expiration & desperation

After a semester and (almost) whole summer of hookups, out-there bar encounters and awkward moments, I have come to a startling conclusion about my love life: any and all of my budding relationships have a two week shelf life.

It’s the age-old college love story. Boy meets girl. Girl likes boy. Boy seems to like girl. Boy and girl text, then get together, then end up making out in various places. Boy and girl are good for another five to seven days. Boy has commitment issues or girl does something that makes boy upset. Boy and girl drift apart and end up having at least a few uncomfortable encounters in a plethora of social situations. All within a maximum of two weeks.

After a couple of days, I look back and, in hindsight, see the many problems with that particular man of the moment. I shrug them off and start getting ready for my next night out.

The cycle started again recently and, again, I am staring at the beginning of the end. Constant unavailability. Minimal communication. Frustration on my end, maybe on his end also. I don’t know. Like I said, minimal communication.

At this point, I realize it isn’t going anywhere. I have to cut my losses, cut off contact and keep telling myself that I’m going to be okay. I can just move on.

But, this time, I don’t think I’m ready to give up yet. The expiration date may have arrived, but I don’t think I can toss this one out in the garbage just yet.

I don’t do this. I don’t like this. I don’t like the idea of lingering in something that is, more than likely, not going anywhere. Yet, something in me wants to linger just a little longer. Part of me wants to be an optimist. Part of me knows I’m wasting my time. So, does wanting to give this another shot make me romantically hopeful or ridiculously hopeless?

As I’ve mentioned before, I have a tendency to regret. If I try this again and it fails, I’m going to hate the time and effort, both physical and emotional, that I had put towards it. All I will say to myself is, “I should have seen it coming.”

But, it could all turn out okay.

I could actually get hurt. More disappointed than I even have been, or want to be, thus far in my life.

And yet, it could all turn out okay.

[kid]ding around.

We all wanted to be grownups when we were kids. We wanted to skip all the years of school we would have to go through, naps were so boring and we wanted to experience the world that our parents did. We wanted to partake in all the “big kid” activities. Being a kid was so boring.

It is officially the end of the semester in one week. In one week, I will officially be in my fourth- and final- year of college. I will be moving into my first apartment and paying my own bills. I will be starting my first internship this summer, which will be the equivalent to a full-time job, while I begin searching for an internship for the fall semester. In one year, I will be walking across that stage, accepting my Bachelor of Arts in communications studies, with a minor in music with an emphasis in liberal arts. In one year, I will officially be in the real world.

I think it’s safe to say that I’m very quickly becoming a big girl, and I also think it’s safe to say that I’m already terrified of how close the grownup world is.

It isn’t until reality is staring you right in the face do you realize just how ill-equipped and unprepared you are for the real world. I have already delayed my being thrust into the real world, as I am supposed to graduate in the fall but have decided to take one more semester to “job hunt” and “prepare for life after college.” I may have one more year, but I now know how sheltered I have been my entire life. If I were thrown out into the world, forced to find a job and live completely on my own, I’d probably crawl back home crying and begging for help.

The last two weeks have been filled with tears and goodbyes. I’ve had to say goodbye to the seniors on the STAR and the senior women from my sorority who are graduating. I’ve heard everyone say how scared they are for real world- women who have held many more jobs, many more positions of authority, many more difficult majors than my own. They feel they aren’t ready to be a big girl just yet. I’m going to be in their position before I even know it.

How am I supposed to be ready for the big girl world in only a year?

I know that I will have to try and enjoy this summer, because it is probably the last time that I will be able to enjoy being a kid before my year of college. Soon, job searching, house hunting, paychecks, bills, marriage (eventually), kids, a career and the rest of my life will be in front of me.

I don’t know how I will handle the change. I may want to run and cry, but something tells me that I won’t be able to do that. I have one year and counting- here goes nothing.

