Tag Archives: me me me

Waiting For My Real Life to Begin

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I’ve been in a weird mood lately.

For the most part, I’m very happy with my life right now. I love my job. I love my apartment. As much as I bitch about the T, I love not having a car most of the time. And while I can’t deny that I’d love to have a boyfriend, I enjoy the freedom that comes with being single.

But do I want my life to stay like this forever? Can I imagine myself in twenty years, living in an apartment in Somerville, still trying to get a date, childless, dependent on public transportation, working for the same low salary? Could you tell the answer to that question before you got halfway through the previous sentence?

I have moments when I wonder if I’m stuck here—if anything in my life is ever going to change. The funny thing is that I’ve never been good with change. When I was a kid, my mom would always be asking me if I wanted a new comforter or a new jacket or something, and my answer was always, “No, I like the one I have.” And I’ve always dreaded changes like starting college or graduating from college or friends moving away. I guess that’s a good thing—it must mean I’m fairly content with my life.

But now, I find myself fearing things staying the same. I’ve written enough about wanting a relationship, so I won’t go into it again. But one reason I haven’t discussed is that even though I have great roommates and a great apartment, I’d also like to live alone for a little while, and I don’t think that I could live alone if I wasn’t in a relationship. It relates back to this—I think I’d feel cut off from the world otherwise. So I guess I simultaneously crave aloneness and companionship. Man, am I that hard to please?

I’ve mentioned before how hard I find it to imagine owning a house. I’m still years and years away from that goal. But I’ve been finding myself thinking lately about where I want to live when I am ready to buy…which towns are fairly close to Boston? Have a commuter rail station in town? Have a good public school system for my nonexistent children? Recently, I bought the issue of Boston magazine about the best places to live, and then I wondered why. It’s not as if I’m about to get married and buy a house in the suburbs with my husband. But I still like to think about the possibilities for where I might live.

I’ve written extensively about my love-hate relationship with the T, but the truth is that I usually enjoy saving a lot of money by not paying for gas or parking or insurance or repairs if anything goes wrong. Still, there are a lot of times that I just wish I could get in the damn car and drive somewhere. Market Basket, the blissfully cheap local supermarket, is two miles away from me, which is close enough that I can walk…but far enough away that I can’t carry more than a couple of bags back with me. I wish I didn’t always have to ask my dad to come pick me up if I’m visiting my parents, and that I didn’t have to take the commuter rail to visit Christina.

If I eventually take a certain job, though, I’d get a company car, which would be awesome, but scary in its own way. The thing is, I love what I’m doing for work, and I know that I definitely want to stay in publishing, but there’s a large part of me that wants to move on to the next step, scary and unfamiliar as it may be. I’ve been trying to do as much as I can to prepare myself for it, and I’m lucky to have an incredibly supportive boss who’s been helping me a lot with career development. It would be a challenge for me if it does happen, but I also feel like if I prove that I can do it, I can do anything.

And then there’s my stalled writing career, which is no one’s fault but my own. I just need to glue my butt to the chair and get the writing done. I don’t even want to think about how much I could have accomplished if I spent as much time writing as I do sitting around watching reruns of 1990s sitcoms.

So…I don’t have any answers. All I know is that where I am isn’t bad, but where I could be looks even better. I’ll be twenty-five in July, and I think a lot of people feel this way as they near the quarter-century mark. At least I know what I want, I guess. Stay tuned.

The 22nd Thing

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“25 Things” is the latest Facebook phenomenon. It’s such a simple idea—write down 25 random facts about yourself and tag your friends to do the same. It’s spread so fast that it’s prompted articles in, at least, Time and the Boston Globe, and, of course, some backlash already. It’s gotten to the point where “my twenty-five things” is coming up in casual conversation. But while I agree that it’s a tad self-indulgent, I think it’s fun, and I’ve learned a lot from it. Now all my Facebook friends know that 90s sitcoms are my TV equivalent of comfort food and that, despite not knowing how to sail, I’d like to own a boat someday. And I’ve learned that I have a lot in common with many of my friends. A surprising number of them remember the old PBS shows as fondly as I do (but that’s a subject for another post). I’m not the only person who never gets sick of the view between Charles MGH and Kendall on the Red Line. It also turns out that I have friends who share my affinity for 90s pop, don’t like sandwiches with meat, and even one who’s afraid of geese, and that my sister and I have more in common than I realized.

