Just Moving...

Sometimes you wake up and see a picture of yourself using chopsticks for the first time and then you realize that you’re sad. True story. Sometimes you wake up and see clearly how everyone else in your life is ready and moving along, and you’re not ready for that and would much rather stay put…but can’t. Sometimes your inside jokes revolve around cows, ovens, and inappropriate historical figures. And even though you make a conscious effort to appreciate it while it’s going on, sometimes you realize that you could never have appreciated it enough.

Roommates are bad. At least, that’s what I’d heard. They steal your stuff and don’t pay bills and they take existing friendships and burst them into smithereens. Apparently, for the last two years, me and my best friends did the whole roommate thing completely wrong. We only borrowed stuff, however permanently, paid our bills, however late, and walked away with our friendships stronger than ever before.

The past two years, I took up new residence at The Place with the Stuff. Because, of course, you always name the things that are important to you. And as I pack up my belongings, and half-heartedly look towards an uncertain future, I wish I never had to leave at all.

My best friends drank wine. They let me duct tape their things to the walls, draw smiley faces on their fingers, and heard me rant about the mess in the kitchen. It would be a miracle if anyone ever wanted to live with me again.

I get that life moves on. That it is a fluid process, adjusting to each new day and each new choice that we find ourselves having to make. I understand that sometimes people close to us need to go farther away from us, to search for things they don’t have names for but know they need all the same. I know that people need space to grow, and sometimes that space is an inch away, and sometimes it’s a lot longer than an inch. I see that while beginnings are scary, they can lead us to new adventures, and new companions, and bring together life in surprising ways. I get it. I understand it. I see it. It still sucks.

I don’t even know how to explain it to anyone. To myself, even. Without crying. Which I don’t do. Ever. That despite having moments in my life where I was so confused and alone, that I ended up in a sanctuary. One that was decorated with giraffes and had a train whistle by the remote.  That 7:30 a.m. became a highlight of my day, because lunches are being packed and noise travels through heating vents more readily than previously thought. So many memories. So many witnesses to so many memories. I don’t know how many people have thrown up at my house, but I guarantee that I cleaned it up for you. It happens. You’re welcome.

The thing is, I cannot imagine a time in my life when everything will be as seamlessly connected as it has been these past years. Where your bad moods didn’t go unnoticed, and you had somebody to cry with. When Mondays were hard, and you weren’t a drunk as long as you opened the bottle with a friend. When great news was a celebration, and stories became performances, and the times you laughed the hardest were the ones where someone decided to go to the gym. As they were eating a donut.

My new house will be quiet. And dumb. It will be messy, and I will have no one to blame for that mess but myself. And I will consider calling people, but will talk myself out of it, assuming that they are busy and don’t need to be bothered. And I will be fine. And I feel as though everyone will head out on grand adventures, and return with their cheeks flushed and their eyes widened, and find me the same as when they had left. And that is probably my greatest fear. Even more than ladybugs. No, that’s not true. Ladybugs are still scarier. But it’s a close second. Because while everyone around me is moving on, I’m just moving. And I wander aimlessly, unsure of where to go or what to do. Knowing that the people in my life that know me best, that let me be my weird awkward self, are all sleeping under different roofs. And I never thought that I could miss people so much.

At my age, a lot of people are married, or heading there. Or they have kids, or are heading there. They have this path somewhere out ahead of them that includes other people. Well, I’m not getting married or having kids. And while I may be getting more awesome, if there’s no one around to vouch for it, it could just be me making that up. I can’t get cats, because I don’t like them. I can’t get plants, because I kill them. At this point, I just have no idea. So I continue to pack up my massive amounts of crap, crossing my fingers that it will fit in my Harry Potter cupboard sized new place, and eat a lot of grapes. In the form of wine. And wait to see what happens next. 

It's fine. Really. I'm much more capable now. Promise.

The best people I know. 

Also, while packing I seem to have misplaced my Harry Potter books. That could really be where this whole thing started. I know I put them somewhere safe. Somewhere so, so, so safe. And secret. And apparently also invisible...

Terr-uh-fied.

