It appears that, after feeling emotionally dead for several months, I've developed a crush on someone. Unfortunately, this person almost definitely does not reciprocate said feelings. And really, I probably have myself to blame.
We met as two--previously unacquainted--participants in a weekend trip to the beach, hosted by a mutual friend. Unfortunately, when I wasn't busy broadcasting my insecurities via self-deprecating humor, I was talking incessantly and trying to be funny every five seconds (a quality I always hated about R.).
So we're looking at two really horrifying problems here. First, I'm so ridiculously insecure, I have this stupid subconscious desire to point out flaws so that other people don't think I'm oblivious to my own imperfections. In my mind, there's nothing sadder than someone who's getting picked on for something she thinks is totally awesome. This is stupid, and I know this, but I can't keep maintaining behavior that basically says, "I have issue X, but I already realize it, so I'm beating you to the punch before you can make fun of me in an original way." This is lame, and it makes people think I'm just a big negative, sad person. R. always said that I was the, "saddest person he had ever met," though I guess he didn't stop to consider that he was perhaps the REASON that I was often sad. R. also said that I hate fun, which I'm pretty sure is wrong...which brings us to our next problem.
In an effort to be as fun and wonderful as I could possibly muster, I think I was a little too, "on" this weekend. I talked too much, made too many jokes, and probably just came on generally too strong. This is definitely the lesser of the two issues, but it's still a sizable one. This was something horrifically annoying about R. I used to tell him all the time that he didn't have to try so hard meeting people for the first time, and (as gently as I could verbalize), that his efforts to be infinitely funny and approachable were actually making him really hard to be around. At his most defensive, he would deny he even knew what I was talking about; at his most honest, he would admit that this behavior stemmed from insecurity. This habit of his, trying to be constantly funny and lively, almost kept me from dating him in the first place (that's a good get-to-know-the-writer-story for another night...). I was the biggest proponent of getting him to chill out at social events, and here I was all weekend acting exactly, exactly like he used to.
Anyway...whatever....
Gaghk! I really liked this guy too. Once in awhile, I thought he was flirting back, but in retrospect, I think he was just reacting in cagey fear out of how strong I was coming onto him. Good gouda.
Work is bizarro world. Seriously, where else would I receive good ratings for my oral presentation skills, but mediocre ratings for my writing?! Aside from how abysmal my writing is here, I've got to say that it's good when I'm in the zone. (and when I haven't been drinking).
Can you tell I'm a little sad about this?
Other young coworkers my age tease me about pantyhose. Apparently, it isn't only unnecessary to wear them in today's business-casual work setting, it's also just not stylish--especially for someone my age (I'm 24). And you know, I know that they aren't particularly attractive, but I've got my reasons.
Pantyhose, or, as I call them, "'hose".....well, we've been engaged in a love-hate relationship for many, many years. They're uncomfortable, hard to put on, hot, and if there's something stuck down in the toe? Well, you're just going to have to cope with it for awhile, aren't you? But on the other end, I don't understand how people wear dress shoes without anything separating their clammy, blistered foot from the leather of their shoes. Furthermore, I've got, well, some substantial hams on me ("Your hams are big and unfashionable, but I am down. Denise"). Having the 'hose sheathing them makes them more attractive under a pencil skirt and--more importantly--protects my sizeable hams from chafing together as I walk. You're probably laughing now, but I swear to god it hurts a lot by the end of the day.
Anyhoo, I don't know what it was about this morning. Maybe I was just too tired to add an extra step into my morning routine. Maybe the fully lined skirt that comes to mid-calf covers enough of my delicious, yet unfashionable hams to free me of some self-consciousness. Maybe I couldn't find a pair without holes in them (ding! ding! ding! winner!), but I decided to go bare today.
Things started off well enough. Not many people were back from holiday yet, and I was confined to my cube most of the day anyway. It was comfy enough--even the shoes! Everything was fine until I started walking around, that is.
Something about the bare foot in the shoe. I don't know. My feet weren't sweaty at all....maybe a little sticky, but something about them bare in the shoe. The contour of my arch against the instep, the angle, the fit...something. But whatever it was, every step produced a rude noise as I walked down the hall. I tried walking on toes, walking on heels, shifting my weight about, but nothing worked. All day, *phweet* *phweet* *phweet* *phweet* down the hallways. This is my life.
*phweet* *phweet* *phweet* past my boss's office. *phweet* *phweet* *phweet* past the cute IT guy. *phweet* *phweet* *phweet* all the way out to my car.
It appears that this is another battle in the war going on between my ridiculous body and fashion, and my body has won. Tomorrow, I will be doning some sort of nylon over my feet and my hams.
In other news, I think it's counter to the insane honesty of anonymous blogging to make the first post expository and biographical. Why not get to know me based on something less contrived? That is, if I keep this up. I suppose a little bit of exposition couldn't hurt...
I've kept a blog for a long, long time. I suppose my first post was about six years from last week. Somehow though, I feel like it's time to start fresh. Someplace where no one knows me. I can be more honest about some things, and exaggerate others with more-or-less impunity. :) Ah, ah, now don't fret. While you can't ever know if someone is really lying when you're reading a blog, I can assure you that this actually is based on my actual, honest-to-God life. Who would make something this boring up?
