More than you ever wanted to know...

One day in eighth grade, we all filed to the library and lined up to have our eyes checked. I didn't think anything of it; I could see just fine. I covered my left eye and read all the letters perfectly. I covered my right eye and blinked. "That's weird," I thought. "Ahh, everything must be fuzzy because I had that eye closed. That makes sense." Only, I didn't have it closed, I had it covered with a piratey eye patch on a popsicle stick. I blinked a few more times, leaned forward, and read what I could. The nice lady at the table to the side told me it looked like I'd need glasses. I must have looked stricken, because she told me not to worry and assured me that "glasses are cool!"

It wasn't that I was worried about glasses being uncool; I was already uncool, and I'd made my peace with that. Hell, in kindergarten, I longed for braces, going so far as to get excited when one of my new teeth looked like it was coming in crooked and breathlessly asking my mom, "Do you think I'll need braces??" It's like I was begging to be a nerd. (Not that I've ever need the help of equipment of any kind to achieve nerddom.)

Alas, my teeth are very nearly perfect without the help of any metal at all, aside from the instruments that scrape them sparkly twice a year (and though my kindergarten self is no doubt disappointed, I am glad I never had to deal with braces). It looked like my eyes, on the other hand, would need some help. (Ha! Get it? Looked like? My eyes?) But as I say, I wasn't worried, just confused. Turns out my lack of difficulty seeing stemmed from the fact that my right eye not only needed no prescription, but was actually 20/15, even better than perfect 20/20!

And so it was that on December 31, 1998, I got my very first pair of glasses. (I also got my very first period that day. Because you really needed to know that.) They were round and gold and, frankly, quite terrible, though I didn't think so at the time. I wore them all through high school, and it never even occurred to me to get new frames when I got new lenses.

Having now worn them for over ten years, I've grown quite attached to glasses. Not that first pair, of course, but glasses in general. I think I look ridiculous without them. I did order contacts once, but I think I wore it (I say it, not them, because if you'll recall, my right eye needed no correction. I thought about getting a monocle, but there are just none to be had) maybe three times. I just like myself better in glasses. (I like boys better in glasses, too, in case you were wondering.)

Recently, I've been noticing a certain lack of clarity, a sure sign it's time for new glasses. My latest pair has treated me well, but when you have vision insurance, why not get an entirely new pair? So I did. My new glasses came in yesterday, and I'm so in love with them.

I hope black, chunky, rectangular glasses don't go out of style anytime soon, or I will be sorely out of luck. I'm going to be that old lady who looks ridiculous because she refuses to let go of the fashions of her younger self.

Luckily, I made my peace with being a huge nerd a long time ago.


Now, for your viewing pleasure, a pictorial history of my face.

Here's a picture of me in sixth grade, pre-glasses:

I know it's sixth grade, because you can see the bright yellow cast on my right arm. I wonder why I chose yellow?

This lovely specimen is from our eighth grade field trip to D.C.:


This is from, I believe, senior year of high school. Notice I'm still wearing the same round, gold glasses. Also notice, I'm meeting Christopher Moore. <3


The summer after senior year, it finally occurred to me to get new frames. I have a small head, and ended up getting a pair from the children's section. They were Barbie brand.

I look, what, 13 here? I was 18. This next one is just because it makes me smile.

Look how close I was to that panda!!!!

For my next new glasses, I upgraded to chunky and plastic.

Also from the children's section, these were brown on the outside and blue on the inside, and they had hearts on the sides. Hearts!


After those, I went to America's Best and got TWO pairs of glasses at the SAME TIME! Note: don't do this. Waste of money. I think I wore this first pair less than ten times ever.

Blue and metal and cute, I just never switched it up like I thought I would. Here's the pair I've been wearing for the majority of the past two-ish years:


And, at long last, the glasses I wore home yesterday:




Coming soon to a blog near you: a post about something INTERESTING!

...

Maybe.

Do you ever wonder...

...who the hell invented knitting? And how?!

...who the first person was to decide pineapples looked delicious and should be eaten?

...how language came to be? Like, how words came to be so specific, and how the alphabet was decided, and why things evolved in one direction instead of another?

...why people like horror movies and thrill rides so much?

...why sports figures get paid millions a year while teachers sometimes barely make a livable wage?

...what the point is?

Double

Someone once told me that it's like I have two lives: my family-friendly version, and the real version. I wonder who among us doesn't.

It's weird how knowing my readership (kinda sorta a little bit) changes what I write. It's weird that there are things I'm willing to share and discuss with virtual strangers, but wouldn't dream of telling my mother. It's weird that, if you were all indeed perfect strangers, you'd probably be learning a lot more about me right now.