This post began as a like/dislike list. But I got fixated on my first item. So the rest will have to wait. Which is sad, because I really like a lot of awesome stuff. Instead, you get to read about something I don’t like. Oh well, you've made it this far, you might as well read on…

Things I don’t like:

Ladybugs. I am terr-uh-fied of these beastly creatures. They are awful. I can’t remember a time when the presence of them didn't cause some form of mild heart attack. I do remember a time however, when one of them landed on our tram on the Lagoon Skyride. I began to crawl out of the tram in horror, 60 feet above the ground, while a friend of mine frantically brushed it away. Then I made my way back in, barely breathing.

 I more afraid of ladybugs than I am that Kristen Stewart’s face is stuck permanently in that dull stoner expression and that I’ll be forced to see that repulsive expression for many Oscars to come due to bad casting calls. Now that’s fear.

You never see ladybugs coming. They always appear out of nowhere, lurking, skulking, being vicious in seemingly innocent ways. In no way is this a joke. Some close to me have doubted my sincerity. They have very nearly lost our friendship, putting this fear to the test.

Out of all the awful stories I collected from my ex, the worst is when I was cornered in the bedroom, clinging to the wall, in hysterics as a ladybug walked around by the doorway. He refused to move it and take it outside. (I may hate them, but I’m not a bug killer.) He was convinced that if I faced my fear, I could be rid of it. No. That is not how I work. I couldn't even run out of the house, because I’d have to past where it was, which in turn could have killed me. Or at least created a sobbing, vomiting, wreck of a human. Just because it’s ridiculous doesn't make it any less real.

I can look at pictures of them, and hold items that onto which people have drawn or painted them. It’s a sick joke of sorts, people will buy me these things as gag gifts. I bought you a plate…but….ha! It has a ladybug on it! Whatever. I don’t know what they expect. I’m weird, but I’m not crazy. My fear is rooted in the actual thing. The presence of it near me, and my knowledge of that presence. Shudder.

Listen, I know that humans have taken over the land, and destroyed forests, and eliminated habitats. We have much blame upon us as a species. But outside is still a really big place. And my house? Not as big. Therefore, there is no, absolutely no, reason why a vile ladybug should ever cross the threshold of my home. Or actually my porch. Once I found a dead ladybug on the porch couch. Of course, it was on a beautiful day and I had a book I was going to read, and I was in a gloriously calm mood. Then, BAM. Frozen. I tried to pep talk myself into getting a stick and knocking it off. No. I couldn't even get the other end of the stick to touch the thing, as I stood swaying on the porch, tears rolling down my cheeks. I actually had to leave the house. I waited until one of my sane roommates could take care of it. Which, in turn, led to a nasty round of, what I like to call: ‘You-Can’t-Really-Be-That-Afraid-So-I’m-Going-To-Test-Out-A-Theory-On-You’. Which, in turn, led to hysterics. Which, in turn, led to a friendship almost lost. Not even close to kidding.

The stories go on. It’s a blend of ludicrous and pathetic. Somewhere in my head, I just figured I would grow out of it. Then I never grew past 5 feet. Which, apparently, is simply not tall enough to outgrow an irrational fear of ladybugs. Add that to your scientific journals. I can even illustrate my point for you if you’re unable to read. It’s that important.

I guess it still requires reading...but the point remains the same!

I dearly hope that you are never put in the position of truly being afraid of something. But I know all of us are. Even so, I hope you don’t face that fear often. Because it’s an ugly, hideous feeling when you do. If we could just form an agreement with each other, that we would keep each other safe, from whatever evils (real, imaginary, and/or really imagined) that we may come across, I think I would feel a whole lot better in my situation. I think you might too. At least, consider it.

If you agree, respond by keeping all ladybugs far from my vicinity. You don’t need to harm them or anything like that. Just, you know, push them into a garden or something. Like a forest. Or maybe the Amazon, if you have those kinds of connections. On my end, I will respond by continuing to do what I've been doing all along. I’m going to assume that you are currently in a state of safety, and I wouldn't want to jeopardize that by doing something different. Unless, of course, you’re NOT in a state of safety. Like, you are near a ladybug. In which case, I cannot help you. If you are in a circumstance not involving a ladybug (and you’re sure that it doesn't involve one!) and are seeking my assistance, please contact me with a detailed description of what I can do to help. Until then, Godspeed.