My relationship is doomed.

See? Can't even take a cute picture!

While he was visiting his family in Massachusetts last week, my boyfriend's aunt told him that we should probably break up. Her reasoning? We are each so clumsy that one of us is likely to inadvertently kill the other in the future. Sadly, she is probably correct.

I am a walking disaster. I have fallen down the stairs at least four times in the past four years. I routinely lose my balance while standing on perfectly flat surfaces, and regularly trip over nothing. I drop things, break things, run into things, step on things, slip on things, etc. Probably once a week or more, I roll over and almost fall out of bed. Terrell usually rescues me, grabbing hold of one of my desperately flailing arms to pull me back over the edge and into safety. But sometimes he's not there, and let me tell you: hardwood floor hurts when you fall on it. I don't dare roller skate, ice skate, or do pretty much anything that involves using balance because I have none. It's basically a miracle that I haven't broken every single one of my bones yet (or even one of them... *shifty eyes*).

Terrell isn't nearly as bad, but he has his moments. Clumsiness, mostly. He's good at the whole balance thing because of his martial arts training growing up. But he has this tendency to, well... injure me. It sounds horrible, but I promise you, it has never been intentional. He just seems to aim his mishaps in my direction.

I've been burned three times in my life. Two of those times were caused by Terrell lifting a hot pan off the stove while cooking and accidentally touching it to my arm. The first time was him being stupid, but the second happened in our new apartment while I was doing dishes and he was cooking. Tiny kitchen sink + tiny stove = disaster waiting to happen. Especially when you are us.

He also has a rather bad habit of smacking me in the face. This usually happens when we're in bed, he'll roll over or move his arm and my face will be in the way. Monday night, our first time seeing each other in two weeks, I leaned over to kiss him and his elbow connected with my jaw. Of course. The other time it frequently happens is during intimate times. I'll just let you use your imagination there. Fortunately, I don't bruise easily and I am finally off coumadin so his general lack of limb control won't cause my coworkers to peg me as a battered woman.

We do watch out for each other, though. He has to watch out for me a bit more, of course, because I am more than lacking in the motor functions department. But I worry slightly about the potential for one of us to cause great, accidental, stupid harm to the other if we continue down this path. And what if we have children? Hopefully they would inherit his motor skills vs. mine, or at least his ability to stand upright for more than a few minutes without falling over... but who knows. They could end up a bunch of wobbly freaks with spastic arms who can't be trusted in any room not lined with pillows.

I guess time (and genetics) will tell.

And also the whole "let's get married and/or have kids for serious this time" discussion.

And probably the whole managing to get pregnant thing. Because it's likely I am actually infertile after all, making the whole birth-control-almost-killing-me ordeal last year a worthless endeavor. Though I have no solid proof of this, it's one of those things that sits in the back of my mind, occasionally ringing the bell at the front desk and making that impatient clearing-the-throat noise. Because wouldn't it just figure that I'd spend so much time trying not to become with child only to find out when I want to that I can't.

I guess that's probably a fear many women have. Especially those of us who watched Sex and the City episodes where Charlotte discovers her infertility.

Anyway, I have veered way off track. I suppose as long as we continue to have conversations like this one from earlier tonight, we'll be okay:

Terrell: Just so you know, I'm putting the mandolin blade in the drying rack, so...

Me: So, don't go near the sink?

Terrell: I was gonna say 'be careful', but knowing you I think 'don't go near the sink' is the better choice.

And no, I haven't gone near the sink.

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I'm a real girl adult, now!

This past week, I made a somewhat (personally) earth-shattering discovery: it is possible to be happy after college. Not only is it possible to be happy, it is possible to be perhaps happier than ever before. I "survived" my first week as a copywriter, and now that I finally have the time to sit down and write about it I am making this long-overdue post.

Gorgeous downtown Syracuse architecture.

Monday morning was much like the first day of school. I had spent an hour the night before getting my clothes and lunch ready, packing my bag and not getting to bed at a decent time (though I totally planned to). My alarm went off at the excruciatingly early 6:00AM, a time I will probably be frighteningly familiar with in a month. I showered, dressed, ate a hasty breakfast, put my makeup on. By 7:10, I was standing outside waiting for the bus feeling about as nervous as I did the day I started high school seven years ago.

As I walked through the doors of my new building, I pondered over the same things fourteen-year-old me did: Will I make any friends? Where will I sit at lunch? Will I like my classes? Okay, change "classes" to "work" and you get the general picture. The building I work in was built in 1897 and has a gorgeous lobby with double staircases sweeping up either side to the first floor. The elevators are ancient, wobbly and horrifyingly slow.

