Insecurities

I can't remember when exactly these thoughts started... they seem to stretch back forever in my mind at this point. It's not like I haven't ever thought about being in a relationship. I've done more than that, definitely. And when I picture myself in one, I'm happy. But then, in real life, when the moment comes closer and I'm on the verge of possibly becoming the me I am in my fantasies, I pull away, petrified. I've tried thinking of a psychological reason that I apparently want something so badly I tell myself I can't have it, but all I can think is, "You're not a psychologist, but you might want to think about seeing one, because you're freaking me out." 

This isn't just a phase, either. Since puberty I've gone through this cycle. In 5th grade, a boy told me he liked me, and for a little while, we dated -- or we came as close to dating as two 9-year-olds could even think of back in the days when it was perfectly acceptable amongst school peers when girls didn't lose their virginity before they were at least 16. We lived on the same street, we shared a bus stop in the mornings and afternoons, most days after school we spent together, playing in the middle of the street with the other children on the block until the sun went down and our mothers called us home. 

This relationship lasted about two months. I, being a normal 9-year-old girl, had experienced first love through role models such as Ella of Frell, Cinderella, Jasmine and Pocahontas. I knew that at some point in this relationship, we would start kissing. Valentine's Day was coming up, anyway, so that would be the perfect time to start, right? I mean, what's more romantic than Valentine's Day for Christ's sake? Every day at recess I would take to my favorite part of the jungle gym, the swings, and pump my legs faster and faster, propelling myself higher and higher as my thoughts spun in an endless loop of, "Chocolates. A rose. A kiss. Chocolates. A rose. A kiss." It was all I wanted from him. All I wanted out of life, for the week prior to the famed romantic holiday. 

But he was a 9-year-old boy, and 9-year-old boys don't kiss 9-year-old girls, no matter how hard they try to persuade them that they are the only girl in line that he likes. It didn't make any sense. He had started this. He had told me he liked me. He had asked me to be his Valentine, two months in advance. So why, now, right before that proposal was about to become a reality, was he rejecting my advances? We hadn't fought. We'd spent sufficient time together and apart, because, as I learned from my 14-year-old sister, that was important for couples. I had been a doting girlfriend, hadn't I? Supported him in arguments against his friends, smiled at him in class and in the halls, admired him, laughed at his jokes, hung out with his favorite people. 

And yet, there I was, boyfriendless, watching as he sat on the other side of the lawn and laughed with his friends. Occasionally, he'd look my way. For a second, there would be a glimmer of hope -- and then he would look back at his friends, shake his head, and snicker. 

Is this the onset of my two-month contingency plan? It's certainly when I decided that I'd know if I wanted to actually pursue a relationship past that point. Because if you don't like the person after two months, how are you going to feel about them after six? Or twelve? Can you really ever grow to love someone? The expression "it grows on you" isn't actually a declaration of how awesome that person is. In reality, if you really think about it, it's a type of suffocation, isn't it? Ivy grows on walls until the wall is completely blanketed. Mold grows on shower grout until the grout is covered and it's never clean again. 

I don't know about you, but I don't want anyone growing on me. That's how you lose yourself in them, and then what happens if they're suddenly hacked away from you? The light is shining down, you're in the spotlight and who are you? You're dependent on the growth. It's all you know. If you let it stay long enough, you can convince yourself you need it to survive. That's not what I want out of a relationship. I don't want someone growing on me, I want someone growing with me. I want symbiosis. 

You could argue that the definition of symbiosis is "two different organisms becoming dependent on each other," but there's a big difference between mutual dependence and desperate need. I need my pharmacist to give me prescriptions, and my pharmacist needs me to have prescriptions. But I could go to another pharmacist and get my prescriptions and we would all be ok with that. I can't, however, switch from nail polish to Jamberry nail wraps, because I'm 101% dependent on my nail polish to survive. Nail polish companies don't need me to buy their supply, but they constantly succeed in convincing me to, whether I want to or not. It's an impulse, a burning desire to own every shade possible. It's a sickness. 

But let's get back to my mental issues. 

