CONVERSATIN' WITH MYSELF . . .

I wish I was a lot of things: a mathematician; a pediatric oncologist; a world-renowned novelist; a researcher on the verge of discovering a cure for AIDS . . . or allergies; a tall British woman; an independently wealthy philanthropist able to take vacations 40 weeks out of the year.

But one thing I really wish I was is THICK-SKINNED. I am way too sensitive and insecure about stuff -- and most of the time, stupid stuff that certainly shouldn't merit more than a nanosecond of registration in my brain. My parents ask me after I return from a first date when the second date is going to be; I sometimes think they're indirectly telling me I'm getting too old to be married off. A friend doesn't return a call or an email within the day; I sometimes think s/he is mad at me. The return phone call or email is not as long as my original message; I sometimes think s/he doesn't care as much as I do (completely ignoring, of course, the simple fact that I am much more verbose in all matters than is necessary) . . . and is still mad at me. My brother tells me I'm too tempermental; I sometimes think he's telling me I'm a bad human being and a horrible sister. Someone at work would rather talk to anyone else in the room than myself about business; I sometimes think s/he dismisses me because I'm an Asian woman. Actually, that last one might be true more often than not, so never mind -- I'm not totally crazy . . .

Sure, I can take a joke, even if it's about myself. In fact, I laugh at myself often and sincerely -- you know I do lots of stupid stuff, and I have the bruises and scars and incriminating photos to prove it. I fall down. I toe the edge of propriety by scratching the bare edge of my nostril daintily (when all I really want to do is get in there and get at the itch with a jackhammer . . . or my index finger). I walk around with spinach in my teeth. I mug for the camera. I stick my finger in food . . . even other people's food. I bump bumpers when parallel parking. I inadvertently grab people in inappropriate areas of their body. I can barely catch a ball, much less throw it, much less throw it where it's supposed to go. I sing senseless tunes and dance around the room like an insane woman. I swim like a cement block . . . no, make that two cement blocks tied together with cement rope. I snort when I laugh . . . and it ain't pretty. I run slower than I breathe while deep in REM sleep, and I have to fight the urge to flail my arms. I go about my daily life with various things sticking to my shoe, my hair, the back of my pants, the front of my shirt right where the nipple would be were I shirtless. I grew up with a wretchedly easy-to-pick-on last name, and it's still generating responses from the wannabe-stand-up-comedian crowd. Heck, I grew up Asian in an all-Italian, then all-Jewish neighborhood. And I'm short. My skin has gotten as thick as it could possibly get.

But that doesn't mean it doesn't have holes in it here and there. Is it just a matter of growing up and getting over it? Is it because I grew up with a relatively easy life and therefore don't have any truly horrible experiences to compare these piddling issues with? Is it because I'm a spoiled brat? Is it because people truly are mean to me and don't like me and I just don't know it yet? Is it because my expectations are too high of my friends and family? Is it because I have a sense of self-entitlement regarding people's behavior towards me? Is it because I'm just an over-sensitive sniveling weepy little baby with snot dripping out her nose and eyes becoming red-rimmed every time I suffer a perceived insult? Oh my goodness, what if it's all of the above?! Or none of the above -- then what do I do?! Feh, who knows . . .

I just would like to be more . . . peaceful. Just peaceful, within myself. No worries, no stupidity, no over-caring about what people -- close to me or not -- think of me, no unnecessary sniveling, no feeling sorry for myself, no trying to be something special to everyone. Just peaceful ol' me. That would be so lovely . . .


ON A LIGHTER NOTE . . .

My suspicions proved correct: C did turtle-nap my Squirt. Fortunately, I have photos and an incriminating letter from Squirt (written under duress, I'm sure) to prove it -- I shall be handing those over to the proper authorities and I trust that the matter will be resolved pursuant to the fullest extent of the law . . . or at least as it applies to plastic turtles from McDonald's . . .