One thing that people have commented on a lot, though, is my 22nd thing—that I never get bored. People keep telling me what a great thing that is.

But the thing is, it’s both a blessing and a curse. It’s true that I don’t get bored. Even when I was little, I was very good at keeping myself entertained. It’s partly because I enjoy things that tend to be solitary activities, like reading and writing. And as I mentioned in another post, I feel like I don’t have enough hours in the day, so I’ll never run out of things to read or things to write. Even if I do, I don’t mind re-reading old books, or re-watching movies or TV show episodes.

But while I don’t get bored, I do get lonely. Quite a bit, actually. Sometimes I think that my ability to keep myself entertained has prevented me from getting close to people. But it’s a two-way street: I don’t need other people to be entertained, and other people don’t need me.

Unfortunately, I’ve discovered recently that while I’m happy by myself, I’m happier with people around. It’s not like I don’t have friends—I do—but, as I’ve said before, I don’t have anyone who really cares whether or not I’m there. I don’t have anyone who calls me to share good or bad news the moment it happens. On Fridays, people at work will ask me if I have weekend plans and on Mondays, they’ll ask me what I did over the weekend. More often than not, the answer is “nothing.” Or, not nothing, since I was probably writing or watching a movie, but nothing that involved other people.

I think I need to start taking more initiative myself. I have a lot of casual friends that I’d like to be closer to. People always say that it’s better to have a few close friends than a lot of casual ones, and I often feel like I have the latter. But I tend to get anxiety about inviting people to do things. I’ve lost enough friends, either due to the girl drama that tends to happen in school or simply due to time and distance, that I tend to make myself think that people are just pretending to like me. And I’m so horribly awkward that I feel like that’s the only thing that people remember about me.

I don’t want to do another woe-is-me, I’m-alone-again Valentine’s Day entry this year, but I don’t think I’d mind being single so much if I felt like I had friends who needed me. At some point, I might take a job that would take me away from Boston, and it would be so much easier if I had a boyfriend—someone who would go there with me, or, at the very least, miss me a lot. I feel like if I left Boston now, everyone would forget about me, and I’d be alone in a new city. We’d say we’d keep in touch, but even with the best of intentions, people lose touch. It’s happened often enough with me.

Well, I guess this turned into a whiny, woe-is-me post anyway. My apologies. Maybe I’m the only person who has this problem, but if there’s anything 25 Things has taught me, it’s that when you think you’re the only one, you’re probably wrong.

Much Better Than Resolving to Floss

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My new year’s resolution is to acquire more hours in the day. Miraculously. Once I have those hours, this is what I’ll do:

-Finish the novel I’m working on
-Finish the short story that’s been rattling around in my brain for years
-Spend more time trying to get nonfiction published
-Try to get an agent
-Try to get short stories published
-Take Grub Street classes/seminars
-Go to writing groups
-Post in this blog more often
-Cook more often and try making things I’ve never made before
-Read more nonfiction, since I mostly read fiction- in particular, I’d like to read more about religion, international relations, and economics.
-Watch more educational TV
-Go running more often
-Go swimming more often
-Go to classes at my gym (like spinning and yoga)
-Explore more of Boston (and Somerville/Cambridge—I’m still learning the geography!)
–Donate platelets once a month
-Volunteer on a regular basis
-Try bars and restaurants I’ve been meaning to try
-Learn more about designing web sites
-Watch more movies
-Watch more TV on DVD
-Go to more events like concerts and plays
-Improve my Spanish
-Find ways to meet more new people
-Get eight hours of sleep a night

Yeah. So I’ve kind of fallen behind on all of these things. It’s quite unfortunate. There’s so much I want to do that I feel like I don’t have time for. Maybe I just need to learn how to manage my time better, or maybe it’s just because I’ve been busy at work lately, but I feel like I haven’t done anything I’ve been wanting to do over the last year. So therefore, I’m moving on to Plan B: more hours in the day.

