I've always been a cold person.
Don't get me wrong. I get along (even like) the vast majority of the people I meet, I make physical contact with almost everyone in almost every conversation I have, and I'm pretty sure I don't have any trust or intimacy issues.
But when it's any cooler than 70 degrees outside, I am miserable.
Miserable, now that I think about it, is probably too strong of a word. Uncomfortable would be more apt, but my desire to find warmth when I'm shivering is so all-encompassing that it doesn't quite seem to fit. So I default to miserable, because that word connotes a constant suffering that need not always be expressed but is universally understood.
It's weird to think that I get so easily cold, as I was a figure skater as a kid, and you'd think that would harden me to the elements. Not so, grasshopper. And what about all those times I was dragged out on camping trips with Dad and Pam and James? Shouldn't that have toughened my skin a little? Evidently not.
However, when it's 110 degrees in the shade (don't make theatre references, you'll only miss NCC more), I am a happy camper. I love the sweltering heat, that layer of disgusting sweat that covers your whole body the second you step out the door. I enjoy laying out on the beach, going for walks at midnight when it's still 75, and lounging under a tree with a good book. So it's not that extreme temperatures as a whole bother me; it's that I have a ridiculously low tolerance for the cold and yet-undiscovered tolerance for heat.
The reason I bring this up is because it was recently brought to my attention that it's the only high maintenance thing about me. As Mark and I were watching Shaun of the Dead last night, I fell asleep. Not that the movie's not great and not that I ever want to waste the short hours I have with him each week, but I was unbelievably exhausted from staying out late the night before. When I woke up towards the end of the movie, he tells me that my constant need to be wrapped in blankets is the only high maintenance thing about me (Obviously, he's never seen me organize a group outing, but that's another discovery for another day.).
Don't worry, he quickly added, kissing the side of my face. It's worth it. I would be lying if I said that those words alone didn't make me need the blankets a little less.
Now that I think about it, being cold all the time isn't so bad. It's a solid excuse to hold hands, snuggle close, and steal all the blankets with no real repercussions. The cold doesn't bother Mark at all; he actually had the A/C going in his car last night which makes me shiver just thinking about it, and he wore just a long sleeve shirt - no jacket, no hoodie, nothing - outside. It sorts of amazes me, really, that someone can be so unaffected, but it just adds to my list of evidence that he's actually a robot with an electrical heating core. Yes, there is a list, and the warmth thing isn't even the most compelling bit.
I've learned to live with the constant chill of being just barely uncomfortable in air conditioning. I can't say I don't notice it anymore, but I've at least stopped complaining about it. As much.
You really can't get too exasperated with yourself over a default reason to pull someone close.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Before 9 AM
I live in an apartment with three other people, men to be precise. I have my own bedroom, my own space where I have all my show posters on the wall, my beloved blankets on the bed, and my music frequently, gently bouncing off the walls. However, true alone time is uncommon.
At any given time, I can either hear the bass of Jeff's music thudding against my north wall, the rapid gunfire from Steve playing Halo 3 drifting under my door, or the strains of Dom playing the guitar on the balcony through my permanently stuck open window. However, the time before 9 AM is my time, when my boys are asleep and, if not for the sounds of early morning traffic, I would feel like the last person on Earth.
I set my alarm for 7 AM every morning, with the understanding that I will get up and cross the room to the phone - my meager effort at forcing myself to get up by placing my alarm across the room is useless in practice - to reset it for 7:15. Then, if I haven't woken up too many times the night before from the neighbor's pounding techno or my own desperate thirst, I grab my iPod, tie my apartment key to my shoe, and head out for my run.
I'd never been much for running. As my good friend Jeff said (not roommate Jeff), a person shouldn't run unless he's being chased. He hates running with a passion and was as close to mortified as it's possible for him to be when I found out he ran on a treadmill. Which I think counts as running no matter what he says.
But when I moved to DeKalb, I had no friends, no idea of the layout of the town, and a determination to just do well in school long enough to get out of this corn-surrounded hellhole. Without theatre, my life was significantly more hollow, and I wondered about all those testaments that I loved theatre but couldn't go into it as a profession. Could I live without the constant anticipation of the next audition, the callback, first day of rehearsal, opening night, closing night? Would it be possible to breathe knowing my evenings would be full of studying rather than rehearsal, that I may never have to memorize lines again, do warm-up activities or feel the strongest emotions possible in a human being?
