In order to see if you qualify to be my Facebook friend, please take the following questionnaire:

1. In high school, did we speak to each other on a friendly, regular basis?
   • Yes
   • No
2. In high school, were you kind to me for the first year, then dropped me like a hot potato for reasons unknown to me then and now?
   • Yes
   • No
3. In high school, did you ignore me on most days?
   • Yes
   • No
4. In high school, did you speak to me only when you needed help with your Spanish homework?
   • Yes
   • No
5. In high school, did you make fun of me about my weight, my ethnicity, or my clothes? Or any combination of the three, really?
   • Yes
   • No
6. Did we keep in touch after high school and continue to be friendly to each other?
   • Yes
   • No

If you have answered “Yes” to Questions 1 or 6, then yes! We can be Facebook friends! If you have answered “Yes” to Questions 2, 3, 4 or 5, then no, we most certainly cannot be Facebook friends. Why? Because I do not care about you, and you do not care about me. What’s the point of adding me? Why do you want me on your list? Do you really care about my measly updates that mercilessly mock the Metro? No, probably not, just like I won’t care about your updates about your kids. So why try to add me, even when I’ve purposely left out my high school info so it’s hard for you to find me? I’m baffled.

Saline High School, Class of XX? Please stop already. They say that living well is the best revenge, and living well I am. But I have no desire to share that with you, even if it’s just through inconsequential status updates. Yes, I could show off how awesome I am to all of you and you’d totally be experiencing severe jealousE, but . . . you know, that’s just too much effort. And I’d have to deal with your feeds. So . . . no. Just, no.

Ignore.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

I dreamed my husband and I were having a great time (ahem) and that I had to leave for some sort of work; the passage of time was indicated and I was somehow at home again, greeting IP with a kiss. It was then that he confessed this to me: after I’d left for work, he’d gone and slept with my former friend.

What the what!?

She was apparently staying with us for some undetermined amount of time, and IP had decided to relieve the sexual tension between them by sleeping with her. I was aghast and angry—I mean, WTF? He knows how I feel about her, we’re newlyweds, and he’s never indicated he was attracted to her! I promptly told him that we were kicking her out of the apartment. He protested, saying that it wouldn’t happen again and, besides, she had paid rent. “Bull!” I spat out. “I just paid the entire rent for this month, she didn’t contribute a cent.  She’s out of here—and we’re turning her room into a nursery!”

So apparently I was going to stay with IP and was going to get him to knock me up immediately even after his cheating. Okay, then!

I then snapped at IP to get ready, that we had to meet his parents to finalize the details of our Jewish wedding ceremony. Again, WTF? Apparently our wedding this summer was just a trial run, and the “real” wedding was coming up this next summer. We were meeting his parents at a nearby synagogue to speak to the rabbi. Still furious, I left IP to find his own way there (did I mention he had a broken leg?) and proceeded to climb to the synagogue, which happened to be on the top of some kind of weird structure. I’m pulling myself up this structure, amazed at my new-found upper body strength: I was kicking ass on this climb!  I was still furious, though, and I think the adrenaline from my anger was helping me with the climb. Still, quite a workout.

I meet up with IP’s parents and he is nowhere in sight. I’m making small talk with them, and they then introduce me to their granddaughter (who doesn’t exist, I might add). She’s cute and smiling at me, and I’m wondering which of IP’s brothers is the father—all I know is that the baby is Hispanic/Latina and she’s not mine. We’re making wedding plans, but in the back of my mind I’m making plans to kick out my ex-friend and also wondering how to decorate the nursery.

I told IP the dream and he laughed, asking why I was always dreaming about our marriage imploding (I’ve had one other dream where IP told me he was divorcing me to study basket weaving in Ethiopia). To be honest, I don’t know—I know we’re pretty damn happy four months in, so the dreams are strange. I think my problem is that I’ve been reading the Nest’s Trouble in Paradise boards way too much—some of the posts on there are forehead-slappingly bad, and the responses make me choke on my drink from laughter (thanks to the snark that the regulars fire at each other, I should add, not the ones with problems). My subconscious is obviously absorbing the stories, though, so I probably need to stop lurking there.

