No, I Don't Want to Give You a Gift.

My supervisor likes receiving things. It makes her feel appreciated. I'm not really one for giving/receiving gifts. The first year I worked with her, on her birthday, I failed to give her anything. I mean, I barely knew her; I had only been working with her for a few months. She didn't speak to me for the entire day. This year, I gave her flowers on her birthday. She loves flowers. She was super nice to me that day.

Today is her last day. I didn't get her anything. This morning, I scrambled at the last minute to pool money with other coworkers to get her something. We all generally fail at life.

Have you heard of the five love languages? Alright. Well if you haven't, click here.


Obviously.

I just never valued it. I respect that people feel a sense of appreciation from it. But my pickle doesn't get tickled. When people give me gifts, I get all weird. Mostly because I'm not sure if "thank you" is enough. I just generally suck at giving gifts. They'll either be not sentimental enough (apparently) or too overpriced. What gives?

I like spending time with people. I like receiving text messages or emails from friends saying they're thinking of me. I like having dinner with people, I do enjoy one-on-one time, especially with people who I care about.

Once a boyfriend broke up with me because I didn't give him a gift. BUT HE TOLD ME HE DIDN'T WANT ANYTHING FOR HIS BIRTHDAY. WHATTAHAILS? Okay, I'm sure that we had problems that escalated to our eventual breakup, but that's what he told me--that I hadn't gotten him anything for his birthday. Lame.

Phone Conversations with a 6-year-old.

CM: When are you coming back?
Me: In July. Or April.
CM: Come back in August too.
Me: Why?
CM: So we can be a normal family.
Me: Aww, baby what's a normal family?
CM: Where we are all together and we go camping.

I love my baby brother, times infinity. I wish I could be around him more often. He was born right when I left for college so I only see his childhood through photos, videos, and phone calls. As much as I can't wait for him to grow up so we can take him on week-long road trips, or so he can spend his spring break in New York with me, I want him to stay little forever. I want him to have this kind of untainted wonder where he's not scarred or damaged. But I also want him to grow and experience, love and hurt, and spread his happiness to the world.

I can now see why my parents were so overprotective of my siblings and me.

Photographs.

"Why don't you have any photos of yourself up?"
"I do. See?" She pointed to a framed photo of herself with her siblings.
He laughed, "No, like photos just of yourself."

She looked up from where she was rummaging and shrugged. "Can I take photos of you then?" With his fingers, he made a rectangular shape, pointed at her, and clicked his tongue to make the sound a camera would make if it were taking photos. "You should have more photos of yourself. Why wouldn't anybody want to have photos of just you?"

"I blink a lot and it ruins photos."
"Well, let me take them, then. You won't ever want to blink if you're looking at me."
She burst into laughter and handed him a small stack of photos. He flipped through them, his smile getting wider and wider.
"Can I have a few of these?" He raised a few photos up, his face still buried in the photos. She ignored his question and continued searching for something in another box.

As he was leaving, he held up three photos. "Do you mind if I have these?"
"But why? I thought you were going to take photos of me with your oh-so-awesome camera."
"I don't know. You just look so happy. And you're almost sort of cute in this one."
She shrugged and thought of a better idea. "Why don't you just take a photo of me with your phone. That way, you can have a photo of me to look at whenever you want. Digital is so much cooler. And if you're really into that pseudo-vintage stuff, then instagram it."
"If you really don't want me to have these, you can just say so."

She felt bad. Those were photos taken by somebody else who elicited those happy moments. They were from a different time in her life. They were smiles meant for somebody else. There's a memory behind each photo and she didn't want him to have any of them. It's not the way she'd like to part with them.

In the end, they sat on the stairs and he took a photo of them.
"I promise I'll take as many photos of you as I can if you let me."
She sheepishly handed him the three photos she had confiscated from him.
"No, it's okay. I think I kind of get it."

---
I've always thought it was a bit self-serving to put photos up of one's self. I don't get it. It's like--don't you know how you look? Why do you need a photograph of yourself up on your wall?? I guess, whatever, to each their own.

I Don't Want to be an Old, Ugly Cat Lady.

"You need to cry. You need to cry over your breakup. We think that's what's best for you right now. Your problem is that you haven't cried over it. It's unnatural that you haven't shed a single tear since the breakup."

"I have cried over it. When I was in the relationship, nearing our end, I cried a lot and now that it's over, I have no more tears for it. It's over. I've left it all behind. And I just don't want to cry anymore; it's tiring. That's the reason I left...because I was tired of being in a relationship where I cried often."

And come on, admit it: girls who cry too much can get super obnoxious. Super fast.

Last night, I did cry however. I cried because I don't want to become jaded. I don't want to be mistrustful of every guy I meet, always thinking that they have an agenda. I don't want to have self-fulfilling prophecies about relationships, thinking that the next guy I'm with will somehow mess up. I don't want to have my guards up. I know some of you will regard me as naive and possibly even reckless, but when I fall in love, I want it to be completely unadulterated. I don't want to compare the next guy with the last.

After every broken and lost relationship, I feel like I am slowly become that person. That person who sneers at talks of falling in love and being loved. That person who gives out relationship advice that is rooted in spite. That person who needs to find a fault with every guy they are with just because she thinks that she's been in enough relationships to know that "guys are all douchebags." That person who thinks that everything remotely kind said to her is a lie.

There is a fine line between being cautious and being a difficult bitch. I don't want to ever cross it. I want to let every guy who I have interest in, prove themselves to be who they are, not by my experience and expectations. If they're a douchebag, they'll be one in time and it will be on account of their faults. And if they aren't, well then, I'll see it in time as well.

I cried because I don't want to be an old, ugly cat lady who hates and complains about everything (lol yeah I have my priorities in check). They're just always so unhappy! I don't know what I would do with myself if I were ever that unhappy all the time. Being that unhappy requires so much effort.

The Wounds We Make

I found this story on some Buddhist website:

Once upon a time, there was a little boy with a bad temper. His father gave him a bag of nails and told him that every time he lost his temper, he should hammer a nail in the fence.

The first day the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. But gradually, the number of nails dwindled down. He discovered it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence.

Finally, the first day came when the boy didn't lose his temper at all. He proudly told his father about it and the father suggested that the boy now pull out one nail for each day that he was able to hold his temper.

The days passed and the young boy was finally able to tell his father that all the nails were gone. The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence. "You have done well, my son, but look at the holes in the fence. The fence will never be the same. When you say things in anger, they leave a scar just like this one. You can put a knife in a man and draw it out, it won't matter how many times you say 'I'm sorry,' the wound is still there."