and these mem'ries lose their meaning

I left work to-day and got in my car and listened quietly to music on the ride home. I didn't accelerate aggressively or get upset with other drivers on the road like I usually do. I didn't call anyone to chat or complain to about my day. When I got home, I walked slowly up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, unlocked the door, and dropped my stuff on the floor. Realized I had no full water bottles, refilled them, placed the Brita pitcher back in the fridge. I looked at the full sink of dishes, remembered I should wash them, and walked away. Changed into lounging clothes, dropped my uniform on the floor, and recalled I had planned on doing laundry this whole weekend and still had yet to do so. Walked away. Quietly. Oh so quietly.

Have you ever felt unsatisfied?

I don't mean displeased with the price of gas, frustrated over a lost piece of mail, or peeved by a minor spat with a roommate or friend.

I suppose I should ask, have you ever felt empty?

Don't misunderstand me. I am not depressed. I have a good life, with a loving family, a few close friends and people who care about me a great deal. I work hard at my job, I am recognized for it, and I am proud of that. I don't hate my crooked teeth or my small stature or how I'm forced to wear spectacles to see properly; on the contrary, I appreciate my physical quirks as reflections of my personality. I love my sense of humour and that I have those in my life that also enjoy it.

All that said, to-day I left work and realized how empty I felt. I barely made any money during a shift that usually makes me more than the rest of my week's shifts combined. People in general were impolite and stingy this afternoon. It's another absolutely gorgeous autumn day, unseasonally warm and sunny, and I had to spend the whole day inside, apologizing to tables because a fly landed on their glass and the steak wasn't cooked to their exact specifications and she needs more raspberry tea even though her glass is three-quarters full.

I just want more.

Not more money, although it would help to not have to worry about it obsessively. Not more friends, although I do appreciate that I have made a few new friends at work recently. Not more recognition or prestige or high-fives.

I want MORE. I KNOW I can do more with my life. I'm settling for living in the same town my family's lived in for thirteen years, working as a waitress for $2.13 an hour. I have a bachelor's degree in English, a deep passion for books and the written word, a burning desire to travel and see the world and indulge my gypsy spirit and I am doing NOTHING about it.

I spoke to an old college friend yesterday for the first time in quite awhile. She asked how I was doing, I updated her on my job situation - or lack thereof - and informed her that I had recently decided on my five-year plan. When I told her - in complete and utter seriousness, mind you - that I planned on moving abroad in five years or less, she laughed. I know it's not her fault to think I'm joking around, because I've been joking about moving to England for years, but still. I told my mum the other day that my goal is to move to England, and she just keeps talking about when I move to Chicago. I seriously want to do this, and no one is taking me seriously. The fact that people might honestly think I can't do it is one of the worst feelings in the world. This is my dream. If I had the money to move tomorrow I would pack my suitcase, buy a plane ticket, and leave. I would seriously miss my close friends, my wonderful guy, and my family. But I would go because I know I need to. I really, really don't want to sound proud or conceited or anything when I say this, but I'm meant for so much more than what I'm doing.

I should get started on the evening's tasks. Just so this post isn't quite so dark and somber, I conclude with a visual depiction of yesterday evening's activities:

Hot, essence-of-fall wassail and his dorky grin.


The main event: pumpkin carving! Note how focused I am on my art.


He's pleased because his pumpkin is PERFECT. [No really, it is.]
I'm peeved because mine is choppy and mangled. I'm such an amateur.


O the carnage!


His perfect punkin on the ground, next to the tiny punkin friend I got for 59 well-spent cents.
My YAR! pirate punkin is elevated to illustrate the awesomeness.

Splendid fall evening to you, friends.

is there anybody going to listen to my story

A few weeks ago, I was taking a walk with the significant other around my apartment neighborhood, and it was rather muggy outside, and I was sporting an old college t-shirt and shorts with my $2 Old Navy flip-flops that I usually only wear when putzing around the apt. or after a long shift at the 'bee's. It was nearing dusk, and the street lamps were buzzing with an orange fluorescent glow. We were walking slowly, alternating between avid conversation and comfortable silence, fingers loosely linked, when I noticed him looking at me intently and I gave him a questioning glance. He answered by simply saying: "You're beautiful."

You may take this to be cliche, or trite, or even fake, but if you heard the way in which it was uttered, you would reconsider your cynical take. Normally such a simple compliment would not lead me to a contemplative discourse on intimacy, yet the utter sincerity with which he said it made it something entirely different from an offhand comment. Don't get me wrong, he has complimented me before, but this was so unexpected, especially when it was given in a moment when I felt at best rather tired and sweaty. I was, of course, not wearing any makeup, my hair was back in my typical sloppy ponytail, and yet he was looking at me so carefully, so delicately, as if to admire me was to break me in some way. He simply looked with an openness and honesty and told me very matter-of-factly that I was beautiful. He even admitted that he didn't know why, but just said that I "glowed."

He's good to me, that one.

On a related note, this is something I've been pondering for awhile. For the duration of my young life thus far, I have had an unnatural dislike for the term "boyfriend." Let me explain. "Girlfriend" is an entirely acceptable term. I have no problem with tossing it around. I rather enjoy it when Daniel refers to me as his girlfriend. However, once people see me with my gentleman and inquire, "Ohh, Holly, is that your BOYFRIEND?!" I get a strange feeling of discomfort. Don't get all Freudian on me and declare it simply must be related to my inability to commit and whatnot. I have had serious relationships in my life. I am a powerfully loyal individual. That said, what is up with my aversion to this term? Has anyone else had this issue? I think it might be related to my love for words and specific letters, and the way words look and sound when seen and uttered, respectively, and that I appreciate "girl" as a word better than "boy," thus leading to a strange preference for one term over the other. However, I can't help but wonder... fellow wordsmiths, do you copy? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Also, a question to you married folk out there. I know it's been asked by every prepubescent child that's ever had a crush, and by those my age who struggle to find their vocation in life, but I'll ask it again, just to see if anyone out there in the blogosphere cares to aid my internal quandary. How did you KNOW that the person you married was the one for you? If you don't have any advice beyond, "It was just a feeling, I just KNEW" - that's okay. I want as many opinions on this as possible. Being a twenty-something, I have so many friends getting married/already married/starting families that I can't help but wonder how people younger than me seemed to figure it out before I did, with "it" of course being the answer to that ultimate question posed above. What's a free-spirited, mostly-independent, happily-committed-to-a-sweet-gentleman twenty-something to do?

Don't fret, dear reader [s, if you do indeed exist in plural form]. I will not be tying the knot anytime soon. My current significant other has made it very clear he isn't even thinking about marriage (to anyone, not just in reference to me) until after he has his degree, which won't be until this May, so that's awhile yet. Also, I have so many career-and-general-adventure-oriented goals I wish to accomplish before settling down that I know I need many more years of singledom ahead of me before I'm ready for that step. I just... need to know. It's been a question on my heart a lot lately, and I would love for even the smallest bit of direction. If you or someone you know may have a few words of wisdom to impart, I would love to hear it. All contributions are welcome.

Finally, my apologies for my absence this past month. It's not exactly a triumphant return to blogging if I post for a few months and then take a month-long sabbatical, but there it is. I'm sure a post is coming that will address further what has been percolating in the mind and heart of your resident wordsmith.