The Upcoming Year

Wow... I'm really having trouble remembering the last couple of weeks. I think that's just the nature of the year: January starts off with the slow, post-holiday hangover, continues into March's bowl of cosmic cereal, realizes it's been dawdling at about August, blazes through the rest of October and November and explodes into exhaustion at the end of December. Then the cycle starts again. Whee.

Seriously, though, the holidays were a particularly blurry blur this year, and now 2012 has begun. I sacrificed the midnight "Hurrah!" so I could see the year's first sunrise over the dunes of Death Valley. And you know? It didn't matter that I had traveled by myself. I was surrounded by similarly minded people, and the night before, I was invited to dine with a family who then purchased my dinner (part of the "New Year's Special" menu, a.k.a. the same mediocre fare for ten extra dollars). All in all, what could have been an unbearably lonely weekend turned into a lovely experience, and how ironic that it should take place in the shadow of the Valley of Death.

I'm not making as many resolutions this year. Frankly, I overburdened myself for 2011, "My Year," and I forgot 75% of them before February even hit. I believe I had intended it to be the year of the relationship, when, in fact, it turned out to be my most independent year ever. I sacrificed the late nights for the most sunrises I'd seen in years, but I also sacrificed most of my sense of belonging to anything.

For 2012, I'd like to reverse that, but not by making a checklist of all the same old friends I haven't heard from in years and painstakingly contacting all of them to rekindle something that had never ignited. My adventures in 2011 taught me that relying solely on any one person is not healthy or enjoyable for either party. The people I've met on my landmark quests, though our relationships have not endured past a conversation, have reawakened two things that had been missing during all the time and effort I'd put into maintaining crumbling relationships of the past: curiosity and joy.

A socially healthy person (at least in this society) makes new friends throughout his/her life, so attain social health, the time has come to start expanding. If I can talk to a new person every week, it would lead to the sort of breakthrough I spent the last year convincing myself was impossible. All I need are guts, practice, and a willingness to let slide. It's a big risk, but one I'm willing to take if it means being a social animal once again. Of all the people I meet for the first time, at least one has to stick around for the second. Maybe two. Maybe that will lead to a bunch. Then, perhaps, I can stop feeling like a monk outside the abbey. After all, even monks have their brothers.

Feb 14: V-Day

A day that will live in infamy... Yes, I am mixing up my Pearl Harbor with my stormin' Normandy, but that aside, yes, today marks the second year since the end of my last official relationship. Two years of deliciously drippy cynicism, which reminds me of something I've often speculated on Valentine's Night: how many people across the world are, at this very moment, having sex? Additionally, how many people across the world are having sex simply because it is socially mandated that February 14th be a day of sex?

I mean, let's face it, Valentine's Day is specifically designed for men to disguise their carnal lustings, mask their pelvic thrustings, and put on a bit of a show for their significant others in the hope that such show will lead to aforementioned lustings and thrustings. Suddenly, those hearts and roses seem a little... icky, no?

Nonetheless, I have just returned from a lovely (non-sexual) evening in with myself. The show was extraordinary. I made a special dinner for myself, equipped with such exotic dainties as blueberry-coated goat cheese, slipped on my slippers and my chair-back massager, and tuned in to Pan's Labyrinth, which was, admittedly, still as sad and disturbing as when I last saw it four years ago. Nonetheless, as sad and pathetic as this scene may seem to the observer, it was actually surprisingly nice. I gave up my worries, my deadlines, and my stresses for a few hours to just enjoy being there. There was no one to impress, nor was there anyone to please. It was just pure relaxation and pure fantasy.

What's making it easier for me is that I've learned an important distinction. Valentine's Day used to be painful for me because I felt it reminded me of the lack of love in my life. What I've learned is that love is not lacking in my life; it's romance. There's a difference. Valentine's Day is the day of romance, the show, the penis masquerade, but it is not the day of love. I don't believe that, for anyone living a full life, there is a single "Day of Love," unless you want to count a wedding day, but that's a whole other post. Just listen to some Rent or Reg Presley, and you'll know what I'm talking about. Happy Valentine's Day, all.

See Saw

My cousin sent me a text message the other day, the first I'd really heard from her in nearly two years, and that includes the times we shared Christmas Eve dinner. Apparently, she just wanted to clarify that, no matter what our grandma may have told me, she wasn't really a bitch. Small talk progressed from there, though I was able to glean that the point of contention in the conversation was myself. My cousin had brought up her current problems, and our grandma had countered by saying that I had it worse.

I continue to be astounded by how opposite my life runs to the remainder of the world. When I'm at the bottom of the world and all is doom and melancholy, everyone is suddenly busy with their own affairs, yet when I'm on top of the world and all is sunshine and peaches, I become the talk of the pity papers. It makes no sense.

It may be dependent on who gets what side of me more. I noticed the other day, as my good friend asked me to write a letter of recommendation for his marriage visa, I realized that for the last four months, the only words I'd received about his fiancé were complaints, and consequently, I felt no inspiration to write such a letter, regardless of how much my friend proclaimed his love for this person. Having received only that side of his relationship, I could not see the positive in it. I think that may be the case with how my life comes across to others.

After many years of self-loathing and fishing for compliments in the pity pool, I've found that it is much easier to change one's own attitude toward oneself than others' attitudes toward oneself. One is with oneself for every mood swing and inflection, but it is not so with others. Thus, there is a delay, and all falls to confusion when, on a bright and cheery day, you are approached with condolences. Once things are sorted out, it's hard to be certain how you felt before the conversation took place, and by the time you've convinced the other person that you were in high spirits, their negativity may very well have reversed that, putting you in a foul mood while they saunter off under the impression that you're just dandy. It's a right mess, it is.