[scar]ed

As I was getting undressed to take a shower one day, I caught a glimpse of my tattoo in the mirror. Emblazoned on my left shoulder, the heart design- one side an angel’s wing, the other twisted thorns- looked strangely distorted. The wing was suddenly childish and amateur; the thorns were messy, jumbled and horrid. It just looked ugly.

I thought to myself: “Oh god, why did I get this thing?”

I’ve had people, in public and at parties, approach me and comment on my tattoo. I am always asked, “What does it mean?” I tell them that it is in memory of somebody who passed away.

In actuality, it is a little more than that.

What most people don’t notice is the date that is inscribed in the middle feather of the angel’s wing. 7-31-1997.

That’s the day that my life- and I- really did change forever.

I rarely talk about my childhood, but I especially do not bring up that I am the child of a suicide victim. It makes people uncomfortable. I’ve also gotten pretty annoyed with people deciding that they automatically know what kind of person I am based on that little factoid alone, and people’s pity also drives me insane.

Therefore, I never talk about it.

In fact, I don’t even think about it very much. It would be an understatement to say that my mother’s suicide changed me for good. She passed her demons onto me- her thorns- and having to deal with those adult-sized things at seven years old ended my childhood immediately.

And while she is, in theory, my guardian angel now, I still hold resentment toward her, basically, ruining my life. Ruining me.

Most little girls want to grow up to be just like their mommy. Growing up to be just like my mother means I will be dead. Do you see why I don’t think about this very often?

And yet, I have those years of pain, those demons, that resentment permanently etched into my skin. My mental and emotional scars have manifested into a physical one, directly behind my heart. Why?

Because, as angry as I may be almost 14 years later, there is no denying that her death is why I am here, in Sonoma, now. Despite the almost unbearable pain she put me through, that same pain made me a hell of a lot more independent and, for lack of a better word, tough. That pain made me- well, me.

I believe everybody has similar pain. Moments or events they will never think or speak of again. There’s that song, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” Perhaps the opposite is true: every thorn may also be the chance for a flower to bloom.

My tattoo is a daily reminder of what I try to forget. It scares others- and it terrifies me- but it why I am writing this now. It has led me here and it will lead me to wherever I end up in this life.

For that reason alone, it will never be ugly.

bitch&lover.

While in the STAR lab late on Sunday night/Monday morning, somebody who has been a pain in my ass lately IM’ed me on Facebook with a snarky comment. I said something aloud in frustration, and the other people in the lab with me asked me who I was talking to.

I asked them, “Who is the one person that is on my shit list right now?” It took them four or five guesses to figure out the person, but all the people they mentioned were, in fact, also on my shit list.

Then, a couple nights later, an incident occurred where someone was very rude and disrespectful towards me. I was bitching to my roommate about what had happened and I said that if the person in question ever disrespected me again, I would rip them a new one without hesitation.

After taking a second to breathe, it hit me: I think it’s safe to say that my inner bitch has reared its ugly head this semester.

I don’t know what exactly it was that made Becca the Bitch come out in full force, but I have had enough of people’s idiocy and, frankly, I don’t give a fuck anymore. I’ve always been quiet and allowed people to be disrespectful to me. I’m done with it. I’ve grown a spine and a pair, and I’m sticking up for myself.

And yet, I call myself a bitch for doing so.

The word ‘bitch’ almost always has a negative connotation. Bitches are rude, shrewd and ruthless. However, I have become more assertive and I, as well as others, say I’m a bitch.

Apparently, trying to give somebody a social cue that, yes, you are really annoying and I don’t want to have anything to do with you qualifies you as a bitch; or, “No, I will not let you feel me up or take my clothes off” makes me a prude bitch.

So, since when has it become wrong for a woman to be assertive?

If being assertive equals being a bitch, then I am a grade A, stone cold bitch. I might be burning a few more bridges and pissing a few more people off now.

However, what I have learned is that there is no feeling greater and more liberating to tell someone you cannot stand to fuck off.

