It is getting close to be that time of year where I would sit at home on the couch for hours at a time ti reflect on how the past year went. I’d run through journals and reflect on missteps, ups, downs, sideways. I would do this for such a long time that eventually I would write myself - out. I wouldn’t have anything else to say. Then, I’d just sit on the couch and watch TV for the remainder of the day, and right before the sun went down - go for a run. Or, attempt to rollerblade on wet asphalt.
Now, I get to the end of the year and just try to get my Christmas shopping done before the morning of the 25th. My family can testify - I’m miserable at getting stuff done on time. Christmas gifts, destined for my dad, brother, and step-mother sat in my car for over two years. Which isn’t so bad...until...you consider I bought my dad chocolate covered cherries.
I’ll buy a fresh box for my dad, but this year, I intend on getting the gifts up to Washington.
I can’t remember what I did last year for Christmas. I think Alex mailed gifts up. I think I’m wrong about, so maybe I was supposed to mail the boxes up there. Maybe that’s what is sitting on the top of my closet. Hmmmm. Oops.
I’ve got myself wound up so tight, made myself so busy with busywork that I can’t seem to get it together enough to remember to send out the holiday cards. I forget to bring the camera when Alex and I go out to special things (like his reunion). I sit on gifts. I drag my feet on doctor appointments. I wait weeks before taking drycleaning, and take even longer to pick the drycleaning up.
I wait until I’m out out out of deodorant, until I get to the day I’ve scrapped my underarms on the bottom of the container. My hair detangler gets replaced when the hissing sound from the container produces no more liquid. I take items to the storage unit, only when Alex becomes so frustrated at me, he rubs his forehead so hard a notch appears.
Okay, maybe there’s not a notch, or dent on the side of his face. But, as previous roommates can attest - I can be a pain. Kilkea roommates excluded. Leslie knows what I’m talking about.
Oh - funny story time!
This one time, in grad school, I was scheduled to go to San Francisco the next day. The night before I was making rice-a-roni on the stove, when our neighbor Kip appeared on our patio. I was talking with Kip, and we determined it would be a good idea to run to the store and buy some beer for a Thursday night party. It would be a low key party. Stress the word low key. I don’t remember much, other than ordering pizza, turning off the stove, and waking up he next morning to go to a state party meeting.
I don’t remember cleaning up my mess. The mess - I mean a couple of pizza boxes, spilled beer on the floor (by the neighbor boys), and the kitchen was a cross between a biological landfill and a nuclear waste facility. Had this been a planned affair, with appropriate clean up the next morning, I don’t think we would have had a problem. But, my flight was at 6 something. And, when I went for the plan - I’m pretty sure my BAC was still pretty high. I was hungover for the entire day.
I didn’t remember to take my keys with me. When I got back home, I couldn’t get in. I was joking around at the door - pounding and yelling. And, I was met with Unhappy Leslie. Actually, she was Pissed Leslie. She was really mad. Really mad.
When I got home, I was appropriately met by my roommates who provided me with, um, constructive criticism. Actually - to be more accurate - it was an ultimatum. If I wanted to stay, I would need to give notice of folks coming over, and nothing left in the kitchen. At the time, it was a bit rough. I thought there was a bit of an overreaction. But, two weeks in, I totally understood I did probably the worst thing you could do as a roommate.
Time passed. I apologized, knowing what I had done. Knowing I could do nothing to fix what I had done, other than what they had asked me to do, and learn from the lesson. I learned that Neighbor Boys are bad. Neighborhood Boys without girlfriends are even worse, because they don’t have a girlfriend to answer to. Thus, drunken events that include dancing to the same song for 6 hours straight - aren’t stopped.
Makes for great stories though.