Is That Natural?

He isn‘t someone I want to care about. That’s certainly an understatement. It would be more accurate to say that we hate each other, that when we‘re in each other‘s company we can‘t breathe, that we can‘t look at each other without the air between us becoming almost palpably taut for the split second that it takes for one of us to look away. And I suppose I can only really speak for myself, for the way my shoulders tighten when he‘s around. I can only vouch for the careful way we are sure not to make eye contact anymore. For the terseness of our verbal transactions if we should have the bad luck of needing to speak to one another.

To say that I hate someone may be hyperbolic because “Hate is a very strong word, Allie” blah, blah. I know it is. But then again sometimes I listen to him interacting with others, wrapping them around his finger in that way that he has. I watch as he pulls the veil ever so imperceptibly tighter because, come on, you people don’t think this sweet little boy act, this person that he portrays to all of you is really him…do you? Please, people, he’s too afraid to show you the real him so he play-acts, pours on the milk and honey and you all lap it up like a bunch of starved kittens. I listen to him talk, I hear his voice and I want to punch him in his smug, insincere, pointy little nose. I’ve walked past his car after a particularly tense interaction and fantasized about keying it, maybe even kicking a tail light or two. Yeah, I had a regular Carrie Underwood moment on my way home, running my keys over the paint and just scratching the shit out of it in my head. I’ve wanted to put Sharpie all over his stupid [insert dumb-ass frat boy label here] coat except that social conventions and, you know sanity won out. Yep, except for blessed sanity, I’m your average sociopath.

I mean, it’s like the aftermath of a really, really bad breakup, all coldness and vapid anger but without the reasons. There are really no good reasons but a casual friendship that never made it. Ask me, all I will chalk it up to for you is “I don’t like him, the stupid asshole.” Ask him, I’ll bet it’s the same except that “bitch” will probably replace “asshole.” You’d have to dig for a while to get the real reasons out of us because we probably don’t remember exactly what happened anymore, not totally. Which is sad because “I’m sorry” should have covered it a long time ago. Apparently, it didn’t cover something.

And then I get home. And when I choose to allow myself to think about him, which is not often, there is a different kind of breathlessness which quickens when I think about his eyes, the ones I am never really supposed to look at because, remember? We don’t like each other. We can’t stand to be around each other, the feeling is more than mutual. My mind is restless, going a mile a minute. I still want to sock him in the nose. But I really, really don’t. Don’t want to do anything to that face. Nope. I can’t think this, I can’t go down with this thought pattern. Nope. I won’t.

I’ve heard it said many times that love and hate are kindred emotions. That there is a fine line separating the two. I can safely say that I am not in love with him. After all, maybe that’s what got us here in the first place, his smug assertion to everyone that I was–because everyone always is in love with him, right? That’s what people tell him, that’s what he tells himself. It was the laughter behind their hands, and how completely blind-sided I was as a friend to know it is still assumed that when a single girl talks to a single guy no matter what the age or the situation she wants to jump into bed with him. No, this is too superficial, primitive, too much of a fledgling thing to survive the high seas of something so ancient, so monumental as love.

But it’s definitely not hate. 

I suppose I knew yesterday upon waking that it wasn’t going to be the best day of my week. I felt like the Yaz I’ve been taking for the last three months completely packed up and left my body. I’d only been able to sleep for about 5 hours and was limp-dishrag exhausted though I knew I couldn’t get my body to go back to sleep no matter how much pleading, cajoling and maybe even vodka I tried. I was depressed; I accidentally stepped on the cats foot (serves her right for standing under it while I’m walking) and almost sat down to cry about being a bad pet-mother. My skin looks like I’m a teenager with a meth addiction. If this is the way it’s gonna be this month then I’m waiting with bated breath for the end of the week when the three-day migraine hits. Whee. Yeah, did I mention that I have PMDD? I mean, I have it with hot fudge (mmmmm, fudge) a cherry on top and little candy sprinkles. Which is to say I’ve got a bad case. We’re not talking the PMS girls whine about, “Ohhh, I want chocolate! I have cramps! I am so moody!” Heh, no. I mean, I once ate a whole pound of M&M’s during a chocolate craving. A whole bag of Doritos during a salt fix–it‘s not about self-control, your body has to have it. You shake like a crack fiend. And moody? Ever try to face down a fire-breathing dragon? The migraines, the sleeping 15 hours a day… yep. And then the miracle drug Yaz came along to save my soul. And now I think it has deserted me. Bitch.

Anyway, so I woke up and decided that the only trip I wanted to make out of bed was to the coffee maker, with a pit stop on the way back to get the Jodi Picoult book I am reading. We snuggled together, Jodi and I, for a few hours before I realized that it was Saturday, I needed(wanted) some clothes and I have some cash burning a hole right through my checking account. And I mean, who needs cash for school in the fall? Certainly not me! (Remind me of that when I am subsisting on tuna fish and ramen.) So I decided to head out to the mall, slamming the cats tail in the door on my way. Mmmkay, seriously? After yesterday, I will not blame her if she claws my face in the night.

