Strange Encounters Of The Friend Kind

Last night, I met the friends. Let's be candid here-- in the past, I haven't been so much the "into dating/ bring me home to your parents/ introduce me to your friends" type. In the past, I've been the "don't you dare pay for my meal/ bring me home to spend the night/ run into your roommates in the morning on the way out after trying to avoid seeing them" girl. But since I'm trying to do things right this time, instead of hiding out in sweats at home on the couch with the Law & Order SVU marathon, I put my big girl panties on and went forth to do the meet-and-greet thing. And let me tell you, not only has it been nice to be doing the "normal" seeing-someone thing, it was really nice to formally meet the friends, too. If it went well for me (which I think it did), it can go well for YOU, too. Because you are probably less socially awkward than I am.

I've met guy's friends before, but it always amazes me the amount of stress it puts on you, and the amount of worrying a girl can do about it. Because I prepared and knew what to expect, for the most part, I was able to roll with it when his friend unexpectedly referred to me as "the wifey" instead of bugging the fuck out, screaming "Oh, HELL NO," and running away. It does really pay off. So, here are the top 5 things I've learned from both this experience, as well as others in the past:

First and foremost, recognize that this is important to him. You know what a big deal it is for you when a guy meets your friends-- you want them to be charmed by him just like your ass was, and you want him to get along with them, because if he doesn't, well...we all know, it's hoes before bros and bitches before hitches. Sure, he may be able to give your multiple Os, but your friends are the ones who know where you hid your emergency chocolate stash in your house and what you really did last summer. And they have photographic evidence. Same goes for him-- introducing a new boo to friends is never easy, so if he's asking to make this happen, get over your damn self. He's making a declaration here-- if he wants you to meet the people who are important to him, it means you're not disposable to him, and in fact, that YOU are also important to him. I was so fucking nervous I had nightmares the night before about having to get in girl friends' faces and tell them to talk to him about why I was there. I woke up at 8 AM to plan my outfit for something that was happening at 8 PM-- I just couldn't sleep I was so nervous. I even prayed in the shower. So if I could put aside those worries and get there to be there for him, so can you. Plus, if you asked him to do something, you'd pitch a fit if he wussed out about it. Consider this the same thing, but in reverse.

Know who you're dressing for. Sure, he may be wanting to show you off a little bit, but he doesn't want to be prying his boys off of your goodies. You're going to want to dress a little bit hot so that he feels good and so that his buddies know you're a catch, but you also don't want to be so obvious that his girl friends KNOW that you're trying too hard. Because they will be on to you, sister. Think about what it's like when you meet your friend's new girlfriends-- what outfit choices have you approved of? When in doubt, it's always best to highlight one asset and keep the rest under wraps-- because I wore my certified man-eater pleather leggings that I know both the boy and the rest of huMANity love and leather boots with small heels, I wore a casual sweater-dress that covered up the girls on top. It covered my leather-clad ass, but hugged it just so-- something that wasn't distracting while we were all sitting and drinking, but was enough to make me feel confident and sexy when standing or walking. And keep the make-up and hair fresh, clean, and neutral-- this is not a time for dark bedroom eyes or to make a statement. Play dress up later. With him. Later, when everyone else is gone.

Go alone. Jesus Christ, GO ALONE. You are a big girl. You don't need reinforcements. If you drag a friend along for yourself, not only are you instantly taken to be a huge pussy, but there are huuuge chances that instead of actually talking to his friends and getting to know each other, you're just going to cling to your security blanket when things start to get awkward. Not attractive. If you're supremely nervous, have an out-- a friend who will call you for a 5 minute reprieve if things start to get sketchy and you send them a blank text so you can duck out for a breather to regroup, or plans to "bump into someone" while you're out, or make a deadline of when you have to leave by. Always remember-- if you are, for some reason, bringing your girl or meeting other people while you're out, always make sure it's ok with the party that you're with, first. No one likes random party crashers, and that's what YOUR friends will be to this group of HIS friends.