[not so] fatal attraction

Opposites, supposedly, attract. You meet somebody who is everything that you are not and it’s like two electrical wires touching- sparks fly like crazy. There is a perfect, harmonious balance between the two of you- it is black and white, yin and yang, day and night. You can’t have one without the other, and one can’t live without the other.

I’m pretty sure, however, that when it comes to the whole “opposites attract” thing, you don’t want to strangle the person on a daily basis.

The “man” in my life- not by choice, mind you- is one of the most self-centered, cocky bastards I have ever met or known in my life. For him, it is all about “me, me, me,” and I swear he does and says things just to piss me off. I constantly have to try and downsize his ego, but to no avail. And, especially as of late, I’ve been resisting the urge to slap the stupid, overconfident grin off his face.

And yet, as much as I almost hate this guy, there is something about his douchebag demeanor that attracts me to him. Whenever he talks about how great he is, I want to make him shut up, and there’s a couple of ways that I could do that, if you catch my drift. And, due to a semi-drunk encounter, I can confirm that he is good at two things: being a dick and kissing.

There is no way that I could ever be in a serious relationship with the guy- neither of us could probably handle it and, besides, I’d probably wear the pants in the relationship anyway. This guy is completely wrong for me- or is he?

Some people believe that we are attracted to people who are complete opposites of us because they have the traits that we desire in ourselves. Assuming this is somewhat true, I, in theory, want to be more of an asshole. I want to be able to be more self-centered.

The worst part is…maybe this is somewhat true?

Lately, I’ve found myself more irritated with some people and their antics/stupidity/ridiculousness. I’ve done the best job I can of being polite and nice and respectful and, basically, what people know me as. However, I’ve been dying to finally tell these people how fucking stupid they really are. Maybe I need to take a page from this guy’s book, grow a pair and speak my mind.

I may never get- or want- a fulfilling and meaningful relationship from this asshole, but I know what I will get and have gotten: multiple headaches, somebody nice to look at, a beccanalysis and, maybe, another drunken make out session that I w(on’t)ill regret. Maybe.

you must lie in the bed you made.

We all remember that accusatory childhood rhyme: “Liar, liar! Pants on fire! Hanging from a telephone wire!”

Well then, light a match and string me up nice and high, because- yes- I am a big, fat liar.

In an attempt to bond at a sisterhood event with my sorority this past weekend, we were asked the question, “What is your greatest fear?” Most girls talked about their fear of failure, being alone, losing their families or dying in some horrific manner. I said I was scared of needles and feet.

Complete and total bullshit.

Yes, I have a phobia of needles and the thought of feet touching mine or being near me makes me anxious, but those are nothing compared to what I actually fear most in life. Yet, I cannot tell my greatest fear to the women that I call my sisters?

The saddest part of all is that this is nothing new for me.

I have huge trust issues and I’ve let people see the true and, usually, worst parts of myself, only to have them use those worst parts against me. Because of this, I come off as aloof and standoff-ish.

And I wonder why I feel like so many of the relationships in my life are superficial.

The darker parts of my personality, and of my life in general, would make most people squeamish and uncomfortable. Yet the biggest problem is that the worst parts of myself have so much to do with the person that I make myself to be to the rest of the world. So what is the line between helping the people in my life understand who I am and saying too much?

It’s a vicious cycle that I need to break, and I know it. And it’s time to break it now: one of my greatest fears in life is motherhood. Why? I am the youngest in my family and am not used to little people and, growing up without a mother, I have no role model to follow after.

Cycle broken? Maybe not yet, but I’m getting there.

somewhere between awkward and pretty

We all know the story “The Ugly Duckling.” Said duckling is physically and verbally abused because he’s homely. Then, said duckling matures into a beautiful swan and lives happily ever after.

This is not quite that same story.

I was an awkward kid growing up. I was never fully comfortable with myself, and the fact that I rarely spoke didn’t help much either. All through middle school and high school, I was the nice, quiet and super nerdy choir geek. It should go without saying that I never dated, was asked to homecoming or prom, or had a date to Sadie Hawkins. I was never the pretty girl.