Between the Lines and Behind the Doors

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I will eventually post about the election. In fact, I’ll probably post about it three times because I have multiple thoughts on it. But this is something that’s been on my mind that I need to get out, even though I’m tired and need to be getting to bed.

I’ve written about the book The Song Reader before. It’s something I think about a lot, whenever the lyrics of a song keep echoing in my mind. And, as anyone who’s Facebook friends with me knows, lately, the song I’ve been listening to over and over is “Between the Lines” by Sara Bareilles. It’s a song I’d heard before but hadn’t listened to closely until last week. There was a specific situation I applied it to, but then I thought about another situation that was very different but equally applicable.

But then I started thinking about the song in a more universal sense. How many things do we attempt to gain knowledge of by reading between the lines?

I remember reading this article in New York magazine, about how the Internet has caused a generation gap (young people are willing to bear their souls online; their parents aren’t). And after reading it, all I could think was…no one reveals everything online, even to their friends. No one.

Excuse my very cheesy analogy, but the Internet, if you will, is like an extremely large collection of doors. There are the doors that are open to everyone. There are the doors that are locked. There are doors that are locked to most people, but that someone has given you the keys to. And there are doors that are open, but that you probably wouldn’t have found if someone hadn’t led you there.

You could all probably figure out what I meant. We’ve all searched for our own open doors—what people can find out about us by Googling us. We Google ourselves, the people we date, the people we crush on. I sometimes Google my friends just for the hell of it. And we make the most of what we have when we run into a locked door—we see if we have mutual friends with someone whose Facebook profile is private, or check if someone’s posted on someone else’s wall. When someone gives us the key to a door, we read whatever we can into his or her goofy poses in photographs or cryptic Livejournal posts. And if we find our way to an open door we weren’t led to, we feel the need to justify it: “Oh, uh…I found your blog after so-and-so linked to it.”

The thing is, though, you could have access to every bit of information available online about a person and still not know anything important about him. While sometimes in this blog I’m just rambling about TV or whining about the T, sometimes it’s my attempt to be honest and just say what I’m thinking without having to say it out loud—and sometimes hoping that someone will read it and say, “OMG, I know EXACTLY what you mean!!!” (in a less annoying way, of course). But there are so many things I can’t put out there, even in writing, even knowing that this is a door that someone would have to be led to. If years from now, I were to look back on this blog as a record of what I was thinking and feeling at the time, I wouldn’t know the half of what was going on with me. The Internet makes it easier to tell some stories and harder to tell others, and there are some that I would love to be able to tell but know that I never will.

I wonder what people will read between the lines of this entry—or between the lines of my recent obsession with “Between the Lines.” Posting that little Facebook status update reminded me of the days in college when we’d post song lyrics on our AIM away messages, leaving people to read between those lines. The funny thing was that sometimes they read them completely wrong. I remember once, I had the lyrics to “Drive” by Incubus up, and I meant it as a kind of expression of independence and individuality. But my friend Jon saw it and immediately IMed me saying, “What’s wrong?” One person’s anthem of living fearlessly is another’s angry rant.

And to bring this post full-circle, that’s one interesting thing about song reading—the same song can’t mean the same thing to two different people. I recently found this from the author of The Song Reader, which helps you figure out how to read between the lines of your songs. It’s something that might help you figure yourself out when you know that the people reading your vague status updates and cryptic blog posts never will.

A Story That Might Not Mean Anything

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Warning: I try not to write about anything too personal here, but this is going to be more personal than most. I really hope that I don’t come off sounding like a moody drama queen, but it may be unavoidable.

A couple of years ago, I read a wonderful book by Lisa Tucker called The Song Reader. It’s about a woman who analyzes what’s going on in people’s lives based on the songs they listen to or that have been stuck in their heads, especially specific lines that stick out for them. Sometimes a song is a manifestation of your subconscious.

I won’t say too much more about the book, but it’s amazing how true it is. On my coworker’s last day of work, she said she had “Goodbye to You” by Michelle Branch, a song she doesn’t even like, stuck in her head. When I was going through a difficult time awhile ago, the song I kept listening to on repeat was Beth Hart’s “Leave the Light On,” which might have been my way of telling myself not to give up.

