Indecisive Peach

I watched Atonement at the beginning of the week which led me to grab anyone I could by the shirt collar and shout, “You must see this film!!1!!11″ It’s insanely beautiful – vibrant and laced with colors that helped elevate the scenes to a more sublime level. It’s great film if you like love stories. And while I don’t particularly want a sad love story for myself (I’ve had my fill with that lately in real life), I would dig the kind of passion that the main characters had. Not a spoiler, but in one scene the woman clings to the man and strokes his face where he’s shaking with rage and whispers, “Come back to me. Come back.” He looks into her eyes and you can see that she just takes his emotion into herself.

Aaach! *clutches heart* …Plus they get jiggy with it in a library. That’s always a bonus.

I was slightly disturbed by the casting of the young girl. She looked eerily like me, down to the mole on my check. Even the same darn haircut. Not only that, but she liked to write and is obsessed about having things in their place (this is more alluded to in the book)…So I, um, am glad I don’t have an older sister whose life I could muck up.

I’ve noticed this similarity between people more in the last couple years. It seems that the more people I meet the more they tend to look the same. I wonder if this happens for the same reason I read about how the passing of time changes the older you become. I tried to find the link but was unable to, but let me recap the idea. The general hypothesis was that time passes quicker when you’re older because you’ve already created a pathway in your mind for a certain activity or experience. Thus, the mundane seems to go quicker because you’ve already etched those onto your mind. The repetition then glosses over the moment of time you take to do it. More reason for having unique daily occurences, I would think.

Read the rest of this entry »

I may get used to this thing called being an adult. I realized that it comes with its own instances of fun irresponsibility. It reminds me of that thrill I used to get in elementary school; I realized eating dessert first at lunch was a decision I could finally make.

Now it’s decisions like: should I take a shot NyQuil for my cold or finish the rest of the wine in the fridge instead? Should I find out what that rancid smell is in the kitchen is or should I just light some more incense?

These decisions are easy!

At the literacy seminar, there were a range of different people, about twenty of us, all there for different reasons and motivations. As I stood by the refreshment table, as I’m wont to do in a room full of people I don’t know, I hear someone say to me, in German with a confrontational tone, “So…I hear you speak… German.”

I had an awkward hunk of cantaloupe in my mouth so I just shrug and say, in English, “Well, yeah.”

He has that strange, old man, macho masculinity stance going on, head tilted slightly up in order to look down at me, feet spread wide. It was too early on a Saturday morning for this sort of thing. I rattled off in completely suave and fluent German, with him hesitatingly punching in sentences. When I noted that his German had a Bavarian accent, honest to goodness, he took a step back from me. I haven’t spoken German that well in a while and was later rather impressed with myself. I do attribute how well I did to the utter lack of esteem I held for someone who has to confront me about a language at 9 on a Saturday.

What I thought about while our teacher rambled off on how we should not use sarcasm with our tutees [No, really? Damn.], was how incredibly awesome it is to have that reach into different languages. If you know even just one more language, think how many more stories of life and love and emotion you can gather. It’s mind-boggling to me. Even if those things are universal, to feel the touches of culture, environment, and individuality on those universals shows you that everyone has a different path to own these experiences and can share them as long as there is that exchange of language.

Read the rest of this entry »

I have a lot of guy friends. In fact, out of my four closest friends, only one is female, who sadly is 9 hours away. What is up with that ratio? I realized a while back during the year’s mandatory “Crap, all my good pants have holes” shopping extravaganza that I really could have used someone that tells me that my putukas does not work that pair of pants. J will tag along, but he tends to get narcoleptic on me, sleeping in dressing room chairs.

To betray the home team, it’s not just all about clothes shopping. Not really the biggest fan, I’m too cheap and it is a lil’ boring. It’s something else I’m missing and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

The last girl that I really clicked with came from Austria. We hung out and did quintessential girly things, like admiring guys and dying hair. Our illogicality linked in a way that we both thought that we must be related. This wasn’t too far off. When discussing our backgrounds, it turned out that her grandmother and my grandfather grew up in towns about twenty kilometers away. Small world. Sadly, not small enough when she went back to Austria.

The thing that I like about men, even my friends who are a bit more in touch with their sensitivity, is that they are focused. They are logical, they do have the Problem = Solution way to address situations, and they do extend my thinking away from the neurotic. I sometimes severely need this. This though might be why I get frustrated with my sense of femininity, I don’t have anything to really reflect it.

But I think I would like that solidarity that was probably brainwashed into me when I was a 12 year old Spice Girls convert. Turns out Girl Power was a crock. Now I try to hang out with girls, but…at my age I think, how do you make close, female friends? How do you establish solidarity? How does that work? There are girls that I would love to just hang out with, but damn, asking them out to coffee feels like such a lesbian angle to me. There it is: it just seems icky.

Maybe I’ll ask them to go play ping pong with me.