However, this semester, thus far, has been a strange one for me. I may be maturing into a figurative swan…kind of.

Two weeks ago, I was out protesting the budget and lecturer cuts in front of Stevenson. While making a food run at the Pub, some fellow STAR staffers and I jacked a bunch of forks for the STAR lab. I volunteered to take said stolen forks to the lab.

Before I continue any further, let me paint a picture for you: I’m wearing leather biker boots, a cut-off, off-the-shoulder STAR shirt, a red makeshift bandanna around my head and I’m holding a shit ton of plastics forks. I’m obviously not dressed to impress.

So as I’m walking, some guy on a bike whizzes past me and almost hits me. He says, “Excuse me.”
I say, “Sorry.” He looks back and says, “No problem.”

Then, he stops. And then he stops me. And then he asks me, “Has anybody told you that you are very cute?”

…Um.

I politely smile and say thank you, then keep walking toward the lab. And he starts walking with me.

…Um.

He introduces himself and asks for my name. I tell him and politely shake his hand. He goes off on some tangent of, “Beautiful name, but that’s probably because it’s associated with you blah blah blah.”

And he’s still following me to the lab. Awkward silence follows.

When I finally reach the STAR lab, it happens:

“So Becca, can I have your number?”

…Um.

I was honestly speechless for a moment. This guy, who was apparently serious- not that attractive, but serious- was actually asking me for my number. I told him I don’t give my number out- I wasn’t completely lying. I don’t give my number out to random, semi-strange guys, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that.

Then, this past weekend, I had yet another awkward encounter- this time, with a friend who I thought was just a friend who has, in the past, has made his respect for me known. Everything was all fine and dandy, until he unexpectedly kissed me and confessed that his respect and admiration for me is greater than I originally thought. And while this may not sound like an issue, let’s just say that there’s a huge conflict of interest for me.

These two instances, along with the “great thing” that I mentioned in my last post, have forced me to look at myself and wonder: how can these people like me when I don’t even like myself?

I don’t have the greatest self-confidence. Scratch that, I have terrible self-confidence. Everyone says you are your own worst critic, but I rip myself to shreds- I acknowledge every single flaw and compare myself to every smaller, thinner, blonder, tanner and more conventionally beautiful girl that I see. Being a part of Greek life, I see a lot of those girls.

Now, relating this whole thing back to the beginning of this post: I don’t consider myself a swan, physically or figuratively. Maybe I’m halfway there, in that molting stage where the duckling loses its grey downy feathers and grows these beautiful, sleek white feathers. Or maybe I’m already a swan, just wearing a downy feather dress. I don’t know.

My childhood awkwardness still shines through, years after I thought I had overcome it, and maybe it will always just be a part of me. And it’s those parts of myself that maybe I should just learn to accept because, apparently, they’re working in my favor now.

sit back and relapse.

I feel like on almost every Facebook and- here's a throwback for you- Myspace profile I have seen, people publicly declare something along the lines of, “I live my life with no regrets and I don’t care what you think of what I do! If you say otherwise, then you can go fuck yourself!”

Well, I call bullshit on those people. Why? Because I used to be one of them.

Yes, I am, secretly, a regret-oholic.

Back in high school, I said I lived life with no regrets- that was a complete lie. One, I was in high school and stupid. Two, I overthink things. After all, if I lived life with no regrets then there would be no beccanalysis.

Today, whenever there is a less than favorable situation that happens in my life, I try to approach it with a “fuck it” kind of attitude. I let things roll off me and I move on with a smile and (usually) a pair of very high heels on.

But while my skin has gotten tougher during my time at college and I am slowly recovering from my regret-oholism, I’ve learned recently that my heart still needs some hardening.

At the beginning of the semester, I had an amazing thing going for me. I don’t open my heart up very often, but this was different. I don’t usually bother with relationships because, way more often than not, they stress me out. They’re not worth my time.

