I went to my first concert back in August of 1990 - the New Kids on the Block Magic Summer Tour. I was 13, and it was the night before my high school freshman orientation. My friend Lisa and I sat in one of the highest rows of Busch Stadium; the band was nothing more than specks of light down below, but we didn’t care. I wasn’t in my bedroom, singing into a hairbrush to the pinups that papered my walls. I wasn’t in my living room, watching a video taped copy of a concert with my best friend. I was one of 50,000 girls who all did the same things I did, who felt the same things I felt. For that one night, we could look around the stadium and share all that adolescent energy we had pent up. It was magical. I loved every minute of it.
I went to a few more concerts during high school, but not as many as I wanted. We lived out in the suburbs, and I didn’t drive until my senior year. I also didn’t work a part-time job for most of the time, so I had very little money to spare on expensive tickets! At some point, I made myself a silent promise. When I was grown up, when I had my own paychecks to spend as I saw fit, I would go to more concerts. I’d have friends who loved concerts as much as I did, and we’d go to as many concerts as we wanted. At the time, the friends part seemed farther out of reach than the concerts - my self-esteem problems, big enough to warrant an entire blog to deal with them. But, I had a fantasy of a group of faceless friends and I dancing and singing at concerts every week. It usually went along with fantasies of owning a bookstore or being a famous romance novelist or living on the beach … things that were out of reach, things that, perhaps, a mythical adult Jaime could accomplish someday. A mythical adult Jaime who had somehow conquered all of the fears that kept adolescent Jaime hiding in her father’s basement with only a boombox and a computer to keep her company.
Fast forward nearly two decades. Three friends and I took this past Friday off of work and drove to Chicago to see Fall Out Boy play a hometown show. Crazy stuff, especially when you consider the fact that FOB is ending their current tour here in St. Paul next weekend, but there’s really nothing like a concert road trip to get my blood pumping. I love the times when I can live and breathe live music, when there’s nothing else to think about but how awesome that night’s show is going to be, when I’m surrounded by people who are chattering about set lists and internet reports from the last show and whether or not the people standing across the parking lot are also “from the internet.” (The internet is almost a physical place sometimes. It’s a collection of many different places, actually, many different homes for many different people. But, being “from the internet” means something, means you have a culture and a language and a set of rules all your own. That’s probably a different post, though.)
Fall Out Boy certainly aren’t a critically beloved band. Most thirty-something people would probably scoff at the idea of being devoted enough to them to drive thirteen hours round-trip to see them in concert, and then do it all over again a week later. They’re thought to be a band for teenagers - they’re the poster boys for the mythical “emo kids”, the ones who wear their hair in their faces and dress in tight jeans and brightly-colored clothing and keep Hot Topic in business. God knows, the building was full of those kids last night! But, that’s the crowd I love best. They’re an entire generation removed from me, but by god, are they
excited to be there! They’re not afraid to sing and dance, to throw their hands in the air and make stupid gestures, to pump their fists in rhythm with the music and scream their lungs out when it’s all over. People my age have lost that, for the most part. There are exceptions, sure, but most thirty-something concert crowds only get that excited when they’re drunk, and that’s an entirely different experience. No, given the choice, I’ll go to the shows with the kids, because I’m not yet done screaming and dancing and throwing fangs up for Cobra Starship. (
Who came here to make you dance tonight.) I’m not yet done feeling a thrill when the lights go down and the bass drum kicks in. I’m not yet done jumping up and down when a band member tells me to, with belonging to a mass of humanity all doing the same thing.
I hope I never will be. Because this? This is what I dreamed of doing when I was dancing along to the radio in my father’s basement. I get to experience that energy as much as I want, because there’s always another band out there that makes people happy, and that makes me happy. In a small way, I made one of my childhood fantasies come true. Or, maybe not such a small way. I look at everything that being a music fan has brought me - so many friends, and so many memories that will last a lifetime - and I see the foundation for the person I am. There’s nothing small about that.
photo credit: unknown. If you recognize it as yours, let me know and I’ll credit properly!