To get rid of that strange ache in my stomach and to knock off the thirteen pounds the height-to-weight ratio chart said I should as a good representative of the 5'1" people, I started running. My brother James had been a runner for the first three years of high school and only quit when the running coach/health teacher that had been creepy to all of the girls turned out to be an asshole to all of the guys as well. My best friend Abby (No, don't think about Abby, it'll only remind you how far away she is) swore by running. So I gave it a shot.
So every morning, I run 2.5 miles (I traced my path in my car) and end up back at the still-silent apartment to enjoy full run of the shower. After participating in the passive aggressive fight I currently have going with my roommate Jeff over the location of the shower head, I slink under the warm spray and pretend I'm under a warm waterfall somewhere in the tropics where there's no fucking corn.
After a shower, it's back to my room to pack my bag with the day's classes - a light bag for Monday, Wednesday and Friday, a medium bag for Thursdays, and a holy crap that's heavy bag for Tuesdays. This time is also when I check out my usual morning sites - CNN.com, Penny Arcade, Ctrl+Alt+Del, the infamous Facebook, Fark.com, and MSN.com - and talk online to my friend Mandy in France. The time difference makes trying to catch each other pretty difficult, but my time before 9 AM serves me well.
The phrase is overused, I think, but appropriate in this context. Early morning hours are "me" time. It's not like I sit at my poetry book and pour out my soul, but I would be lying if I didn't say I lie in bed a while and reflect, dampening my pillow with my cold, wet hair. For example, I had an absolutely fantastic day yesterday. I got a 98 on my Hearing Science test, an exam I thought I was doomed to get a C on; my yellow Chucks came in the mail, bringing me another step closer to completing the collection; my washer was fixed, ending a stint of dressing in too-formal-for-classwear; I was able to watch House, one of the last few decent shows on TV; and there were still pickles in the fridge with my name on them. Sure, it would have been nice if the boyfriend had called, but one cannot have everything or one will become a spoiled little princess. Or more of a spoiled princess, as the case may be.
At about this time, I look over notes for upcoming tests and check to see if I've printed out the day's lectures. It's getting close to the time where I'll hear Jeff's alarm through these lovely, paper-thin walls, and I shall no longer be empress of my own domain.
As I descend the throne, I throw on my sweatshirt, untie my keys from my running shoes and reattach it to the monstrosity that is my keyring, and head out the door to greet my people.
At any given time, I can either hear the bass of Jeff's music thudding against my north wall, the rapid gunfire from Steve playing Halo 3 drifting under my door, or the strains of Dom playing the guitar on the balcony through my permanently stuck open window. However, the time before 9 AM is my time, when my boys are asleep and, if not for the sounds of early morning traffic, I would feel like the last person on Earth.
I set my alarm for 7 AM every morning, with the understanding that I will get up and cross the room to the phone - my meager effort at forcing myself to get up by placing my alarm across the room is useless in practice - to reset it for 7:15. Then, if I haven't woken up too many times the night before from the neighbor's pounding techno or my own desperate thirst, I grab my iPod, tie my apartment key to my shoe, and head out for my run.
I'd never been much for running. As my good friend Jeff said (not roommate Jeff), a person shouldn't run unless he's being chased. He hates running with a passion and was as close to mortified as it's possible for him to be when I found out he ran on a treadmill. Which I think counts as running no matter what he says.
But when I moved to DeKalb, I had no friends, no idea of the layout of the town, and a determination to just do well in school long enough to get out of this corn-surrounded hellhole. Without theatre, my life was significantly more hollow, and I wondered about all those testaments that I loved theatre but couldn't go into it as a profession. Could I live without the constant anticipation of the next audition, the callback, first day of rehearsal, opening night, closing night? Would it be possible to breathe knowing my evenings would be full of studying rather than rehearsal, that I may never have to memorize lines again, do warm-up activities or feel the strongest emotions possible in a human being?
To get rid of that strange ache in my stomach and to knock off the thirteen pounds the height-to-weight ratio chart said I should as a good representative of the 5'1" people, I started running. My brother James had been a runner for the first three years of high school and only quit when the running coach/health teacher that had been creepy to all of the girls turned out to be an asshole to all of the guys as well. My best friend Abby (No, don't think about Abby, it'll only remind you how far away she is) swore by running. So I gave it a shot.
So every morning, I run 2.5 miles (I traced my path in my car) and end up back at the still-silent apartment to enjoy full run of the shower. After participating in the passive aggressive fight I currently have going with my roommate Jeff over the location of the shower head, I slink under the warm spray and pretend I'm under a warm waterfall somewhere in the tropics where there's no fucking corn.