Oh, my. Before that, I was dreaming about our apartment being haunted by a malevolent spirit. My subconscious needs to take the night off tonight.

*Simon & Garfunkel, “Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream”

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

My first thought this morning?  Wondering if I’d be hung over, and also wondering how it is we’re going to get everything that’s on our list done today.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Me: *No, but I have a feeling I’m about to find out* What do you mean?

A: Well, I was at this business meeting.  I’m talking to this guy and his fiancée is supposed to meet us to discuss some things about their wedding.  So we’re talking, having a good conversation, kind of clicking.  Then she comes in for the meeting.  *sigh*  You should’ve seen the look she gave me.

Me: Um, maybe she was just looked pissed off because she was running late and a bit stressed?  She’s planning a wedding.  It’s tough.  *I speak from experience*

A: No, I can tell she doesn’t like me because I get along with her man.  And he liked me.  *sighs as if cursing the heavy burden that is hers; it must be difficult to be hated à la Kelly LeBrock and Cybil Shepherd* I really want to work with them, but I don’t think she wants to work with me.

Me: Um, they’re engaged; I’m pretty sure she’s not feeling that insecure.  And just because you were discussing a business venture doesn’t mean you were “clicking.”  I’m guessing he was just telling you what it was they were looking for and she probably knows that.

A: It happens all the time to me.  I can’t help it if their men find me attractive and desirable.

Me: *rolling my eyes, thanking the Jebuslug I’m on the phone* I don’t know why you’d want the job if that’s the truth, but if you get the job, great; if not, no big deal, people get married all the time.  Someone will hire you.

A: I suppose you’re right.  I just hate it when that happens to me.  *sigh*

Oh, man.  Conversations like these make me marvel at how delusional people can be.  Because this kind of conversation?  Is par for the course with this person.  And it’s not cool considering the circumstances (which I won’t divulge but let’s just say that, as an outside observer, her world’s about to implode).  And her assumptions?  Are usually wrong.

*Jonathan Coulton’s Someone Is Crazy

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

I find myself less and less annoyed by people’s idiocies. I find myself less and less concerned about getting everything “perfect” and making sure that our customers are “beyond happy.” I just don’t have the time or energy to make sure that the guy who likes Coke gets a Coke instead of a Pepsi. Our vendor sells Pepsi. I believe that procuring Cokes is the responsibility of the customer at this point, no? I’m very much through with rushing around, trying to find a solution — if it’s a participant’s fuck up, it’s not my problem. Sure, I’ll help within the reasonable, expected scope of my job, but I’m done with going above and beyond, and it’s very, very liberating. It’s also nice to go home and not be stressed at all about these things. Woot! I don’t think I’ve reached a point where I can honestly say that staying at my current position is now easy-peasy thanks to my new attitude, but it will help me get through the fall.

The long weekend, though, wasn’t work-focused at all. On Saturday, IP and I worked to secure little brother Mathgeek’s Amtrak ticket to visit us during Thanksgiving. I’m unsure of what Mathgeek will want to do while he’s here (hell, he’s at one of the most rigorous, exclusive colleges on the planet — if he wants to sleep, he can sleep), but we’ll figure something out soon enough. I asked him to think about what he may like to see in DC but he’s one of those kids who had a DC field trip in school, so he’s been there, done that. As for Thanksgiving dinner, we’ll go traditional if Mathgeek wants — we get as far as pumpkin pie, IP and I do, and then make whatever the hell else we want.

Following Mathgeek’s visit with be a visit in December from Mom and Dorkus for dress shopping. I think I’ve already detailed my excitement over that.  Whee!

IP and I took the time this weekend to host a bar night, hit the gym, do some reading and writing, spend some time outside, and sleep. I was able to go for a four-miler yesterday afternoon, enjoying the setting sun and the cooler temperatures. I’ve finished yet another Jasper Fforde novel this weekend, leaving me sans-Fforde until a new tome of his comes out; in the meantime, I can pick up Sarah Vowell’s latest with the handy, dandy 15% off coupon that Barnes and Nobel sent me. When I finished the book this morning, I realized I needed to take a break and update this year’s book list; the list has about six books to be added to it, so I need to get hopping. Will I do it sometime soon, though? I certainly hope so.

