Risk

It is an odd thing to wait for someone to decide if they want to be with you or not. It is scary.

But I suppose that is what makes a relationship real, is that risk. I've never risked much in relationships before. It is awful to say, but by the time one died out I usually knew of someone else who was interested.

But, then again, Harding is full of desperate sluts.

To risk in a relationship is to give someone power over you. Power to hurt you or to complete you. It is worth the risk. And so I feel an odd sense of peace. I have made my decision, and I am waiting for a woman.

I have made my decision. It's her.

She is it.

Rant

I am absolutely furious.

I overnighted some documents to Little Rock to get a seal that I need for visa applications. They arrived after business hours, so the online tracker said that they left a notice. I called to make sure someone was going to pick up the package to learn that the freaking State Police gave me the wrong address.

I made ten more phone calls and was directed and transferred about thirty when finally I was able to speak to a supervisor about possibly sending someone to the Post Office (one lady sounded scandalized that I would ask them to do that) to get the package, but the supervisor was out. When he called me back, my phone died.

When I called back, the lady had just left for the Post Office, and so I was unable to give her any details to find my stupid package.

The advice given to me:

"Call back tomorrow."

So maybe I'm not going to Europe. It seems that our bureaucratic clowns are almost as inept as Spain's, and apparently God doesn't want me to go over there.

I'm being facetious with that last sentence, but I am feeling very, very cross toward him right now.

Get On Your Bikes. RIDE. (redux)

So, tonight was the first time I took an emotional bike ride (not a figurative ride, a real one provoked by emotions) in a while. And it was odd.

Normally I love bike rides, and I think they can cure almost any bad mood. But after so many bad moods and so many bike rides. . .well, now all my old paths just remind me of all those old times.

In fact, a bike ride is a pretty fitting metaphor for life, I've found. What with the constant pedaling, the highs and lows, the uphill struggles, and the flat tires, there are a lot of parallels to be drawn to everyday life. This is fairly evident, I suppose, in the phrase "shifting gears" and the fact that every possible ounce of metaphorical value has been strip-mined out of it, forever banishing it to languish with other cliches like "crossing the Rubicon" or the immortal "live and learn."

I would ride this particular bike path last semester when I thought of my ex-girlfriend and wanted to stop thinking about her. The path starts with a terrific downhill race, fast enough to outpace any worries. Then a mostly flat road next to an immense field, devoid of concrete and full of potential. Then a bridge with a nice stream running under and past it (how's that for heavy-handed symbolism?) before you come back to campus and hope that no one spies you dismount your bike and notes your sweaty backside.

It is a nice path, no lie. But I started to think that I run far too much. I have hurt people and tried to pretend that I don't notice. I am ashamed, and I am embarrassed. And so I run, so no one can look me in the eyes.

These problems I have are no different than the ones I had. They have not changed. I entered college with the same fear of love and the same pessimism toward God that I hold dear today. I left High School anxious to leave behind my self-doubt and self-pity and just my-freaking-self.

I'm still running, but not from the right things.

. . .

Oh, well.

Live and learn.

Honesty

Okay, so this might get ugly. Stop reading now.

I am very, very lonely. More than usual, recently.

If you look at Facebook, you'd get the impression that I am a popular guy. People call me "Mr Popular" and it irritates the crap out of me. They say that I have friends to spare.

Well, they're pretty lousy friends, for the most part.

I remember Freshman year, when I was heartbroken over a girl that I was in love with. I needed to talk, and a friend volunteered to listen. . .while doing a Spanish quiz online. So I poured out my guts and wondered if I should perhaps try to cry a little bit to get more attention than her sporadic glances over and slight head nods. At the end, I felt as if I had not said a word. I felt like a man crying in the woods with no one around, and it made no sound. Okay, that was a stupid analogy. Forget it.

But that is how I feel right now. I hurt inside, and most people don't care. They say stupid things and tell me not to be sad. "Don't be sad" is the stupidest thing to ever say to a sad person.

And on top of it all, I am trying! I am calling people! A select few, at least. But they never pick up! Or call me back. Or care. Is that really so much to ask?

People say I have friends to spare, but it feels more like I have a lot of spare friends.