One of the things I'm trying to work on getting over is my fear of changing in front of other people. Changing clothes, I should clarify. I mean, I'm sure you knew that's what I meant anyway, but now I'm getting a small kick out of the fact that one or two of you perhaps imagined, for a split second, that I was anxious about changing, say, my menu order or my hair color with others present, which sounds like a very severe and specific medical disorder that I most certainly do not have.
I have been feeling unfailingly nostalgic recently. You might argue that I am always unfailingly nostalgic—and it's an argument you'd win; it does seem to be my default state—but I am feeling, I guess, particularly nostalgic as of late. I don't know why. Perhaps it's the wisteria, suddenly out in full force around the buildings at work, and how the scent of it takes me back, like a punch in the gut, to the wisteria that burst into life every spring at school, a riot of purple blooms climbing up the brick between the staff room and the ladies' toilets.
I had a whole different post lined up and written in my head—what, they don't count when you write them in your head?—but I have managed to spend the entire evening embroiled in one enormous, never-ending, multi-player game of Draw Something instead, and so that one's going to have to wait.
Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, I kept a collection of notebooks in which I wrote down inspirational quotes, song lyrics that seemed impossibly meaningful at the time, and the sort of pensive, doleful observations that prompt in me now a full-body cringe when I remember them. Basically, I had a Tumblr account way before my time.
The first indication that our trip to Knoxville might not have been the most well thought out plan was when I accidentally booked my friend Alison on the wrong flight.
"See you at the airport at 9:30 tonight!" I typed blithely in an IM on Friday.
"I'll probably be there more like 10:30pm," she replied.
"What?" I typed back immediately. "The flight is at 10:40pm!" (I did it just like that, except with seventeen hundred more exclamation points. While frothing at the mouth.)
Well, I guess I'm going to have to start a brand new life list now, considering I just crossed off the number one item on my current one.
I say "no worries" far too often. I'm not sure where I picked up this decidedly Antipodean affectation, but I can't stop saying it. Actually, I do know where I picked it up; I picked it up from Sean, a guy who's so laidback, it takes him two hours to watch 60 Minutes. (I wish I could claim that joke as my own, but I'm quoting the great Bob Dylan.)
Oh, I've been meaning to ask you: how was your Presidents' Day? It has not, hitherto, been a day I've ever had off work, and so when Sean and I both realized we had a holiday, we swiftly decided to throw an impromptu brunch, to which Emily Post would be aghast to hear we invited people via text, DM, and Facebook Chat. I know! If a party happens but no-one is around to make custom letterpress invitations, does it really happen? The scandal!
One of the things I've wanted for a really, really, really long time is a red front door. Pretend each of those "reallys" is a decade and you get the idea—alright, maybe not a decade, maybe five years. Door years are like dog years, perhaps: each human year you want yours to be a different color feels like five times as many when it isn't.
But guess what? The thing about a red front door is that it's not actually all that hard to achieve. You just kind of buy some red paint and go to town.