Getting through some emails that I owed to people was also necessary, with College Friend L leading the pack as she had deigned to respond to me about a month and a half after I last spoke to her.  Her email was pleasant enough, expressing excitement over my impending nuptials, and then offering to help organize anything for the wedding.  I think I’ve said it before: she was auditioning for the role of Bridesmaid Number Three, which isn’t happening.  She then regaled me with stories of all the guys that she’s into, which makes me once again think to myself: isn’t middle school over already?  I wrote back a perfectly polite email, thanking her for her offer of help but explaining that there will be no bridal shower or bachelorette party—the logistics make it damn near impossible—and trying to give guy advice even though I don’t feel any investment in the friendship or her lovelife.

I of course spent some time wedding planning, mostly researching celebrants and contacting a couple. On Friday I received a call from one celebrant but she put me off almost immediately. She was a tad too sarcastic and was sort of rude when I asked her what would be the best time to call her back — she had reached me at work and of course IP was not present. I’m all for sarcasm but not when I’m thinking about having you perform my ceremony. IP and I are still researching this, so we’ll just have to get back to ya!

I put together an inspiration board (finally) and was very happy to see that I’ve been following something of a pattern when selecting invites, cake designs, and the like: I’m apparently going for a very geometric wedding with origami flowers thrown in for flowery measure. If that doesn’t sound like it works, trust me: it does. Even the mantilla that I like forgoes the classic lace edging for a be-ribboned look. I have to say that the most befuddling thing so far besides the music are the centerpieces — I really don’t know what I want even though a lot of my ideas could work. I also apparently want my hair half-up or completely down (NO UPDOS) on that day with somewhat loose curls, a dress that has a lightly beaded bodice with a full skirt (A-line, no ballroom gowns), and an empire waist is an option but not a necessity. IP gets to choose: navy or tan suit for the men (him, his two brothers, my two brothers, and our fathers).

The rest of today will be spent hitting the gym and grocery shopping; some time should be spent outside, too, before the long weekend finishes slipping away from us.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Which happened to be us.  To WordNerd and IP, from College Friend L.

A small gasp escaped me.  IP asked if the box was making a ticking noisie.  I held the box to me ear to check.

Once in the apartment, I scrutinized the box.  Poking at the brown paper as IP disappeared into the kitchen, I wondered aloud if College Friend L was playing at anything.  Since the Great Bridesmaid Decision of 2008, I’ve only received a “how well do you know your friend” forward, the type which I never fill out and respond to in kind — why should an email group of friends care that you’ve been kissed under a mistletoe or danced in the rain (for the record: no and no)?  IP has received a birthday card, which I reasoned away as an indicator of her obsession with Hallmark cards.  Now an engagement gift after nearly a month of silence?  Perhaps it was unwise to open the box without the help of the bomb squad, I mused.

Curiosity and the belief that College Friend L knows nothing about homemade explosives got the better of me — because the box was wrapped, in typical fashion for her, with tape covering every single crease of folded paper so that one cannot gain ripping purchase, I retrieved a knife from the kitchen.  “Open it yet?” IP asked as I put knife to box.

“No.  Because she cannot wrap a goddamn thing without putting goddamn tape on every goddamn inch of goddamn paper,” I growled, somehow slipping the knife between the tape and cutting a section of paper away.  “She thinks it’s goddamn funny.  It’s not.”

IP shuffled his feet nervously as he poked his head out of the kitchen door.  “Honey, maybe you shouldn’t say ‘goddamn’ so much right before you open that box.  Just in case —you don’t want it to be your last word.”

I smiled grimly.  “Well, just in case, then — I love you, honey.”

IP grinned backed as I succeeded in removing the brown paper.  “Willow Tree,” I read.

Opening the box, which was labeled “Promise”, I pulled out a Styrofoam casing.  The Styrofoam opened to reveal a figurine of a man and a woman embracing.  I gave first the figure and then IP a critical look.  “Nice,” I said.  “So why is it okay to send a gift when you’re giving someone the silent treatment?”

“I don’t get it,” IP admitted, “but per our gift rule, I get to write the thank you note.  You’re off the hook for that.”

