(no subject)
I don't think it would be unreasonable for me to say that, when most people hear Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes," one of the first things they think of is probably that classic scene from Say Anything. My first thought is of a pivotal opportunity missed nearly a decade ago.
He was drunk by 0300, but he still had pretty good aim; every rock he threw hit my window. The last one cracked it, and woke me up (and...my roommate and a few other girls on my hall, as well). When I opened the window and stuck out my head, he raised his radio (not nearly as big as a boombox, and, though it took a really long extension cord, still plugged in), and pushed play.
When I want to run away, I drive off in my car,
but whichever way I go, I come back to the place you are...
My first reaction was laughter. It was cute, because he was so obviously toasted; nobody sways that much, no matter how much he likes the music. And I wasn't at all angry, since up to that point, the most romantic gesture I'd ever received was flowers sent to me during class that Valentine's Day. To this day, it's remained the most romantic gesture I've ever received. Too bad I couldn't appreciate it as such at the time, because I didn't know what it really meant at the time.
I'm still not completely sure, actually; we never talked about it. He had gotten himself drunk enough to act on feelings he may or may not have had, but too drunk to remember what he'd done the next day. He vaguely remembered me telling him, at some point, to go and sleep it off, but he couldn't remember the context. I could have, should have, told him, and maybe we could have done something with it. But, he'd never given me even a hint that he thought of me as something more than a friend, so my mind was definitely not trained for a discussion of that nature.
Not long after that, one of the girls in my hall asked me if we were still okay. He had asked her out, you see, and they had begun dating. She didn't know that he and I had already talked about it, and I had encouraged him to do it. She was a sweet girl, and I thought she'd be so much better for him than some of the other girls he had been dating. She just thought that was strange, because up until the very second he asked her out, she thought he was my guy.
He was that one, I guess. You know, that one that everyone, even people you don't know and have never talked with before, thinks is your guy.
The thing is, looking back, he was my guy. We never had a romantic relationship, but I think maybe that was just because I'm usually oblivious and he was a little lost. It could have happened. I spent more time with him than anyone those two years. I think maybe I spent more time with him than I did in class. I know I spent more time with him than I did my boyfriend, and the boy I had loved (which were two separate entities; it was a very exhausting year).
We've not seen each other since I left Pennsylvania, but maybe six years ago, or so, we exchanged a few emails, but I've not heard from him since. It is disappointing, but I think I understand why. We heard what we didn't say louder than what we did; remembering what we had, no, what we could have had, is the closest thing to regret I've ever felt.
I think, until I meet the man I can call "soulmate" without laughing (and Lord, please hit me with something when I do, so I'll know), he'll be the only other boy I'll always wonder about.
All that, just to say I just heard "In Your Eyes" again, and thought of him.
==========
More and more, I'm revisiting passions I've had since...as long ago as I can remember. Most notable are drawing and photography. I've had an on-again, off-again relationship with drawing for a few years, now, and I've found I'm getting moderately better with each chunk of time I devote to it. I know now it is something I will never wholly abandon ever again.
It's been utterly too long, however, since I paid any amount of serious consideration to photography.
I inherited my love of photography from my father, who taught me how to use an SLR (an old Ricoh 35 ZF) when I was just into double digits. It became my niche in high school; even though I was a part of drama, the Key Club, debate, sports (field hockey and volleyball), and music (classical choir and marching band auxiliary [I served as Color Guard a few times]), I never really fully associated myself with any one group. That is to say, I belonged to all cliques, and none of them, the same.
But, I was the girl with the camera.
I was the photography teacher's unofficial assistant. My junior year, she (a phenomenal woman by the name of Debbie Ahalt; I remember her vividly) had a free period when I had lunch, so I often spent it there. I was able to drive my Senior year, and did not have to catch the bus after school, so I would stay until she kicked me out. All my money went to photography supplies, film, paper. I always smelled like Rapid Fix. I never minded taking care of my classmates' prints, because I really just loved everything about it all.
College came, and there was a full course load, stagecraft and four shows a year, Transformed! (a traveling drama ministry), Bible studies, the FBI, and that aforementioned best friend. While I did photograph Eastern (how could I not? the campus is gorgeous), and I did try to take a course when I worked at PGCC, when I moved to Pennsylvania, I pretty much left photography as anything more than an opportunity hobby behind.
All that, just to say that I've missed it, and I want it back.
==========
I guess I'm golden, because my rheumatologist is better than your rheumatologist.
On thursday, she increased my methotrexate dose, because she's weaning me off the prednisone! If one could die of joy...
We're still not overly happy with the way things are progressing, but they are, in fact, progressing. The swelling has come down some, and my average pain level is now around 5 (with many mornings as low as 6). These are short-term tolerable levels. It may take another few months to get me to a comfortable place, and she's definitely not ruling out more tweaking on the type and dose of medication, but gone is the overwhelming concern and urgency to get things under control.
For all my symptoms, and the severity of my condition, she thought this would be a slow process.
Also! She said that, whenever they can, they're going to sneak and set aside some Humira pens for me, to supplement what the insurance company will allow me. How nifty is that?
All that, just to say...uhm...woot?
==========
I wish I could breathe through my nose.
And... that's it, actually. I wish I could breathe through my nose.
