Better weekend this weekend

Just noticed my angry/desperate post from this time last week and decided to update my non-existent audience that I had a better weekend. Mostly because I made some new friends. And met some old ones with whom I clicked. Unfortunately the differences between me and my best friend from seven years ago are becoming more and more apparent; I'm starting to doubt we're gonna make it, and that makes me almost as sad as the bumpy, awkward and every so often hurtful relationship I have with my dad - yes I'm the having-daddy-issues kind of girl.

Adapting vs. Settling

They don't mean the same thing. Then why am I so scared to let myself adapt?

Settling is adapting with a negative connotation to it.

At the same time, I think I need to adapt in order to go forward. I'll give an example.

It's been a month. I stubbornly refuse to accept the ugly realities of this country. I'm afraid if I accept the ugly monster buildings from communist times with their paint peeling off and the large territories of mud and dirt all around them, then I'll stop trying for something better and I'll settle for this. In that way I don't *want* to adapt, it's not that I *can't*. Adapting has become a synonym of settling in my mind. I perceive it as taking a step back from where I am. But maybe it's a step forward. Maybe I have to make this forward step of adapting in order to make the next forward step of moving on. Settling is a step back, adapting is a step forward. I know smart people adapt. Dumb people settle. I'm so scared of not being the dumb one I can't let myself be the smart one. And that makes me mediocre, indifferent, which inevitably is also a step back. There is no stillness in life, there is always change, movement. You're bound to go in some direction and it's your choice which one it'll be.

WHITE HAIR!!!

Ok, so usually I keep my hair on one side. It's been like this for ten years. I switched to the other side today, for a change, and I fell in deep depression right there and then in front of the mirror. On that other side were hiding THREE white hairs! Not one, not two - THREE! One of them is just discolored and dull but the other two are exactly what people call SILVER. They're kind of pretty actually. And sparkly and cute and opinionated! I would love them if they weren't signifying the inevitable elapse of time and all that crap. I'm 26 and living at home with Mom and Dad and growing white hair! God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can't change... courage to change the things I can...

Memories

I've been discovering my hometown the way I've been discovering a lot of new cities in the past seven years. Except that this is familiar but forgotten. Some things are new but most things carry forgotten memories and unlock buried moments. You can still see the occasional red Opel Vectra on the streets. I sat next to someone I loved ten years ago in one of those cars. I sat on the passenger’s seat and ate tangerines. Later I waited for him to go pee outside, where he drew bunnies in the snow with his pee. Another time I watched him drive off in his car as he waved at me in his rearview mirror. When these memories caught up with me today, I was sitting in a warm comfortable bus, looking out the window at the old and new buildings, the cars passing by, some of them red. Buses were rarely warm and comfortable ten years ago. Then I reached for my cell phone in my pocket and decided to see if I still remember his phone number. I did. I typed it in; if I had just hit the green button I could be speaking to him in a few seconds. I smiled a sad smile, then deleted it.

Maybe a part of me did secretly hold some kind of romantic hope for something undefined but beautiful. But then I imagined how we would get bored of each other and grow apart, after years, no, decades of eventful adventures, desperate lies and the comfortable silence of memories and longing.

I shouldn't go there. Not on my computer, not on my phone, not on my mind.

Blogging, knitting and selling computers

Yesterday Mom and I were talking about Dad and his mom (my grandma) who died long ago. Mom resentfully noted:

"Your grandma used to knit three pieces a year and she called that having a job, and your dad sold five computers a year and he called that having a job."

That comment made me shrink when I thought about this blog I just started. I felt discouraged on the precipice of my third post. Neither Dad nor Grandma were obviously too successful in their self-acquired businesses. Both of them are/were hypochondriacs who stayed home for the better part of their days. I just imagined what the continuation of Mom's line would be five years down the road:

"...and you write one paragraph once every few days, on some website that nobody reads, and you call that having a job."

The thing is that my Mom is the most amazing person in the world. If I had the power to make her a saint, I would. But she wouldn't understand blogging. She is a hard worker and a highly respected professional in her field and I feel like a loser staying home with Dad these days while I'm supposedly looking for a job. Which is one of the reasons I should get a real job with a steady paycheck even if that makes me a corporate slave.