I contemplated the figure again, then repacked it, placing the box on our hallway table.  “Think she’s trying to send a hint?  A ‘You can have three bridesmaids’ hint?”

“Then she would have been better about talking to you, don’t you think?  Be a better communicator?  Maybe this is an ‘I’m not angry anymore’ kind of thing.”

“Well, she’s not the best communicator in any way, shape or form.  I never get what messages she’s trying to send,” I sighed.  “We’ll thank her and be done with it.

“Are you putting it on display?”

“Not for now.”

College Friend L has done the “gift as message” thing before when angry — I’m never sure if it’s an olive branch extending to make peace or to beat me soundly.  If she is still angry, I would prefer she say so rather than try to guilt me into reaching out to her by sending gifts.  If this is her way of saying she’s not angry, the request remains the same: some communication in the form of, you know, communication is greatly preferred.  I’ve never been one for using gifts as a proxies for apologies or forgiveness; given our discussions earlier in the year, she should know this by now.  If this was a way to try to get me to open up the lines of communication myself (the ball, as they say, was in her court), then it fails through no fault of her own: IP is all about trading thank you notes (I take care of his side, he takes care of mine) — that arrangement, however, might tick her off even more since she might think I’m avoiding her.  So if she wants to talk, why not just talk instead of sending cards, gifts, and non-relevant emails?

Aren’t we past middle school?  I could’ve sworn I hit the three-decades old mark not to long ago.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

A couple of months ago I began some tentative exploration into identity. I wrote a huge blog post that next to no one read, but that I enjoyed writing and enjoy reading. It helped to focus my thoughts and to mull over things.

Identity is huge to me. I best define myself through my first, middle and last name. These three proper nouns are my anchors in life; if it had not been for their uniqueness, combination, and the fortuitous nature of their union into my name, I would be a totally different person. Names matter, and my name matters a hell of a lot to me. Drop the last letter of my name and you’re on my shit list; attempt to pronounce my name with a Spanish accent and I internally roll my eyes; mangle my last name after I tell you how to pronounce it and I have to remind myself that it’s pretty rare on the whole. That’s why teasing out whether or not I’ll be WordNerd IP’sLastName is so tough – people recommend that you discuss it and figure out who this deal, the name deal, means the most to, but I’m guessing it’s both of us. So that one will be a toughie.

However, this isn’t the focus of the blog post. My focus today? Identity theft!

Following closely behind my name are my looks (and yes, I am the vainest of the vain in this regards). My looks are a mixture of European, Middle Eastern and indigenous Mexican ancestry – people guessing at my ancestry run the gamut from Moorish Spain antecedents to a right-on-target Mexican guess. One of the most flattering compliments I’ve ever received was from a friend’s mother back when I was in grade school – she commented that I was a natural beauty who wouldn’t need makeup to play up my features. Follow up 20 years later and people are always surprised that I am not, in fact, wearing make up. I’m blessed with great skin, big eyes (IP once commented that my brown eyes, usually so plain on women, were one of my unique features – comments like this throughout my life have made it so I’ve never been one to get worked up in a I’ve-finally-been-noticed frenzy when “Brown-Eyed Girl” is played), my mom’s great cheekbones, a small beauty mark above my lip, nice hair and a decent smile. Simply put, I’m cute and I know it. I’ve always been cute – the only time I was ever made to feel ugly was while growing up in the Midwest, when I would focus on my Barbie dolls, race to the bathroom mirror, close my eyes and make a wish before I saw myself, then open my eyes hoping to see a blond haired, blue eyed little girl. I was frequently disappointed that I had not managed to make myself look like everyone else.

I’ve now come to appreciate the fact that I’m not an ordinary pretty girl – generically pretty. I’m different and that’s good. So when people begin to compare my looks to other people, I chafe, cringe, feel the blood boil, want to scream, etc.

Celebrities, random pictures, acquaintance – I’ve had the misfortune of being compared to all three types. Celebrities can range from D-list Alyssa Milano to A-list Angelina Jolie (this one was an outright lie and designed to get me into bed – it did not work). When I worked for a resource center that helped out female students at a community college, a large photo of a woman graduating with her associate degree, holding a child, was on display behind my desk. “Is that you?” people would squeal, smiling in what I can only term a condescending manner – aww, look at the mother (bet you she’s a single mother, those ethnic people) working where she graduated from! – and all they saw was dark hair and dark eyes so it automatically was me. “No, I have an M.A. and no kids,” I would respond coolly (it was at this point that I was desperately hoping to leave this job). Silently, I would tell myself I was much cuter than the happy graduate.