Of course I take them instead of the stairs, because ultimately my laziness trumps my fear of elevator death. Though on Wednesday one of my coworkers showed me that she stops on the second floor to walk down one of the grand lobby staircases, something I'll probably start doing myself. They make me feel like I should be wearing a ball gown and heading to the opera or something similar.

In his Kill the Messenger tour, Chris Rock says the difference between a job and a career can be boiled down to the amount of time you get for lunch. And I would have to say I totally agree. Working at Claire's (I suppose I can reveal this now, since I am no longer employed), I would be on my feet selling things and straightening things for eight hours at a time and receive a measly 30 minutes to eat something and try to relax. Didn't happen.

By the time you put on your jacket, walk around the corner, go to the sandwich spot, order a sandwich, wait for them to make it, then get on another line to pay for it, 28 minutes have passed. Now you rushing back to work, you're eating your sandwich, you're spilling beer down your shirt. And when you get in, your boss got the nerve to go, "hey, man, you're eight minutes late."

"Fuck YOU!"

Do you realize even criminals in jail get a hour lunch break? Like, can I at least eat like a murderer? I bet if you shot your ass, I could finish this sandwich.

At my new job, not only do I get to eat like a murderer, I have time to eat and then spend 30-40 minutes doing whatever I want. And I can do this whenever I want, which is the most brilliant thing. For a good majority of your life, especially growing up, people constantly tell you when you can eat and for how long. At home, you eat when your parents decide. At school, you eat during your assigned lunch period. Doesn't matter if the cafeteria isn't equipped to handle long lines and you have barely five minutes left by the time you sit down. When that bell rings, you better get up and get out. Granted, in college nobody gave a fuck when I ate or if I did. But my job at food services and my job after college at Claire's, they made damn sure I stuck within that 15 or 30 minute time limit. But not anymore.

Shops in charming Hanover Square.

The location of my office is right in the heart of downtown Syracuse, NY. Despite spending the last four years of my life here, I am rather ashamed to admit that I haven't really gotten to know much of the city beyond the SU campus and its surrounding areas. Of course, I've been downtown - but only to go to one specific place, and always with a general sense of "oh crap, I'm lost". What I have realized in the last week is that Syracuse is quite an extraordinary city, full of nice little parks and gorgeous architecture. I know this city has a lot of history, and I think it would be really fun to use this opportunity to actually discover the places around me.

Because that's how I roll: full nerd. Speaking of nerd, this week I also discovered just how much of one I can be outside of school. Copywriting, it turns out, is largely based on writing skill, grammar skill, and a smidge of marketing. At least, the kind of copywriting I'm doing now. And I can honestly say I have loved every minute of it. There is something simply thrilling about using every brain cell you have to get work done. In a way, it feels to me like spending every day doing exercises in one of my old Language Arts books. And I was the type of kid who did the evens AND the odds, even though the teacher only assigned half. Heck, I have fond memories of our sentence diagramming unit in 8th grade English.

So I guess it makes sense, for now at least, that this is what I'm doing. I don't think it's what I will want to do forever, but I love the opportunity to get a chance to learn and explore something completely new (and yet so familiar), all while getting paid and actually enjoying every day. That, to me, is the most amazing thing: I get to be happy.

I am writing this during my last couple hours of independence. Monday will be two weeks since Terrell left me, though it feels longer considering how much has happened. Though the first week was, as I guessed in my entry on being alone, quite difficult I not only made it through but kind of started to enjoy being on my own. I can go to bed with all the lights off in the apartment now and not fear lurking homicidal maniacs. I can wake up on time at ungodly hours of the morning and get myself to work -- though I did learn a lesson on Tuesday not to try to sleep in and take the 8:03 bus because it likely will arrive at 8:15 instead, thus making me late to work. I can be an independent woman.

But I am deliriously happy that Terrell will be returning to me on Monday. In the meantime, I will have my mother's company from later tonight until Monday morning. Her birthday was yesterday, but since we both worked she decided to come today after resting. It should be fun. I plan on making her take me shopping so I can buy some career clothes, and then tomorrow we'll be heading to the renaissance festival as my birthday gift to her.

It would probably behoove me to stop using the computer, take a shower and dress in something other than pajamas and do some cleaning. The apartment is rather messy, mostly because I haven't spent much time in it the last week. More posts and more pictures to come. I got my camera fixed, and will be taking it with me on lunch whenever possible as I explore downtown Syracuse.