Make sure this is an alcohol-included event. We all remember our 21st birthdays. Actually, no, if you were doing it right, you shouldn't remember it all. So birthdays are good. But in fact, any celebration where drinking is involved will do. Because I think we all know by now, people who like alcohol are prone to turning into people who need to be picked up after. And if you really care about this dude, like you SHOULD, you'll be picking up after him and taking care of him. And hopefully, his friends, who also care about him, will see this, and they'll get it-- you like him. This is good. They know you're serious about it; you're not the kind of girl to run screaming when a little beer gets spilled on your dress. Instead, you're the kind of girl who's going to get the paper towels. Draw a fine line between "mother/personal assistant" and "lover" and exist there. Don't whip out your Tide To Go pen and wipe up his shirt for him if he spills-- just find him another one as soon as possible. And if worse comes to worse, make sure there's alcohol because you might end up needing it for yourself.

And last but certainly not least, let him set the tone. Some guys aren't all that open to their friends about what exactly your relationship with them is, especially if it's The Time Before Labels. I've definitely met the friends of guys I was sleeping with and been introduced as "my friend" or just by my name. From there, I knew how I was supposed to act, and dropping the bomb about that thing that he did in bed last night with his tongue was probably not going to fly. Conversely, when I showed up last night, the chair next to the birthday boy was relinquished to me, an arm went around me, everyone already knew who I was from word-of-mouth, and then he kissed me. Obviously, the jig was up. They knew; I knew they knew. From there, it was like any regular meet-and-greet: introductions, how everyone knows each other, polite conversation, what you have in common, blah blah blah. Remember what my friends reminded me of before I went: If they know about you, and haven't met you yet, they're eternally curious about you. So talk to them. Be your charming self. Know your strong points-- casual harmless flirting if you're a guy's girl like me, warm smiles if you've got a great grin, the best joke you know if you're funny, etc.-- and USE THEM. DO NOT admit to Facebook creepin' on them. Do shake hands if you want to make a confident first impression, and if it's not awkward. And keep those PDAs to a minimum, even if you are getting those public kisses initiated by him-- you don't want to nauseate your new friends. Even if they're used to him, they're just getting to know you.

XOXO

Who Should Make The First Move, Men Or Women? A No-Brainer.

Once and for all: It is the woman's job to make sure that she gives enough blatant indicators that she's comfortable for the guy to make the first move. From personal experience, this could mean not moving away when they lean into you (touching is always a great open-season sign), holding eye contact, or initiating any sort of directional shift to the bedroom. From there, once it looks like the landing zone is free and clear, it's the man's job to make the first move.

You may say this sounds all 1950's Mad-Men-Before-There-Was-Peggy. But let me just explain this to you: I don't think I've ever made the first move, not even once. An ex of mine maintains I did, but I honestly will chalk that up to the fact he was drunk and probably was wishing that I had. Maybe it's just the fact the universe has been very kind to me and I have remarkable kismet radar for the moment when a guy is about to do something, so I always at least try to meet him half-way and make it a joint effort. But whatever it is, it works-- I don't make the first move. And I'm pretty successful, when I'm not purposefully trying to shoot myself in the foot. Like I've said, I'm charming. With a nice rack. Intelligent conversationalist. Doesn't take much more.

After being rejected once (unless remarkably resilient), a girl will not make the next move, even if she's been accepted by this person before. More simply put, "you made me look stupid; I'm not going to make that an option again." It's all on you, men. Any time a girl, or a guy, puts themselves out on a line, anything less than a "yes" equals rejection. And no girl likes feeling cheap. It's a woman's prerogative to feel like work has to be involved to win her over, even if it's really just the imitation of winning her over. I am so guilty as charged as pretending to debate if I would spend the night or not after being asked, when in reality, I walked through the front door knowing that if there was a snowball's chance in hell, I'd being willing to take it and run with it. Most women are exactly like that-- we know ahead of time what the outcome for you will be. If we're there in the first place, it generally means it's a good one. If we are repeatedly putting ourselves on the line, it's a good one. If we've been gazing into your eyes for the past 5 minutes and told you you're the most deep and insightful man we've ever met, it's a good one. If we're standing in front of you and not recoiling in disgust and horror, it's a good one. In Vegas-speak, the odds aren't stacked again you, so you should probably hit it. (Just not in the literal or colloquial connotation. I mean, ok, maybe, yeah, but still...be a little more suave about it.)