The most recent in comparisons has been happening with some frequency lately and it’s grinding on my last nerves. I’m being compared to a friend. A friend who is definitely not measuring up to me on the physical attractiveness scale. That sounds terrible, I know, but it’s true.

We may have some similar traits; we may dress a bit alike, we both have dark hair that tends to curl (or go into loose waves in my case). However, the similarities end there. I’ve got a good three inches on her; co-workers and IP alike say that she’s bigger than I am. Our faces look absolutely nothing alike. Everything I described about my facial features above is opposite to my friend’s looks. And yet, people always want to believe we’re sisters, that we’re related, that we look just like each other. I find it infuriating because I’m unique just like everyone else. She finds it delightful and thinks it funny – a co-worker once dryly noted that my friend is finding it fun because it’s nice to be confused with someone more attractive. “Happens to me all the time with my friend – and I’m not the pretty one in the friendship,” co-worker said.

I tend to resist placement into categories – my name, looks, upbringing and life experience to date are inexpressible for me, and I have trouble finding common ground with most movements. When people want to group me with even just one other person and say that we’re alike in any way (immediate family excluded, obvs), I rebel violently – I am not like them, I do not look like them, I am me and I resent that you are trying to pigeonhole me only because there are general, broad commonalities that you see. I realize that this is human nature, but it is one aspect of it that I dislike. I sometimes find myself engaging in it (see above comment on not being generically pretty) but I try to avoid it in every day life when interacting with people.

I think this resentment of being compared randomly to various women ties back into my issues with identity. After all, for years on end I was made painfully aware that I was not like everyone else and that I’d better damn well accept it. Accept it I did, embracing the positive parts and beginning to see myself as an interesting mix of things, if not yet articulate in expressing those said things. Now that people pull me back into the fold – marking me as similar to others – I oppose it. I don’t want to be like everyone else. There’s my vanity to consider in this equation, to be sure, but it mostly pulls on my mind in terms of identity. I can’t define myself in any specific terms except my name and face and experiences, and to have part of that co-opted to make a general observation rattles me deeply. It makes me question why, if I was so normal, I was treated as being abnormal as an innocent and unassuming kid? And if I lose some of that so-called “abnormality”, how can I then begin to redefine myself in terms of identity?

It feels like identity theft – it may not affect me financially, but it definitely leaves me questioning who I am if not who I thought I was – me.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Then thinking about my co-worker led me to think about my job, in which I am currently very, very bored. At the risk of addressing work more than usual, I have given my current place a deadline of September 1 to make the changes that they’ve promised — a substantial increase in pay, a title change that reflects what I’ve been doing for nearly all of my time there, and some intellectual stimulation that doesn’t involve keywords, menu selection or placating asshole academics. Should September 1 roll around and no changes have occurred, nor are they likely to ever occur, I will begin to make moves to leave before the year is out. I updated my resume today and almost loaded it online — it never hurts to let recruiters see I’m out here — but IP convinced me that this would be unwise since my current employers might see it and therefore decide not to go ahead with any changes they may have in mind (even if I did block my company from seeing my resume). Instead, after hashing it out with IP, I decided that I needed to fine tune my search, try to figure out what it is I want to do in Washington while I’m here (one day, western states, one day), and keep an eye out for what’s upcoming at work. At least I’ll be gone for half of July. That still doesn’t change the fact that I expect to be nothing but bored on Monday morning.

Then it was time to go to the gym.