Bonus! A milestone.

Two posts in one day? Quick, someone take my temperature!

Ahem. Anyway...


Just over a year ago, I was returning from Florida. I had a few more shot glasses for my collection, a few more freckles, and one killer pair of red suede pumps. The flight attendants on our plane were brusque, unsmiling, and generally not awesome. I knew I'd be better at it than them. I knew I loved flying. And then something clicked.

I didn't tell anyone my thoughts right away, but I went onto the website for the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. One by one, I looked up every airline they listed as flying out of MSP. Most weren't hiring, most weren't actually based in Minneapolis. And then, halfway through the list, my search was over. They were hiring. They were based in the Twin Cities area. To start the application process, you had to attend an open house informational session slash group interview; there were three coming up within the next week and a half.

It seemed almost too easy. It seemed like fate.

I donned my killer black pencil skirt and tucked a crisp white shirt into it. I pulled my hair back and put on one of my favorite pairs of shoes. I took notes at the informational open house, I rocked all the questions they asked and activities they had us do. I was tall enough and not too tall.

They told us we'd hear from them by that Friday (I think it was a Tuesday). By Thursday, I had an interview scheduled.

One year ago today, I was interviewed and hired on the spot. Within 45 minutes of my scheduled interview time, I was filling out paperwork and getting initial training materials. One year ago today, I became a flight attendant.

Of course, training didn't start until the 29th, so I have to wait till the end of the month to get my raise. But the one year anniversary of being hired at my very first full-time job ever seemed like it deserved a mention regardless.

The internet is really really great.

I've done it. I've joined a dating website.

Actually, I joined three. But two of them required payment to do ANYthing, which angered me, so I almost immediately canceled both of them. The third, though, turned out to be the charm.

Remember the passenger on my plane who asked for my number? I gave it to him with a smile, but I was unsure of my willingness to actually pursue anything there. He was clearly older than I am, but I was unsure how big the age gap was. I wondered to myself how much older I was willing to go. Five years? Very probably. Six or seven? Maybe. Ten? Now we're getting iffy. Well, he emailed me (I'd given him my email along with my number, because I'm very aware of my ridiculous aversion to talking on the phone, especially with someone I hardly even know), and I did what any woman of the 21st century would do when armed with a man's full name: I googled him. As it turns out, he's 20 years older than me. TWENTY.

Le sigh.

So I turned down RampManMcTextsALot (see: here and here), and now I'd written off my latest potential man. Contrary to appearances, though, I still was (am!) willing to date, willing to actually go out with someone. I just generally trust my gut about these things, and my gut was not fluttering in the good way with either of these guys. But I was running out of hope of meeting someone the "normal" way, running out of options in real life.

So I thought, well? Why not try online dating? It certainly can't worsen my track record... right?

In a matter of hours after creating my profile, I was inundated with messages. Talk about flattering. Not that I'm expecting anything to come of most of them ("Hey your cute lets chat?" Thanks but no thanks, sweetheart. I'm a fan of full sentences.), but some of them are actual people. If nothing else, it is quite the boost to my ego. Redheads get a lot of attention, it would seem.

So here I am. Putting myself out there, into the universe. And I think the universe might be noticing.

(I'm a fan of full sentences, yes, but apparently I'm perfectly ok with starting sentences with conjunctions on a regular basis.)

I have a few guys who actually seem interesting, and who I wouldn't be opposed to meeting sometime. Mostly I'm just intrigued by it all, and curious to see where it takes me. Adventures galore, or more missteps? An exciting combination of both? Only time will tell.

Just for fun, here is, verbatim, my favorite message I've received so far: "mmmm yummy"

Random Thoughts by Cindy

Whenever I see cars that are clearly weighed down in the back, I wonder what's in the trunk, and how many bodies it would take to make it so heavy.

The Wrong Vacation

As the Fallout reached its peak and ever so slowly began to wane, the Wedding Date loomed closer and closer. Out of nowhere, my mother decided to take action, to employ some evasive maneuvers, as it were. ("Out of nowhere" is not likely accurate. I was in my own little world of pajamas and pop and Sex and the City. EVERYthing was out of nowhere.) She suggested we go on a family vacation.

I was...unenthused with the prospect. My mother can drive me crazy sometimes, and I had, in fact, already made plans for myself for The Day, and they included much wallowing alone. I planned to disappear that day, drive aimlessly, go to the church and cry. The thought of a family vacation instead didn't exactly thrill me.

