When I was little, I used to wish that my parents had named me something exotic. Like Lindsay or Tiffany. Those were my favorite names until about the age of eight. Growing up I tended to wish I had a cooler name than the one given to me. Maybe I’d make a good Quinn, or a long name that was shortened into a cool boys name like Alex. Now that half of my girl friends are named Jennifer and the other half are Sarah’s, I’m pretty pleased with Heidi.
If I couldn’t have a really cool name, then I at least wanted a good story about where I got my name. Maybe I was named after a famous movie star or at the very least, a really old relative. No such luck. I have the boring story of, “we just liked the name Heidi.” One thing my parents did consider however was the fact that I was going to have to spell my last name for many, many years. This has turned out to be true. It gives new friends a sense of accomplishment when they have learned to spell my last name. Thank goodness I don’t have to spell my first name for everyone too.
With many friends having babies, I’ve been giving names some thought. If you give your kids an odd name, you better hope that they’re really good at something, be it sports or singing or something else so they don’t get beat up on the playground. During football season, my guy coworkers and I were discussing the trend that to be really good at college football, your name had to either start with Ja or La. LaMichael. Jaquizz. Lebron. Let’s be honest, if those guys weren’t exceptional athletes, someone would have made serious fun of them. My coworkers and I considered adding one of the prefixes to our own names to see if it would help our own athletic endeavors. Thus far, LaHeidi is no more successful than just plain Heidi.
If you want your child to play sports, I highly suggest going with a two-syllable name. Do you know how hard it is to cheer for my friend Melissa? It is a mouthful to get out in the middle of a game. I also recommend going with a name with a spelling that can be deciphered by almost anyone. I started enough games in high school to have heard every possible slaughtered variation of my last name. I’m not sure why anyone would potentially want a third party to not be able to decipher their child’s first name. There is a figure skater who spells her name Caydee. What was wrong with good old fashioned Katie? Most of us stopped spelling phonetically in elementary school.
There are certain names that have been around forever and have been spelled the same way since the dawn of time. Why is this generation thinking that James now needs to have a y in it? And when did we start using x’s instead of ck’s? And what is with all the hippie names? Like Rain? Do you want your child to grow up to make her own clothes out of hemp? Plus, people only like rain on occasion, not all the time. And as much as I like the name Brooklyn, that is a borough, not a name for a person. If you’re going to name your child after a city or state or country, I would hope that the place had significant meaning to you and your significant other. It would be odd to name your child Canada if you’ve never even been there.
Someday if I ever have children, it is pretty safe to say that I will not have an Apple or a Kenya or anything with six e’s instead of a y. I may be able to work with the three syllable thing. Despite spending my childhood wishing for an exotic name, as an adult I’m pretty happy with the one given to me. It’s not too common and not too obscure. It’s just right. And yes, one of my nicknames is Goldilocks.
January 21, 2010
January 20, 2010
Am I Old?
This morning at work someone complimented me on my shirt and asked where I got it. I couldn’t remember since I’ve had this shirt for probably a couple years. Then I started to really think about it and remembered the origin of the shirt. I bought it for a trip to NYC during Jan term of my senior year in college. In 2003. I am still wearing a shirt SEVEN years after I bought it. I like to think that implies that I have taste in classic clothing that you can wear forever. One thing I know it does – it makes me feel older than I normally feel that I am.
On any given day, I probably feel like I am still 25. That was a good age. In fact, I celebrate anniversaries of my 25th birthday now instead of adding on the years. And while I may think that I am still 25, the truth looms. I am way closer to 30 than I am to 25. And have a shirt that is seven years old to prove it (plus a few others even older that aren’t allowed in public anymore). I’m still not sure how this happened? I don’t feel old and get carded frequently enough to know that I don’t look all that old. Perhaps it is because my lifestyle is similar to what it was at 25: single, living downtown, enjoying life and my disposable income. I haven’t gotten married nor had children like many of my friends. Do they feel older because of that? I have no idea.
Age again was thrown into my face at a recent volleyball game. I play with a bunch of ex-Linfield players and the other night we came across some new girls in the league who also had played for Linfield. Only they were freshman when the youngest girls on my team were seniors. Which means that they weren’t even in college when I was. How did I become one of the old ladies in the league?
