On the Plus Side, I’m Incapable of Running Away…

OkCupid probed me.I, JadedDaisy, am:
more arrogant,
less energetic,
less emotional,
more literary,
less spiritual,
less trusting
and more introverted
than most.
There’s a big empty patch torn out of my sleeve, because I’ve ripped my heart away and tucked it back into my chest where it belongs. I’m tired of being hurt, not through others’ actions, but through my own expectations. I let my imagination run away with me and I create intentions in other people who may or may not have any intentions of their own. Then, I get disappointed when the actions of these people don’t match up with the motives I’ve assigned to them. That’s when I get frustrated and angry and stay awake sobbing until all hours of the night. I imagine that I should have learned my lesson by now, but if this past weekend is any indication, then I clearly haven’t. I’m pissed off, and that sucks, because I don’t have anybody to be pissed off at except myself. Nobody’s done anything to me, so there is no confrontation to be had, and no misunderstanding to work out. I just have to learn to stop being so damned chimerical. I doubt that it’s going to happen.

My feet are absolutely disgusting. For some reason, shoes don’t fit me properly. I’ve tried different sizes, different widths, and different brands at different prices, but all of my shoes rub and chafe and give me horrific blisters and scars on my heels, the tops of my feet, and, if I’m wearing sandals, between my toes. Also, if you’re squeamish, this is your last chance to skip to the next paragraph. Last week, I bought a new pair of shoes. They’re deep red mary-janes, and I’ve been referring to them as my “ruby slippers.” The first day I wore them, I forgot to put in my arch supports (I’m an old lady at twenty-two. How sad.) and ended up rubbing the skin off the sides of my feet. You know, the area on the outside of the foot just below the ankle-bone, curving around towards the back of the heel. Yeah. There is no more skin there. I covered it up with bandages, but what with all the traveling I did this past week, I had trouble keeping the wounds clean, and they got infected. So now not only are my feet skinless and gross, but also swollen and itchy. If anybody out there is making lists, I want new feet. My birthday isn’t until April, but I’ll gladly accept gifts for Chanukah come December. Or you can give them to me now, I won’t mind that. Just please, get them to me somehow. We can start a fund. Here, I’ll put in the first dollar. Now it’s your turn.

I’d mentioned, in my magical mysterious disappearing entries, that I had been taking a class in improvisational theatre. What I didn’t mention, was that the class was a sort of entrance exam into a local improv group. They accepted me into the group several weeks ago, and today was the first meeting of their new season. Imagine, if you will, about thirty extremely outgoing, creative people, between the ages of thirteen and — get this — ninety-six, all but five of whom already know each other, who are given little more instruction than “get to know the new guys.” I was told by a woman in her 80s that if she could go through life again, she wishes that she could do it with my face. (This same woman, when we went around in a circle describing our interests, revealed that her main interest is having sex with nineteen year old boys. I honestly can’t decide if she was joking or not.)

I took the six-week course this summer because despite having seventeen years of experience in theatre, I am still deathly afraid of acting without a script. I think too hard about what I’m doing, which kills the spontaneity of the scene, which is when I start blurting out random things that make me lose complete control of pretty much everything, and that’s just about the only time I ever run into that lovely old buddy of mine who usually goes by the name of Stage Fright. It was a small class of about fifteen people, and from the first five minutes I could tell that the other people there with me were among the nicest I’ve ever met. I was so comfortable with them that everything just flowed. I didn’t have to stop to think, because I didn’t care about looking like an idiot or making a fool of myself, because I really liked the people I was performing with and I knew that they really liked me. Now in this new environment, I feel like I’m right back from where I started. The people are equally nice, and I’m sure that in time I’ll get to know them and be just as comfortable with them as I was in my class, but it’s going to take some time.

Unfortunately, even though the group’s new season started tonight, I won’t be able to perform with them until January. I have an incredible opportunity to sing with a legitimate group led by a rather well-known composer, and I’ve been committed to that since June, before I even knew that the improv group existed. Naturally, rehearsals for the show run at the same time as meetings for the group. I can’t pass up the singing opportunity, which will take place in the first week of December, so I’ve talked to the improv people and made arrangements to rejoin them in January, after their break for the holidays. I could try to do both, but I’d likely end up burning out and having to drop out of one of them, and I don’t want to take that risk. As much as I wish I didn’t have to make the decision in the first place, I’ve done what I had to do and I’m confident that I’ll be able to get something out of both opportunities.

That’s the thing about decisions — it seems to me that it isn’t important which option you choose, as long as you do something decisive one way or the other. If all goes well, you usually end up getting to explore both options anyway. “The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not.” (Name that quote, to earn my eternal love. Hey, you, don’t touch that Google. Cheater.) I’ve had to make a lot of tough decisions, and I’ve found that being firm and positive in your choices is always the best way to do it. I know this isn’t as important as was, say, the decision to leave college, or the decision to break up with my (ex)boyfriend, but hey — I’m trying to give myself a pep-talk here. Cut me some slack, man.