After a shower, it's back to my room to pack my bag with the day's classes - a light bag for Monday, Wednesday and Friday, a medium bag for Thursdays, and a holy crap that's heavy bag for Tuesdays. This time is also when I check out my usual morning sites - CNN.com, Penny Arcade, Ctrl+Alt+Del, the infamous Facebook, Fark.com, and MSN.com - and talk online to my friend Mandy in France. The time difference makes trying to catch each other pretty difficult, but my time before 9 AM serves me well.
The phrase is overused, I think, but appropriate in this context. Early morning hours are "me" time. It's not like I sit at my poetry book and pour out my soul, but I would be lying if I didn't say I lie in bed a while and reflect, dampening my pillow with my cold, wet hair. For example, I had an absolutely fantastic day yesterday. I got a 98 on my Hearing Science test, an exam I thought I was doomed to get a C on; my yellow Chucks came in the mail, bringing me another step closer to completing the collection; my washer was fixed, ending a stint of dressing in too-formal-for-classwear; I was able to watch House, one of the last few decent shows on TV; and there were still pickles in the fridge with my name on them. Sure, it would have been nice if the boyfriend had called, but one cannot have everything or one will become a spoiled little princess. Or more of a spoiled princess, as the case may be.
At about this time, I look over notes for upcoming tests and check to see if I've printed out the day's lectures. It's getting close to the time where I'll hear Jeff's alarm through these lovely, paper-thin walls, and I shall no longer be empress of my own domain.
As I descend the throne, I throw on my sweatshirt, untie my keys from my running shoes and reattach it to the monstrosity that is my keyring, and head out the door to greet my people.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Inaugural Post
Years ago, when I was in a very dramatic summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school, I started a weblog. It was on Livejournal, as many weblogs in the early 2000s were, and it began as an audience to replace the family and friends that just didn't "get" me.
In short, it was a typical outlet for a typical 16-year-old.
Over the years, it evolved into a place where I made friends who shared interests, a place where I shared my own fiction and occasional poetry, and where I wrote passive aggressive posts in hopes the right person would read it and feel bad for me. The journal wasn't for me anymore. I guess that sounds silly, considering I was publishing it on the internet in the first place, but there you have it.
I kept it up somewhat faithfully throughout the rest of high school and the first few years of undergraduate level college work. I found myself turning to post in it dozens of times a day when I was at my lowest, whether my content was only somewhat rhetorical cries for understanding from a God I doubted existed or song lyrics with essential portions pertaining to my miseries highlighted in basic HTML-glory. Other periods during those five-odd years, I would go weeks without posting, only to come back with a breathless apology and update that I had been having the time of my life.
My final post was the summer after my junior year of undergrad, right before I left to travel Europe.
I am giving this another go, mostly in an attempt to give myself a more healthy outlet without resorting to the attention-whoring of Facebook or the cesspool of pedophilia and suicidals that is MySpace. I probably won't hand this URL out to many, in an effort to preserve myself from those passive aggressive posts from teenage years past.
My best friends live in California and Michigan, so listening ears are always willing but not always available.
So, Self, enjoy the journey.
--Jana
In short, it was a typical outlet for a typical 16-year-old.
Over the years, it evolved into a place where I made friends who shared interests, a place where I shared my own fiction and occasional poetry, and where I wrote passive aggressive posts in hopes the right person would read it and feel bad for me. The journal wasn't for me anymore. I guess that sounds silly, considering I was publishing it on the internet in the first place, but there you have it.
I kept it up somewhat faithfully throughout the rest of high school and the first few years of undergraduate level college work. I found myself turning to post in it dozens of times a day when I was at my lowest, whether my content was only somewhat rhetorical cries for understanding from a God I doubted existed or song lyrics with essential portions pertaining to my miseries highlighted in basic HTML-glory. Other periods during those five-odd years, I would go weeks without posting, only to come back with a breathless apology and update that I had been having the time of my life.
My final post was the summer after my junior year of undergrad, right before I left to travel Europe.
I am giving this another go, mostly in an attempt to give myself a more healthy outlet without resorting to the attention-whoring of Facebook or the cesspool of pedophilia and suicidals that is MySpace. I probably won't hand this URL out to many, in an effort to preserve myself from those passive aggressive posts from teenage years past.
My best friends live in California and Michigan, so listening ears are always willing but not always available.
So, Self, enjoy the journey.
--Jana
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