All this led me to wondering if we ever actually feel our age? With the obvious exception of our 80’s when none of our joints work correctly anymore. Is there a point that we stop feeling like we’re still 25 and begin to realize that we’re actually 40 or 50? I’m still in my twenties (barely) and I already have a dysfunctional right hip. I’m thinking that doesn’t bode well for my feeling young forever.
I’ve decided to treat aging as I do getting sick. I don’t believe in it, therefore I cannot. It works for sickness 90% of the time, I don’t see why it won’t work for aging. Or at the very least, feeling young. I feel young, therefore I am. As long as my 80-year old hip isn’t acting up anyway.
On any given day, I probably feel like I am still 25. That was a good age. In fact, I celebrate anniversaries of my 25th birthday now instead of adding on the years. And while I may think that I am still 25, the truth looms. I am way closer to 30 than I am to 25. And have a shirt that is seven years old to prove it (plus a few others even older that aren’t allowed in public anymore). I’m still not sure how this happened? I don’t feel old and get carded frequently enough to know that I don’t look all that old. Perhaps it is because my lifestyle is similar to what it was at 25: single, living downtown, enjoying life and my disposable income. I haven’t gotten married nor had children like many of my friends. Do they feel older because of that? I have no idea.
Age again was thrown into my face at a recent volleyball game. I play with a bunch of ex-Linfield players and the other night we came across some new girls in the league who also had played for Linfield. Only they were freshman when the youngest girls on my team were seniors. Which means that they weren’t even in college when I was. How did I become one of the old ladies in the league?
All this led me to wondering if we ever actually feel our age? With the obvious exception of our 80’s when none of our joints work correctly anymore. Is there a point that we stop feeling like we’re still 25 and begin to realize that we’re actually 40 or 50? I’m still in my twenties (barely) and I already have a dysfunctional right hip. I’m thinking that doesn’t bode well for my feeling young forever.
I’ve decided to treat aging as I do getting sick. I don’t believe in it, therefore I cannot. It works for sickness 90% of the time, I don’t see why it won’t work for aging. Or at the very least, feeling young. I feel young, therefore I am. As long as my 80-year old hip isn’t acting up anyway.
January 13, 2010
Don't Judge A Book by it's Cover
It sometimes amazes me how there are life lessons you need to learn over and over again in life. When I was in high school, our biggest nemesis was Plains. We hated them. They were always good and always had new uniforms. From the time we started playing them in rec sports during elementary school, we had this mental block that Plains couldn’t be beat.
When I started playing varsity volleyball in high school, Plains took fourth in the state that year. So you can imagine our apprehension at playing them the next year. Finally something clicked, we got over the mental block, and didn’t lose to them again that season and went to state ourselves.
All this to say that it’s funny how some things get into your mind, like that Plains can’t be beat, and they stick there and you’re intimidated by that forever. Last night at my volleyball game, in a league not comprised of young spry teenagers, we played a team that was new to the league. They all had on their old college volleyball shorts touting the college they played at as well as their college shirts. They had the perfect warm ups and looked pretty impressive in hitting practice. I'll admit to not being 100% sure we were going to win. My team wears whatever is handy on the floor before we leave to make it for the start of the game. Usually running shorts and a t-shirt that does not match. Our warm ups suck, as half the team isn’t usually even there until about two minutes before the game. Our pre-game ritual was so unimpressive that it caused a girl on the other team to mumble loudly enough for us to hear, “nice warm ups.”
Which is why I took great pleasure in kicking their ass. I was a little worried that we were going to get killed, but before I knew it we were up 12 to 3. They were by far one of the better teams we’ve had to play, and while they gave us some points on their errors, we outplayed them. I think you play up when you have a tough team and tend to play like crap when the opponent isn’t as skilled. Volleyball is a very mental game and momentum switches in an instant. So it’s always gratifying to play so unexpectedly well that your opponent is thrown off and is frustrated to the point that they can’t seem to make anything happen. Especially when they expected to walk all over you.
Between the first and second game, it suddenly dawned on us, that this team was younger than us. In this league, we tend to be one of the, if not the, youngest teams. So when the momentum was not in our favor at a crucial point of the game and they were gaining ground, we decided that as we were the old ladies tonight, it was time to pass on some lessons from the other old ladies of the league. We pulled out an ugly old lady move that is more likely to be seen at a back yard barbeque than a competitive match, but is effective in a city rec league. And took the second game to win the match.
