I can walk up stairs again.

I don’t run anymore.

I am old before my time, physically and figuratively speaking.  I realize I’m 31 and so joint-creaking is normal.  But my back, knees, neck and shoulder are, at this point, chronically bad, partly due to old injuries and re-injuries, to overuse, and also carrying a little extra weight.  I also have to use the bathroom a lot.  I’ve been to the doctor for this, and they don’t know that there’s anything particularly wrong with me, but imagine that a 40 year old pregnant lady is going on a road trip, and now imagine how many bathroom stops she is likely to request.  That is me.  Except I’m not 40, nor pregnant, nor on a road trip.

So he was programming the remote, and I was making frequent trips to the bathroom, and I decided I’d tell him why, in case he started to get weirded out.  He was sitting on the edge of the bed with the remote, I was standing in the doorway.  I said I wanted to tell him something, and he looked up and asked me what it was.  So I told him.  I told him that there’s nothing wrong with me, but I can’t “hold it” at all.  I told him that I get up a couple of times a night for this reason.  I told him this, I said, as a round-about way of explaining that I needed to use the bathroom.  Again.  He looked concerned, but was very adamant about the fact that he loved me, and he was sorry I had to deal with that, but he was glad I could tell him things and he’s not the least bit weirded out by my frequent comings-and-goings.

So I grinned and went into the bathroom and shut the door.

And then I heard him say:

“Oh honey!  I got the remote working!”

He’s so awesome.

“…and she’s already talking about divorce, and I was like, man she only got married like an hour ago.”

“Okay, and this time don’t overload your harddrive with porn.”

The day I came out of the closet was the same day I asked her to be my girlfriend. For the purpose of this story her name will be Diana. I liked Diana a lot better as a girl than as a person. I didn’t know her very well, but she liked the same web comics and went to the same school. She was only a year older than me, which was still practically a baby compared to the rest of the dating pool in my community college.

She was pretty cute, and our first kiss was in the snow. I walked her to the bus stop on the other side of campus, and I asked her not to go. She told me she would be in trouble with her parents if she didn’t, and I asked if I could kiss her. We were a lesbian greeting card, clad in our scarves, covered in snow, bidding farewell at the the bus-stop.

We broke up a little under month later, and I’ve been single ever since. I mean, there have been girls. Okay, there has been a girl. But she had enough energy for five. I kissed her in the summer under the roof of Diana’s porch. We will call her Eloise.

She had a boyfriend.

When I’m a woman, I won’t let little girls play with my heart, batting me around like the ball in table tennis. When I am a woman, I expect I will be alone most of the time.

Oh well.

That bike was mine, once. It isn’t anymore. Now it belongs to the girl across the street and two houses down.

You taught me to ride that bike. I knew I couldn’t. I was too old, and you said I was to young to think so. You made me pick up my feet and push, but I only walked. Bike between my legs, one foot at a time. Step. Step. Step. You laughed the first time, and then you grew tired.

You made me try again. I don’t know what motivated me, but in the parking lot with the hill I flew. I was so fast. I yelled all the way down.

When I crashed into the dumpster, I made you push me again.

Thanks.

I remember always having a desire to please my parents, or others in authority. Not in a kiss-up sort of way, but just because I really wanted to be good. This carried over into school, of course, and I remember being stressed a lot, especially in fourth grade. I had stomach problems because of frustration caused by not doing an assignment perfectly, by missing a math problem, falling behind in something.

My few years in high school, and my beginning college classes were the same. I’d stress over every assignment, I’d scramble for the extra credit even if my grade wasn’t in trouble. Anything below an A was unacceptable to me. It meant I wasn’t smart, I wasn’t very good, I didn’t meet expectations or perform at an appropriate level.

Okay, all this stuff is silly. I really do understand that on an intellectual level. But it remains. And now, at 30 years old, back in college full time…I feel myself rebelling. I started out okay, but my first term at PSU I got a B. It sucked. I was aggravated with myself. I felt stupid, I felt like I stood out in a crowd, that everyone did awesome but somehow I sucked worse at this than Alexander the Great did at growing old. So the next term, I got all A’s. It was a relief, but I wasn’t satisfied, because I knew deep down inside that the only reason I got an A in my math class was because the professor handed out extra credit points like they do condoms in high school. It wasn’t because I put in the effort.

So now this term… I have all the same stress and disappointment looming if I do poorly. But my brain is sick of it. I am tired as all get-out of pushing for an A and still feeling like I didn’t do as well as I should. And even though I dislike myself for it, very much so, I’ve rebelled this term. I’ve only been to two of my history classes. I’ve missed four or five weeks of linear algebra, and a week and a half of calculus II. I’ve been keeping up with calc on a superficial level, meaning that I’m getting homework done barely on time (and missed a few assignments). I’m studying sort of for the tests, but not concentrating and making stupid stupid mistakes. I’m sitting somewhere around a B- in that class.