And then there’s the song that’s been stuck in my head lately: “The Story” by Brandi Carlile. And this is the line I can’t get rid of: “But these stories don’t mean anything if you’ve got no one to tell them to.”

In the context of the song, it’s a happy line—the next one is “It’s true, I was made for you.” But my subconscious never gets there.

Here’s a story I wish I had someone to tell. Last Friday, after getting out of work early for a summer Friday, I didn’t know what to do. Then I thought, why don’t I go walk along the beach in South Boston? I’ve never been there, and it might be a cool place to explore. So, by myself, I took the bus, and to get to the beach, I had to walk across a field. On the other side of the field was a man with a dog, which he had taken off the leash. It was a fairly small dog, and I’m not sure what kind—probably mixed breed. But anyway, the dog saw me walking across the field, ran over to me, jumped on me, and slightly bit me. (Before you worry, it was a superficial wound, and I’ve since gone to the doctor, gotten a tetanus shot, and put on a rabies vaccine, so I’m fine.) The dog’s owner was apologizing and saying that the dog never does this. I was too in shock to ask for the owner’s name and phone number, which I probably should have done.

But then, when I did get over the shock, I just thought, No one is here. I just got bitten by a dog, and no one is here.

This happened after a few weeks of me feeling increasingly lonely. There are times when it hits me that I’ve been single my entire life, and this is one of those times. I mean, forget having someone to grow old with, have kids with, celebrate Valentine’s Day with, split the cost of a one-bedroom apartment with (seriously, I found myself wanting to be in a relationship for that specific reason while I was looking for a new apartment), etc. Sometimes, I just want to be in a relationship for the companionship. It would be really nice to have someone to whom I mattered enough that I could just call him and say, “Hey! Some random dog just bit me!” Or someone who would make the time to go to the beach with me. Or, for that matter, go to Restaurant Week or a bar I’ve been meaning to try or the BC-Notre Dame game with me. And someone whom I’d accompany to whatever he wanted to do, and whom I’d listen to if he called me after getting bitten by a dog. Someone who would always be there for me, whether I want to go out and do something fun or stay in and watch Friends reruns, whether I want to share a funny story or vent about the annoying people on the T.

It’s not that I don’t have friends—I do—but they all have their own lives, and I can’t bother them with all the good and bad things going on with me. I think one problem I have, and one that I’ve struggled with in the past, is that I don’t feel that I’m necessary in many people’s lives. I mean, there are certainly people who like me, but not too many who would notice my absence and say, “Wow, too bad Katie’s not here!” And when you’re in your twenties, so many people’s lives are in flux—people are moving away, changing jobs, going back to school—that it’s nice to have a constant presence in your life, someone you can depend on to care about you. I really just want someone who makes me feel necessary—not in a needy, codependent way, and not in a cheesy, Jerry Maguire, “You complete me,” way, but in a way that makes me feel confident that he’ll always enjoy my company, always listen to what I have to say, and know that I’ll always feel the same way about him.

Like I said, I don’t want to come off sounding whiny and dramatic, because realistically, I don’t think I’m doomed to a lifetime of singlehood. I’m only twenty-four, and plenty of people my age are still single. And it’s not like I hate being alone—I’ve always been good at enjoying the pleasure of my own company. But there was something I saw on the T last week that made me pause: a girl and a guy who I think were BU students and who were cute in the way of couples who are friends as well as romantic partners. They were affectionate, but not in a really obvious, disgusting way, and they were having a good time making fun of each other as they talked. At one point, the guy started telling the girl something, and she said, “I’m sorry—but you’ve already told me this story about ten times, and it’s not that interesting.” Then they both laughed, and kissed a little bit. I loved that they were comfortable enough with each other that they could say that.

That’s what I want. At the end of the day, I think that’s what most of us want—someone whom we can tell our stories to. Even if he’s already heard them ten times and they’re not that interesting.

The Title of This Blog Has Not Changed

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Yes, Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and the “single” part of “Struggling Single Twenty-Something” is still valid.

