love & happiness

So. After coming into the world almost 29 years ago, I’ve realized a few things about myself. A lot of these realizations are those generic, benign, run-of-the-mill attributes that everyone realizes about themselves at some point or another. Usually. If they’re remotely self-aware. (And for the love of all that is good and holy, if you’re hanging out with people who AREN’T self-aware? What the hell is the matter with you?)

Some of the things I’ve learned about myself are really, really rad, like the fact that I am super mega ultra loyal and also? I will always know what shoes go with which outfit, even sight unseen.

Some of the things I’ve learned, though…well, you wouldn’t want to embroider them on a pillow. I’ve learned to accept and admit that I am an intensely jealous person – not of things, though; rather, of people.

I’ve also come to realize – and Lord, please have mercy on my soul, because this is not glamorous or attractive or even funny at all for me to admit – that I’m pretty much an inherently selfish person. I want what I want, and I want it to be mine, and I want it when I want it, and that’s basically the end of the story of Lindsey’s interior workings. I mean, you know, not really, but that’s a pretty accurate summation of how my brain works when I see something shiny, whether it’s literal or figurative.

So ok, yeah, I’m selfish. And I’d probably wager to bet that you are, too. So we’re even, right?

Good.

So I think it’s pretty telling that today I happened upon a realization that struck me dumb. I realized that, while I want to be happy, in whatever capacity strikes my fancy at any given moment, I want YOU to be happy with an equal ferocity.

But I’m not talking about you being happy with material things. Which, I know, sucks, because I should totally want you to be floating upon a sea of iPhones, drowning in a torrential downpour of dollar bills. And I do want you to be satisfied with the things that you have, but I think, more importantly – in my mind, anyway – I want you to be with someone who makes you happy, in a relationship that makes you happy.

What brought all this on was a rather weird, stilted conversation I had this morning with a friend of mine, a conversation that was punctuated by intentional distance (mine) and awkward confusion (his). It’s not really necessary for you to know why there was intentional distance or the level of awkward confusion it wrought. You just need to know that this friend is in a relatively new relationship, clocking in at under six months of age, still knee deep in that beautiful, glorious golden “Honeymoon Period” that we all salivate after once the thrill is gone, and it’s become somewhat plagued with weird, rough patches that are appearing far to early, in my mind anyway, but it’s really none or very little of my bizness anyway, so ok.

And what jolted me out of my middle-of-the-workday stupor and lead me to have an entire conversation with myself was when my friend, this dynamic and remarkable person of great intelligence and marvelous talent, said to me, “I told her that on my bad days I wonder to myself if I can ever make her that happy.”

I sat there for a second, flabbergasted, marveling and wondering. Amazed at the person my friend had become on the other end of the line and knowing all too well, because I’ve sat in that very same seat countless times before.

But really — who was he? Who had he become? What had his relationship turned him into? This didn’t sound like the usual insecurities put forth by this particular friend. Instead of immediately dismissing any smidge of self-doubt, as I’m wont to do more often than not, I was dumbstruck. Even more than that, I was sad. Which I tried to convey, but badly.

Part of what factors into my decision to make someone my friend – and if you are my friend, you’ve probably already been made aware of the fact that I have a pretty stringent, lengthy “audition” process — is their ability to be self-sufficient. My friend, it is your innate ability to calmly rest assured in the knowledge that I love you and know without my even having to acknowledge all of the bonus accoutrements that go along with that love that makes me want to chill with your ass 24/7.

Basically, what I’m trying to get out is that you know that I don’t have time to babysit your ass and reassure you of your awesomeness 14 times a day, and I know that that is a street that runs both ways. That means that when push comes to shove and you reach out for me, I know that THAT is when you really need me and I, behaving accordingly, will come a’runnin. Usually with beer in hand. Because I am a former Girl Scout and am always prepared. And also? I like beer.

So for someone who had previously exhibited no outward signs of requiring such reassurance, even if it wasn’t from me? I knew shit was heavy. And so I started thinking about happiness.