My history class requires 7 2-page papers. Should be a breeze. I have yet to spend more than a couple hours on each one, the night (or morning) before it’s due. I have yet to pick any of them up so I have no idea how I’m doing in the class. I’m not reading the material, just using the index and throwing footnotes around like they’re going out of style (24 footnotes for a 2 page paper? Really?)

My linear algebra? He gave us an opportunity to take the first test twice, and he’d take the highest score of the two. My first attempt was a 70, my second was a full-blown F. I’ve only turned in half the homework. That means I’m sitting at a D right now. But here’s the kicker: There’s a test tomorrow, over material that I have not only NOT studied, but I haven’t even learned yet. Almost a chapter’s worth.

Part of me thinks that because I’ve treated the term like this, somehow the pressure I always put on myself will be gone in the subsequent terms. As though this was my way of “sowing my wild oats” or something before I grow up (grow up? Wait…I’m 30, right?). Part of me blames my natural laziness (obviously that’s playing a big role), and part of me really really really really wants to blame anything but me, some sort of extenuating circumstance to explain this potential 1.6 GPA term and not hate myself for it.

My parents have both told me not a big deal. My overall GPA after this term is still a 3.2, and if I don’t fuck up this summer it’s back up to over 3.5. But it doesn’t seem to help. I have so much shame over it, and personal disappointment, and self-directed anger.

Oh, and thanks for letting me treat ThePontificators as my own personal therapy session! Weeee

Diagnosis: Someone needs to dunk her head in a bucket of ice water.

Also, mom and dad, I’m sorry I used the F-word in there.

I blame Gordon Ramsey’s influence.

“It’s fresh, it’s vibrant, yes?”

*

ambulances carry dead people. funeral processions look like motorcycle gangs. imprisonment follows raising the flag of the independence movement, so Bob Marley, and Che Guevara walk around on t-shirts and posters, strange surrogates for freedom. police vans carry groceries for extra cash, while garbage trucks are cheap transport.

*

high over the Baliem valley, the mountain streams are sand. below, fish live in the garbage ditches and no, don’t drink the tap water. we bathe in the river with other children; they laugh at us in a language we do not understand. they bring soap to the water’s edge. later we shower in secret at home.

For example, the last time I was drunk (roughly five minutes ago) I became extremely enamored of chess. I know this seems off the subject, but bear with me. I watched the movie “Searching for Bobby Fischer,” and afterward I started reading chess related items on the internet, the entertainment of which was strengthened by the amount of alcohol in my system. At any rate, I was reading about chess, which led, predictably, to staring at the floor. And thanks to old Cappy Morgan, I started to notice that the inanimate objects around the room, particularly the carpet, were actually moving towards me. It was as though they wanted to get to know me better, and maybe take me out later for drinks. I found this extremely fascinating for the three seconds it took for me to fall down. But the real humor came from noticing that it all happened in slow motion, which takes place a lot when you’re drunk, and therefore can be overdone. Just like in all those action movies that contain some scene where the crook or hero walks toward the camera in slow motion while something behind him (building, car, airplane, the neighbor’s dog, etc.) explodes, or is just generally spouting flames everywhere.

Here I must take a moment to “reign myself in” before I start to send the wrong message, such as: “Walking away from fire in slow motion is no longer cool.” Oh wait, that’s actually a good message. I meant: “Drinking is cool! It doesn’t really make you act like a piece of asparagus that’s been dipped in LSD and then jammed into an electrical outlet!” Where was I going with this? Oh yes, before I start accidentally sending that message, let me just say this: Nothing happens when an LSD laced stalk of asparagus gets plugged in, so don’t even bother. No wait! Let me try this again: I don’t recommend getting drunk on any kind of regular, or irregular for that matter, basis. Despite the humor that can arise, alcohol tends to magnify emotions, so that you start blubbering like an idiot when Tom Hanks falls through the floor while wrapped in a carpet in “Money Pit.” Also, it can put you in the compromising position of simultaneously trying to decide whether or not to throw up, while determining how far away the toilet is, in inches (268).

So, all you young folks out there, please leave getting drunk to the professionals, like Ted Kennedy. Also, when contemplating gravity, don’t forget your asparagus! I mean helmet!

It all adds to regrets, and turning new leaves, and promises to self that you won’t make that mistake again.

But then people you cherish, they tell you love. Get what they want, and then throw you away.