Once I got to where the mall is in SUVville, a suburb of my city I realized… it’s Saturday. Every freaking soccer mom within a 20 mile radius has gassed up the Denali and is headed in this direction to deposit her teenagers at Hollister (where, I assume, they gather near the pre-distressed shorts to have a text message marathon. BFF!) As I am contemplating how to navigate the mall without going near Abercrombie and I am suddenly distracted by a tiny Toyota packed way past capacity of, well, how do I say… okay, they were Mexican. Or Hispanic, ‘cause I have no clue if they were from Mexico. Anyway, the windows were down, the car was so loaded up it was practically touching the asphalt and the Tejano music was blasting from the sound system like I blast vintage Metallica when I’m in my total B.A. moods, letting my inner mullet blow free in the wind. So I was distracted by them and it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me (since I saw them long before it happened) that they drifted into my lane like I was a vapor, a figment of the imagination. I was going about 45 mph (oh okay, it’s me, I was probably going 50. Okay, 55) and had to come to almost a complete stop on a busy parkway. By the time I got to my parking space (between two SUVs) I had been nearly hit by two more people who were not paying attention: one who was putting on lipstick while exiting the parking lot (driving straight towards me) and one who was chatting it up on her celly (and nearly pulled into traffic.) So I was not in the mood for a) slow walkers b) people who do not have the courtesy to move a little when you are both walking towards each other down a narrow department store aisle c) people in general. You know what I mean by b) right? Like, you walk down those narrowish aisles near the cosmetics counters and it’s like people want to play chicken: “Are you moving? ‘Cause I’m not moving. You move. I’m just going to keep walking with my gazillion giant bags (even though there is plenty of room to walk if I just move to the other side of the aisle) and you with your tiny purse have to mash yourself against the glass counter while I pass.” Nope, not this chick. Not yesterday. I was not moving. I was all “Move or so help me I will cut you.” Yeah, that was totally me at the mall. I stimulated the economy a little and decided that my heart just wasn’t fully engaged. Especially since I wanted to buy some of that new Tommy Hilfiger perfume and I could not for the life of me get the sales person to come here already! Oh well, I guess I didn’t really need it after all. Clothes you can always talk yourself into (especially because–yay!–I just discovered at Banana Republic that I’ve gone down a size! I haven’t been this size since probably 2002 or earlier!) but perfume is pretty frivolous when you really should be saving for college.

Today I woke up feeling the same sort of tiredness, the same sad little cloud–and I suppose it doesn’t help that it is cold, gray and rainy here either. But I think today I will obey the impulse to make coffee and curl up with the cat and Jodi Picoult. Even if my house really needs to be cleaned. I think sometimes when you try to hard to go against how you feel you end up pushing yourself farther into that feeling, you know? I was trying too hard to cheer myself up yesterday and I just made myself more tired and more depressed. I think that’s why, sometimes, it drives me batty when other people try to push me out of a bad mood. It’s like, look, I will be fine. Just let me be for a little bit okay?

Here’s a story:

My sleep was disturbed by a poor, hysterical-sounding female cat right under my window yesterday. She yowled and howled and screeched and made all sorts of wretched sounds that, I guess, are attractive to the male cat. But, when I finally pulled myself out of bed (because the cacophony under my window was just too compelling to ignore) I noticed she was hissing and spitting at the neighborhood tom that was trying to approach.

Good thing human females aren’t so obnoxious when a man is about, hey? Hmmm…

Does anyone else notice a certain something different about this time of year? Do you all sense a sort of Spring Fever in the air that isn’t necessarily exclusive to our animal friends? I mean, everything is propagating: trees, flowers, grass, the cat under my window. Is our biology so sophisticated that we are immune to the influences of *ahem* gettin’ it on?

I was minding my own business the other day when into my personal space wafted the clean scent of a nice-smelling guy. Oh, shut it. You women know exactly what I’m talking about and guys, don’t pretend you don’t walk around being accosted by the scent of women and thinking it is the best ever when one smells good. I once knew a guy who settled for mediocre haircuts because the stylist smelled good when she leaned over to shampoo his hair. I mean, dude, there is a movie about it: Scent of a Woman. Yeah, I am all about guy-scent and not cologne either just… guy. So anyway, I revelled in “Hmmmm, niiiice” for about 5 seconds and then turned around with the air and attitude of “Hellooooooo boys!” (you know what I’m talking about) but then *BAM* buzz kill, the record playing my little interlude soundtrack gets a big ole scratch in it. Immediately my flirt-smirk was wiped off my face and my brain went from “Hot” to “Oh, soooo not” when I discovered that pheromones are wolves in bitches clothing and can make you scent-attracted to a guy that you everything-but-hate and who everything-but-hates you. Too bad ’cause he smells really good.

Ahhhhhh…Springtime is here….