Would we have been upset if we had lost? Not really. It’s a rec league, it’s not life or death. But it is oh so gratifying to beat a team soundly that expects to beat you based on your ragamuffin warm ups. And it’s so much fun to beat a team that is good. Twenty-four years of playing competitive sports, and I still really, really, really love to win.
When I started playing varsity volleyball in high school, Plains took fourth in the state that year. So you can imagine our apprehension at playing them the next year. Finally something clicked, we got over the mental block, and didn’t lose to them again that season and went to state ourselves.
All this to say that it’s funny how some things get into your mind, like that Plains can’t be beat, and they stick there and you’re intimidated by that forever. Last night at my volleyball game, in a league not comprised of young spry teenagers, we played a team that was new to the league. They all had on their old college volleyball shorts touting the college they played at as well as their college shirts. They had the perfect warm ups and looked pretty impressive in hitting practice. I'll admit to not being 100% sure we were going to win. My team wears whatever is handy on the floor before we leave to make it for the start of the game. Usually running shorts and a t-shirt that does not match. Our warm ups suck, as half the team isn’t usually even there until about two minutes before the game. Our pre-game ritual was so unimpressive that it caused a girl on the other team to mumble loudly enough for us to hear, “nice warm ups.”
Which is why I took great pleasure in kicking their ass. I was a little worried that we were going to get killed, but before I knew it we were up 12 to 3. They were by far one of the better teams we’ve had to play, and while they gave us some points on their errors, we outplayed them. I think you play up when you have a tough team and tend to play like crap when the opponent isn’t as skilled. Volleyball is a very mental game and momentum switches in an instant. So it’s always gratifying to play so unexpectedly well that your opponent is thrown off and is frustrated to the point that they can’t seem to make anything happen. Especially when they expected to walk all over you.
Between the first and second game, it suddenly dawned on us, that this team was younger than us. In this league, we tend to be one of the, if not the, youngest teams. So when the momentum was not in our favor at a crucial point of the game and they were gaining ground, we decided that as we were the old ladies tonight, it was time to pass on some lessons from the other old ladies of the league. We pulled out an ugly old lady move that is more likely to be seen at a back yard barbeque than a competitive match, but is effective in a city rec league. And took the second game to win the match.
Would we have been upset if we had lost? Not really. It’s a rec league, it’s not life or death. But it is oh so gratifying to beat a team soundly that expects to beat you based on your ragamuffin warm ups. And it’s so much fun to beat a team that is good. Twenty-four years of playing competitive sports, and I still really, really, really love to win.
January 12, 2010
Oh, It's A "Work" Out
As I stepped on the scale this morning, I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, I was at least back down to my Vegas weight. Not quite back to my Hawaii weight, but heading in the right direction after months of tailgating and holidays.
Personally, I think it’s pretty lame that we have to work so hard to drop a few pounds when they are so easy and delicious to put on. Like I read recently in a Newsweek article, "thin may be the new black, but fat is a whole lot easier." While most people tend to struggle to eat healthy during the holidays, my nemesis is college football season. At least a minimum of six Saturdays are spent in Corvallis doing nothing but eating and drinking for hours before and after the football game. And when I’m too lazy to go for a run before tackling the 2 hour drive, it’s no wonder my pants are snug come Thanksgiving. Thankfully it’s colder by then and I can wear big comfy sweaters instead of a swim suit.
So while I’ve somehow managed to shed a few pounds, I don’t look nearly as good as I did when I went to Vegas or Hawaii. Why is that? Oh, because for those trips I was running religiously 20-25 miles a week and working out nearly every day. The problem with this is that kind of regimen is impossible to keep up. By mid-December, I’m ready to write the whole exercise thing off until January. And who does ab work when people aren’t going to see your stomach? If I’m going to go through that hassle and pain, I’m only doing it if someone is going to notice. And notice on a tropical beach with a white sand beach and clear blue water.
I realized something this morning, as I’m lighter than the past few months, but flabbier than my previous time at this weight. While I was raised to expect to have to work for the majority of my life, no one told me I was going to have to work out for the rest of my life. Although now I realize that’s probably why it’s called “work” out. Because it’s a boat load of work and energy. And it takes so much effort to stay toned. Much to my dismay, my arms are not toned just by walking past the weights. Apparently you actually have to lift the damn things. And while I can look at a box of cookies and think “nothing tastes as good as thin feels,” and put them back on the grocery store shelf, I have yet to devise a mantra like that to get my ass on the treadmill. I think I just realized I have to go to the gym for the rest of my life (please picture the scene from The Sandlot with the close up of Squints saying FOREVER in slow motion here).