Except, this was different- this was easy. While everything else in my life was driving me to the point of insanity, this was one of the most effortless things I’d ever experienced.

It was good. So good. Too good.

And that was why I ended it. And now, I cannot stop thinking about it and how I let fear ruin a perfectly good thing.

The worst part about regret is when you know the damage is done and things will never be the same. The world tells you to move on. Stand up, grow a pair and get over it.

I used to think the exact same thing. However, I realized that mentality was making me less and less human and more and more of a shell- hollow, without any substance, on the inside.

The loss of one of the few good things in my life recently has reminded me that, yes, I am human. I have emotions- more than I would like to admit to- and the fact that I no longer feel in control of them scares me.

But as I look at the bottom left-hand corner of my Facebook and see the small photo of that face just looking at me, I am trying to think of how different things would be if I had allowed myself to let go of all my fear and all my control issues.

The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. My name is Becca and I am a regret-oholic.

And, unfortunately, I have relapsed.

cut (loyal)ties

When I first came to college, I was shown an image on Facebook regarding “the college experience.” It was a checklist with three boxes: good grades, social life and sleep. The heading read, “College students- pick two.”

For a college student, I’m probably way too involved for my own good (or my own sanity). The last three weeks have felt like a whirlwind. I no longer track days by what time it is, but by what class, meeting and/or event I am going to. All my days start at 8 a.m. and end when I finally pass out from having too much shit to do.

Essentially, I have two lives here in college: my sorority life and my journalism life. If I’m not at a restaurant or in the STAR lab, then I’m at a sisterhood event, meeting or mixer (and vice-versa).

Yet as much as I would like to be Superwoman and be able to do everything, there’s not an option or an app for that. . . sorry, bad joke.

But in all seriousness, the last few weeks have made something blatantly clear to me: these two lives I lead do not mesh well together.

I’ve gotten some crap from my beloved STAR people about being in a sorority (though it’s all in good fun. . . I think) and my sisters just stare blankly and smile when I tell them that I’m copy editing articles, having issues with InDesign or doing layout on Sundays before chapter meeting.

And in between explaining sorority life and why I am in a Greek organization to my friends on the newspaper and having my more involved sisters being a little more wary about what they say around me, the question I’ve been dreading to ask myself can’t be ignored any longer.

What do you do when you realize that the places and people where your loyalties lie conflict with one another?

As a Greek woman, my first obligation is to my sisters and my fellow Greeks. As a journalist, my first obligation is to the truth. For some reason, these obligations cannot work together and I’m feeling, more and more every day, that it’s one or the other.

Sisters are forever, but (in theory) so is a passion and an eventual career.

At times, I’ve tried to imagine what each would say if I told them that I was leaving the newspaper/sorority for the sorority/newspaper- as if the answer I am looking for is to stay with the more forgiving and supportive organization. Unfortunately, that epiphany hasn’t come to me yet and I’m not expecting it to anytime in the very near future.

Yes, I know I am leaving this entry open-ended. However, my head and- this is going to sound so cheesy- my heart hurt too much to think about it much more.

keep the change

When I walked into my Bikram yoga class this past Sunday morning around 8:35 or so, I was expecting the room to be three-quarters full of yogis stretching and getting ready for the workout. Instead, the room was maybe half full, and standing in my usual back row, semi-hot corner spot by the door was a man.

Now, Bikram yoga is open to all and everybody is encouraged to try it- but please let me describe this man for you. He was middle-aged- about 55 to 60 years old. What did he look like? I think the best way to describe him is by using food.

Imagine if you will- a marshmallow. Like a big, puffy, roast-it-over-the-campfire-and-make-a-s’more-with-it kind of marshmallow. Now, take a toothpick, break it in half and stick both pieces into the sides to represent short and unproportionally skinny arms. Break another toothpick in half for equally short and skinny legs. Now attach a red jellybean on top for the head, scribble on a goatee and that is, generally, what this man looked like.