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The good, the bad, and the best

Things I am bad at:

Leaving voicemails
I am a nervous talker, and nothing makes me more nervous than trying to talk to silence. Especially on the phone. I hate the phone, as most of my friends can attest to. I don't like calling people, even those I know and feel comfortable with, because it's just too awkward and weird and oh god, what are their facial expressions? I DON'T KNOW BECAUSE I CAN'T SEE THEM!!!!!!

*ahem* Anyway. Voicemails. I attempt to pretend I'm simply speaking to the person I'm leaving the message for, but that rarely works and instead I end up babbling on and laughing like a crazy person.

Making Decisions
I'm good with, say, bagel or croissant but deciding how to handle tough situations and make the right choices gives me hives and an extreme case of the shakes. I usually try to solve this by going to everyone I know plus a few of their grandmothers for advice, then making a nice pie chart or diagram with my options and finally blindly choosing something that seems like the right thing to do from the lot. Usually things work out in the end, but not until there have been tears and much hair-pulling on my part.

Conflict
Some people are able to say whatever they want to whomever they wish whenever they feel it necessary. Some people can speak up when the person behind them at the movie theater is kicking their seat or talking on their phone. Some people are able to call their landlords and demand action or order pizza without writing out an extremely detailed, word-for-word script. I am not any of these people. So, when faced with the need to confront someone I usually spend more time beforehand trying to figure out what to say and how to say it... and more time afterward fantasizing about what I could have said (but didn't). Or I just try to get out of it through any means possible, including hiding under my covers until it goes away.

Anything to do with math, especially counting money
I am hideous at math. No, really, I am. Long division perplexes me, and I usually have to double-check any addition or multiplication on a calculator just to be sure. I can't add things with more than two digits in my head without major difficulty, and I constantly find myself losing track of anything I'm counting. This is bad when part of my job description requires that I count out two drawers of money at least once per shift, if not twice. And being nervous about doing it wrong doesn't really help matters much, which accounts for why I've had to recount at least two-three times almost every closing shift I've had. Arg. Least favourite part EVER.

Which leads me to things I am good at:

Writing
Ever since I was in third grade and my teacher told me that my story about a trip to the zoo to see the (fake) dinosaurs was good enough to make me an author someday, it has been my goal in life to write for a living. Though I leaned toward the creative, fictiony side of the fence for a few years, I soon progressed to journalism, and finally the technical and academic writing I am so fond of. Though I'm certainly not the best writer of all time, or even a fraction of such a person, I am overall pretty good.

I like taking on the label of writer, and I love that the term "writer" can encompass more than just the traditional creative and journalistic efforts most people think of when they hear it. I love that the people who write the employee training manuals for various companies and the people who write the product descriptions for different companies' online catalogs use just as much creativity and technique as someone writing a poem or a novel or a newspaper article. It isn't often appreciated, but where would we be without the people who instruct us how to use our remotes? Pressing random buttons in increasingly desperate frustration, that's where.

And that love has led me to something quite amazing: a new job!

No longer will I have to pretend I am a retail goddess, bravely marking down items and counting registers badly. Instead, I will be joining the corporate world this Monday as a copywriter at a company smack dab in the middle of downtown Syracuse. I am beyond thrilled!

Because it was such late notice, I was rather nervous about telling my manager at the jewelry boutique, "Um, hi, I can't work for you anymore. Byeeee!" I didn't want to completely leave them in the lurch because, hey, they gave me a job when nobody else would. At the same time, no way I'm passing up an opportunity like this to keep working part-time at a mall. Duh!

So after consulting practically every person I know, I called her and left a simply appalling voicemail, really one of my crowning achievements as far as bad voicemails go. She called back, we talked, and all was well. Despite me shaking like a leaf throughout the entire conversation (and for about twenty minutes after--I told you, I'm not good with confrontation of any sort). I'm going to continue working weekends for the next two weeks and then I am out of there.

And so marks the first real job I've ever quit. All in all, I didn't do too poorly. And I have a new adventure to begin on Monday!

This was supposed to be posted yesterday, but when I came home after spending the day browsing some shops with a friend, I ended up on Mint.com for SIX HOURS being super adult and making myself a budget and goals and what have you. By the time I called it quits on that, I was too tired to put together a comprehensive sentence. Oops!