Plus, don't you like the feeling of being in control and having conquered something? Doesn't it just make you feel all Russel Crowe in Gladiator-esque? I mean, no, you're technically not in total control-- and you never will be, because we reserve that right (roughly translated: You wanna stick it in? You do the work), and I mean, maybe you did conquer something, like one giant confidence leap for you, one small step for mankind, but mostly, it's about the effort. We like to see effort. You don't think we wear heels and look good like this every bleeding day, do you? No, unless we're Italian women, we don't. That, among other things, is part of our effort. We like to look nice when we see you. We like to have interesting things to talk about. And we don't want our time to feel like a total wash.

So, basically, humor us. Even sometimes when you've been solid with a girl for a while, it would be good to switch things up a little bit, and make the "first move" again. Call or text her first. Touch her first. Kiss her first. Ask her to come over first. Ask her to spend the night first. Ask her out first, or make plans first. It'll get you a long way, trust me. You want something to happen? Don't leave it to chance, or the off possibility that she might decide to strike first out of the blue. You make it happen. Believe me. Women eat this shit up. I eat this shit up. It's what we all live for, save another Sex and the City movie that reverts all the wrong-doings of the last one and doesn't suck. When have I ever not given you the unmitigated secrets to opening a girl's mind, heart, and legs? Trust me on this one. Try it, unless you don't like getting what you want, that is. I dare you to not be successful.

XOXO

Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost.

My friend Arielle, who is a very wise woman, said something to me the other day as we were discussing our time living in Italy-- "No one decides to go halfway around the world and study abroad for months for no reason. If your life was perfect, you wouldn't be in Italy, or Ireland, or France. I think everyone who studies abroad, whether they know it or not, is trying to escape from something."

That girl knows how to kick me in the ass like almost no other.

What she said is true. Think about it. If you were perfectly content and happy with your life at home, why would you leave? Why would you uproot, leave all your support systems, and decide that maybe, living somewhere 4,000 miles away sounded like a good idea? Why would you exchange your apartment, job, college, local grocery store, friends, climate, coffee shop, and daily routine for new ones if you were still so enamored with the old ones? It is not because, as some might say, you "wanted the experience." To that, I say bullshit. Yes, it certainly is an experience, but so is going to your closest amusement park and riding a roller coaster. If you wanted to shake your life up a bit, you would find a new job or get a haircut. You would not pack your life into two suitcases, a backpack, and a very large purse and move yourself across the globe for a nice jaunt. That is not an "experience." That is a life change, and you have to have a very good reason for making one of those, believe me.

I know because what Arielle said applies for me, too. One thing that I have learned while over here is what I am, and what I am not. And one thing that I am is a runner. If I have an issue, I tend to run away from it. In fact, Italy was my biggest runner of all. Italy was my answer to running away from my life for over three months, putting everything I could not fix on hold, and distancing myself from reality. In the months before I left, things happened in my life that I didn't have answers for. I lost someone incredibly important to me. I was stagnant in my job. I found myself in a situation that I didn't know how to deal with, because I did not have the guts to actually speak up about what I wanted and what I needed and what I was feeling. I experienced raw, emotional pain for the first time in my life like a tidal wave that sucked me down into the deepest depression of my life. Nothing was working. I got scared. I was flailing, and falling, and striking out at whatever came near me. I remember, hazily, screaming at my mother in the car while sobbing hysterically. I remember my hands shaking from thinly controlled nerves as I tried to paint. I remember turning back to chemical release because I still could not use words to remedy the situation I was in, and so, smoking could do it for me. I remember hours spent lying on my bed, in the dark, not doing anything, because just moving hurt. I remember days where I did not talk. I remember not wanting to look at myself in the mirror, because then I would see hipbones and ribs and sharp angles that I had never had before.

