The Life and Times of a B.A.(rista)M.F.

I’m not sad, because I don’t wish I was her. I’m sad because you wish I was.

i am me.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you look at someone and think, “I wish I could be more like you?”  You don’t necessarily want to look like him or dress like her but something about the way those random people go about their lives seems appealing to you?  They do something differently than the way you do that same thing.  Where you fail to be stoic, they never shed a tear.  Where you are sometimes too accommodating, they are firm and demanding.  Or maybe it really could be that you want to look like her or dress like her or have attention tossed your way so often that you “don’t know what to do about all these guys.”  After all, isn’t having choices and variety in life incredibly rough?  When you call yourself fat, I think to myself, “I am heavier than you, so what does that make me?”   So sometimes, you think, I wish I could be a little more like you and maybe then things, even good things, would be better.

And then one day, you just want a moment of silence.  The arguing needs to cease.  The harsh tones, darkening the words that come from their mouths, need to be brightened.  You feel overwhelmed by everything that is going on.  And on that day, one little thing sets you off.  You aren’t angry, by any means.  Instead, sadness takes over your entire body.  And you can’t tell if it’s a result of having so many emotions rushing through you in one day because of other events, or if the negativity has finally broken your spirit.  You wonder if something is wrong with you.  You wonder if you have to be like them to feel accepted. 

I am not the most confident person.  I have a love/hate relationship with myself.  On some days, I think I am amazing and that the world should feel lucky to have me grace its presence.  On other days, I feel uncomfortable simply looking at myself in the mirror, and thus avoid doing so at all times.  Sometimes, I feel like people think I am a joke.  As though because I laugh a lot, there must be something wrong with me.  Because my emotions are felt with more conviction that those of other people, that I am crazy.  Because I am not mean to people who have treated me badly or have broken my spirit.   Because I don’t yell at him or her or them. Or because even when I am being spit on, kicked and dragged through mud, my teeth still shine just as brightly when I smile.

What’s funny is that I have never considered myself to be a very positive person.  That is not to say that I ever thought I was a negative person; but, I suppose I surround myself with positive people so I don’t notice how positive I am until in the presence of people who are not that way.  Today, I had a realization.  I never, in a million years, want to be anything you are.  You might be considered incredibly beautiful and fun and desirable to all.  But I will never want to be you.  You are cruel and stubborn.  You are rude and selfish.  You do not strive to be better than what you are, because you already believe that you have reached the level of perfection.  Somehow you claim to lack confidence, but we all know you are just looking for compliments. No, you’re not fat and when you call yourself fat, I won’t even argue. I will remain silent.  When you complain about how fucking stupid this is, or how fucking stupid that is, I will walk away from.

I am positive that I may not be perfect, but I would rather be sad, happy, loud, fat, ugly, beautiful, thin, average, inexperienced, kind, intelligent, goofy, driven, lazy, emotional, loving, passionate, accepting, absolutely amazing in my own eyes, everysinglethingthatmakesmeunique…than be anything else.  Don’t drag me down. You’re drowning in the deep with straightened hair, fresh make up, a scowl, and hatred in your body.  But I’m swimming towards the sun with love in my heart and tears in my eyes and nappy hair and a smile upon face.  

YEAH. I MADE OUT WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND. WHAT. (part two)

I’m not sure what is more strange, the fact that we are baking cupcakes in the shape of breasts, using different cake batter to represent different ethnic groups, or the fact that we only met each other a week ago.  And by we, I mean that I am baking cupcakes in the shape of breasts.  You are to my right, watching me crack three eggs, pour 1/3 cup water, 2/3 cup of vegetable oil, mix mix mix until it turns into Cherry Chip cake batter.  The Golden Yellow breasts cool as you sit on the chocolate-colored tiles that comprise your kitchen countertop.  I feel as though I have known you for much longer than seven days, much longer than 168 hours, much longer than 10,080 minutes, much longer than 604,800 seconds.  Much longer.

Cupcakes cooling. Lights off. Movie on. Commence close-sitting, which becomes cuddling, which becomes snuggling.  Dead Poet’s Society seems depressing when a person watches it alone, but it is beautiful whilst watching it with you.  I lose focus on the film, glancing at you and as you notice my staring, you mouth forms this phenomenal smile that seems to shine even brighter with the reflection of the light from the television screen.  I feel my ears begin to burn—the first sign that my face will soon resemble the exterior of a raspberry.  Your eyes seem to scan my face, lingering on my lips, whose smile I try so desperately to suppress.  I want to scream KISS ME! but I remain silent, my heart beat refusing to do the same. 

As I lie in your lap, you bow your head and our lips meet softly.  There is something familiar about the contour of your lips, the way they fit with my own, the way that nothing about it feels strange, yet it all feels different.  kisskisskiss ssikssikssik. upsidedown. And then we both sigh and smile and snuggle.  Beep beep beep. Time to frost the cool Asian breasts and the ethnically-unclear Cherry Chip ones. 