I got my nose pierced last summer. It was a fairly spontaneous decision - a reward for finishing the longest story I’d written in five years - but at the same time, it felt like a step towards becoming the person I’ve always wanted to be. I know exactly how I want to look. I’ve always wanted to be one of those cool, edgy people; I’m not beautiful, not elegant, but I can be cute and attractive when I want to be. I’ve always loved the people who decorate themselves with piercings and tattoos and colorful hair and makeup.
The thing is, I’ve had problems with that piercing ever since I got it. I have allergies, horrible nasal allergies that cause me to take drugs year round, and clutch tissues in my hand for a good three-quarters of the year. A drippy, snotty nose isn’t really conducive to healing a piercing. I battled my way through infections and healing, though - I wasn’t going to quit! I was tired of being a quitter! I was going to take good care of this piercing, and it would be a symbol of how I’d changed my life. How I was going to finally be the person I wanted to be.
The most generic self-help advice a person usually gets is “be yourself.” It’s good advice. But, not many people address what you do when you don’t really like the person you seem to be. I’ve been working on the hard truths lately, seeing the person I am so that I can learn how to deal with her properly. I’m a control freak. I get agitated when my routine is broken. I hate to be wrong, and I sometimes lash out and get mean and petty when someone points out my mistakes. That’s not who I want to be. The Jaime who lives in my head isn’t a type A personality; she’s an artist who goes with the flow, does thing spontaneously, has mad adventures and lets the wind take her where it will. But, in reality, I’m probably never going to be that footloose and fancy-free person. My brain is wired differently. I’d like to accept that - I’d like to be able to take a deep breath and say “okay, I like to be in control, and that’s okay.” But I haven’t gotten there yet.
I’m beginning to hate the Jaime that lives in my head, because she does everything better than me. She writes every day. She’s learned yoga, and her back and shoulders no longer ache all the time. She can knit, or maybe crochet, or possibly paint - she prefers productive hobbies over trolling the internet for lolcats and message board reactions to American Idol. She never gained the weight back, she reads classic books that I always lie and say that I’ve read, she does her dishes more than once a week. She doesn’t care whether other people like her or not, because she likes herself just fine. She’s a portrait of everything I’ve ever thought about doing, everything that’s ever made me say “wow, if I could just do that, I’d be a lot happier.”
But, is that Jaime me? If I was her, would I still be me? The Jaime that I am doesn’t currently have the energy to go to a yoga classes. The Jaime that I am likes socializing on Twitter, books that involve vampires and sex and the Regency period, and rooting for Adam Lambert to win AI. The Jaime that I am gets frustrated when she tries to learn how to knit and crochet, because she can’t see the stitches properly and ends up crying over the jumbled mess she creates. This Jaime probably should write more often than she does, and could stand to clean up around the house a little more. She’s got a crooked nose, eats too much pasta, and is probably going to go deaf someday from listening to loud music. She spends way too much time worrying about what other people think about her.
I read an article on mindfulness today. I’d like to be able to do that. I’d like to live in this moment, and only this moment. I’d like to not worry about who I was in the past, or who I will be in the future. I’d like to look in the mirror and see me, just me, not a ghost of a person who isn’t me at all. If only that ghost wasn’t so much more attractive than me. I should have given her some flaws when I made her up. Warts, maybe, or some horrible scars. It’s hard, comparing yourself to your own Mary Sue. It’s no wonder people hate that bitch.
Anyway. I’m still not giving up on my piercing. Maybe I should. I have allergies, they’re not going away, maybe I should just accept that and move on. That ghost in the mirror, though, she’s still looking at me, and a tiny part of my brain still thinks that maybe, just maybe, she’s within reach. Is that healthy? I don’t know. But wanting to be her is part of who I am.
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April 30th, 2009 in
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I’m alone in the House o’ Cats this weekend. My roommate is out of town, so it’s just me and the furry trio … one of whom complained about the lack of food in their bowl by puking on my new pink Converse sneakers. Great. Thanks, guys.