And so I came to Italy because I was letting go of everything that was holding me back, because I was leaving. I was checking out. I was done with living the way I had been. I came thinking that that would be the answer to life. I got shiny and sleek from the hot sun and rich food. My hair got longer in passing with the days. I started to heal. But, like Arielle, I started to realize why I had come to study abroad. I started to separate the experience from the impetus.

It took some massive struggles and some pretty tough self-love. I didn't like myself all of the time. I still don't, some days. I can be obsessive, illogical, irrational, jealous of things I cannot change, and--yes-- neurotic, and a HUUUGE flaming hypocrite. I cannot, in other words, get out of my own way. Like every person, I like to think that I was a great baby. In reality, my mother tells me that until I learned how to "get out of my own way" and crawl, I was miserable. And just like when I was a baby, with the stress of finals looming, eight-and-over page papers due in nearly every class, trying to find a job to now go with my apartment and nearly $700-a-month rent from across the ocean, my body rejecting nearly everything I try to put in it because at this point it is trying to physically reject Italy itself, and a massive question-mark hovering over the status of my life back in Vermont, I am fussy and just want to go home and figure all that out. NOW. I started to panic. I started to obsess and started to expect more than was feasible from other people, and then take it personally when things didn't pan out. I started to shut down. Like, "Get me on a plane tomorrow, ship me home, and the devil take my finals and credits and grades, because I have figured out me, I have figured out my life here, and now it is time to rejoin reality and figure out my life there."

But then I realized that if I went home now, I would have forever run away from something else-- something which I will never get a chance to get back. I also would incur a large amount of debt from switching my ticket that, seeing as I am currently job-less, I would not be able to pay back until the already large lump-sum had accrued even more money not being paid off on my (brand-new, never used, very scary) credit card. Overall, I think staying for the next 16 days is in my best interest. And so, to make it easier on myself, I cut the things out that were making me unnecessarily worry and over-hype and expect and wait and wait and wait for SOMETHING to happen, for some divine clue that everything was alright and that life back home was waiting for me to return, just as it was when I left, just as I hoped it would be. This means, for the next week, no skulking around Facebook. No waiting on Skype. No Twitter (except to Tweet these updates to the blog). This, of course, I cannot cut out, and wouldn't want to. If I couldn't write, I would die. As simple as that. (One of the things I discovered, inequivocably, I am: a writer. In that, I chose rightly.)

It does not mean, however, that it isn't very hard. I now have an apartment in Burlington that all I want is for it to be June 1st so I can move in. I want to have Saph's head on my chest again, impossibly heavy and nearly knocking me over, her nostrils making wet pockets on my shirt, my nostrils filled with the scent of hay and dust and horse. I want to wake up early and go for a walk with the trees overhead like a canopy, so early that no one else is up and I can savor a Vermont morning, all by myself. I want to drive my Civic again and panic about hill-stops on Main Street. I want to be back among my people, my friends, and the plaidness of it all. I want to find out what's going on, and where I stand. I want to have (physically, if not also emotionally if it is not too much to ask for,) safe sex again. I want to not have to smoke as much, though this is a completely open-for-interpretation desire, as my smoking habits vary directly with my stress levels. In any case, I want to not have to buy a new pack every five days.

Right now, I need more than is fair to ask from others. And so, that leads to having to ask myself to be everything I need. And this is why I came abroad, come to find out. I had to leave so that I could find myself. So that I could learn to be nearly everything I need. So that I could learn that I am obsessive, and illogical, and irrational, and jealous, and-- yes-- neurotic, and that I can be a huge hypocrite. The one thing I have to say about this period of time of running away is that though Arielle may have been right in the fact that I had a reason for leaving my life, I found an even better one to return to it: who I am, what I want, and what I need. And so, I close with this thought: though wanderers and runners and study abroad students may leave to go someplace for reasons they don't know, they will find them once they get there. If you leave someplace, you will discover why. And if you go somewhere new, you will discover something new about yourself, not just about your location. Many times, I have foolishly wished I didn't come here, just so that things could "stay normal" at home and so I wouldn't "have to worry." But in the end, what I have found here, and what has happened in Italy will be what sticks with me for the rest of my life, despite whatever I find has or has not changed back home. Not all those who wander are lost.

