In an email from my father on Thursday, after telling him that I was planning on seeing my college roommate this weekend: "IS LAUREN YOUR LAST ROOM-MATE AT COLLEGE? ISN'T SHE THE ONE THAT STIFF YOU OUT OF MONEY ?"
First, please note that my father always types all in caps. It's very annoying, but I have gotten used to it.
Secondly, no, the unpleasant ending to our four-year friendship had nothing to do with Lauren owing me money. She doesn't.
So the other night, for the first time in more than five years, I had dinner with my college roommate. The one I described on numerous occasions as having "ruined my life." We hugged. We shared a meal. We talked for almost five hours. I had an excellent time.
I had a fair bit of anxiety before we met. Would we have nothing to talk about? Would the previous animosity between us be apparent? I purposely told Rachel very little about our relationship throughout college, in hopes that I would not fall into the same old trap of simply complaining about the last semester of college.
We didn't. We caught up on one another's lives and reminisced a bit about good times in college. It was an amazing experience to see her again and to laugh like we used to.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Where the story ends
I suppose I should apologize to the scads of people who regularly read this blog for being so light on the content. Steve, please accept my apologies. There, done.
The truth is, my life is ridiculously boring to write about. I was a much more interesting person when I was grossly unhappy. Being content does not agree with my creativity. Also, some of the things I've thought about lately - things that would like cause some much subconsciously desired commotion - will never, ever see the light of my computer screen. Someday, I will learn to not seek out drama. I will grow and learn as an adult person. Someday.
Having said that, I have grown. I've grown in directions I could have never imagined. But I'm conflicted about where/how/if to utilize these experiences to write. This blog is partly responsible for that growth, and now it sort of seems obsolete. I was writing the story of a girl who was miserable in her life and playing the part she thought she should (and knew how to play). I knew how to be miserable at my job, I knew how to stretch the $4.86 in my checking account, I knew how to stay in a relationship where I wasn't wanted, I knew how to sit my fat ass on my couch and wallow in loneliness. Wow, good times. So since I'm not really that person anymore, so does that story end? If I was simply chronicling my life during a few difficult years, does this blog, along with that story, end? I'm inclined to think that it should. Close the book. Start a new one.
On the flip side, should this space that has helped me cope with x, y and z, evolve as I evolve? I certainly hope that I still have more to say as a writer, even if my life has changed dramatically and I am finding little muse in being happy. Happy is awesome. I wish I could do more with it.
I'm not sure what I will decide. Writing is extremely therapeutic for me and I don't plan to give it up now that I have far fewer "problems" than I once did.
I could write about how many people have died in my life over the past few months and how I'm constantly anxious about getting more bad news. But that would be depressing in a much different way than what I used to ramble about.
For now, I will marvel at how I just wrote an entire post about whether or not to discontinue this blog. I really am boring. But, ya know, good boring.
The truth is, my life is ridiculously boring to write about. I was a much more interesting person when I was grossly unhappy. Being content does not agree with my creativity. Also, some of the things I've thought about lately - things that would like cause some much subconsciously desired commotion - will never, ever see the light of my computer screen. Someday, I will learn to not seek out drama. I will grow and learn as an adult person. Someday.
Having said that, I have grown. I've grown in directions I could have never imagined. But I'm conflicted about where/how/if to utilize these experiences to write. This blog is partly responsible for that growth, and now it sort of seems obsolete. I was writing the story of a girl who was miserable in her life and playing the part she thought she should (and knew how to play). I knew how to be miserable at my job, I knew how to stretch the $4.86 in my checking account, I knew how to stay in a relationship where I wasn't wanted, I knew how to sit my fat ass on my couch and wallow in loneliness. Wow, good times. So since I'm not really that person anymore, so does that story end? If I was simply chronicling my life during a few difficult years, does this blog, along with that story, end? I'm inclined to think that it should. Close the book. Start a new one.
On the flip side, should this space that has helped me cope with x, y and z, evolve as I evolve? I certainly hope that I still have more to say as a writer, even if my life has changed dramatically and I am finding little muse in being happy. Happy is awesome. I wish I could do more with it.
I'm not sure what I will decide. Writing is extremely therapeutic for me and I don't plan to give it up now that I have far fewer "problems" than I once did.
I could write about how many people have died in my life over the past few months and how I'm constantly anxious about getting more bad news. But that would be depressing in a much different way than what I used to ramble about.
For now, I will marvel at how I just wrote an entire post about whether or not to discontinue this blog. I really am boring. But, ya know, good boring.
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