In the last few weeks, Facebook has reacquainted me with a good number of people who lived in my hall during my freshman year in college. Some of these people I hadn't talked to in seven or eight years, and it occurs to me that my current understanding of who they are has a lot to do with who they were then, when, in fact, they are (most likely) completely different people now.
Lord knows I've changed. A lot.
Since my first year in college, I've become a lot less socially awkward. Granted, I'm still sort of awkward, but I really had some issues interacting with people back then. I'm talking about a total lack of comprehension of social cues.
I'd like to think that I'm less negative now, too.
My hair is thinner, my waistline is bigger, but my ego is smaller. Today, I'm much more willing to admit when I'm wrong. And, as it turns out, I'm wrong at times -- just like everyone else.
I've learned that, if you're sorry for something, you should say so right away, because the longer you wait to apologize, the harder it becomes*. There are two people in particular to whom I really need to apologize.
There -- done. I just e-mailed them. And that brings me to another thing I've learned -- no matter how much you think you deserve forgiveness, you have to remember that forgiveness is not always an option for those who have been wronged. It may take a while. It may take years. It may never happen at all. The best you can do is offer a sincere apology and hope for forgiveness.
I'm less naive. I'm more realistic. I'm more responsible. I'm less likely to eat Oreos. I'm more likely to eat celery.
I have a better understanding of sadness than I did in 1998. And, as a result of that, I have a better idea of all the forms happiness can take. I value friendships more -- especially those that have lasted a long time. I've also learned that some people who you may have considered to be really good friends are just plain flaky, and will stop talking to you for no apparent reason whatsoever -- or, even worse, for a really stupid reason that doesn't actually involve you at all. And if they aren't willing to put some effort into being a friend, then that's their decision.
I'm going to be honest here -- I still take some things for granted. I don't take time to stop and smell the roses. I still suck at life in many ways. The difference is that I wouldn't have been as introspective ten years ago.
So, how have you changed in the past ten years?
Friday, December 19, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Listening
I've been living in my house for seven weeks now, and each day I hear my house -- and my neighborhood -- telling me something new.
The industrial complexes positioned between Broadway and the Mississippi River emit an unending hum, constant as the plumes of steam and smoke rising from their stacks. The multitude of dogs in the neighbors' yards, communicating with the other local canines (perhaps more than their humans communicate with one another). This communication differs from the multiple alarms sounded by the same dogs when an unfamiliar person is walking down the street, such as a hapless AT&T salesman, trying desperately to get people to welcome Ma Bell back into their homes. The honking of horns at any hour of the day or night from the house across the street and down a bit. Perhaps the occupant carpools to work at a job with terrible hours. Perhaps the person driving is an inconsiderate asshole. Perhaps it's a bit of both. The hum of cars driving slowly down the street. The whoosh of the handful of reckless youths barreling down the same street with little regard for the safety of others. Always in a hurry, but rarely going anywhere.
Occasionally, in the distance, a tug will sound its horn, but more often than not, they deliberately trudge upstream and down in relative silence, regardless of the hour. The river never sleeps, for a barge can not make money if it is anchored and empty.
The refrigerator hums. The furnace clunks on as the gas hisses through the pipes and whooshes out to the flame inside the firebox. Moments later, the blower softly comes alive and sends its warmth throughout the house.
Doc rises from his blanket on the floor in the corner of my office to see if any more food has found its way to his bowl. Even though it is 1 AM and he never is fed at this time, he checks, as it is better to be safe than hungry. His nails tap tap tap tap tap along the cold floor as he makes his way back to his bed where, minutes after laying down, he begins to snore.
The industrial complexes positioned between Broadway and the Mississippi River emit an unending hum, constant as the plumes of steam and smoke rising from their stacks. The multitude of dogs in the neighbors' yards, communicating with the other local canines (perhaps more than their humans communicate with one another). This communication differs from the multiple alarms sounded by the same dogs when an unfamiliar person is walking down the street, such as a hapless AT&T salesman, trying desperately to get people to welcome Ma Bell back into their homes. The honking of horns at any hour of the day or night from the house across the street and down a bit. Perhaps the occupant carpools to work at a job with terrible hours. Perhaps the person driving is an inconsiderate asshole. Perhaps it's a bit of both. The hum of cars driving slowly down the street. The whoosh of the handful of reckless youths barreling down the same street with little regard for the safety of others. Always in a hurry, but rarely going anywhere.
Occasionally, in the distance, a tug will sound its horn, but more often than not, they deliberately trudge upstream and down in relative silence, regardless of the hour. The river never sleeps, for a barge can not make money if it is anchored and empty.
The refrigerator hums. The furnace clunks on as the gas hisses through the pipes and whooshes out to the flame inside the firebox. Moments later, the blower softly comes alive and sends its warmth throughout the house.
Doc rises from his blanket on the floor in the corner of my office to see if any more food has found its way to his bowl. Even though it is 1 AM and he never is fed at this time, he checks, as it is better to be safe than hungry. His nails tap tap tap tap tap along the cold floor as he makes his way back to his bed where, minutes after laying down, he begins to snore.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
