when pretending is easier than the alternative

I was in a classroom full of boys in the fifth grade. Boys that age pretend to have quite the distaste for anything resembling femininity. Day after day, they talked about baseball, the Hardy Boys, politics and dissecting animals; and day after day I swore off dolls and pastels to find interest in the topics they discussed. Had I known that our differences were intended by design, I might be a different person today. I can't help but think that by declaring my independence from girlishness, I became dependent upon a façade and estranged from the person I was meant to be.

He was the closest thing to family I had, so I ran with.
Running, I got lost along the way; I thought I could handle it.
But handling each other turned into something, and something in turn became of nothing.
Nothing can change the words that were exchanged.

He said, "we won't make it," because I'm far too independent.
And I said, "I won't hate you," and you know – you know I meant it.

So. I said, "why don't you take a seat and let me explain.
Every lover says what you're saying."
He said, "if none of this is new, the common factor must be you.
You can be the change I seek."

Then I said, "we won't make it, because I'm far too independent.
And I know I will soon forget you; but you won't have the same luck I do."

It was Saturday when all this went down. Or, when I meant for it to go down. The problem seems to be we never really say what we mean to say. It's like the truth continues to haunt us, floating in and out of our conversations while threatening to silently tear us apart.

I told her how I continually watch every man turn from a charming suitor to a defenseless waste of testosterone, and she didn't have to say it for me to know that I'm the cause of this emasculation. They all say the same thing: I create these messes.

So she gave me a pep talk about letting a man be a man and acting more like a girl, but I kept thinking about how guilty it makes me feel when I don't pay. She said it should be a man's role to do the manly things, and I kept thinking of how I've never even met a guy who seems to have any of this figured out. Just as we concluded that the common factor among these mousey men is, in fact, me, I asked her if she thought that perhaps they are the ones lacking a backbone in the first place. 

The irony is that I am what I am out of love – not spite; but somehow I manage to paint the same face on each one anyway. 
I'm pretty sure I loved him. Why else would I have traded a style magazine for a comic book? I wanted him to love me, too. But we were only ten years old.

I said, "I'm trying to be what you want." And saying it out loud this morning, I was admitting to myself for the first time that I've been lying all along. The very thing that drew him in is the false impression he's grown to dislike; and it seems he lacks the interest to see what's really there anyway.

If I had sat in the shade making friendship bracelets like the other girls, I probably wouldn't know how to play kickball; sadly, it's a skill I never wanted to begin with.

"...look me in the heart and unbreak the broken; it won’t happen"

I heard something said about crystal: they said that its fragility in no way indicates its weakness. They said the fact that it is frail implies rareness and beauty and that is what makes it strong.

Once it was revealed that he never saw anything frail about it, I began to wonder: if he had known to tend to things with care, would he have bothered? Or might something fragile have been too delicate for him to handle?

Those things most rare and desirable are frail things, made strong by the respect they command from their surroundings. Left alone, they hold more value than when they are mishandled; but their true worth is fully realized when they are held gently.

He said, "You aren’t a side dish, much less parsley - you should know that. You’re not some measly left-over twig that only exists for aesthetic value, and you do not owe your worth to whatever is on the plate beside you." I wondered how a million conversations with one person left me feeling like rubbish, while a few moments with another could change my entire outlook. 

Rare and frail things will crumble in the wrong hands for lack of being made to feel strong. "What you need," he said, "is someone who knows how to hold you."

Ice Cream Soup

It was a really cheesy pop song. I always know something is wrong when mainstream music begins speaking to me. "My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundation; and I think that I should let go, but I can’t." A foundation - chiefly a very recently-laid foundation - should have no cracks. In the event that weather or some stronger force should damage so deeply that one’s foundation is shaken, action must be taken immediately. Sometimes, the damage is slight enough that it can be undone; other times not. But a glue stick and the strength of a girl’s small hands are not nearly sufficient; and though such tactics as painting over the rough spots and sealing together chasms with safety pins seem worthwhile, a rocky foundation will almost inevitably give way to failure in the end. Perhaps this is why we are warned against building houses upon sand. 

If we didn’t have Neapolitan (our favorite), it was vanilla with chocolate sauce; but regardless of the flavor, we knew the key to unlocking the most satisfying means of ice cream consumption was as follows: you put it in a bowl, leave it alone for 3 - 4 minutes until it is about 15% liquid, then stir it around (but not too much) until it has the consistency of a thick paste; and then you eat it. 

Ice cream soup isn’t something one buys at the convenience store. If that happens, it is certain to be returned. What makes it wonderful is the fact it that begins as something good, and in time becomes something better. The only problem with the idea of ice cream soup arises within those consumers who believe in a perfected product, pre-purchase. 

There was a boy once who had such wild fantasies about the product he was after that he entered an ice cream shop and requested that his order be melted. Unfortunately, the boy was disappointed when he discovered it couldn’t be properly re-frozen. He had been so consumed with a perfected end result, that he never had the opportunity to enjoy the breaking-in, the comfort, the familiarity of the relationship process. He didn’t know that something wonderful is meant to become something more wonderful, more refined with age. In the process, he eagerly pursued a fantasy, which turned out to be . . . human. 

I wasn’t thinking of any of this last night, but that’s probably because these weren’t things I wanted to think about. When he said "I can’t wait to talk to you!" I wasn’t expecting the talk to be him telling me that I’m a better concept than reality and his attraction to me had plummeted. I wasn’t expecting to hear that, because I had convinced myself that our foundation was strong enough.

I am still every bit as big of an advocate of the old "save the best for last" motto that I was as a seven-year-old ice cream soup connoisseur. I still believe that good things get better and that strong things rely on the strength of a stronger foundation during storms. 

But maybe that’s because I’m really immature.