair. They were white with baby blue on them. They didn't have Care bears or Rainbow Brite on them, but I didn't care, because they were awesome. As I got older and better I could skate backwards and fly by all the slow pokes and win speed-skating races, even if I was the youngest one racing. Summertime was so carefree. I'd spend hours building a community on my bedroom floor where Barbies and My Little Ponies and Trolls all lived together as one. They drove shoeboxes as cars and lived in the Barbie suitcases I had. Such a simpler time. Such a peaceful time.
Then you become an adult and you have to work all year round, EVEN in the summer! What the heck is up with that?! If you live in Texas and you have a job that involves being out in the heat, you are either insane or you just must really love what you do, or have no other options I guess (or all 3 in my case). I have to get in and out of the car into the heat to go visit the babies I work with... or help. That sounds like babies are my fellow employees. Getting back into a car that feels like it's a volcano ready to explode, despite only being in the house for 45minutes to an hour, is absolutely ridiculous. I really wish we could close down, not the whole summer, that's not possible, but maybe just 2 weeks in the hottest part of the summer. Give us a little break. Summertime doesn't just suck because of the heat, even though that's the biggest part. It also sucks because all the awesome TV shows that I love, are on break and there's very very few options of quality programming available in the summertime. I can think of one- Orange is the New Black. But unfortunately it's impossible to stretch that 13 episode season out and I'm usually done with it in a week, maybe a week and a half if I discipline myself. So I'm quickly back to having nothing to watch. There is an upside to summer, and that is I get a lot of writing done. Last summer and this summer in particular I wrote ALOT. I had more shows to binge on Netflix last summer though. The hardest part of summer is being social. It's too damn hot to go outside unless the sun is completely gone from the sky and I'm not a club hopper or bar partaker, so it's a lose-lose situation for me. I become a vampire, unable to leave the safety of my home till nightfall... that is on non-working days of course. Work becomes more difficult and exhausting than ever before. You have no idea how much the heat takes out of you. I literally wear the same 2 pairs of linen Capris every single week, and then one pair of scrubs, but I really hate to wear them because it's too hot for pants, but I have no choice. You can't really wear the same pair of Capris more than twice in a week and I haven't yet found more Capris, or tried that hard to find them (to be honest). So not only is my social and entertainment life boring, but so is my work wardrobe. There's literally nothing to look forward to. Not even my birthday saves the day. It's been lame and I let it be for the most part. There's only so many times you can be let down before you stop trying to make it better. Maybe if I had someone in my life, then they would automatically plan something big for me or a surprise of some kind. That would be awesome. I did have that one summer, my 19th birthday. Actually twice, my 25th as well. Not coincidentally I was dating someone both times. Actually my 25th I had 2 guys wanting to date me, fighting for my attention. I hope everyone gets to experience that once in their lifetime. I never felt more visible. It was an amazing feeling.
Well maybe next summer I should just go to Alaska and be with the bears, like I've always wanted to. Go on my birthday, why not? At least it would be somewhere cool and different.
Summer is just the worst. I can't think of any really good thing that happens in the summer time. But maybe one day I'll change my tune. Maybe I'll move somewhere that only gets in the upper 70s in the summer. Maybe I'll get what I've heard referred to as "birthday sex." Maybe I'll be surprised with a hot air balloon ride or a little getaway cabin in the woods for my birthday, and I won't just have to write about that happening. Maybe I can actually live them for once. I am finishing a story I started last August. I'll be done very soon. It's probably for the best I end that story, the one I've referred to an my "alternate universe" story. It's time. I don't live in that universe and I never will. Even though that universe isn't so far fetched from the world we live in (there's no flying cars and people don't travel via big suction tubes); unfortunately it's not a world I could ever be in, as much as I wish it was. At least I know that summer doesn't last forever. Soon it'll be Fall, my favorite time of year. The cool air will blow in, the leaves will fall and pumpkin flavor everything will re-emerge from their dusty tombs. That crisp fall air and the crunching sound of dead leaves under my feet is just my favorite. I can't wait for jacket season. Summer will end. It does not last almost 9 years like my singleness, so thank god for that!! Whew. Thank the lord for that.