“tracey’s busy life”

You know, it’s discouraging the incriminating things you find when you’re moving your life from here to there. The objects you unearth that would best be forever buried. The things that remind you what a dillhole you were years ago and how you’re really not all that different now. Like long-lost notebooks from college that are half class notes and half cringe-inducing journal. Discouraging, I say. Demoralizing, even.

What to do with these notebooks? Well, nearly every cell within me screams THROW THEM OUT, YOU DUMBASS! Which seems both self-respecting and reasonable. But, unfortunately, there’s that one rogue cell inside me, that one troublemaker determined to ruin my reputation by seducing me and whispering in my ear, “Ohhh, c’mon, Trace. Share. Shaaaaaaare.”

And Troublemaker wins, so shaaaaaaaare it is. (He must have been a really good kisser. Damn him.)

Context first: This entry is from college. I hate to admit that, but I’ve discussed before how immature and sheltered and Amish I basically was. Am. No, was. Was. Please. I’m a grown-up woman now. (And, look. I’m not far off on that Amish thing. My dad grew up in Amish country, PA and I really think all those buggy riders and barn builders seeped into his psyche and made him — and us, his brood, his chirren — Amish by association.)

Okay. So college. Actually, summer break. I’m home, but pining away for my life and friends in Seattle. How will I ever survive the 10 whole weeks away? It is sheer torture. I feel that I must die, blah blah. It’s so hot, I probably will die and I don’t want to die HERE of all the de classe places to die. Oh God, save me, etc. This is a running theme of the entries in this summer journal. On top of being hot, so hot, it’s so hot and gross in San Diego, I am churning up inside, alternately pining for and hating my latest “love,” M, one the leading men of our drama department.

(A note: I liked adverbs a lot.)

Here we go.

July 11

Feeling relatively capable to go out and face the day, although I am relatively tired. (From all the adverbs, you see.) I may or may not get a letter from M today and I may or may not care. Sometimes, as I’ve said before, I feel as though he’s being flushed out of my system. It’s weird but when I get some physical distance from him I can clearly see the things that bother me and be able to decide how to deal with them. His “let’s be mature now” fetish is somewhat amusing. (Those guys with their fetishes! How they amuse me! Somewhat!) I believe he’s shooting for end-of-the-summer maturity. Good grief! He has to allow himself to do some living first and experience some hurting. (This from the sheltered baby.)

He’ll never love me but some day he may regret that. Besides, it doesn’t matter somehow because I’m not “in love” w/ him anyway. I love him but I’m not “in love” with him. (Oh, Tracey. Did your mother tell you to say this?) And if he thinks I’m here hanging on a string waiting for reciprocity — then he’s got a million more “thinks” coming!!

Later that same day …..

Miss Venezuela just now robbed a darling Miss USA of the Miss Universe crown. USA was first runner-up and the only reason she didn’t receive it was ’cause the pageant was in the US.

I wrote about The frickin’ Miss Universe Pageant in my personal journal of torture and upheaval and uncomfortable weather???? Sweet Moses.

Even later that same day …..

I’m going thru these “M is a bozo” sorts of feelings these days. I keep wondering if they are simply done for self-protection or if I’m really treating him fairly and he really IS a bozo. (Hahahahaha.)

Of all the dumb things to be thinking about anyway.

K (a girlfriend) and I discussed this and I have realized since we’ve been apart — M & I — that his strength of character does not equal mine. (Oh I hate myself. With all the strength of my character. LORD.) Somehow I don’t have a whole lot of respect for him. I will say that I respect his abilities immensely. I believe he has a great deal of potential. But he will discover someday when he’s old and gray that I was a wonderful girl and he was an idiot. However I don’t think that I will sit around waiting for this momentous occurrence!

(Sheesh. I hope not, Trace. Because wouldn’t that mean that you’ve sat there your whole life until you’re also old and gray, waiting for old M to croak to you finally, “You’re a wonderful girl and I am an idiot” and then just who is the idiot in this scenario??)

No, M. If you don’t want me, don’t sweat it, sweetheart, because you ain’t gonna get me. So just go on living and go on pretending. I’m gonna find me someone else who will show his feelings rather than talk about them til I’m bored in the face.

(Trace, hon, you don’t talk this way. You’re not some dance hall hostess circa 1933. Please calm down, Sweet Charity.)

I have to go to sleep. Go to sleep, bozo.