In which she has a good day...

So often we live our lives in this little shell, cave walls of human flesh. We keep everyone at a distance, afraid they’ll steal our fire and leave us shivering cold in the dark and damp. We paint little pictures with electric needle brushes and metal spikes in various orifices. We hide ourselves with fabric and fashion. We isolate ourselves by choosing ipods over conversation, sitcoms over mid-dinner talks and after-dinner walks. We’ve forgotten what it means to be human.

Or maybe it’s just me.

I had forgotten what it felt like to belong, to fit in somewhere. Forgot that feeling of listening to someone and knowing exactly what they mean, even if they’re speaking a foreign language. Being able to just sit and be in a crowd and not feel out of place or out of time or out of the loop. It is amazing to see simple beauty in everyday life. Hold conversations with friends and colleagues about ideas and ideals. I forgot how to just talk when every conversation I have lately descends into an angry rant about something Debbie Downer did or didn’t do again. I forgot how to not be upset or sad or lonely or depressed.

I had forgotten how to smile.

I went expecting to leave quickly: say a quick hello, have some cake and see her open some presents. I didn’t think I’d enjoy myself much when I only knew a handful of the expected 40 or so guests. I don’t do well in crowds. I don’t do well with new people or new situations or new expectations. And I was dealing with all three in one big fell swoop of the mighty e-vite.

I take the bus, a 45 minute ride through the heart of downtown Austin into the gentler, peaceful setting of SoCo. I pretend to read my “Joy of Swearing” I acquired for a whole $1 at my local Half Price Books as college boys, wearing clothes straight from the dirty hamper, stare at (drool over) my pigtails and superman t-shirt. A few try to hit me up, swing and miss and strike out with one icy eyebrow raise and a flip of an unread page. The older ones, those that might’ve already been adults when Star Wars first hit the theaters, try a little harder and are harder to ignore. I smile, blush and stare intently at the words I’m not really trying to comprehend. I pointedly look at the floor, the window, anywhere but those winking crow’s feet and tongue-flicked smoker’s lips. They eventually get the hint and search for more naïve prey. I turn the page and stare at the passing block signs out of the corner of my squinting eyes, desperately afraid I’ll miss the stop and get myself completely lost and completely screwed.

I look up at the street before I’m supposed to exit bus right; push the signal and put the book away. Squeeze past a greasy teenager who “accidentally” slaps me on the ass and giggles about it with his emo friends. I jump down from the bus, hurry across the street before a car can finish pulling out in front of me.

She once spent 30 minutes scouring every department for that one desk that had the bowl of M&Ms, so I plan on stopping by a candy store to pick up her present.

I catch up with an old friend and try not to sing ‘the candyman can’ song when staring at his work clothes. I make my purchase, check my map, and walk the 3 blocks west to the restaurant with the backyard atmosphere.

I get there and know four people. Four. Out of twenty already arrived.

I wedge myself at a table between two people I see every day at work and actually like. We chat, I’m self conscious. I get carded when I order alcohol. Everybody laughs as I blush and put away my ID.


But somewhere, between waiting for my drink and sitting awkwardly listening to old friends reminisce about things that happened when I was in high school, I started feeling like part of the group.
I felt like I belonged.
They were playing blues in the background, people’s voices started overlapping in some sort of social symphony. Someone at another table would chime in and then go back to their own little stories. I sat and listened to the gentle whining of the guitar underscoring ten different conversations, smiling and laughing without having to force the emotions to the surface.


Purple and black balloons drift with a gentle breeze. Children scream and laugh and run. Little arms and little legs secret squirrel up sprawling trees. I jealously watch and for a brief instant wish I wasn’t surrounded by people I work with, or that I had better upper body strength to haul these massive hips up those low hanging branches.

I lose track of the time, sipping icy cocktails that simultaneously send shivers up my spine and warm tingles down my toes. I find myself telling a complete stranger details of my childhood; odd, when I can’t even form the words for someone I’ve been head over heels about for nearly a decade. Odder when I’m able to tell people I’ve just met something I couldn’t bring myself to say to him in person. I breathe in life: the sound of tiny laughter, scattered raindrops briefly falling through the trees, the bluegrass band replacing piped in recordings. I savor every bite of coconut pecan cake with sweet Italian frosting, each bite decadent enough to send me into diabetic sugar shock.

And all too soon it’s over, I’m waving good bye and going back home. Alone.

It didn’t hit me until hours later how much that simple experience affected me. I didn’t realize how lonely I am here. I was never really the life of the party, more content to sit in a corner and let the conversation come to me than to actively hunt down a good time. I miss knowing people. I miss sharing meals and ideals and singing badly with that Bob Seger song in the car on the way to the latest sci-fi action flick. I left my friends and everything I knew to move some place I had never been before my interview. I spend my nights curled up in cartoon character boxer shorts and tank tops, ceiling fans on high and Netflix on low. I don’t go out. I have no adventures. I have no life.

I don’t call or message when I desperately want to talk for fear I’ll drive people away. I don’t tell the person I care about most in this world how I have to nightly stop myself from picking up the phone just to hear the sound of his voice because I’m afraid he won’t understand or doesn’t feel the same. I don’t make new friends even though it’s been almost six months down here. I don’t go new places other than home and work and one of three nearby grocery stores.

It is just easier to sit at home and listen to the same recordings of the same songs and read the same words in the same books weekend after weekend, evening after evening.

I forgot what it felt like to be human. Maybe I should take a refresher course or something. But let's start slow, baby steps, one day at a time. Starting today.

Today was a good day.