I think 5th-grade-me took that rejection harder than I might've realized at the time. Back then, it was whatever. He was only a boy, after all. There would be others. I had my whole life ahead of me! And yes, I'm being dramatic right now. I'm only 22, people, I still have my whole life ahead of me. Only now it's looking like a pretty pathetic cat-lady life instead of the awesome husband-kids-house-shebang I've had in mind practically my entire life. But from that moment on, I stayed away. I didn't seek out relationships. I harbored crushes almost painfully (and also at times embarrassingly because...well...I'm an average girl), I fangirled over cute boys on TV, in my class, in books. I once created a Neopets username that was an admission of love for a boy in my class. I still have that account, although the password escapes me and my pets are probably dead. And that's a real shame, because I had acquired a lot of really awesome forum avatars on that account. 

No, I will not be disclosing the name of the account. Back, vultures, I'm giving you too much already. 

When 6th grade came around, it was time to retire from elementary school and hit the big leagues: middle school. The rules were different here. You were expected to act like an adult. You only had one minute to get your books from your locker between classes, and you were not allowed to take your bag to class! Things were getting serious now. The movies that were coming out were about kids our age. Harry-freakin'-Potter was 11 when I was 11! (Although not really because the whole series takes place from 1991 onward and that's the year I was born...BUT the first movie came OUT the day after my 10th birthday and the NEXT one didn't come out until my 11th birthday, so close enough.)

I spent my first year in middle school crushing on one boy, giggling about him with my bestie Veronica, and being generally invisible to all the boys in our grade except the ones I sat with on the bus (in other words: my forever-friend Cory, who still has a mysterious green pen I apparently gave him before I moved to Europe, whom I met in 5th grade after the boyfriend fiasco, and who gifted me a tiny little $0.50 piece of orange topaz that he bought off the side of the road because he saw it and thought of me. I still have that tiny piece of topaz, by the way, just like he still has that pen even though it's been nearly 10 years since I gave it to him and it probably doesn't even write anymore. And the Queen of Runon Sentences is taking a breath and moving on.), and the boy who lived across the street but didn't go to the same school as I did.

Come 7th grade, I had managed to worm my way into the social system. I had friends, there were sleepovers involved, and people knew me. I had a reputation. I don't exactly remember what it was now, 13 years later, but I had one. 6th grade was the year one of my friends got a boyfriend and made me play messenger-pidgeon by way of passing notes. This boyfriend, you'll see, would play an important role in my life. 7th grade was a whole new ballgame. This year, the boy across the street switched to my school, and I was his only friend. He was placed in the special education class because he had certain learning disabilities that needed monitoring until the school deemed him to be at the same level as his peers. At first, our friendship seemed strange. He was very tall, muscular, good-looking (yes, there was a small crush there -- but nothing out of the ordinary for two kids who spent all their afternoons together. He and the ex did not get along, which meant that he and I got on splendidly because the ex was being a big jerk still. And forever more.), and he was new, exciting, and, unfortunately, a "sped" (= alien) in the eyes of our fellow students.

He turned to me in the halls for conversation, we ate lunch together, and we even shared some classes together (gym, computer science, reading comprehension, the like). Soon, though, the rest of the grade saw him as I did, and everyone wanted to be his friend. He was more than accommodating, naturally. Who doesn't like being popular? But while he now spent more time with other people in school, he was still pounding on my apartment door every day 15 minutes after we got off the bus, asking me to come hang out. And before you get all "grrr, how could he pretend not to like her in front of other people?!", he didn't. In fact, this is where my friend's boyfriend comes in. 

You see, K (my friend) broke up with B (the boyfriend) a few months into the school year after realizing that she didn't actually like him (I'm not the only one with the contingency plan!), and because I'd befriended him while the two were going out (it would've been awkward not to, being that I was reading all of their sappy little notes back and forth to each other), B turned his newly single attention on me. Mostly, I suppose, because I was an easy target. We spent at least two hours every morning sitting relatively close to each other (our last names both started with C, thus every alphabetized seating chart was our enemy), and he was a flirt. Plain and simple. The boy liked it when girls gave him attention. Any kind of attention. With me, it was annoyed attention mixed with flirting mixed with a certain level of shy awkwardness because I was definitely not used to boys putting their hands on my knee under tables or playing footsies with me. 

Needless to say, when J (the boy-next-door-ish friend) came into the picture, things did not go too well. As I mentioned, J had picked seats near me in the classes we shared, which included the ones with B. In the seating chart classes, he couldn't do anything about B and I, but in classes like Reading Comprehension, where you were allowed to sit where you wanted as long as you shut up and read your book for an hour, J and B chose to sit on either side of me. While it felt kind of cool to be sitting in between these two cute boys, it turned out to be a refereeing position. J and B disliked each other (for many reasons, and I was definitely one of them), and because the teacher barely acknowledged us save for the occasional "Back to your books!" and stern look, the boys had ample time to verbally assault one another. 