When I was younger, working out was part of being in shape for sports. And they called it conditioning, which sounds more like I'm washing my hair than running my ass off. It was part of practice every day, so I didn’t really notice it. Now I work out all week and there is not a game to play in on Friday night. The whole point of working out now is just to be in shape. Talk about lack of motivation. I have no problem doing squats or wall sits because it will strengthen my legs to jump for a rebound or (attempt to) block a spiked volleyball. I do have a problem with someone telling me to do squats because they’re good for me. Really? I was also told eating carrots would help my eye sight. After having Lasik, I’m pretty doubtful about that little story my parents fed me.
Although I’m not a huge fan of having to work the rest of my life, and still plan to marry rich so I can be a lady of leisure, I’m even less of a fan of having to work out and eat healthy the rest of my life. None the less, I’ll likely find myself doing sit ups while watching TV tonight. And I’ll probably eat my vegetables, carrots and all.
Personally, I think it’s pretty lame that we have to work so hard to drop a few pounds when they are so easy and delicious to put on. Like I read recently in a Newsweek article, "thin may be the new black, but fat is a whole lot easier." While most people tend to struggle to eat healthy during the holidays, my nemesis is college football season. At least a minimum of six Saturdays are spent in Corvallis doing nothing but eating and drinking for hours before and after the football game. And when I’m too lazy to go for a run before tackling the 2 hour drive, it’s no wonder my pants are snug come Thanksgiving. Thankfully it’s colder by then and I can wear big comfy sweaters instead of a swim suit.
So while I’ve somehow managed to shed a few pounds, I don’t look nearly as good as I did when I went to Vegas or Hawaii. Why is that? Oh, because for those trips I was running religiously 20-25 miles a week and working out nearly every day. The problem with this is that kind of regimen is impossible to keep up. By mid-December, I’m ready to write the whole exercise thing off until January. And who does ab work when people aren’t going to see your stomach? If I’m going to go through that hassle and pain, I’m only doing it if someone is going to notice. And notice on a tropical beach with a white sand beach and clear blue water.
I realized something this morning, as I’m lighter than the past few months, but flabbier than my previous time at this weight. While I was raised to expect to have to work for the majority of my life, no one told me I was going to have to work out for the rest of my life. Although now I realize that’s probably why it’s called “work” out. Because it’s a boat load of work and energy. And it takes so much effort to stay toned. Much to my dismay, my arms are not toned just by walking past the weights. Apparently you actually have to lift the damn things. And while I can look at a box of cookies and think “nothing tastes as good as thin feels,” and put them back on the grocery store shelf, I have yet to devise a mantra like that to get my ass on the treadmill. I think I just realized I have to go to the gym for the rest of my life (please picture the scene from The Sandlot with the close up of Squints saying FOREVER in slow motion here).
When I was younger, working out was part of being in shape for sports. And they called it conditioning, which sounds more like I'm washing my hair than running my ass off. It was part of practice every day, so I didn’t really notice it. Now I work out all week and there is not a game to play in on Friday night. The whole point of working out now is just to be in shape. Talk about lack of motivation. I have no problem doing squats or wall sits because it will strengthen my legs to jump for a rebound or (attempt to) block a spiked volleyball. I do have a problem with someone telling me to do squats because they’re good for me. Really? I was also told eating carrots would help my eye sight. After having Lasik, I’m pretty doubtful about that little story my parents fed me.
Although I’m not a huge fan of having to work the rest of my life, and still plan to marry rich so I can be a lady of leisure, I’m even less of a fan of having to work out and eat healthy the rest of my life. None the less, I’ll likely find myself doing sit ups while watching TV tonight. And I’ll probably eat my vegetables, carrots and all.
January 11, 2010
Monica and Me
If I were a character on Friends, I would be Monica. We all want to be Rachel, but I have to be realistic. I’m clean (although not quite to the extent that Monica is), organized, competitive and borderline OCD. The OCD may not be borderline depending on who you ask.
I was reminded of this, after a weekend of watching Friends episodes on DVD, when my friend Jake asked me a favor. In my group of friends, I am the planner. If we want to do something or go somewhere, I am the person who makes sure it happens and we have a place to sleep (with the exception of Beaver football).