But mom was adamant, and kept suggesting destinations. None of them seemed especially appealing, until she hit upon Disney World. See, we never really took annual vacations as kids, probably because we lived in Texas and road-tripped to Minnesota for Christmas every year. That was enough of a vacation for our parents to have to deal with us on, so we never went places like Disney World. I did go to Disney World senior year of high school with orchestra, but it seems like a family vacation kind of destination. At her mention of it, my eyes lit up just a little, and I said, "hmm." That was all she needed.

I could produce no valid reason why we shouldn't go ("well, I really wanted to sit alone and cry that day" just didn't seem like it was going to cut it), so she planned and compared and clicked and booked, just as I had been doing for the previous 16 months, and suddenly there were definite plans in my future. The first definite plans since all my plans had been thrown out the window. Which, by the way, I just realized as I was typing it. I'm sure someday I'll figure out what the implications of that are.

Anyway, so I suddenly had these plans and I had to get off the couch and pack. So I did. And we were off to Orlando.

I can't tell you what the dates of our vacation were. I can't tell you which park we went to on which day. I can't tell you everything we ate, or did, or saw.

I know that in Epcot's Japan, we bought oysters that were opened in front of us and had necklaces made of the resulting pearl. I got a greenish-goldish colored pearl, in a much larger than average size. My sister, mom, and myself all had our pearls set in the same necklace setting. I was slightly jealous of my sister's blueish pearl; I love blue.

I know that I wore black on The Day, as a symbolic gesture for myself.

I know that all four of us stuffed ourselves into one teacup. And now I know that that is not a good idea!

I know that we convinced our parents to ride the Aerosmith roller coaster, and the resulting picture was so awesome that we bought it. I know also that we road DINOSAUR, and also bought that hilarious picture. (Did you know that I'm afraid of dinosaurs?)

I know we had fish and chips in "England," and we took a picture of me kissing a camel at the Aladdin ride. I know I bought a souvenir, a frame, that I haven't even unwrapped; it's hiding in the back of my closet. I know that we met up with some distant family members who live in Orlando, and Pam and I love our aunt-ish-lady who we never knew. I know that I bought a pair of red suede Kenneth Cole pumps that are to die for, but impossible to walk in.

I know that, when we flew home, our flight attendant was a bit surly, and I thought to myself, "Psh, I could do a better job than that."

I know that I did not have a single drop of alcohol or, as far as I remember, cry a single tear.

I also know, now, that this was the wrong vacation to take.

Most of the trip was spent in a depressed daze. I tried to pretend that wasn't true, I tried to be normal, but I'm not sure how good of a job I did. Clearly, there's not a whole lot of details I can give you about my vacation, though maybe that's normal after a year no matter the circumstances. I commented one day to my sister that Disney World wasn't really as fun and exciting as it seems like it should be, and maybe you just have to be younger to enjoy it.... or maybe, I realized after a short pause, you just have to not be me, right now, in the mental state I was in.

I will admit, however, that it got me off the couch. It got me outside. It got me smiling and laughing and eating and moving and breathing. It was the first tiny baby step that got me moving again, moving toward where I am now. In a sense, then, it was right, because clearly something had to give.

But, good or bad, right or wrong, perhaps most importantly, we all managed to make it through a multi-day stretch in Orlando without getting sunburned.

Irrational fear #16:

Getting rear-ended.

It's not such an irrational fear anymore, I guess, seeing as I did recently get rear-ended.

Oh, I didn't tell you about that? Right.

It was late at night, and I was driving home from my sister's house. The light I was driving toward turned yellow, and though I could have made it through, I decided to be responsible and stop. So I'm stopped at the light, there's no cars around, and I'm just waiting, when all of a sudden there's a noise and I'm jolted forward and there's a windshield in my rear-view mirror. I swore, put on my blinker, and pulled to the side of the side road.

This girl gets out of her car looking so terrified that, even though I was the one who got hit, the first thing I said was, "Are you alright?" She was young (I realize I'm young, too. I mean, she was clearly high school-ish age. I think.), and we determined that it was the first accident for either of us. We exchanged names, numbers, insurance information. We surveyed the cars and I was admittedly a little happy to note that hers appeared to have more damage than mine. Nicely done, car, way to be awesome. (My car still needs a name. Something fierce, because she has battle scars now. My dad suggested Elektra. Maude (Mod? Heh.) is also on the list. Any suggestions?)

I looked at my car again in the morning and saw that there was indeed some damage, but nothing really noticeable, and certainly nothing to file a claim over. So, incident forgotten, my car, her battle scars, and I have moved on.

