Foolish Thoughts

I have to go back to the doctor this week…AND I’m not looking forward to it.

We’ve been friends a little over a year.  Not great friends, not good friends, not even talk on the phone friends, but friends just the same.  Sometimes we hangout with the same people, we do the same things.  We’ve talked, we’ve laughed, we’ve shared drinks, and now we’ve shared a touch, a moment.

It was a small intimate gathering, only eight of us.  We spent the majority of the night talking, laughing, telling stories, and pointing out those we don’t much care for, along with those that we do.  (Trust me; we are not as shallow as you might think).  As the night progressed we divided and made our way to separate parts of the house.  Some were on the deck, one opted for bed, and a few took up camp on the couch.    I, being tired, decided to partake in the couch conversation.  It was your everyday, late night, drunken male discussion, plus me.  And it also being three in the morning, I zoned out and lost complete interest.  Until, I felt the touch of his hand. 

I was alone on the love seat.  My back was up against the far armrest so I could look at all three gentlemen at the same time.  I wanted to make sure I was able to make eye contact when talking to each individual.  I was sitting on my left leg, while my right was pulled close against my chest.  I had my right arm flung and hanging over the back of the couch.  No one but he, was insight of my hand.  He was seated on a bar stool and was positioned in close proximity of the loveseat I was occupying.  We were all chit-chatting, enjoying the conversation.  Up to this point there had been no eye glancing, no flirting, no sexual innuendos, not a touch, not a graze, nothing.  So, when our hands slightly touched, I thought nothing of it.  I thought it was an accidental tap.  Those things happen.  They happen all the time.  But then it happened again, and again.  Then, with a slight move of the wrist, our hands were locked together.  Not once, during this whole encounter did we make eye contact.  I was in shock that it was even happening.  I was also enjoying every minute of it.  It was exciting.  It was our own little inside conversation, a secret that only the two of us shared.  It was fun and I wasn’t expecting it.  It was nothing more than a touch, an acknowledgment, but it was nice.  I didn’t want it to end.  But when it did, it wasn’t awkward.   We hugged, smiled, and said good night.   

In a year and a half, my mind never went there.  I never saw him as a possibility, only a nice guy who I sometimes hung out with, until now.  Now, I’m intrigued, I’m curious.  I want to know more.  I’m not sure if it’s the new attraction I have for him, or if it’s shear curiosity.  I want to get to know him.  And if there happens to be another accidental touch or maybe something more, then so be it.  It’s a chance I’m more than happy to take.

Mom:  Long sigh, accompanied with rolled eyes, “What’s wrong?”

Brooke:  “…………………..”

Mom:  “Why are you crying?”

Brooke:  (Insert horrible sobbing, along with snot and tears) “I don’t know.”

Mom:  “What do you mean you don’t know?  Is there something wrong?  Did you have a bad day at school?  Are you hurt?”

Brooke:  Still sobbing, “No…I don’t know.”

Mom:  “Brooke!”

Brooke:  “What?  I don’t know.”

Mom:  “Well, if nothings wrong then dry it up and put a smile on your face.”

Brooke:  “It hurts my face to smile.”

Mom:  Another long sigh, but with hands thrown in the air, “Fine.  Then cry.  I give up.”

Throughout my three years in junior high, this was the daily conversation my mother and I shared when she would get home from work.  I would be thrown across my bed, face down, crying into a pillow.  To talk, I would only slightly turn my head, never making eye contact with her.  She was concerned and she did care, but she was tired.  She was tired with it all, “It” being me. 

I hated junior high.  I hated going.  I hated being there.  I hated myself while I was there.  It wasn’t that I was an outcast, and I wasn’t that girl that everyone made fun of.  I had friends, but I wasn’t popular, that wasn’t the problem.  I didn’t mind that I wasn’t popular.  I felt that I was popular enough.  I had the cool clothes, the cool shoes, good grades, good hair, good complexion, and good friends.  But still, I was miserable and I would come home and cry everyday.  I guess puberty had a lot to do with it.  My hormones were severely off balance.  I believe I had a chronic stomach ache for three years.  I would refuse to go to school the week I was on my period, complaining that I was in too much pain, and my teachers wouldn’t allow me to go to the bathroom during class and I didn’t have time to go between classes.  I would beg my mother every morning to let me stay home.  This ploy only worked about once every two or three months.  On the days she made me go, I would call, usually after lunch and plead with her to come and get me.  This tactic rarely worked either, and when it did, I was not taken home, but taken to her office where I would bounce between examining rooms until the end of the day, when she was finished seeing patients.  How I rationalized this was better than being at school is still a mystery to me.

School overall, sucked.  However, what got me through each day, beginning in eighth grade, was my pre-algebra teacher, Mrs. Zutaut.  Without her, I’m not sure I would have made it through junior high.  She fascinated me and I looked up to her for that reason alone.  She took time to listen and offer advice.  She allowed me to hang out in her room when I didn’t want to go to class.  She was my safe haven, someone I could talk to, someone I could go to, someone who took an interest.  She was my teacher, a teacher who at the time cared.  While shuffling through boxes of my books today, I stumbled upon a book she gave me, along with a poem and a letter.  The poem said:

Tears streamed down my face as I read these words.  Still, after all these years I realize I still look to my parents, teachers, friends, and now even boy friends, and jobs to determine who I am.  Even years of maturing and growing, I have not learned to trust in myself.  I’m not sure if that’s a skill I will grasp.  I rely so heavily on what other people think that I’ve lost sight of who I am.  I realize I do this, but still, I continue to do it…Why?