One of the guys in our group is getting married and the other two are the best men. They are attempting to plan the bachelor party, and by attempting I mean trying to talk me into doing all the work for them. As I’m not invited to any of the BPPC (Bachelor Party Planning Committee) events or the actual bachelor party, I’m not sure why they think I’d have any desire to be the organizer. My organizing is strictly self-serving. I plan and organize because if I want to do something, the only way to make that happen is if I do it. I’ve gotten pretty good at it along the way.
Apparently the BPPC met over the weekend and decided that a) they want to head to the Phoenix area and b) I would happily plan everything for them. B is where they seem to be running into some trouble. After fee negotiations broke down, I informed Jake nicely, that as I have no stake in this, I have no desire to plan and coordinate.
At which point he tried to Monica me. Remember the Thanksgiving episode, I think season 10, where Monica says she isn’t going to cook turkey dinner that year? Phoebe responds by tricking Monica into thinking that it’s best since she probably couldn’t outdo previous year’s effort. Monica of course takes the bait and ends up thinking “It’s my favorite kind of competition. It’s me . . . versus me!”
Jake tried the same kind of psychology, telling me how he thought I was a legend and my planning and organizational powers were world renowned but how my not stepping up to this challenge of planning the bachelor party obviously proves all those theories wrong. And suddenly I found myself seriously considering planning this adventure!
I quickly restarted my brain however and didn’t get sucked in to the ridiculousness. Although most likely, if I find myself with a few bored minutes, I’ll end up perusing VRBO’s in the Phoenix area. Because just like Monica, I can’t help but want others to be organized. I guess the borderline in front of OCD can be removed after all.
I was reminded of this, after a weekend of watching Friends episodes on DVD, when my friend Jake asked me a favor. In my group of friends, I am the planner. If we want to do something or go somewhere, I am the person who makes sure it happens and we have a place to sleep (with the exception of Beaver football).
One of the guys in our group is getting married and the other two are the best men. They are attempting to plan the bachelor party, and by attempting I mean trying to talk me into doing all the work for them. As I’m not invited to any of the BPPC (Bachelor Party Planning Committee) events or the actual bachelor party, I’m not sure why they think I’d have any desire to be the organizer. My organizing is strictly self-serving. I plan and organize because if I want to do something, the only way to make that happen is if I do it. I’ve gotten pretty good at it along the way.
Apparently the BPPC met over the weekend and decided that a) they want to head to the Phoenix area and b) I would happily plan everything for them. B is where they seem to be running into some trouble. After fee negotiations broke down, I informed Jake nicely, that as I have no stake in this, I have no desire to plan and coordinate.
At which point he tried to Monica me. Remember the Thanksgiving episode, I think season 10, where Monica says she isn’t going to cook turkey dinner that year? Phoebe responds by tricking Monica into thinking that it’s best since she probably couldn’t outdo previous year’s effort. Monica of course takes the bait and ends up thinking “It’s my favorite kind of competition. It’s me . . . versus me!”
Jake tried the same kind of psychology, telling me how he thought I was a legend and my planning and organizational powers were world renowned but how my not stepping up to this challenge of planning the bachelor party obviously proves all those theories wrong. And suddenly I found myself seriously considering planning this adventure!
I quickly restarted my brain however and didn’t get sucked in to the ridiculousness. Although most likely, if I find myself with a few bored minutes, I’ll end up perusing VRBO’s in the Phoenix area. Because just like Monica, I can’t help but want others to be organized. I guess the borderline in front of OCD can be removed after all.
Girl Scouts
Growing up in rural Montana, there weren’t as many after school activities for young kids as you see in cities. There were no music programs or youth soccer. So I followed my fellow female classmate’s footsteps and found myself signed up for Girl Scouts.
I was reminded of this because it is the most wonderful time of the year. No, not Christmas. I’m talking about Girl Scout Cookie season. As I was ordering my cookies from a friend’s daughter, I thought back to my own short-lived Girl Scout experience.
I believe it started in Kindergarten and I was a Daisy. The uniforms, and by uniform I mean oversized smock, was blue. I don’t remember much about Daisy’s except that I was always ready to go home at the end and the mother in charge always served carrots for snack. Then I moved on to Brownies, where the uniforms are brown and ugly. I also don’t remember much about Brownies, except now there was the added pressure of needing to fill up a horrible brown sash with patches. And while I had a handful of patches, I’m quite sure my mother never actually sewed any on my sash.
