Good Wine, Great Friends, and a Kitchen Table

I've been gone for awhile, I'm sorry. A LOT of stuff came up out of nowhere, basically, and my life got flipped upside down for a few weeks there. I am now coming out of my spring break and hopefully, things will get back to normal. But t
hat's why I've been hiatus. Shit hit the fan; I didn't take it too well. Maybe I'll write about that stuff at some point in the future, but no guarantees.

Let's get back to business, shall we?

So, my mother decided to host a birthday party for her friend. Although her crowd's idea of a birthday party has included strippers in the past, the approach tonight was more subtle. Just a quiet night in with a few friends from the neighborhood, home cooked foods, a cake, and a lot of wine. No men, just the ladies. Since I'm home for break, my mother invited me to take part, apparently feeling guilty to not be spending time with me. Despite the caddy drama that ensued after the hanger-on decided to bring her 6-year-old child along with her, the evening was very lovely. Lots of laughter, good food, good conversation, stories and jokes were flying. Once the cake came out, the birthday girl raised her glass and made a toast so moving, it brought tears to my eyes.

Her back-story, she is finally conquering breast cancer. After fighting it for years, she is clear and about to have her port removed. She is turning 51 this year, but due to the cancer, she did not want to celebrate her 50th last year. So not only was this party a "Yay, you're 50 (belated)" party, but a "You beat cancer and we couldn't be happier" party.

Obviously, I don't remember the speech verbatim, but I'll do my best to put it back in her words.

"I just want to thank you all so much for this evening. After my whole ordeal, I've learned just how incredibly lucky I am. I've re-evaluated so much in my life and have realized that there is very little that is genuinely important to me. Besides my family, of course, the only other thing that truly matters is my friends. You girls. I can't say I would have made it without you all. I cannot stress enough how much you all mean to me and how much of a difference a few good friends can make in someone's life. So thank you all, thank you, thank you endlessly. For this party, for being there for me, for supporting me through this all, for just being my friends. I love you all, truly."

Everyone around the table nodded in agreement and I knew the sentiment was mutual.

Her speech was beautiful, impromptu, and so genuine that of course I felt it and believed it. And everyone has those few close friends they can go to for anything. But her speech got me thinking--who would these people be in my case? Do I even have these friends? Do I have anyone who truly cares about me the way this room cares for this woman? And honestly, I'm not entirely sure that I do.

When I thought about it, I can only think of two friends who would come if I called, but that's about it. Maybe three, but I'm not sure. I'm so used to being the third wheel in groups, being the one that doesn't really make a difference, that I guess I stopped trying and stopped caring. I've realized through the past few years that my groups of friends never really cared about me. If they made plans, I was never personally invited. I'd only be invited if I contacted the host myself or if one random person happened to remember me. Generally though, I had to ask to be included in anything. I was never missed. My absence was not an issue, my presence was not a pleasure--I was just a whatever. And this trend has continued into college. I thought for sure things would change once I moved away from home and was immersed in a new environment, but things are the exact same. While Malibu and Ritz go NUTS for each other and freak out when they're separated, they could care less whether I'm with them or away from them. My roommate never comes into our room to just sit and chill and talk, but always goes to Ritz's, where Malibu will always be too. They sit there for hours and I just wait to see if maybe they call for me or anything. And they just never do. There are a million examples I could share, but I don't want to dive into too much detail.

Have I not made an impact on the lives of my friends? Am I just not an interesting, fun enough person? What is it that I'm doing wrong that makes people completely apathetic towards me? I don't know. I don't know why my social life is the way it is and the way it has been for years. I don't know who would be sitting at the table with me forty years from now drinking wine and toasting my cancer survival. Perhaps I'm not meant to know yet and that'll all come with time and settling down somewhere.

It just makes me nervous to see the people around me all so deeply tied into relationships. I am the only single person left in my entire family. Many of my friends are dating and if not, they have that solid, core group of friends. I don't have either. Yes, I have my family, but I can't rely on them for everything. I need to break away and become my own person. It makes me incredibly nervous that I'm truly doing something horribly wrong. Don't get me wrong, I couldn't be happier for the ones in my life that have that security and those relationships. And I hope that my friends view me as one of those people, as someone they would sit at their tables and drink away with because I most certainly would go to the end of the earth and beyond for them if they ever called. I just hope that--when my time comes--I'll have a bottle of red, a bottle of white, and those amazing friends filling my kitchen table.

I'll come when you call,

The A.S.S.