We spend enough time dealing with things that make us deeply unhappy, things that make us second-guess ourselves every minute of every day. We have enough in our lives to make us unhappy: work and school and families. And then there’s the minutiae that is enough to send somebody to the top of some book repository with a semi-automatic: clothes and cars and educational levels and diets and divorces and neighbors and co-workers and telephones and emails and expensive coffee drinks and the weather and distance and Dave Eggers and shoelaces and toilet paper and surly servers and Bic pens and air conditioning and Arcade Fire and underwear and software and films and remixes and fingernails and socks and supervisors and construction and gas prices and baby showers and alarm clocks and ex-lovers and traffic and trains and light bulbs and dead iPods and drugs and bridesmaids dresses and cat hair and … whew.

I mean, I could seriously sit here for hours and hours and list crap that goes wrong on a daily basis in our lives, so the very LAST thing that you need to sweat is your relationship (or lack thereof). I mean, seriously.

Ok, look. My last relationship? It had its ups and downs. And that’s pretty much all I’m gonna say about that. But seriously, hands down, he was my most favorite person ever to hang out with. I am totally and completely not kidding. Some of the most fun I’ve ever had in my life? It was with him. Some of the loudest and longest laughing fits? Were because of him. And now, even after everything, we still have So Much Fun when we hang out together. (Buffy, stop frowning.) And it is happiness 24/7 up in my heart and up in my head, because it’s rad. He makes me happy probably like you make me happy and how I hope that I make you happy. Even though I can be a total shit. I know.

I always said that no matter how much we fought, no matter how shitty my day was, no matter how tired I was of fucking stepping on his fucking tennis shoes that he left BANG in the middle of the floor every single goddamned night when I felt my way across the bedroom in the dark, I would still rather go to bed next to him than alone. And I never thought in ONE MILLION BILLION YEARS that I’d feel that way about him, but holy crap, was it TOTALLY the MOST FUN THING to discover that actually, yeah, I did feel that way about him. In fact, I was pretty crazy about him.

And that’s what I want for you. I mean, I want it for me, too, again, with someone else, obvs., but I really really wish that it was within my awesomely supreme colossal amazing power to give it to you, because it is seriously The Best Thing. Finding somebody you can be yourself around, somebody who you are ridiculously comfortable with, somebody who meets all your needs, even sometimes, when things are tight, just on the most basic level, somebody who makes you laugh at least once a day, somebody who walks by you when you’re sitting on the couch and leans over to hug you and kiss the top of your head, somebody who will play with your hair at the end of a long night during the interminable drive home, somebody who will run you a bath when shit gets heavy, somebody who will make you dinner because you still don’t think you can figure out how to work a fucking box of Hamburger Helper, somebody who will fast forward through their favorite show because you seriously cannot fucking stand to watch one more second of “America’s Got Talent,” somebody who will play all the “baby games” on the 360 with you because you don’t want to play shit like Halo, but instead prefer digitized versions of Uno or Bejeweled or Feeding Frenzy, somebody who encourages you to be your best self, somebody who pushes you to play the drums on Rock Band on medium (and then hard), somebody who makes you feel like the hottest thing ever, somebody who you still wanna bone, even after being together  for years and years, somebody who you can still impress with your innate, god-given talents (and God knows, you’re a fucking amazingly creative bunch), somebody who buys you ridiculously expensive presents, even though you probably can’t afford them, but who also just emails you simple, short little affectionate notes, somebody who gives you a nickname you love, somebody who gives you a nickname you hate, somebody who will let you watch 10 hours of “I Love the 70’s” or “America’s Next Top Model” because you’re grossly, disgustingly hung over, somebody who always has Advil for you, somebody who will love you and fucking help your dumb ass out, even when you are puking in the bushes (or toilet, if you’re lucky, or driveway, or bar bathroom, or car), somebody who writes amazing journal entries about you, somebody who writes amazing songs about you, somebody who will calm you down after you’ve been committed emotional suicide by watching The Notebook or The Green Mile or Philadelphia or anything similar that basically decimates your entire soul, somebody who cancels band practice or a social outing to stay home with you, somebody who fucking cleans up after you, somebody who is ON YOUR SIDE, somebody who buys you lighters with kitties on them because they know you’ll freak out and go apeshit crazy over them, somebody who will give you their old band t-shirts when they’ve “outgrown” them, somebody who will dance with you, somebody you can fight with and know they’re not gonna bounce on your broken down, sobbing, infuriated ass, somebody who will tolerate your bad habits and forgive you your trespasses, SOMEBODY WHO FUCKING LOVES YOU LIKE YOU SHOULD BE LOVED.