Which turned out to be okay because I was officially done the day our project was to make pot holders. Seriously. I’m not even sure I finished my first year as a Brownie. I do remember being pretty annoyed with the ridiculous projects, like pot holders, that we had to do at every meeting. And thankfully my mom let me quit. That was my very first rebellious act against society as I knew it at the time. I was probably the only girl in my class not in Girl Scouts. While it is a good organization and has benefits for young girls, it was not for me in any way shape or form.
Years later, my brother decided that he wanted to be a Boy Scout. Not having a den in town, my parents became the main people. I’m sure there is an actual term for the leaders, but as I was a girl and not allowed in Boy Scouts, I have no idea what it was. Boy Scouts however looked way cooler. They got to go camping and build fires and race derby cars. None of this pot holder crap. So while I wasn’t allowed to be a Boy Scout, I managed to talk my parents into letting me do some of their cooler projects, like help build a derby car.
Twenty some odd years after quitting the girl scouts, I have absolutely no regrets. And despite my dislike of making potholders, I’m glad the organization is still around. Because if they weren’t still around, they couldn’t sell us delicious cookies. And a world without the Thin Mint is a world I don’t want to be a part of.
I was reminded of this because it is the most wonderful time of the year. No, not Christmas. I’m talking about Girl Scout Cookie season. As I was ordering my cookies from a friend’s daughter, I thought back to my own short-lived Girl Scout experience.
I believe it started in Kindergarten and I was a Daisy. The uniforms, and by uniform I mean oversized smock, was blue. I don’t remember much about Daisy’s except that I was always ready to go home at the end and the mother in charge always served carrots for snack. Then I moved on to Brownies, where the uniforms are brown and ugly. I also don’t remember much about Brownies, except now there was the added pressure of needing to fill up a horrible brown sash with patches. And while I had a handful of patches, I’m quite sure my mother never actually sewed any on my sash.
Which turned out to be okay because I was officially done the day our project was to make pot holders. Seriously. I’m not even sure I finished my first year as a Brownie. I do remember being pretty annoyed with the ridiculous projects, like pot holders, that we had to do at every meeting. And thankfully my mom let me quit. That was my very first rebellious act against society as I knew it at the time. I was probably the only girl in my class not in Girl Scouts. While it is a good organization and has benefits for young girls, it was not for me in any way shape or form.
Years later, my brother decided that he wanted to be a Boy Scout. Not having a den in town, my parents became the main people. I’m sure there is an actual term for the leaders, but as I was a girl and not allowed in Boy Scouts, I have no idea what it was. Boy Scouts however looked way cooler. They got to go camping and build fires and race derby cars. None of this pot holder crap. So while I wasn’t allowed to be a Boy Scout, I managed to talk my parents into letting me do some of their cooler projects, like help build a derby car.
Twenty some odd years after quitting the girl scouts, I have absolutely no regrets. And despite my dislike of making potholders, I’m glad the organization is still around. Because if they weren’t still around, they couldn’t sell us delicious cookies. And a world without the Thin Mint is a world I don’t want to be a part of.
January 7, 2010
Relationships . . . And How They Haven't Changed Since Junior High
When I was a freshman in high school, I found out that someone I considered a good friend had a crush on me. So I did what anybody at that age would do if someone they weren’t interested in was interested in them. I stopped talking to him for like six months. Luckily, 15 years later, we are still very good friends and all the awkwardness is gone.
While that probably wasn’t the best way to handle the situation, my defense is that I was 14 at the time. No one is smooth and good at handling that kind of thing at 14. What amazes me however is that twice this year alone I’ve seen the silent treatment/avoidance route played out by people at thirty-ish!
I read a lot of romance novels. Hey, I’m a sucker for a story where everyone lives happily ever after. They are the adult version of the Disney princess stories. The one thing that drives me crazy is that 90% of the authors would be able to cut out at least half the book if their characters acted like grown ups and had the uncomfortable conversation for 5 minutes. I keep thinking that in real life, people would just sit down and talk, and life would move on. 150 pages of guilt, angst and frustration no longer needed.