This year I went to a bar with some coworkers who also didn’t have plans, and it was fun. We had some drinks, talked, and came up with reasons why we like being single and why we don’t like being in a relationship.

Except I had to guess on the last one, because I wouldn’t know.

It’s kind of embarrassing to admit it, but I’ve never had a boyfriend. I read a short story by Curtis Sittenfeld where the main character wonders “how people made the leap from not mattering in each other’s lives to mattering,” and that articulates a thought I’ve had much better than I could. (Incidentally, the main character in that story was a slightly crazy twenty-three-year-old who volunteers through a program that sounds really similar to the one I volunteer with, so that disturbed me a bit.) I hope a time comes when I feel differently, but right now I’m not feeling too good about the odds that I’ll ever a.) have a guy in my life who’ll become my best friend, b.) fall in love with him, c.) have him feel the same way, and d.) not have any factors (like distance, timing, etc.) get in the way.

Maybe I’m overly picky, but I don’t think that’s the point. I guess it’s that I don’t understand having a relationship if you know it’s going to end. You’re either going to spend the rest of your lives together or you’re going to break up, and if you’re going to break up…you’re wasting your time and possibly missing out on meeting someone better.

Of course, I could be overreacting, and a relationship that doesn’t last might be good for me after all. But I’m also thinking about something a friend said to me recently. When I told her that I’d never had a boyfriend, she said, “But you must have a really good sense of self.”

And that made me pause. That wasn’t the reaction I expected, but I kind of think she’s right. I am not the most confident person in the world, but “sense of self” isn’t an issue with me. Christina and I were talking tonight about how sometimes that’s the most important thing for getting you through hard times. Having someone else to depend on is great…but first you have to be able to depend on yourself. (Oh, yes, and I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside, you know?) And if you go from relationship to relationship without taking the time to be single, or even if you’re single but constantly thinking about how you want not to be, I think it’s pretty easy to lose yourself.

If I was going to write a song to describe my life right now, it wouldn’t be a love song. It would be more like that Jessica Andrews song, “Who I Am.” (You know, “I am Rosemary’s granddaughter/The spitting image of my father/And when the day is done my mama’s still my biggest fan.”) Too bad I can’t write songs. But if you want a concise description of my life, read my “About Me.” For a longer version…well, keep reading.

I Was a Thirteen-Year-Old Titanic Fan

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Today is the ten-year anniversary of Titanic’s release. Which is amazing and scary to me, because I can remember it so well.

When Titanic came out, I was That Girl. I saw it in the theater three times. I had a gigantic Leonardo DiCaprio poster on my bedroom door (the whole poster was his face, larger than life). My friend Jenna and I were full of all kinds of Titanic trivia and could recite entire scenes from memory. I became addicted to the Oscar telecast after seeing Billy Crystal host the show where Titanic won 11 awards. I sang “My Heart Will Go On” at the top of my lungs whenever it came on the radio. I had a Titanic T-shirt. I even sent away for a replica of the necklace, which turned out to be plastic and really cheap-looking.

Did I mention I was thirteen? I was the movie’s target demographic, so I can say all this without shame. Plus, if you’re going to get all nostalgic, it’s always more fun if you jumped on the bandwagon and were a complete dork than if you were too cool to be into whatever the trend was.

It’s funny to think about everything else that was popular circa 1997-1998. Dawson’s Creek was just starting. Boy bands were beginning to hit their stride. The Macarena was on Minute 14. People wore striped shirts a lot, or at least they did at my middle school.

But Titanic really dominated that year. Ten years later, I realize it’s not quite as good as I thought it was in eighth grade. It was nominated for fourteen Oscars, but Best Original Screenplay, rightly, was not one of them. The characters are very obvious and have no layers, and a lot of the dialogue is really cheesy. Example:

Jack: I’m not an idiot. I know how the world works. I’ve got ten bucks in my pocket. I have nothing to offer you and I know that. But I’m too involved now. You jump, I jump, remember? I can’t turn away without knowing you’ll be all right.
Rose: Well, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Really.
Jack: Really? I don’t think so. They’ve got you trapped, Rose, and you’re gonna die if you don’t break free. Maybe not right away because you’re strong, but soon, that fire that I love much about you Rose, that fire’s going to burn out.
Rose: It’s not up to you to save me, Jack.
Jack: I know. Only you can do that.