Looking back now, I ask myself, was I a depressed teenager?  Sure.  Was I just going through a phase?  Yeah.  Did I eventually out-grow it?  Sort of.  My mother would say I’ve gotten better, but I still have my moments.  And I would have to agree with her.  I still go through days where I prefer to be alone and be down and depressed.  I feel you can’t be happy everyday, though my mother doesn’t agree.  She says, “Being happy is sometimes a choice, and sometimes you have to choose to be happy.”  I believe that’s true to a degree.  But then I feel that sometimes it’s ok to be sad and unhappy, and not know why.  I still hate it when she say’s, “Put a smile on your face, let me see the pretty girl hiding under that frown.”  And I always respond with, “It hurts my face to smile.”   

I woke up this morning thinking of cake.  Cake and ice cream.  I wanted both, I needed both, I needed them right then and I wasn’t going to be happy until I had them.  But, it was 8:32 am.  What kind of person wakes up at 8:32 am and craves cake?  And more importantly, did I want to fall into a category where gluttonous people scarf down pounds of cake and ice cream for breakfast?  Yes! Yes! Yes!  I did.  Though, there were two things preventing me from my bliss:  the cake and ice cream were down stairs in the kitchen, two flights down, and secondly, I hadn’t eaten any real food yet.  I’m hypoglycemic and if I eat sugar without first coating my stomach with a nice layer of carbs or protein, then my sugar shoots straight up then bottoms out.  And on the flip side, if I didn’t eat soon, then my sugar would bottom out from lack of sugar.  It’s a vicious cycle. 

I’m not worried about my figure so eating cake and ice cream for breakfast wasn’t that much of a concern.  Wait, who am I kidding?  I’m constantly worried about my figure and body image.  Every girl is and if she tells you she’s not, then she is a liar, a big fat liar.  I’m not saying that she is actually, big and fat, just that she is a liar.  Well, she may be big and fat, but that’s not the point I was trying to make.  I’ve stumbled off course here just a bit.  Let me get back on track.  MY figure.  Yes.  Is it something I should worry about? No.  Do I worry about it?  Yes.  It’s just a part of being a girl, and part of being a guy for a few men. 

However, at 8:40 am this morning, yes after contemplating and weighing the pro’s and con’s some time had passed.  I rolled out of bed, grabbed a pair of sweatpants out of the floor, (I wasn’t sure who was home, so I had to make sure that my bottom half was covered) brushed my teeth, peed, and then headed downstairs.  And then I saw it; the beautiful, big, white cake box sitting on the table.  It was calling my name… “Brooke!  Brooke!  Grab a fork and come and eat me, right out of the box.”  And I did.  I sat there and ate straight from the box.  There was no need for a plate.  Then, a few bites in I realized something was missing…ICE CREAM!  It’s just wrong and un-American to eat cake and not ice cream.  So, I go to the freezer and grab the carton of Turkey Hill Vanilla Bean ice cream, walk over to the dish rack and grab a big daddy spoon and head back to the table.  That’s right, I ate directly from the carton and I enjoyed every bite.  Spoon in one hand, fork in the other.

While I was partaking in this glutton cake act I began to recall all the times when my mom and I would eat cake for breakfast, it’s her favorite.  And like now, we would eat straight from the pan.  We would sit on the couch together, with the cake pan, and two forks, happy as could be.  Then I remembered something even better, Butter Cake, hot from the oven.  My mom would make a yellow cake and being the cake addicts we were and still are, we couldn’t wait for it to cool, so she would cut us each a piece and then just like cornbread, she would spread butter all over one side.  It is the most delicious, mouth watering experience.  But you have to do it when it first comes out of the oven when it’s still scorching hot.  I highly encourage everyone to try this, really, it’s delicious.

Then I started thinking about Charm City Cakes.  I want a cake by Duff so bad that I can hardly stand it.  I could literally spend hours watching Ace of Cakes.   It’s one of the best shows on TV right now.  They are beautiful and so creative, and the amount of time and detail spent on each cake is unbelievable.  I don’t even care what it tastes like, I just want one, and one day, I will have one.  This got me to thinking of other shows that I’ve seen about cakes.  Then I remembered, tucked away in the childhood corner of my mind, the episode of Reading Rainbow with LeVar Burton about cake making.  Aw, I loved me some Reading Rainbow.  In this particular episode they made a basketball cake, cheeseburger cake, and car cake.  Then LeVar took us to his house and he made his own cake.  Wow, I loved that show and PBS.  At seven, it’s hard to beat Public Broadcasting.

So, eating cake and ice cream for breakfast was pure bliss.  Not only was I eating cake and ice cream for breakfast, but I spent my Sunday morning recalling wonderful childhood memories.  However, it’s now 12pm and I’m sick to my stomach, lethargic in a low state sugar coma, lying in bed writing this post.  Will this be a lesson, teaching me that someone with low blood sugar should not eat cake and ice cream for breakfast?  No.  You’re not living unless you are eating pure sugar straight from the box and carton at 8:40am.  Let THAT be a lesson to you all.