If I were in a crowd of people, all of us with neutral facial expressions, all of us clad in khaki trousers and white t-shirts, all of us with shaved heads, all of us standing in the dark with our eyes closed and noses plugged, all of us positioned in a grid so that each person was no closer than 3 feet from his/her nearest neighbor, and a blind stranger with "issues" was plopped down to wander amid the grid of us indistinct drones, that stranger would stop upon reaching my square and vent his/her life's frusteration at me. Stranger would then exit the grid with a wider smile, leaving me embedded a bit deeper in the ground due to the weight of the demon gargoyle of a problem perched on my back.

POOR ME! OH, POOR, POOR, PUT-UPON ME!

I'm being melodramatic.

Honestly, on the whole, it doesn't bother me. I like the fact that people trust me enough to divulge their problems, and I truly hope it's helpful. It also helps to make my life (and my diary) more interesting, and it makes me happy. However, the wont of random strangers to tell me their issues is a rather strange phenomenon in my life for which I'd like to find some reason.

I think I should admit that I also ask people if they're allright ... it's not as if they always automatically volunteer this information, though that is more often the case. I'm a listener, an observer, an absorber. I think as I've come to terms with those traits and embraced them, it's made the phenomenon an even more pronounced, as I am no longer fighting the fact that I'm a born sounding-board. I used to think it meant I was weak, a doormat; now I recognize it as the opposite. I calm people, and they look to me for stability and strength.

I also think it comes from me being naturally rather quiet, and allowing people to talk, which isn't necessarily difficult or virtuous on my part, especially because I use many of the incidents as fodder for character studies and/or antecdotes. I give my gift, they give theirs, is my outlook on that. I never betray trust, mind you, and I try to use discretion in my retelling, but what is life if not a series of stories?

So, last night, a fellow cast member (let's call him J) offered to walk me home from rehearsal. Between you and me (see? see the discretion?), I think J might be looking to hop a ride on the Kelly Train. He's flirty, he's huggy, he ... walked me home, and he tells me intimate details of his past. He's taken to coming up behind me and subtley moving me out of his way with those gentle hands-around-the-waist nudges that, when done correctly, momentarily weaken me. Sorry, but it's true. The gesture temporarily melts me into a wasp-waisted damsel, and it's just enough contact to make me notice a man's presence and attention before I even realize which man he is.

Not a full-body, pick-me-up, alleyoop kind of physical resituation, (a move which I would hate, a move which would probably be the end of anyone who tried it, and would cause me to laugh as they crumbled into a jagged pile of bones beneath my weight,) but a gentle "pardon me, Miss," waltzy swivel.

While walking me home, J. immediately launched into an unrestrained account of the hell that two of his recently married and recently separated friends have been going through, including details of her stillborn baby, and his (the friend's) abandonment of her and the stillborn baby, and his alleged suffering of mental abuse at the hands of his now-barren semi-wife.

Peering from beneath the large tote-bag of issues that J. had been generously carrying for his friends and tossed on top of me like a load of dirty laundry, I ask what brought J into the middle of the mess while clearing room in my mental trunk for the inevitable influx of more baggage.

Stupid! Stupid!

Never ask. OK, so I was genuinely interested. I'm being an unkind asshole right now. Hey, it's my turn to vent. Mi baggage es su baggage.

(Can I say something? I'm listening to an acoustic version of "Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel. That makes everything a melancholy kind of OK.)

Anyway, my asking somehow gave J the perfect opportunity to transition into a resentful diatribe about his former marriage of 12 years, which he now refers to as "a joke," and "a waste of time." It had been a while since I'd come face-to-face with such unbridled bitterness ... Obviously, J felt the need to talk about this. He had sort of hinted to me about his U-Haul load of History during rehearsals, and during cast outings to the pub across the street, but hadn't gone into such detail until last night.

I kept saying, "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, this is me. Thanks. G'night."

So, maybe J doesn't want on the K-train. Just wants a sounding board, and heard through the grapevine that I'm good for that.

OK: the argument should be made that J may just be an aging drama queen, and that he'd tell anyone with a pulse of his private soap opera.

No, but POOOOOOOR MEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Holy God. Sorry about this ... but could someone please tell me what that whole thing's about? It makes me feel invisible sometimes. It takes a lot of patience.

Fuck.

Also, can someone tell me why the few men who ever express interest in me are most often significantly older than I am? Not that that matters, but it's an odd pattern, and it concerns me. It also makes dating, in general, rather difficult.

Am I totally incapable of relating to my peers? I'm past the point, now, that I'm using the tired excuse that girls mature faster than boys, blablablah. At this point in my life, I and most of the people with whom I associate are ADULTS. Objectively speaking, legally speaking, emotionally speaking, we're all supposed to be mature grown-ups. I actually never gave much credit to the "girls mature faster than boys" theory, at least not after puberty. I always knew plenty of wonderful, human males to whom I could relate.

The oldie phenomenon also concerns me because I have very little dating experience for someone my age, and am thus intimidated by the prospect of dating an older man. I mean, even if I was to date someone exactly my age or a little younger, he would probably surpass me in relationship experience. Someone like J who's 18 years older than I (which he loves to point out) and has already been MARRIED?? Fuggedaboutit.

I am a romance retard.

OK, it has to be said: it would definitely help my love life if I were prettier and skinnier. (Maybe I do look like a pack-mule.) However, I know people who are heavier and far less fun than I who get more ass than a toilet in a desert filler station. Empirically speaking, I am the lowest common denominator here. Augh. I'm in sixth grade again, asking my locker partner/best friend, "What's wrong with me?"

So, yesterday I felt sexy as hell. Last night I saw recently-developed photos of myself, and everything came crashing down. I should know better, by now, to trust my sexy moods.

Whiny as a bagpipe,

Wheezing under a heap of others' baggage,

Luvabeans

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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