Each day started out the same. We would sit down in our row, pull out our books. I would pick up where I left off in my book (not much farther than the day before, naturally), and the boys would pretend to read until the class settled down enough for the teacher to start ignoring us. Then, B would casually strike up a conversation with me, and when I responded, J would insert himself into the conversation, until it was just the two boys talking with me trying to mediate between them. As annoying as it was trying to settle two preteens in an argument, I reveled the jealous looks the other girls gave me when I succeeded in quieting them down with a look. It's addicting, power. Being able to make one boy shut up without saying a word is intimidating enough, but two? Practically unheard of. Respect. That's what it was. And it felt good. 

Plus, what girl doesn't like seeing two guys fight over her? It's sexy, no matter what age. Or if you even know what sexy is at that age. For me, it was overwhelming. Suddenly I had gone from the girl boys couldn't see to the girl who had guys fighting to talk to her. Not just J and B, either. A boy I had never even spoken to invited me to his birthday party. Boys in my class started talking to me, asking me things, taking my advice. It was amazing. I could casually walk up to one of them in the hall, say hi and walk away again and it would be no big deal, whereas the other girls in my grade spent an entire class period coming up with grand schemes to get their attention. 

I was fearless. 

And yet, I was still afraid. Sure, I could talk to them about anything, anything except dating. I couldn't walk up to them and ask them if they wanted to go to mall on Friday. I couldn't suggest going to see a movie on Saturday night. Hell, I could barely ask them if they were planning to go to the semi-formal. (Only 8th graders got actual formals, where you dressed up and got a corsage and everything. We pretty much got to shake our behinds to trendy music in our plain old jeans and tees, watch a movie, sing karaoke or play basketball in the gym...) I was their friend. Not girlfriend material. Or maybe that was just how I projected myself? Afraid of the sting of a similar relationship to the one I'd had in 5th grade, perhaps? 

But at the same time, I didn't spend any time outside of school with them, except for J. I was not invited to their fun Friday night parties, nor was I included in their mall excursions (it was the hotspot for us). No, the pretty girls were invited. The girls with the long, silky hair, perfect skin, eyes, and teeth. The girls who wore tiny shorts and shirts and got away with it. I wore beat up jeans and shirts that hid what few curves I actually had. My hair was cropped short, as it still is now, and I wore glasses. My teeth were crooked and the lightest shade of yellow. I was gaining weight and not shedding any pounds. 

I never thought about those things before I got to middle school. My hair was cut short because I'd played with scissors when I was in 1st grade and my mom had to take me to the hairdresser to fix it, which ended up with a pixie cut that I just never grew out of. To this day, my hair can't grow past the very tip of my shoulders without me getting the overwhelming urge to chop it all off and start the painful growing process once more. I wore baggy, messed up clothes because I didn't feel like changing when I got home from school and went exploring in the mini-woods behind my apartment. My mother yelled at me every day when she saw my mud-caked shoes and sent me straight down to the washing room to scrub them clean. 

But then something miraculous happened. We got a new student in the middle of the year. R was shy and adorable. He, like me, had moved around so much as a kid that he had trouble making friends, which made us almost magnetic. It wasn't long before we were sitting in the upstairs computer lab, using a math program to try and learn a bit of computer skills for the "real world" applications(Who needs THOSE classes nowadays? Yeesh.) and he was passing me a note in our ingenious "mathematical" code (A=1, B=2, etc...) that said he liked me and he wanted to date me. Personally, that's the cutest proposition ever. But that could just be my lack of experience in people asking me out speaking. Anyway. 

So, R and I were dating. And he kissed me! Actually, he asked if he could kiss me. Every time. Apparently, he felt like he needed my express permission before he kissed me. Slightly depressing that I was giving off this vibe, and that was apparent to me back then, too. Long story short, R and I broke up when I learned I was moving to Europe that summer. He insisted he was going to break up with me right before summer anyway, even though he tried extremely hard to get me back up until that last day. There was a mortifying incident with a pretty flower with a note attached to it placed on my seat. How cute, I ask you. How cute? Needless to say, I crushed the flower because I was too busy focusing on a conversation to look before I sat down. 