[ps: When I blow my nose, I sound a little like a bull moose, and am just as loud. I thought I should share that, in case anyone was thinking I was cool even sick, or something.]
He was drunk by 0300, but he still had pretty good aim; every rock he threw hit my window. The last one cracked it, and woke me up (and...my roommate and a few other girls on my hall, as well). When I opened the window and stuck out my head, he raised his radio (not nearly as big as a boombox, and, though it took a really long extension cord, still plugged in), and pushed play.
When I want to run away, I drive off in my car,
but whichever way I go, I come back to the place you are...
My first reaction was laughter. It was cute, because he was so obviously toasted; nobody sways that much, no matter how much he likes the music. And I wasn't at all angry, since up to that point, the most romantic gesture I'd ever received was flowers sent to me during class that Valentine's Day. To this day, it's remained the most romantic gesture I've ever received. Too bad I couldn't appreciate it as such at the time, because I didn't know what it really meant at the time.
I'm still not completely sure, actually; we never talked about it. He had gotten himself drunk enough to act on feelings he may or may not have had, but too drunk to remember what he'd done the next day. He vaguely remembered me telling him, at some point, to go and sleep it off, but he couldn't remember the context. I could have, should have, told him, and maybe we could have done something with it. But, he'd never given me even a hint that he thought of me as something more than a friend, so my mind was definitely not trained for a discussion of that nature.
Not long after that, one of the girls in my hall asked me if we were still okay. He had asked her out, you see, and they had begun dating. She didn't know that he and I had already talked about it, and I had encouraged him to do it. She was a sweet girl, and I thought she'd be so much better for him than some of the other girls he had been dating. She just thought that was strange, because up until the very second he asked her out, she thought he was my guy.
He was that one, I guess. You know, that one that everyone, even people you don't know and have never talked with before, thinks is your guy.
The thing is, looking back, he was my guy. We never had a romantic relationship, but I think maybe that was just because I'm usually oblivious and he was a little lost. It could have happened. I spent more time with him than anyone those two years. I think maybe I spent more time with him than I did in class. I know I spent more time with him than I did my boyfriend, and the boy I had loved (which were two separate entities; it was a very exhausting year).
We've not seen each other since I left Pennsylvania, but maybe six years ago, or so, we exchanged a few emails, but I've not heard from him since. It is disappointing, but I think I understand why. We heard what we didn't say louder than what we did; remembering what we had, no, what we could have had, is the closest thing to regret I've ever felt.
I think, until I meet the man I can call "soulmate" without laughing (and Lord, please hit me with something when I do, so I'll know), he'll be the only other boy I'll always wonder about.
All that, just to say I just heard "In Your Eyes" again, and thought of him.
==========
More and more, I'm revisiting passions I've had since...as long ago as I can remember. Most notable are drawing and photography. I've had an on-again, off-again relationship with drawing for a few years, now, and I've found I'm getting moderately better with each chunk of time I devote to it. I know now it is something I will never wholly abandon ever again.
It's been utterly too long, however, since I paid any amount of serious consideration to photography.
I inherited my love of photography from my father, who taught me how to use an SLR (an old Ricoh 35 ZF) when I was just into double digits. It became my niche in high school; even though I was a part of drama, the Key Club, debate, sports (field hockey and volleyball), and music (classical choir and marching band auxiliary [I served as Color Guard a few times]), I never really fully associated myself with any one group. That is to say, I belonged to all cliques, and none of them, the same.
But, I was the girl with the camera.
I was the photography teacher's unofficial assistant. My junior year, she (a phenomenal woman by the name of Debbie Ahalt; I remember her vividly) had a free period when I had lunch, so I often spent it there. I was able to drive my Senior year, and did not have to catch the bus after school, so I would stay until she kicked me out. All my money went to photography supplies, film, paper. I always smelled like Rapid Fix. I never minded taking care of my classmates' prints, because I really just loved everything about it all.
College came, and there was a full course load, stagecraft and four shows a year, Transformed! (a traveling drama ministry), Bible studies, the FBI, and that aforementioned best friend. While I did photograph Eastern (how could I not? the campus is gorgeous), and I did try to take a course when I worked at PGCC, when I moved to Pennsylvania, I pretty much left photography as anything more than an opportunity hobby behind.
All that, just to say that I've missed it, and I want it back.
==========
I guess I'm golden, because my rheumatologist is better than your rheumatologist.
On thursday, she increased my methotrexate dose, because she's weaning me off the prednisone! If one could die of joy...
We're still not overly happy with the way things are progressing, but they are, in fact, progressing. The swelling has come down some, and my average pain level is now around 5 (with many mornings as low as 6). These are short-term tolerable levels. It may take another few months to get me to a comfortable place, and she's definitely not ruling out more tweaking on the type and dose of medication, but gone is the overwhelming concern and urgency to get things under control.
For all my symptoms, and the severity of my condition, she thought this would be a slow process.
Also! She said that, whenever they can, they're going to sneak and set aside some Humira pens for me, to supplement what the insurance company will allow me. How nifty is that?
All that, just to say...uhm...woot?
==========
I wish I could breathe through my nose.
And... that's it, actually. I wish I could breathe through my nose.
[ps: When I blow my nose, I sound a little like a bull moose, and am just as loud. I thought I should share that, in case anyone was thinking I was cool even sick, or something.]