XOXO

Daughters, Students, Friends, Lovers.

All the men in my life are inordinately worried about me being over here. My father keeps telling me to “have fun” like I’m not already eating the best food of my life or working my way through a bottle of wine that I buy completely legally, free and clear, every other night. A favorite professor sent me a very comforting email about how the initial “initiation” phase in Italy can be very tough, but I’ll get through it, fine. Geoff, if he had had the time before I left, wanted to string together all the empty .38 shells from our afternoon at the shooting range and make a necklace for me so no one would fuck with me when I was out and about. Twanthony writes me wordy and hilariously, disturbingly violent weekly emails from home about what’s going on at work, who he wants to lay waste to and why, and to keep up with my adventures in his native land. Robin and the boys upstairs walk with me, even in broad daylight, right up to the front door, as if I could be whisked away somewhere in the 100 feet between the corner and front stoop. And after the first night I almost called you as I did it to have someone to walk me home over the phone from across the Atlantic, I re-thought it and realized I won’t dare tell you that I do the 20 minute walk home from my late-night class in the south end of the city to my apartment in the north end alone, because after the multitude of “be safe”s and “come back soon”s and the rest of the unspoken worry that nested somewhere between your guarded eyes and furrowed eyebrows, I would not put it past you to pitch an unholy fit and start developing the beginnings of an ulcer.

“Be safe” seems to be the rallying cry of all the important men in my life right now.

This is all I can say to you: I am fine. Stop worrying—not all the way, but enough to just know that I am enjoying myself here, and being as safe as I can be, and I will do all that I can to return myself back state-side in one piece, save for some liver damage from all the good vino and home-made liquor and about half a lung less than I started out with—both self-damaged and from the unavoidable second-hand smoke. The women here like me because I am up-front and assured while still being polite. The men, so far, are a little mystified at an American girl who looks them straight in the face and doesn’t play coy or seem to overly want their attention. Eh. They’re pretty, alright, a collectively beautiful people, but too clingy and a little too poetic for my tastes. “We be together tonight?” is not in my registered vocabulary at the moment. This is not to say I mind the occasional familiar heavy lean against me while seated, or hand on my hip or arm around my waist. These things are as reassuring and informally intimate as hearing an old friend’s voice, or a firm handshake. But I don’t have time for broken English or flowery Italian. Give me my American boys and an intelligent and fully comprehendible conversation, and call me a happy girl.

So. I’m being safe. I’m having fun. Short of saying “I would live here,” I hope it gets the point across. And rest assured, I worry just as much about you all being there, and me being here. I can’t wait to see you again.

There. Properly satisfied? Are we clear? Are you a little less nervous? A little more soothed that I am not running off with random Italian counts to their villas in Tuscany? (Though, I have not yet actually met a count. If I do, the game might change.)

XOXO

Flight Of The Midnight Sun

As I watched the sun rise in shades of pale orange, rose, and eggshell blue over the Atlantic Ocean at 6:30 AM Euro-time, and 1 AM U.S time from the plan window, it struck me that just like watching the sun rise in the middle of my night, I am in totally strange territory. In one month, I assigned myself to living in a totally foreign country for three months. There was lots of last-minute paperwork, not much planning, and a sense of total disregard for reading any of the prepatory material. Watching that midnight sun rise, I realized that not only was I not traditionally "ready," I also have no clue what I am doing. After a brief moment in which my eyes suddenly burned with a wall of saline tears pressing against the back of them, much to my total horror and embarrassment due to my attentive seatmate watching me, it passed. I am here. I said I'd do this. I need to do this. Already, I am stretching boundaries, making new friends, and opening myself up totally to whatever new experiances find me (including a group outing planned for what will be dubbed "The World's Most Offensive Scavenger Hunt" to a park replete at night with prostitutes, transvestities, and drug dealers in effort to find the holy trifecta of a transvestite drug-dealing prostitute, just to say we met one,) and just rolling with it.