After a particularly tough run, I created a profile at myshape.com in order to get a better sense of the sizes I should be wearing these days. I’m trying to come to grips with the fact that I’m no longer the running maven nor skinny minnie I used to be in college. It’s been nearly a decade and my college weight was probably abnormal more than anything else — the combo of lots of running, no strength training and a bad diet which featured small meals, next to no fat and crazy restrictions. Thinking back to my other weights in life, when I was active and eating many varieties of food and not paying attention to anything except how I felt, I was always in this current weight range, always in this current size range. Like my doctor said, I’m healthy. But it’s difficult to let go of that lower size, of that lower weight — never mind that I have a ton of muscle and a low body fat percentage, but it’s still affecting my thoughts about my body. Add to that the occasional tough run and I feel like a whale. I try very hard to focus on what my body can do — it’s done a half and full marathon, it’s run countless 5K races, it’s put on 14 pounds of muscle in the last year alone, it’s been pretty damn healthy all of my life, and it powers me through the day with no problem. So why do I have to focus on the little bit of flab above my belly button when all IP sees is a nicely toned set of abs that have sexy curve to them? Why do I admire my arms in the gym mirror only to then focus on my thighs, which seem incredibly huge even as they stride easily at 6.6 miles per hour on the treadmill? Why am I pissed about being a small on top but a medium to large on the bottom? The thing is, I’m so sick of having to restrict what I eat for the benefit of a smaller size — when I do, I end up exhausting myself and making no cardio/strength gains, so what’s the point? And still I think “If I cut out this, maybe in a few weeks . . . ” But like I said weeks ago — there isn’t anything I could cut out! Nor do I want to. Still, those goddamn sizes are so discouraging.

Argh!!!!!! So I feel like a fat, underemployed childless spinster. Who has a tiny upper body, by the way.  Weren’t Saturdays made to not feel like this?

I’m also kind of disappointed in Alanis Morissette’s new CD. I really hope it grows on me the way Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie did. How’s that for a killer conclusion?

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

So an article on ending friendships appeared today and I couldn’t resist reading it. Given recent adventures with a woman who, up until the beginning of the year, I had considered a good friend, the article was more or less timely. I have not updated my blog to report recent events, so here’s a quick summary:

Said friend contacted me to ask what the matter was; when I told her what the matter was, she told me that she had been very self-involved in the last year, did not like to open up, and had basically been a bad friend to everyone around her. I told her it was best that we start listening to each other, but I have to admit that at this point, my efforts to communicate have been very half-hearted.

I love talking to my close friends and I’m more than willing to be there for anyone in a pinch. At this point, though, I’m unsure that I could be there for her in a pinch. The thing is this: I’m always there for her in a pinch, but when I need the help or the shoulder to lean on, I’m ignored. Looking over the pattern from the past 10 years, I’ve always been the one ignored. It has always been her dramas that dominate our friendship. There is no equal give and take: there’s only take from her side and I’m exhausted. Fatigued. Battle-worn. Ready to hang up these friendship boots and focus on the people with whom I enjoy spending time. I have friends with whom I can get silly and serious, and she’s never been one who can get into either mode. It’s always been somewhat awkward. Even IP has noticed it, and when I told him that that’s how it always was – the awkward silences during dinner conversations, the inability to ask each other how we’re really doing without feeling strange about that – he observed that it didn’t sound like a comfortable friendship. It’s not. The friendship takes a lot out of me, has the ability to take out a lot from my family when she happens to visit me in one of her moods (her mood swings are infamous). I don’t know how to communicate, though, that I don’t consider her a close friend anymore.

I probably never have considered her a close friend. Why did I insist on keeping her around, though? I’ve been asking myself that question and I truly think it’s purely a martyr complex on my part. After all, only I could put up with her. After all, people marveled at my ability to do so. After all, her mood swings never had anything to do with me, and besides, I could take it because she needed a friend and damnit, I could be that friend! I would throw myself on the sword of her personality quirks and teach her how to be a kinder, gentler, more open person in the process. Oof. How wrong and arrogant of me. How unfair to her, to be her friend only to prove that she could keep a friend; how unfair to me, to not allow myself to find someone who would talk and listen. I deluded myself into thinking there was equal give and take – after all, I had put in my time and deserved to talk about me for a bit. However, that didn’t apply, never applied, because it wasn’t a real friendship. I was her sounding board, her shopping buddy, but not a true confidant or friend. When I realized that I couldn’t go to her with my problems, I felt cheated, but I now realize that I also cheated myself. By behaving like a sacrificial victim, I yielded the privilege of a true friendship. I can be as equally mad at me as I am at her.