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"alone time" vs Alone Time

I used to think that I was this solitary creature, a girl who liked to be left alone with herself to do whatever she wished without anyone around to say otherwise. I was famous at family gatherings, especially those on my former stepfather's side, for disappearing into a room and only emerging for the necessities (read: food, bathroom, obligatory "My, how you've inexplicably grown and changed since this time last year" talk with the various pseudo relations). I loved when my mom worked nights and my brothers stayed at their dad's house because it made me queen of my own domain--temporarily.

And therein lies the source of my recent revelation that I am actually not solitary. Not one stinkin' bit. I do like the occasional afternoon or day to myself, when the roommates/boyfriend are elsewhere and I can be my natural self without worrying about wearing pants or doing the dishes instead of watching a four-hour Degrassi marathon. It's nice, it's fun. But there is a mighty big difference between "alone time" and Alone Time. I like to have someone to come home to (or to come home to *me*) and share things with. I like talking and laughing and feeling safe from impending zombie attacks.

Because, let's face it: in the event of a major zombie outbreak, I'd be one of the first to go. I'm slow, easily disoriented, and have zero reflexes. And I bet my brains are super tasty.

But the people I've chosen to surround myself with over the past four years are the ones I can imagine would not only survive, but wage an all-out bloodbath of a war on the brain munchers. And I might stand a chance if those people were on my side, protecting me by forcing me to hide silently in a locked room under some blankets while they got things done. I just don't see me standing a chance by myself.

And I don't think there is anything wrong with admitting my weaknesses. I think the smartest thing I could do is be honest with myself about, well, myself. I'm not strong, I'm often prone to falling over randomly when standing completely still and upright, and if last week's failure at shooting arrows into hay bales at the Renaissance Festival is any clue as to how I'd be up against a real foe... let's just say, we shouldn't be giving me any weapons anytime soon. I would probably shoot one of my fellow zombie survival warriors in the kneecap. Or somewhere less bad ass, yet more painful and useless.

So, where was I going with this, exactly? Oh, right.

I don't like being alone.

And yet, a few hours ago I kissed Terrell goodbye and watched him pull out of our building's driveway to head north into New England for a two-week (or longer) visit home with his family. The last time I was here by myself for longer than eight hours was back in May, also a visit home for him. But that time I was jobless and could get away with staying up until 4-6:00AM and my eyes wouldn't stay open any longer every night. Also, he was gone like 4 days.

I should be happy at the prospect of getting to live independently, but I'm just not. I don't exactly worry about my ability to do things for myself (though it'll take some serious effort and coaxing to clean the bathroom like I need to... eugh) or get to work by bus or whatever. But I do worry about my sanity without someone here to talk to and laugh with. I've never been truly Alone, and the thought rather terrifies me. Having only one's self for company brings to immediate and sickeningly clear attention all the faults and fears and worries that can be buried (or eased) with the presence of another person.

Despite the general aimlessness and lack of purpose that I've experienced in the past few months, they've also been some of the happiest and most relaxed in my life. I have truly cried maybe two times all summer. That, for me, is an absolute miracle because I usually cry a LOT. Although I am happy, and I feel happy, I know that deep down inside of me some of that old darkness is still there, lurking, ready to jump out and fuck things up when I least expect it. Maybe I've just been a Joss Whedon fan for too long, but I can't help but feel that every time life gets too good and too happy, something is bound to come along and unsettle things. Like a two-year-old with a snowglobe.

And it isn't as if I have no real basis for this fear. Junior year of college was arguably the best and the happiest, and then in one fell swoop I experienced death, severe health issues, and some serious relationship turmoil. It has been difficult to heal and recover from everything that happened in 2009, but I finally feel like I have--like we have. 2009 was as much my nightmare as Terrell's, and dealing with it all together has made us closer than ever. Our relationship could have broken, maybe even should have by most people's standards, but it didn't. He's the best thing I have going for me right now.

I think, in the end, that's why I am so freaked out by the idea of spending all this time alone and without him. Because I sometimes wonder: when you subtract him, is there anything left that makes me worthwhile? Probably a dangerous sentiment, and probably the exact kind of thing I should not be sharing with the world, but it's something I find myself wondering quite often.

Well, this post turned out to be far more depressing than I had hoped. I should've probably left it at zombies, but oh well. And hopefully by posting this, I haven't alerted the zombie forces that there's a prime target with an extra-tasty brain just ripe for the picking up here in Syracuse... o_o

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Now playing: Lady GaGa - Speechless
via FoxyTunes

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