Something's different in the air over here. It's not just the 50 degree temperature. It's not the food smells, or the palm tree that grows below my hotel window. It's a different permiable attitude of "what will be, will be." I am far calmer and more out-going and humorous here than at home. It's easy to be with a group of strangers, as a stranger, when all the natives expect you to be different anyway. Don't get me wrong-- I'm still alternately scared shitless and asking myself what the fuck I've gotten myself into, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love with Florence, already.

I am pretty sure this is the craziest and most exciting thing I have ever done.

Thank you for letting me go do this. It means so much.

I miss you all.

XOXO

Ciao, Bellas!: Goodbyes Before The Great Adventure Begins

"We're not going to encourage you to cross an ocean. We're selfish bitches who like you where you are."- Samantha, Sex and the City, Season 6.

In 24 hours, I will be somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean between Boston and Italy. I have 2 bags packed fully to the brim, my student visa and passport, 3 guidebooks, 3 new novels (2 bought, 1 very contentedly borrowed,) and lots and lots of people I don't want to leave.
...And a horse. She's equally, if not more, important.

The funny thing with the people who are close to you is that you can always, always, invariably tell when they are doing something strictly for your sake and trying to hide their real feelings on the subject. There is always the person who is not so keen on your leaving who knows that they should be excited for you, and so tries to pretend to be excited for you so that you aren't worried about them, because they are worried about you, and you just start a whole circle of projected feelings.
"I'm excited."
"Good. You should be excited." (Falsely cheerily.)
"...I'm coming back, you know. Don't worry."
"I'm not worried."
"You're so worried. And I'm worried about your being worried."

I can't be excited if you're worried. I'm worried about you. Me, I could care less about. So you care about me, and I'll care about you, and we'll both pledge to be nervous but excited for each other, and in no time flat, I'll be back. Easy as pie. Chocolate mud pie. My favorite.

Some don't try to hide it. Some, like Samantha, tell it to you exactly how it is. Friends are funny. They do unexpected things for your benefit that you never expect and then you have to balance their love for you with the situation at hand to see it from their perspective. (I recently remembered the fact that when a good friend of yours says they're going to do something, they usually do it. So take them seriously, or you're going to be the one feeling your jaw drop against the desk in shock.)

"I'm inviting you to go to France, not to jail."- Alec.
"I just--"- Carrie
"Have more questions?"- Alec
"Yes. I'm not finished with New York."- Carrie, all Sex and the City, all Season 6.

You always leave for a trip sooner than you want to. Universal truth. Am I ready? No. Am I going to do my best? Yes. I may or may not have mulishly not planned some details, like, plotting points around the city in regards to the college or my apartment because, frankly, at this point, all of the paperwork and planning has left very little room for the adventure in this adventure, and I really would just like to get lost enough to have no other options than stop wandering, find a good bar, sit down, and just...let it go.

If there is one thing I have learned recently, it's that when something keeps popping up unexpectedly-- a book, a person, a place-- you better face it head-on and get over your shit, because if you don't, you're just going to waste time and an opportunity. You can't deny what is right in front of you. You can try like hell, but sometimes, it's just best to stop the fight and resign yourself to the fact that at times, things greater than your own force of nature are at work. Sometimes, it's to help you. Sometimes, it's to teach you a lesson. And other times, it's to open you up to possibilities you never imagined were possible.

When two things work in tandem, they are always stronger and more sure than one. Remember this. Find someone or something else that works at your speed, and don't give up on it easily.

"There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous."- Carrie, Sex and the City, Season 6.

So here's to traveling and friends and letting go and new adventures. Speaking of, I have no idea when or how I will be getting internet access in Florence, so I'll do my best, but it may be a little while. Rest assured, I'll be back.

Ciao, bellas! I love all y'all.
XOXO