So what to do? The obvious answer (to me, at least) is to stop thinking about the relationship as a friendship and re-evaluate it in body, mind and spirit to a pleasant acquaintance. That does take action on my part, though: this woman still believes she’s going to get together with me when I visit next weekend, still believes that she’s going to be a bridesmaid of mine. Still believes that my parents adore her (they never have, actually), still believes that my family is her family. I don’t want to be harsh and stop communicating altogether; as the article says, I don’t want to burn the person. I do, however, want to establish boundaries on what she can share with me and what she can’t. This means giving her the news that no, she will not be a bridesmaid of mine; this means telling her that I cannot have her visit me this weekend; this means that all the sharing she wants to do but has never been quite able to pull off will have to be done with another person.

She isn’t a bad person; we just don’t mesh as good friends. She did let me down, big time, but I entered that danger zone by tolerating her one-sidedness for nearly 10 years. It’s time to acknowledge that this isn’t a close friendship. I don’t believe we could work towards that because our personalities are vastly different and we really have no common ground. There’s too much history to overcome; I will always be on the lookout for my fair share. That’s not a supportive friendship on either end. And it’s okay to not be someone’s close friend.

Easier said than done, though. I’m sure that to her, we’re as close as friends can be. By losing me as a close friend, she loses out on someone who will listen to her, deal with her mood swings, be there when something bad happens. The problem is that she can’t do the same for me. At this point, I no longer expect that of her. And that’s where the deal breaker is.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

I was going to do a post about what I learned during my 20s, but I realized that learning what I learned during my 20s really had nothing to do with my 20s — it’s just learning what I learn as my life progresses. I don’t know if it’s wise to label those lessons as specific to those 3,650 days. How about I just say everything that’s happened before me helps to inform who I am today? How about I just say that what I learn within the next decade will help to inform future WordNerd? Actually, how about I stop buttressing my life by artificial markers in this post?

Anyway, just because I don’t care about the actual number doesn’t mean that the day wasn’t fun. It was nice to have friends come out of the woodwork to with me a good one. Friends forgetting my birthday is not something that I hold against them because I am terrible with dates (as I said to one friend over the past week, I only remember your birthday if I grew up with you or if you’ve become a member of my family in my mind). People forget the date all the time and I honestly don’t care. I have to admit, though, that seeing those emails roll in made me smile just a little. A friend also sent me some books that deal with spirituality. I don’t think that she’s trying to tell me anything other than what she’s into at the moment. I will try my best to read them, but I sometimes think I’m too practical and straightforward for self-help tomes. We’ll see, and it was the thought that counted.

It was nice to talk to my family as they wished me a happy day. I am now the age my father was when I was born: he informed me that 30 is indeed young and that he was a fast-living, hard drinking man at that time (tongue in cheek; there is no one as attentive to his family as my father is). Mom and Dad sent me a pair of shoes that I’ve been wanting, Big Bro A sent me a Target gift certificate that will be used to buy running outfits, and little sister Dorkus has my present in hand for when I visit next weekend. Mom and Dad apparently sent me something else, but that didn’t make it here in time. It probably should be here by Tuesday.

And finally, IP! IP went ahead and disregarded my strict injunction to not get me a Garmin Forerunner 405 and got me a Forerunner 405. Reason? My annual gift is a gym membership and I figure that’s quite enough. He argues that it will help me with my marathon training, and given that I did use my old Garmin during my 2006 training, I have to concede that I agree. The Forerunner’s not here yet because it appears to be quite difficult to find. It will ship as soon as it’s available (IP was told that shipment would occur within the next few days). Since my training doesn’t start for another month, it’s all good. So in addition to having a new BlackBerry, I have another nifty new gadget heading my way. I’m glad that IP understand my gadget obsession, but the fact that he indulges my obsession makes me squee with glee.

IP also indulged my pizza obsession last night, which was greatly appreciated (if I could have one meal for the rest of forever . . .). He bought an ice cream cake from Baskins-Robbins but we never got a chance to try the cake — the pizza must have been spiked with something because we went to sleep shortly thereafter. It was 8pm when we hit the hay. The day was obviously too exciting for us.

My, it really is tiring, being in the 30s.

©2010 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.