Friday, April 13, 2012

This is my life.

After a great deal of experience and deliberation, I think I've finally figured out what my Major Earthly Challenge is/was/will be: letting go.

(I'm Rose, and all my troublesome scenarios are Jack Dawson.)

I am apparently on this planet to learn (A) when to let go, (B) how to let go, and (C) how to deal with people and places and things that don't want to let go of me. So far, I'm really bad at all of it.

Like, really, REALLY bad.

This is partially because the universe is full of tricks. For example, if I decide I'm not friends with someone anymore, I'll get two or three solid weeks without hearing from/worrying about them -- everything will be peaceful and low-maintenance in my life. But then, like a gust of wind, I'll receive a random phone call or text or Facebook message that begins "Hannah, I'm sorry..." and it completely blows me over.

And people will be like, "Just ignore it, girl -- they're not worth your time!" But my heart is like, "But I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to forgive people 70x7 or something like that." And then there's this conflict between my brain, which is rational, and my heart, which is... you know. Not.

At the risk of sounding somewhat sacrilegious: Sometimes I get frustrated with Jesus because he set such a good example. I know he flipped out when those dudes were gambling in the temple, but that's such an extreme situation. I almost wish that the New Testament contained one instance where Jesus looked at someone -- maybe an apostle or someone he was teaching on a hillside -- and said, "You know, you're kind of getting in the way of progress, here. I think it'd be best if you left and we never spoke again."

Because sometimes I feel like Christianity begets pushovers. Not politically (heavens, definitely not politically), but socially. I often feel like fighting back or sticking up for myself is not the "Christian" thing to do. However, when I try to do what Jesus would have done -- forgive and forget and try again -- people seem to think I'm being stupid or naive.

I don't know how this is supposed to work, really. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

True love.

It's been a weird few days. Everyone I know is in rehearsal for (The) Odyssey, so I've pretty much been a shut-in. I've watched two seasons of Frasier since Thursday of last week -- which isn't bad, or anything. It's just... emotional.

(If this isn't true love, I have no idea what is.)

Today I finished season 7, which ends with a two-episode extravaganza, "Something Borrowed, Someone Blue." Part two contains one of my absolute favorite TV moments: Niles and Daphne on the balcony of her hotel room after he's confessed his love for her. It's romantic. It's painful. It's awkward. I've seen this episode probably 25 times, and it never ceases to make me tear up. For whatever reason, the emotional context of this scene is always (strangely) relevant to my life.

Unfortunately, Phoebe and Mom came home from shopping just as this scene was about to commence and, while I feel totally at ease bawling in front of my mom, Phib is much less forgiving. I forced myself to look away from the screen, to pretend to by busy -- I bit my bottom lip trying to keep myself from crying. It worked, but it left me with all of these extra feelings that won't come out.

I know this is totally illogical because Frasier's a 90's sitcom (not to mention the fact that its primary demographic was probably, like, Very Well-Educated 40-Year-Olds and I'm 22 and supposed to be, like, partying or something retarded). I mean, who cries over a show that went off the air 6 years ago?

Apparently, the answer to that question is "Me." The really weird part is that I totally know why.

It's because on this show, Niles has loved Daphne since, like, the second he laid eyes on her. And he waits for her to come around for SEVEN EFFING YEARS. I want someone to love me like that. Not, you know, right now or anything; I'm young, definitely not ready for marriage, etc. But if the dudes that wrote Frasier could, somewhere down the line, maybe type me up a classy, lovably pompous romantic interest that could magically come to life and take me to the mother-effing ballet, I would not complain at all.

...And now I'm crying, haha.