Everybody plays the fool; only some have fun with the role

About a month ago, I exchanged messages with a friend who recently went through a very difficult break-up and as a result was trying to "keep a low facebook profile." (Yes, I envied the wordplay.)

Ah, facebook. You are my b-tch lover. I feel like one look at my profile reads like a telegram describing play-by-play my lack of a real life:

M wrote on Herbert's wall. Herbert wrote back two hours later. M responded within a minute. Herbert never responded. M photoshopped herself into a picture from a social event she did not attend. M quoted Arrested Development in her status again...how original. M is lonely; she posts a picture of her best friend. Someone likes the picture M just posted of her dog.  (I could go on, but self-deprecation quickly transitions from "mildly humorous" to "overwhelmingly depressing.")

I don't take myself seriously on facebook. My name is altered, my profile picture often involves tasteless photoshopping, and I refuse to be in a legitimate facebook relationship. There are a couple of contributing factors for this last detail, but one sure component comes with a story. If you're not in the mood for yet another trip down memory lane, I guess this is goodbye. If you're sticking around, pull up a chair.

Back when I was a freshman in college, I made my high school boyfriend break up with me on Christmas Eve. Odd phrasing? Let me break it down in an annoyingly colloquial fashion:

(cue Wayne's World time-travel music and finger motions)

I called up the soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend and was all,
"Why are you being such a b-tch?"

and he was all,
"I don't think we should have this conversation tonight. Merry Christmas, we'll talk later."

To which I said,
"F that, b-tch! We're having this conversation riiiight NOW."

And then he was like,
"[more refusing to my prodding]...I want to break up,"

prompting my,
"I can't believe you're breaking up with me on Christmas eve--of all nights!--What kind of b-tch would do such a thing?!?"

and then I imagine he rolled his eyes and I whimpered into the phone
"I'm cancelling our relationship on facebook."

...And as I clicked "cancel" and hung up the phone, I remember thinking to myself, well, that was probably one of the lamest things I could've said to end the conversation.
But so it went, bygones, etc.

The next day I posted a picture of a nun-like latin teacher from my high school as my facebook photo and the rest, as they say, is history (well, unless you empty your cache.)

The thing is, I don't think my spiral into unbridled goofdom is confined to facebook. And that gives me mixed feelings.

On the one hand, I feel like I should be growing up and becoming more serious and professional (can you tell I had a reunion this past weekend?)

On the other hand, I don't want to fight the goof. It's who I am.

And you know what? Goofy makes me happy. It makes me laugh, as do farts, put-on nasal voices (an Angela specialty), and this memory I have from Raleigh's 13th birthday party at six flags:

While waiting for my friends to return from their roller coaster ride (whimp, I know) I noticed that I'd been hearing this repetitive thumping noise for the past couple of minutes. I located the source of the noise as soon as I turned around and faced the house of mirrors.

Thump...thump...thump.

I stood mesmerized as kid after kid ran towards (and then into) what they thought was the maze's end, but was actually just a well-cleaned window. (My apologies for that awkward sentence. I'm too lazy to clean it up.)(Yes, Dad. Like my room.) Bottom line: kids kept running into the wall because they thought it was the exit.

Oh it was magical...but mean of me.

...BUT you should've seen them charge! They thought they had it dooown...and then they went dooown. In my defense, it's not like I could've warned them; they wouldn't have been able to hear me (also, it's hard to gesture when you're buckled over and hardly breathing).

But no, not nice. Bad me. My faux-ly grown-up self acknowledges that. Shame on me for laughing.

Sorry to all those children for cackling at them as they stumbled back into the maze, their foreheads and egos both freshly bruised.

Sorry I'm laughing as I type this.

But here's the thing: 

Despite their bruises, I rest on the fact that those kids probably bounced back, found their way out, and--after a little time had passed--embraced the memory and could laugh about it.

On Angela: It started out Crumby and then turned to mush

So that last post touched on some of my feeeeelings about my peers, as it’s a topic that’s been on my mind lately. I’m almost a year out of college, no longer surrounded by hundreds of people my own age. (Dad, you’re still the coolest, of course.) This shift in company makes me think about the people I miss, and then (for the sake of acting eighty) I begin to reminisce, which reminds me just why I miss them so much.