That’s what I want for him, for me, and for you.

It's funny 'cause it's true.

This is an accurate representation of the way every single guy in my life thinks: 

sarahb:

peterwknox:

hugehuge:

Recumbent 3 a.m. conversation a few days ago:

She [sincerely and without warning]: I’m attracted to everything about you. Even the Darth Vader sword hanging on your wall.

Me [thinking]: Oh my god, that’s the sweetest thing anyone has said to me in a very long time.

Me [out loud]: Correction: it’s a lightsaber.

Draw Two, Skip You, Draw Four

The sales guys usually spend their lunch hour in the large conference room, playing some (suck ass) sports game on the 360. Every so often, they’ll let out a collective scream that’s half indignant and half exuberant. It’s amusing, especially when it jolts the UPS guy out of his delivery routine stupor.

I wonder how much it would cost me to buy them all off for an hour so I can play Uno.

Heinous Culprit, Heinous Crime

In an email from my mother, she asked if I’d taken the her last can of (southwestern-style chicken) soup from the pantry this morning. 

I replied truthfully that yes, I was the heinous culprit, the aforementioned soup stealer, and YOU’RE WELCOME FOR THAT, because that shit was Gross with a capital NASTY.

Coked-up Nazgûls and Carrie Bradshaw

So my friend Jessica writes to me, asking:
“I wanted to say hi and see how your superfancy Saks party went the other night. I hope you had fun even though you were tired.”

To which I reply:
“Oh, Lord, son. The Saks party = FAIL. Major fail. AND I KNEW IT WOULD BE! I tried and tried to tell Buffy, “Look, dude, I dunno what you’re expecting, but lemme break it down for you: it’s going to be full of thin, overly-made-up rich bitches, shrieking at each other like coked-up Nazgûls and teetering about in 4 inch heels that would cost me a month’s salary, drinking super sickly sweet cosmopolitans and not eating for fear of spilling something (hors d’oeuvre, vomit later from purging, etc.) down the front of their Diane von Furstenberg dresses. It’s going to be WEIRD and AWKWARD and CREEPY and VERY MUCH NOT FUN,” but she seemed to be laboring under some weird ass delusions of fun and grandeur, so away we went. And, of course, I was right. The food was good (mmm, Whole Foods, mmm) and the champagne was free (which totally led me to have a weird, hilarious Scooby Doo-esque flashback to AUB and double-fisting flutes of champers at the President’s mansion during the Gorbachev reception and getting very very drunk indeed before slurring up along side Mr. Soviet Union-Glasnost 1991 himself), but we totally bailed about 7 pm and fled to the warm and inviting arms of Bottletree and my sweet, sweet never fail lover, Mr. PB Ribbon, of which I sent you photographic evidence. We sat out on the patio and smoked cigarettes in our dresses and I played a couple of rounds of Connect Four with Jason and then I went home and passed out in my bed about 9:30. So that’s basically how that night went.”

Confession #2

If it exists on the internet, I can find it. 

Girls Talk

“The last time I saw you, I remember you feeling a bit differently about him.”

“Yeah, well, the last time I saw you, he’d just stuck his tongue down my throat — TWICE.”

Prayer Request

“Please help Lindsey to know that her life will be full and perfect and that this time when things are swimming around her and everything is murky will one day be gone. Help her to remember that when her life seems mired in pain and uncertainty, her friends still love her and still want everything to get better, and that’s a start.”
- “Dear God, make me a bird, so that I can fly, far far away,” The Velveteen Indian