I was a little confused as to how he ended up in a Bikram yoga studio, until I learned that the older blonde on the other side of him was his wife who had just started practicing Bikram yoga a week ago and dragged him to class “just to try it.”

While I support anybody trying Bikram, here’s the thing: when you see a very large man in a cutoff Budweiser shirt who can barely touch his toes in a room that will reach 105 degrees with 40 percent humidity, you just know that it’s gonna end badly.

And, sure enough, for almost an hour, I watched as this man struggled and cursed his way through the 13 pose standing series. He couldn’t hold any of the poses for more than 10 seconds without his face literally turning beet red and, as the poses progressed, the look of disbelief on his face just became more apparent and exaggerated. When our instructor cranked my calf up above the back of my head during bow-pulling pose, he looked like he was about to have a coronary just from watching me.

And though I had to leave early, I saw a look of terror take over his features as the floor series, or “the real yoga,” started. The last thing I heard him say as I left? “What the hell did we just do then?!”

Now, I’m not saying that Bikram yoga is easy for a first-timer- I literally left in tears after my first class and couldn’t understand what I had just put myself through.

However, I felt such an immediate change within myself after my first class that I forced myself to go the next day, and the day after that and the day after that… before I knew it, I had gone 32 days in a row. Now, I need to go to yoga or I felt gross and lazy.

I usually don’t accept change very well. I’m stubborn and I like having a general routine. Yet this was a change that needed to be made, as much as I hated it at first.

This may sound judgmental: during yoga, our instructor said that some poses create a “mini heart attack” that will help prevent the big one. For the man standing next to me, that mini heart attack may have come too late.

I believe change is and never will be easy. But with so many happening in my life right now, I can only use my past experiences to remind me that, while vexing now, this too shall pass.

And while I wish him the best, I am not expecting that man to ever step into a Bikram studio. Ever. Again.

my funny valentine('s day)

I know three young women who are currently engaged. All of them are smart, beautiful and will be marrying “the man of their dreams.”

All of them are also sophomores in college. Two became engaged before their twentieth birthday, and the other one celebrated her twentieth birthday only two weeks before her engagement. Two of them already have their wedding dresses picked out. One recently updated on her Facebook that she was “so sad” that she was almost done planning her wedding. One had been dating her now fiancée for three years before their engagement, one is engaged to her on-and-off boyfriend of two years and the most recently engaged has been with her fiancée for a little over a year, which includes a two-to-three month break. 

And while I am happy for them because they are happy, the cynic in me worries that, for them, an engagement does not mean true love, especially at such a (fairly) young age.

With Single’s Awareness Day right around the corner- because, no, I don’t celebrate the overly commercialized Valentine’s Day- combined with the above realization, I can’t help but wonder: what’s the big rush?

While I’m not much of a romantic, the one thing about love and relationships that always melts my heart is the idea of the promise ring. When the boy slides that simple ring onto the girl’s finger and promises that, one day, he will replace it with something better? Yeah, it gets me every time, as much as I hate to admit that I do have a little bit of a soft side.  

For the longest time, I couldn’t understand why I loved the promise ring, but shutter(ed) at the thought of engagement and marriage. But I may have finally found my answer: perhaps why I love the idea so much is that there is logic and rationale behind it. 

What it says is, “Realistically, we aren’t ready to give the rest of our lives to each other. But I know that one day I will, and I will wait until we are.” It’s the smart engagement ring.

To me, the waiting and the promise of something more is what makes love interesting and what helps it to grow. 

Sure, promises can be broken. But isn’t that what love is? Giving your heart completely and totally to somebody? Knowing that they could break it beyond repair, but trusting and knowing that they won’t?

***

Happy Single’s Awareness Day to all (and I suppose Happy Valentine’s Day to those sentimental few). Enjoy your day full of roses, crappy heart-shaped boxes of chocolate and expensive dinners. For those who want to celebrate the right way- wine, good chocolate and a shitty romantic movie to ridicule at my place.