All That Hype

Another Valentine's Day come and gone. Yippee. Though I didn't see the movies pervading the theaters, I know that the holiday inherently comes with abundant images of lovey-dovey stuff, happy couples, heartbreaks that eventually find their soulmates, happy and fairytale endings, etc etc. Then, of course, there's the dichotomous side of February 14th--the single people's holiday. S.A.D., or Single's Awareness Day. This is the side that highlights the unfortunately single people loathing in their lonesome state, eating chocolate they bought for themselves and only the fattiest ice creams on the market, watching the sappiest love stories and romantic comedies that Blockbuster hadn't yet sold out of, and clearly, bawling their eyes out. Maybe there's a strong, independent lady tossed into the mix somewhere. But where's the in-between? In the true, cliche spirit of The Amplified Shadowed Side, I'll tell you about my boring-ass, average day.

I woke up from sleeping on an aerobed with Malibu.
(Introduction: Malibu. My roommate. Outgoing, unique, beautiful, individual, artistic, juxtaposing, creative, innovative, sugar-addicted. Photographer, student, gamer, model, SpongeBob enthusiast.)
We had made a delicious batch of mac n' cheese the night before and fallen asleep watching one of our favorite movies. We had planned to make this Sunday one of the best days ever, especially with no classes on Monday.

So we wake up, lay around for quite some time, get ourselves ready for a day out, and go to Chinatown for some dim sum. Amidst the beauty of the district, the excitement of the Chinese New Year, hundreds of short men whispering "handbag?" at me as I walk by, firecrackers popping under my feet as children throw them at me, hugging my bag tightly at my side and hoping no one pickpockets me, and searching desperately for an open dim sum restaurant, I can't stop talking about this guy, Peachy Keen.
(Introduction: Peachy Keen. Friend. Cute, hilarious, sweet, outgoing, southern, artistic, boy. Sister tried to set me up with him; I'm in. Student, economist, musician.)
He and I have been talking a lot, talking about random things and the next time we'd see each other. He said he'd text me and we'd do something since he had bailed on our plans the night before. All day I was talking about him; I was freaking out about what to wear when I saw him, thinking about topics for small-talk, waiting for my phone to beep with the sound of a text, checking it even when I hadn't heard anything and the light wasn't flashing. To say the least, I was a pretty bad date for my roommate.

Dim sum took quite the while to finish up, and Malibu and I had a good times, but we headed back as soon as we paid. We were exhausted, for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was the stress and anxiety of waiting for a text that would never come, or the effort put into the facade of dating my roommate. Whatever it was, Malibu and I passed out on that aerobed for another two hours or so.

When we awoke, we watched the Olympics for another few hours. We sat in silence, captivated by the sheer beauty that happens when you put two people together. They way they can glide and move as one and float and jump and twirl and tell a love story was simply mesmerizing. Soon, Ritz arrives back home.
(Introduction: Ritz. Another roommate. Silly, sleepy, hardworking but procrastinating, determined, sophisticated, Diet Coke addicted. Student, fashionista, Jason Mraz fan.)

Apparently, three is enough to break the curse of admiration and jealousy. Once she joined us, we were able to criticize the performers rather than admire them, even though we were fully aware of how absurdly talented they are and how we could never compare. Malibu and I decided to make a run for some groceries, and by that, I mean chips and queso and ice cream. On our way to go pick up these necessities, we decided to stop by our guy friend's room (I'll get around to introducing them later; just know that they're kind of one functioning unit and I'll be referring to the collective whole as los chicos). They welcomed us, as usual, and for no good reason, we had a wonderful time just sitting there. We felt bad keeping Ritz waiting so we dashed to get the foods, returned to our room to get ourselves ready, and headed back over (Ritz decided to stay back), fully-armed with our queso and chips. The night played out as just a bunch of kids, sitting in a room, inhaling chips and queso, and talking up a storm.

When Malibu and I returned to our room some hours later, we were devastated that our chips had been obliterated and there was still queso, begging to be eaten. With all that cheesy goodness tempting us so, and the late night delirium making all of our decisions for us, we decided there was only thing to do--make more mac n' cheese. We surfed the channels and settled on a SciFi (not SyFy) channel movie called Bitten, which seemed as promising as they come at 3:30 in the morning. So there we were. We had found ourselves, once again, with mac n' cheese in hand, snuggled in our blankets and cozied up on that same aerobed from less than 24 hours before.

And that was my Valentine's Day. Nothing unusual, nothing exciting, nothing movie-like. Nothing terrible, nothing heartbreaking, nothing like any of the stereotypes. Just another day and just another night.

Yes, I'm a little upset that I didn't have a real Valentine. Yes, I'm upset that it was another reminder that I'm single and that I've never had a Valentine. But I'm equally upset that I wasn't able to simply embrace the day as a proud, single woman by pushing men and Peachy Keen to the side. It was only 24 hours and I couldn't do it. I couldn't just enjoy myself--I fell victim to the commerciality of it all.

I understand the purpose of the holiday is to serve as a little reminder to display our true feelings and do a little something extra for the people we love. I understand that sometimes people need a little goading. But why does it get to us so badly? Why does it manage to incite such passion from some and inspire deep depression in others? When all is said and done, although it may have had some fine print in the box, February 14th was just another X on the calendar.