Confession time, though. I'm sorry, R. If you ever manage to find this and read this and recognize yourself in this story...I wasn't being completely honest. I didn't break up with you because I was moving. Well, not only because of that. It was also because I had a crush on my friend A's boyfriend's brother and I thought that if I was single, I might have a shot at him. Before you get too mad, though, here's a little sweet revenge for you: Right after I broke up with you for him, I found out that he'd started dating A's cousin. That's what I get for trying to be a vixen. 

Let's just say I was happy to have the move to fall back on. 

In Europe, there were only two significant crushes. One was a stupid boy that wasn't worth my time at all (think 5th grade here, people, only we never actually dated), and the other was a boy who told me flat-out that he would not consider dating me, although he wouldn't say why. I imagine, as I always do, that it was the way I looked. We remain friends, though, to this day. I hope. We haven't talked in a while, but that's actually fairly normal. 

No, my time in Europe was spent fixating on one boy. Now, this is a story you've heard before if you've read this blog. This is the story of Eric. Although I'm pretty sure my last post was around a year or more ago, I don't remember if I've updated you yet, so here's a quick recap:

Eric and I were never actually friends in middle school, but we became friends talking online after I moved to Europe. He told me he'd liked me the entire time, but he'd been too afraid to talk to me before I left. We dated briefly (2 months! Go figure.) before I broke it off because I couldn't handle the long-distance. In reality, Eric, it was because I was crushing on the first Euroboy. But I wasn't going to tell you that. Not when you signed your emails "love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love, etc..." 

After we broke up, we stayed friends, and after a while I developed feelings for Eric again. Strong feelings. I eventually realized I was in love with him, just in time for him to tell me that he had a Valentine. That day has never been my favorite, let me tell you. Their relationship lasted a long time. He lost a lot of friends because of it, but I stuck by him, because I knew it wasn't going to last. I talked him through his first kiss. I let him vent about his sexual frustration. I painfully gave him advice about how to woo her. All the while, I was hopelessly infatuated with this boy, and I couldn't tell him. 

Eventually, they did break up, and it was a glorious moment for me. But he took it hard. So hard, in fact, that he's been known to say he "doesn't remember anything before her". Including, but not limited to, the fact that he technically dated me. I was forgotten. He never liked me, never asked me out, never talked to his friends about me, wrote poems and songs and stories and blog posts for me. I was just a friend. And that's who I stayed for the next 6 years. A friend. Through the tough times, dealing with insomnia and depression and cutting. Through the happy times, graduation, aspirations to be an HVAC repairman. And through his second Earth-shattering relationship: Crissa. The girl who started out so sweet, so nice, turned evil. To be fair, it was not his finest moment either. Somehow, I was involved in both sides of the fall of their relationship, admonishing both of them. 

But I was Eric's girl, and I always would be. Eventually, he realized that too. And he realized that he loved me. And so we dated. Online. Of course. I was determined to make it work this time, though. I mean, we'd spent 6 years talking to each other every blessed day. How could an online romantic relationship not work out between us? 

Well, the online portion did, at least. 6 months we spent together, me in Europe, him in America, and then came the day when we finally met face-to-face again. It was emotional for both of us. He'd won me two stuffed animals (my weakness, which he well knew) from a claw machine, and our big reunion was to be spent with his family and friends over 4th of July weekend. Awkward, yes, but now I wonder if it wouldn't have been more awkward to spend the time alone, given what happened. 

Basically, once we'd spent actual time together, physically, in the same time-zone, the same city, we just...stopped talking. Online, in person, altogether. I knew from the get-go that he wasn't a talker. His mother had gone to great lengths to warn me about the "family curse for men", but I believed that I loved him enough to get past it. She'd done it, so why couldn't I? 

That is how I learned an important lesson: Never be certain about the future. Never claim you'll act a certain way in a situation you've never faced before. You do not definitively know how you're going to deal. You can hope for one reaction, strive towards it, try to have that reaction, but you will never know your true reaction until you're in that situation. In my case, I had the opposite reaction than I'd expected. 

But I'm not completely to blame here, and if anyone asks, that's what I'll tell them. Neither of us made the effort. I didn't text him first, and he didn't text me first. We didn't talk online anymore. When we hung out, it was on Sunday nights, when his mother forced him to invite me over for dinner with the family, and the entire night was spent under her supervision. All in all, there was no alone time. 