Only now I'm paranoid. Even more so than I always sort of have been. I leave extra space between me and the car in front of me at lights, and I keep one eye in my rear-view mirror almost constantly. I yell at people who tailgate me on highways, and just am nervous in general.

I'm still a speeder, though. I never used to speed as much as I do lately, because I never used to have to drive during rush hour.

I think it's changed me, for the faster.

Dating is hard.

I've never done much of it, myself. Maybe that's why I find it so hard now. Or is it so hard because I've never really done it? Ah, paradox.

I've dated boys, kind of. Flirted, gone to dinner, called boys my "boyfriend." Or, sometimes, my "non-boyfriend." That one stuck around for a long time. But none of these things were ever real relationships, you know? There was always something off about them.

And then. Oooh, and then. When you find the man you plan on spending the rest of your life with, it's... I can't even tell you. It's the most incredible feeling.

You start planning things. Your wedding, your life. You see things unfolding before you in such a glorious way. You're secure. You know where you're going, where your life is going. You're happy. Happy.

But then. When, in the space of five minutes, your entire world gets turned upside down and ripped apart and the love of your life has broken you, it's... I can't even tell you. It's the most devastating thing.

You sit on your sister's couch and cry for weeks. You shower, occasionally, and then put your pajamas back on. You eat, when you feel you must. You stare, sometimes at the television, sometimes at nothing in particular, sometimes at words, empty words on a computer screen.

It changes you. So deeply, so completely.

You start to get over it. You put on real clothes and go outside. You go on a vacation (the wrong vacation, as it turns out - more on that later). You get cards and words of support and comfort. You put on a smile. You get a job, you move out of your high school bedroom (and into the basement, alas), and you just... try. You try to move on, to get on with things, to keep living.

I've done pretty well, I think. I love my job (most of the time), I've become even better friends with some fantastic people, I've realized how strong I can be, or apparently was all along. In some ways, I've really come into my own.

In a lot of ways, though, it's like I'm starting back from the beginning. I'm learning how to breathe, how to walk, how to move through life successfully.

Dating is not something I really excelled at in the first place, and now, now it terrifies me. Not that I've had a whole lot of opportunity to be actively afraid, until recently. I rebounded, I tried to put myself out there, kind of. With a safety net. A big huge safety net, and really no worries about my emotions at all. Things were going to happen, or they weren't, and either way, I was okay with it. Was I really just that laid-back about it, though, or had I sheltered myself? Have I built an insurmountable wall?

I met someone. Kind of. A passenger on my plane, who I had some really great conversation with. He waited for me to get off the plane at the end of the flight. We walked together. He asked for my number, and I gave it to him with a smile. As we walked away, he called out to me, "I promise I'll call!" And he did, within 12 hours. He left a very sweet message. I did not call him back. Yesterday, my phone rang. I picked it up to see who it was, and dropped it like a hot potato when I saw it was him.

Why am I so fucked up? Why can't I just take this opportunity and see what happens? Why can't I even let myself try to be happy?

I'm already finding things wrong with him, wrong with the situation, and I don't even know him. I don't even know him, it hasn't even started, and it's ruined in my head. I want to call him. Or, at the very least, I'm aware that I should want to call him. But the thought of picking up that phone... it sends me into a mild panic attack. So what do I do?

So far, nothing. I just do nothing. Because I'm paralyzed with fear, and doubt, and an inability to open myself to any possibility of good things because of the possibility of being hurt again. I cannot be hurt again. Not yet.

There are things that I want. Things I long for. But I think that I only let myself want things that, really, I know I can't have (or, deep down, don't really want, in the end). There's no fear of getting hurt that way.

I need some momentum. To break down these walls, that I've built around myself.

The trouble with English majors.

The thing about Literature (with a capital L) is, there's always more than one answer.

People say that there are no wrong answers, which is absolutely not true. But there certainly can be a plethora of right answers. There is always more than one way to read something, always more than one way to interpret this line or that, this reference or that combination of words that may or may not be a hidden reference. There's a whole world of possibility in every book, in every paragraph, and every interpretation can be argued and defended and appear equally right.

It's infuriating, really.

I got to a point in college when I longed for logic. A math class, a formula. Numbers, a right and a wrong answer. Results.

Sometimes the only way to know an author's true intention is to hear it from the horse's mouth, as it were. But what if s/he is long since dead and gone? Hope to hell they told someone else what they really meant? Or try to be content with the not knowing?

I myself don't really like the not knowing.

I should've majored in math.