Also, while Leonardo DiCaprio is a very good actor, you’d never know it by his performance in Titanic. Even when I was thirteen, I was afraid that both he and Kate Winslet would fade into obscurity or be typecast for therest of their careers. Happily, and surprisingly, that didn’t happen, and the two of them did another movie together that will be released next year.

And if you really think about the romance part of it, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. How were they supposed to be soul mates? They only knew each other for a few days. Who knows how long the romance would have lasted if Jack had lived?

My thirteen-year-old self would be horrified to hear me saying this. But has any of this stopped me from getting the Special Edition DVD? Hell, no. I think that no matter how old I get, this is a movie that will have a special place in my heart, just because of all the memories I have associated with it.

Today the Passport, Tomorrow the World

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I am one step closer to traveling the world.

My passport came in the mail last week. My first passport, that is. And the picture’s not even that bad.

I have never left the country. In the past year, I’ve barely left the state. Actually, I think I left the state about three or four times in 2007—a few times when I went shopping in New Hampshire, and one time when I was helping Christina look for an apartment and she took a wrong turn and ended up in Rhode Island. And I live in Massachusetts, so leaving the state is not a big deal.

And I’ve only been on a plane three times—Florida twice and California once. In March I’m going to San Francisco on business, and even if I won’t have much free time to do anything work-related, I’m still really excited about it because a.) my company is paying to send me to a city I wouldn’t have the money to go to on my own and b.) even if I never see the outside of the hotel, I’m still traveling on a plane and staying in a hotel—and those, for me, are events.

I volunteer at a homeless shelter, and one day my fellow volunteers started talking about places they’d traveled, how nice Spain is, blah blah blah. Then one of them looked at me and said, “What about you? Do you travel a lot?” Me: “Um…I’m hoping to get my first passport soon.”

Seriously, though. Is it just because I work in the extremely low-paying publishing industry that I can’t fathom spending money on a trip? These people aren’t that much older than me. Maybe they have better-paying jobs, because I honestly can’t imagine being able to afford plane tickets to a foreign country while still being able to pay the rent.

So while the small obstacle of money is still there…at least I know that theoretically, if a gorgeous rich guy falls madly in love with me and wants to whisk me off to Europe in his private jet (hey, it happened to Monica on Friends), I won’t ruin the moment by saying, “But I don’t have a passport!”

Thankful for Thanksgiving

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I don’t think I’ve ever wanted Thanksgiving this badly. Not for any sentimental reason–I just want a break. I want to sleep late and take a bath and watch TV with my sister. I was exhausted all last week (I had a bit of a cold, too), and this weekend didn’t seem long enough.It has nothing to do with my job (which I love), either–despite some organizational changes that took place last week, some not so positive, I’m really enjoying my work and the people there. But this was the first year I didn’t get Columbus Day off, so I think I’m just sorely in need of a long weekend.

Random Items on My To-Do List

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It’s been a busy couple of weeks. Christina, who got a teaching job in Southern MA, moved out. Two days later, my new rooomate Stephanie moved in. And a day after that, I started a new job at a different publishing company.

So there are only four months left in the year. And there are a lot of things I want to do in those four months. I have writing goals, but a lot of other random ones, too. Among them:

-Get a passport
-Make fudge
-Organize all the stuff under my bed (I have all these folders full of old stuff I don’t need anymore. I am a ridiculous pack rat.)
-Go to New York to see a show
-Go to a Red Sox game (this might not be so much a goal as a wish, but still)
-Buy some TV shows on DVD (I’m thinking The O.C., Sex and the City, Season 4 of Gilmore Girls, maybe certain seasons of The X-Files)
-Get a better haircut
-Go to the dentist
-Go skating at Frog Pond
-Do more movie/game nights with friends

It’s weird that it’s almost September. Even though I’m not in school and haven’t been for over a year, September still feels like I’m about to start something new, like a good time to make goals. Or re-dedicate myself to old goals. No matter how random they are.