And the one time that I took the initiative to actually be a girlfriend, I invited him to hang out with my friend H and her then-boyfriend-now-husband S. This turned out to be a bad idea, as Eric spent the entire time talking to S, while H and I busied ourselves with other things. Eric and I barely said a word to each other. 

And another confession here: When I broke up with you, Eric, it wasn't just because of our lack of conversation. Among other things, it was because we'd been together for 8 months and you had yet to try and kiss me. Every time you drove me to or from work, I leaned in, and you hugged me. So I kissed your cheek. And when I went for your mouth, you turned away. That stung. Badly. 

And while we were playing absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder, I was getting closer to V, a mutual friend. So close, in fact, that I started developing feelings. But could you blame me? I had a boyfriend who barely spoke two words to me anymore after 6 years of non-stop communication, and a friend who just would not stop asking to spend time with me. It was only natural for me to gravitate towards him. People crave affection and acknowledgment, Eric. I wasn't getting that from you, unfortunately, no matter how much I wanted it. 

And so, the epic, 8-year-long tale of Eric-and-Cassy ended with a barely audible whisper. The crowds booed. I dated V. 

I won't rehash the whole relationship with V, simply because it's still fresh, even if it's already been 2 years since we broke up. V was doting, loving, and caring. But he saw far ahead into the future for us, too far for me to even fathom. He was talking children and buying a house, my future was wondering what to do on our next date besides going to see a $2 movie. 

The night we broke up was both pre-planned and spontaneous. I suggested we go for a walk instead of seeing a movie so that I could escape easily if need be. It's what I do, if you haven't noticed by now. I escape. Run away. Horrible habit. Anyway, that night, I had planned on breaking up with V. I knew I was moving to Florida soon, by the Summer at the latest, and I didn't intend on keeping a long-distance boyfriend again. I figured if I cut ties now, before anyone got too attached, it would be easier. Over the course of the night, however, I realized that V was already too attached. It started off small. What-Ifs. Then it was, "our kids", and "when we're married", and when it started to rain and we ducked into the YMCA for a brief respite, even the woman at the reception desk offered us a family plan. "For you and your children!" Because apparently we looked like a married couple with kids old enough to participate in the activities at the YMCA. For two 20-year-olds, that was sort of a slap in the face. Or maybe it just says a lot about teen pregnancy in America? Either way.

After the YMCA, we hit up the gas station store where S worked. S, who had just married H not even a month ago, and could not stop talking about weddings. He asked us to not get married for at least a year (we'd been together for around 2 months at this point, mind you) because he didn't want to have to wear a tux again for at least that long. So, apparently everyone was telling us we were getting married except me. Because I was 20. I didn't have a career yet. I didn't have any plans for the future. I hadn't done anything in my life yet! I wanted to be young, to not be tied down by marriage or kids, to live my life a little before I settled down. 

When I was little, I used to imagine myself living in a large house in the country with a loving husband and two little boys zipping across the yard after our family dog and other pets. I used to tell people, "I want to be married by 22 and have a kid by 25." It wasn't until I was 20 that I realized that I didn't want to be married yet. And it wasn't until this year, at 22, that I admitted that I didn't really want children at all. Maybe that will change, who knows. But I still don't want to get married yet. I want to date, date a lot of different people. I want to date every type of man. An older man, a man my age, an immature man, a too-mature man, a stubborn man, a mean man, a good man...all different kinds of men so that when I do get married, I can know I've chosen the right one. Because I don't believe the bullshit about "knowing" the moment you meet him. 

Life, despite my hardest efforts, is not like the movies. There are no happy endings and cookie-cutter plots. Life is difficult, and different for everyone. Some people get everything and want nothing. Some people get nothing and want everything. And some people get the things they want. It turns out that I don't actually know what I want. 