One of my little goals for this (and maybe next) month is to write about people who are close/important to me. Since I’ve already written about my dog, my sister, and my dad, it’s time for me to do a little branching out.

I’ve been thinking about my friend Angela a lot this week. I started to call her on the afternoon of my stomach-bug incident because I knew that hearing her voice while I waited at the bus-stop would give me something to laugh about as I trundled off to my first class. Unfortunately, mid-dial I saw my phone’s battery flashing a suicide warning and I had to forgo my pre-school (ha?) pick-me-up.

But in case anyone is reading this (ha? Hi, Grover) and doesn’t know Angela, I’ll try my best to describe her.

How do I go about this? I guess I’ll aim for chronologically.

Because she was a grade behind me, our friendship in high school was somewhat distanced. We were in some of the same classes and I’d hang out with her before play/track practice, but we each had our own group of friends from our respective grades.

However, one thing I’ve always been able to appreciate about Angie is her uncanny ability to escort me from crying to laughing, no matter what the situation.

When my dog died sophomore year of high school, unlike the back pats and sympathetic hugs my other friends gave me, Angela’s condolences (and I use that term loosely) took the form of disbelief:

“No it did not. You don’t even have a dog. You’re such a liar.”

…before transitioning to full-on mockery:

“Woof…Woof!” (Yes. She barked at me.)

…after which point I got in trouble for “distracting Angela during class.” (To be fair, I don’t think she believed me when we started the conversation, and it was the first time I had laughed all day.)

Although we rarely talked on the phone during high school, whenever I felt homesick or sad during my freshman year of college I found myself calling Angie.

Everything Angela sees and every person she knows becomes fifty times funnier when she tells you about it/him/her. I really don’t know how she does it, and her humor is impossible to replicate exactly. It’s not a matter of embellishment or mockery. She just has this knack of picking out random quirks that everyone half-notices and finding the words/facial expression/voice to make them all the more hilarious. It’s like she’s full of inside jokes that anyone can join in on.
(Wow. I ended that sentence with not one, but TWO prepositions. Squirm, nerds, squirm.)

But Angela, as passionate and diligent as she is funny, is yet another friend of mine headed off in the direction of medical school.Unfortunately, following her there is not an option.

If nothing else, taking Chemistry 101 my freshman year of college meant that my fingers, soiled with wiped-away tears and "stress crumbs," pounded out weekly “YOU STILL HAVE TO LOVE ME IF WHEN I FAIL” emails to my parents. So I don't think those same hands really belong in an operating room. 

I guess my plea to Angela is not “take me with you” so much as it is “don’t go.” I’m selfish. Don’t feign surprise. I’ve told my friend, the Social Hermit, countless times that I am so jealous he got to spend three of his four years at college with Angela. But I had--what, seven?--years with her before that. I’m greedy. (Again, no fake gasps are in order.)

I know if Angela were in these grad school classes with me, she’d bring out sides of my classmates I would have never known to appreciate otherwise.

“This is why it’s funny."
"This is why it’s fun."
"This is why he’s a good person.” 

She notices and enhances the positive without being cheesy or preachy. Something I feel like I’m failing to do right now.

I guess I’m just trying to “Angelyze” (oh hey, you like my new word?) Angela. With Angie there will always be more to say, in more ways than one: more humor for her to illuminate, and more things to say about her. But for now, this is the best I can do.

Angie, this is why you’re funny.
This is why I call you.
This is why you’re so adored.  

(Yes, I shamelessly photoshopped myself into this picture.)

High School TicTactics

When I was a senior in high school, the end of first semester was a time of high anxiety. Early application decisions were rolling in, and people like me ('the deferr-ed') were facing the final exam period of our high school careers that still potentially mattered for college.

I sought fun anywhere I could find it, provided it didn't distract my already attention-challenged mind. My solution? Little pellets of sugar.

Armed with my dad's label maker and bulk packs of tictacs, I made little boxes of "medicine" for each subject I had to study (as well as one for break time, for the sake of using all six flavors.)

I coordinated colors and subjects based on my flavor preferences and studying priority; my weakest subjects were paired with my favorite flavors, and "break" was given my least favorite flavor. However, I will admit that the flavors for U.S. History and Irish Literature weren't exactly in accordance with this system, and based on patriotism more than anything else.

Silly? Sure. Tacky? Maybe so. A waste of time? Possibly.
But for all I can tell, it worked.