So while in my perfect world, people have the uncomfortable conversation and get it over with, my reality has proven different. Case in point – I made the mistake of mentioning to someone that I had a crush on him. We’d been hanging out a fair bit and enjoyed each others company and I was curious to see what he thought. Note to self: never tell a guy you might have a crush on him. Apparently in boy world, this is the equivalent of asking them to marry you. In my world, I have a new crush at least once a day. His solution of course was to pretend I didn’t exist for the next three months. While this is an appropriate response when you’re 14, it is not when you’re 30. All he had to say was, “While I’m flattered, I don’t feel the same way and just want to be friends.” Problem solved and we can move on. Even if you’re not flattered, you still tell the person that. It’s just part of the rules. Kind of like telling someone they look beautiful on their wedding day.
I thought perhaps that this was a boy phenomenon, until I recently had a girlfriend do a similar thing. Classic "When Harry Met Sally" situation that adds to the point that guys and girls can’t just be friends. Because someone always wants more. And two touchy-feely people of the opposite sex cannot be friends because someone always gets the wrong idea. So boy attempts to kiss girl after about a year flirty touching and conversation. Girl happens to have been drinking and did what any single adult would do in that situation – kissed him back. Rather than telling him that she didn’t want a relationship with him and thought of him as a friend, she also went with avoidance maneuvers until he seemed to get the idea.
I would like to think that if I was placed in an awkward situation like that, I would be able to say, “I’m flattered, but I don’t have the same feelings.” Or something along those lines. I’m never sure what is going to come out of my mouth when under pressure. Sure, that would suck to have to suffer through, for both people, but I’m pretty sure that a margarita or six would quickly ease the pain.
So I guess I’m working on re-setting my expectations for adult relationships. After all, if fictional people can’t have the awkward conversation to clear things up in fairy tales (aka romance novels), what on earth led me to believe that real people could do it? Ahh life . . . how you continue to teach me lessons.
While that probably wasn’t the best way to handle the situation, my defense is that I was 14 at the time. No one is smooth and good at handling that kind of thing at 14. What amazes me however is that twice this year alone I’ve seen the silent treatment/avoidance route played out by people at thirty-ish!
I read a lot of romance novels. Hey, I’m a sucker for a story where everyone lives happily ever after. They are the adult version of the Disney princess stories. The one thing that drives me crazy is that 90% of the authors would be able to cut out at least half the book if their characters acted like grown ups and had the uncomfortable conversation for 5 minutes. I keep thinking that in real life, people would just sit down and talk, and life would move on. 150 pages of guilt, angst and frustration no longer needed.
So while in my perfect world, people have the uncomfortable conversation and get it over with, my reality has proven different. Case in point – I made the mistake of mentioning to someone that I had a crush on him. We’d been hanging out a fair bit and enjoyed each others company and I was curious to see what he thought. Note to self: never tell a guy you might have a crush on him. Apparently in boy world, this is the equivalent of asking them to marry you. In my world, I have a new crush at least once a day. His solution of course was to pretend I didn’t exist for the next three months. While this is an appropriate response when you’re 14, it is not when you’re 30. All he had to say was, “While I’m flattered, I don’t feel the same way and just want to be friends.” Problem solved and we can move on. Even if you’re not flattered, you still tell the person that. It’s just part of the rules. Kind of like telling someone they look beautiful on their wedding day.
I thought perhaps that this was a boy phenomenon, until I recently had a girlfriend do a similar thing. Classic "When Harry Met Sally" situation that adds to the point that guys and girls can’t just be friends. Because someone always wants more. And two touchy-feely people of the opposite sex cannot be friends because someone always gets the wrong idea. So boy attempts to kiss girl after about a year flirty touching and conversation. Girl happens to have been drinking and did what any single adult would do in that situation – kissed him back. Rather than telling him that she didn’t want a relationship with him and thought of him as a friend, she also went with avoidance maneuvers until he seemed to get the idea.
I would like to think that if I was placed in an awkward situation like that, I would be able to say, “I’m flattered, but I don’t have the same feelings.” Or something along those lines. I’m never sure what is going to come out of my mouth when under pressure. Sure, that would suck to have to suffer through, for both people, but I’m pretty sure that a margarita or six would quickly ease the pain.
So I guess I’m working on re-setting my expectations for adult relationships. After all, if fictional people can’t have the awkward conversation to clear things up in fairy tales (aka romance novels), what on earth led me to believe that real people could do it? Ahh life . . . how you continue to teach me lessons.
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