Especially not when it comes to men. Do I want a jealous man? Do I want a protective man? Do I want a pretty man? Do I want a hardcore man? Some things I've learned about myself in the past year:

• I'm an emotional person. The girl who could not, would not cry at movies now bawls her eyes out at the slightest emotional musical movement. Or, you know, at work when she drops a tray or gets awarded Employee of the Month. 
• I'm strong. Sometimes, I wonder if I make myself unavailable because I don't ask for help. But most of the time, I don't need help, so why should I ask for it when I could just as easily do it myself? Do guys respect me when I show them I can do things for myself, or would they prefer me to ask them for help once in a while just to show them that I am vulnerable?
• More importantly, shouldn't I want a man who likes me even if I don't need him? 
• I like a guy until the moment he starts liking me back. I don't know what it is. There is a mental block in my brain: Whenever things get close to romance, I shut down. I start seeing all their faults. 
• Most of those faults are appearance-related. Yes, I like my men pretty. No, I don't know many pretty men. 
• I dislike it when people offer assistance. It makes me think they think I'm weak, and I dislike that insinuation. Even though most of the time, they're only asking to be polite or because they think I might truly need it. Which I sometimes do, but generally those aren't the times people ask me if I need any help. Ironic.
• That goes back into the whole strong woman v. damsel in distress inner debate.
• I have a short fuse when things aren't done a certain (my) way. I tend to get bitchy when this happens. And I sigh and huff a lot. 
• I also over-dramatize illness. 
• But that's because I don't get sick often anymore and when I do, I feel like I have to make a big deal out of it so people will take it seriously. 
• I may have gone from 226 lbs. to 180 lbs., but I don't like it when people comment on it. Saying things like, "You look so great!" or asking me how much weight I've lost are not compliments to me. I'm of the opinion that people should look great at any weight, and telling me I look great now is like comparing me to an ugly troll version of myself six months ago. I could easy get back to that weight, and I don't like the reminder that it's not desirable. 
• On the other hand, I do like it when people notice my body. They just aren't allowed to make comparative comments about it. 
• Also, I don't like black guys. I'm just going to say that flat out. At least not the black guys I know personally. They have the annoying habit of making every goddamn thing I say or do sexual. It pisses me off to no end that every last word out of their mouths has a sexual connotation. They also generally ask me out before they ever get to know me and then get offended when I tell them no. Repeatedly. This, too, pisses me off. If I told you once I didn't want to date them, asking again a week later will not magically change my mind. In fact, you're cementing the decision. And don't get offended when I say no. Not every girl is going to fall at your feet because you give them the slightest bit of attention. 
• I hate it when people tell me that a guy "must be insane to not ask you out", because this means that either all the guys in the world are insane, or just all the guys I happen to want to ask me out are insane, or that there's something about me that they see that just turns them off before they ever think of asking me out. 
• I also dislike it when people ask me why I don't have a boyfriend "yet". What does that even mean? Is it mandatory for a woman my age to have a boyfriend? Do I absolutely need a boyfriend? Is it necessary for my well-being that I have a significant other? 
• "Why don't you ask him out?" I've tried this before. It has not ended well. Not one. single. time. 
• I like the guys that will never like me. That's just it, plain and simple. It's the most basic case of "we want what we can't have". What I wonder is: Why do I think they don't want me? Is it because they haven't asked me out? Or because I think I'm not good enough for them? Or maybe it's because I see the girls they do ask out and they are nothing like me. So now my question is: Are those guys really the ones I should want, or should I set my sights on other people? Also: Where do I find those other people? Because I've looked, and hey! I "still" don't have a boyfriend, do I?
• If I have nothing to say, I don't talk. I will literally sit in silence forever if I can't think of anything to say. I will engage in conversation if someone starts it, but if they let it die out, it is not because of me. Unless I'm mad at them, in which case I will give them very curt answers. 
• I would rather read a book than engage in small talk. If you see me out in public and I'm reading, just don't engage unless you actually have something to say. If you manage to catch my eye as I'm turning a page or something, feel free to nod and wave, but please, please, please don't feel obligated to come over and try and talk to me about nothing. You're just annoying and I want to get back to my book. 
• The same rules apply to headphone wearing. If you see me wearing my headphones with both ears plugged in, don't talk to me unless it's important enough for you to shake my shoulder. If both headphones are in my ears, chances are I will not hear you over the music. This isn't incidental, people, that is by design. If I wanted to hear other people, I would leave one ear open to conversation, or I would just not be wearing them at all. Simple. 

So, if you've stuck with me this far, congratulations. You've probably just wasted a huge chunk of your life trying to figure out what's wrong with me. If you're a psychologist, feel free to comment. If not, you can comment, but it probably won't be that helpful. Thanks anyway. :)

Live, laugh, love!

--Cassy