The past week wasn’t good. I’m still battling depression, and family news left me incredibly sad and angry on behalf of my father. It culminated with a bad review at work, one that brought home all the ways my life has gone out of control in the last few months. But, on the positive side, I took a couple of steps towards a better outlook on life, so I really just need to weather the end of the crap. I hope, anyway.
I made myself get up and go to the gym this morning. Depression packed on a few of the pounds I was so proud of losing several years ago, and it’s past time to get rid of them again. I’m motivating myself to exercise by participating in the Couch to 5K program. It’s a mythical 5K right now, as I have no concrete plans to run any races, but I’m hoping to maybe find one this fall. If I stick with the program. I think I might. It feels like NaNoWriMo felt last year, like I have to prove to myself that I’m not a quitter. Anyway, I’m only on week 2, but I’m doing well so far!
After the gym, I watched an episode of Criminal Minds - I’m just starting to get into that show, so I’m working my way through season 1. Then, it was time to make cookies! Oatmeal with cinnamon and peanut butter chips, at a suggestion from Leigh. They’re delicious, if I do say so myself. I need to stop eating them, or I’ll undo all the good I did at the gym this morning.
Happiness is: dancing around the kitchen to the All-American Rejects, singing into the spoon like I’m actually half my current age. It’s having a home to dance in, a home, not a house, not a space to put my stuff, but a place that’s mine in all the ways that count.
Happiness is: making cookies for a party, at which I’ll spend my Saturday night with a dozen or so friends. Or, not friends, but family. Family in all the ways that count. I effectively lost a good portion of my blood family this week - good riddance to them, really - and sometimes, I worry about ending up alone. But, when I need it most, I’m reminded that the family you build is just as important as the one you’re born with. In some cases, more important. I’ve been blessed with a lot of family that have nothing to do with blood. So, tonight I’ll go spend time with some of them - we’ll laugh, we’ll eat, we’ll play a game called cornhole that isn’t nearly as dirty as it sounds, more’s the pity.
These are the things that will eventually kill my depression, more than anything. I just need to remember that.
Eleven years ago, almost to the day, I took the biggest leap of my life. I packed everything I owned into a Uhaul truck and drove 700-ish miles, from St. Louis to Minneapolis. I had no job and no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I knew two people in the whole state, three if you counted my roommate’s mother. Everything I had ever known was in St. Louis … and that scared me more than taking the leap. Home, for me, was stagnant. I wasn’t growing, wasn’t learning anything new. I had to jump off a cliff in order to find my wings. I closed my eyes, stepped off the edge, and eventually soared.
It’s a lot easier to leap when you’re 21 than it is when you’re 32. I’ve had a lot more time to settle into my life, and a lot more time to come up with a million excuses about why I’m better off in the position I am. Except, at this point, I’m not better off. I’ve been miserable for months now. I feel itchy, like I’ve been waiting for something to happen. There’s no physical move in my future; this is all in the mind. I’ve been stuck in the same mental place for too long. Perhaps it’s time to pack all my thoughts into the figurative Uhaul and head into the uncharted territories. There are places I want to be!
I want to take myself seriously as a writer.
I want to take better care of my body.
I want to do more, dream … not less, I never want to dream less, but I want to live less inside my own head and more in the here and now.
I don’t know why this blog has become so symbolic of my rut. I’ve been meaning to put it up for ages, but I keep getting bogged down in details. Find a good theme, customize it properly, what links do I want, what themes do I want to write about, is it even worth it to put up another home on the internet? But, it means something to me - this domain is mine and mine alone. There’s no easy network of friends here to support and distract me, no shiny toys to play with, no excuses. It’s just me and the posting screen. So why not start writing this for me, and me alone? Maybe the goal isn’t to write something that inspires or entertains other people. Maybe the goal is simply to write whatever it is I need to write to push myself farther. Maybe the goal is to take a tiny step away from all the social networking that feels like a hiding place right now, to create something that feels more like me than my other places on the internet have felt in a while. Or … more like the me I want to be. I’ve been the worst of me for a good long while now. There’s value in trying to be the best of me. Maybe it’s not the true me right now, but I need to have faith that it will be.
So, here we go. This is the leap. Here’s hoping I soar.
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April 14th, 2009 in
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