Smeared chocolate frosting takes its home in the corners of your lips and I, laughing, kiss it off. A chocolate kiss that turns into an embrace that turns into a vanilla kiss that turns into lying on the deep olive green couch, alternating between being consumed by Robin Williams’ English teacher profundity and being consumed by each other’s passion.  Such a strange juxtaposition.  I don’t know when the movie ends, for our own story has begun and it is all that I can focus on now.  You make me laugh as you threaten to let me fall off of the couch on which we are crowded.  You are so demanding, you tell me as I point at my pursed lips, silently telling you my desire. Our laughter is muffled with each kiss. Every kiss full of happiness, and smiles, and everyotherlamethingyoucanpossiblythinkof. We just lie there, my head upon your chest, your arms around me, warming my impossibly cold exterior. We begin to doze, until the realization that it is 3 am sets in.

Cold February air fills my lungs and wraps around my skin as we walk to your white car, the model of which is ubiquitous in this city.  Five minutes later you kiss me goodnight and I walk to my dorm room. I smile. I feel so anxious I can hardly sleep.  I touch my lips, and I feel as though you are once again lying next to me.  So fast. So quickly. I begin to fall…

Both into a deep slumber and deeply in love. 

YEAH. I MADE OUT WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND. WHAT. (part one)

The wind was blowing through my hair as we drove to my mom’s house at what seemed to be a not-ridiculous hour of night.  Something like…1 am.  But the area of town we were driving through lacked street lights for quite a stretch of asphalt, making it darker.  The air was not sticky, as it usually is during summer, but instead had a certain briskness about it.  It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t dry. It wasn’t humid. It was…well, if I had to say what it was, without sounding too cliche, I would say perfect.

The cab of the truck seemed tiny. And while I had been in it with you many times before, it felt different this time.  I recalled the night we sat outside of Starbucks after a night of studying precalculus, and drinking free triple-filtered water.  We only held hands that night. And I kissed you on the cheek.  It was a strange evening.  A beginning to a romance that never quite got the chance to live.  Dead on arrival. Or something along those lines.  I flashed back to the drive. Dark. Perfect. Close. 

We arrive at my house, and you have a look of despair in your eyes.  Impending tears glisten in the faint light that exuded from my driveway.  We talked for hours.  I hold you close as you cried, leaving dark spots on my cornflower blue shirt.  I am your best friend in that moment, and tears befall my cheeks when I saw how she had affected you. You held my hand for comfort, yet soon our fingers interlaced like we were in love. I wanted you to be happy.

And then our noses bump. Eskimo kisses. Nose rub rub rub. Smile. Lips part. And then we kiss. And it is like every story you ever hear about every perfect kiss. So beautiful that you can’t help but smile as your lips meet again and again. And of course, the teenage groping comes into play and the moment changes from sweet and beautiful to should-I-keep-my-shirt-on-or-risk-getting-caught-in-my-bra-making-out-in-front-of-my-house-at-four-in-the-morning? and then I pull away.

We shouldn’t be doing this. I have a boyfriend and he’s your friend. And with our hands still interlocked, you kiss my fingers. I know I know. And then suddenly our lips are meeting once more, pushed together by pure magnetism.  And you pull away next, Oh we can’t. We can’t. And then I put my head in my hands as you hold me and I realize what has happened. Oh screaming infidelity. And at this age, when none of you are having sex, everything is infidelity. You rub my shoulders. Are you okay? I crinkle my nose. I love you. I walk inside.

bzzz bzzz.

Be happy. It will all work out. I love you pal.

And then it was done.

kisses.

The first entry in the series I like to call:

YEAH. I MADE OUT WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND. WHAT, SUCKA. (absence of proper grammatical punctuation is intentional)

So, I’ve kissed a lot of toads. Not actual toads, of course, because I like living and all that good stuff—most of the time—but toads as in metaphors for not-so-perfect-but-sneaky-enough-to-look-like-frog-princes men. Did that make sense? Anyway, I have had my share of toads that my African lips have had the pleasure of smooching, but do not mistake my titling of these men as “toads” to mean that the smooching seshes were all that terrible.  In reality, I don’t know that I have ever kissed someone who was a terrible kisser. So, that’s one for me, and zero for you, universe! However, I have had my share of love life drama, a good portion of which is my own doing, I’m sure, and much of which has been a result of a simple kiss. Or a complex kiss. Or an Eskimo kiss. Or a we-probably-shouldn’t-be-doing-this-but-what-the-hell kiss, followed by a I-wish-we-had-done-that-for-longer daydream.

In any case, I have probably kissed fewer men than nearly all of you.  I can remember every single one. I can account for all them on fewer fingers than my two hands possess.  That’s a good sign right? 

One of the best parts of being involved with someone new is that first kiss.  Of course, there is always the possibility that the first kiss could be the last.  There is the possibility that the first kiss could be a mistake and the second kiss and the third kiss and the fourthfifthsixseventh will just be delaying the inevitable tossing of the toad to the curb.  Or something like that.  So I decided why not write a series of first kisses.  In no particular order.  Because that doesn’t matter.  They are all firsts.  Strange. Awkward. Sweet. Cute. Completely random. Nose bumping.  But that’s life. 

I will mention no names. I’m certainly one to kiss and tell, but the people don’t matter. They never really do. ….right?