Let’s talk
records for a second.
We all have two.
Or twenty-four of them.
Like a
personal best on responsible inebriation and the last time you've cast up your
accounts — on account of your idiotic
intoxication.. Thirty-two months ago.. Do
not party with a C.P.A. … They will drink you under the table, my friend.
Or number of
daily morning (6:40am) briefings I've been at least five minutes late to since
I've started my job here in Africa... All of them, but… six? So.. Somewhere
around 175…
Or… Amount
of time you can hold your breath under water. I’m at about five seconds there,
so… a little work in that arena might be a good idea. (Unless I’m wearing snorkel gear, for some
reason I don’t panic then)..
At any rate,
this tangent occurs to me in combination of the fact I've watched too many (all
of) Kevin Smith’s movies… and recently participated in a conversational game
(suggested by A—, I think?) called, well,
what it is, ‘First, Worst, Best, Last.’ As far as revealing party conversation games
go, it is fairly innocuous, and takes only a handful of minutes, and you move
on. Not nearly as banal or tedious as NHIE, or TOD or 7MIH… All of which are juvenile,
embarrassing to witness, let alone participate in; and rarely do anything to move the
conversation along, because how could they, seeing as they are designed to extract
unusually intimate information in the longest, most mind-numbing, method ever. (Another aside: PC Kenya’s Instagram pics showing
them playing beer pong on vacation, previous to PC service, terrified me with the prospect that I’d
be stuck reliving a college experience ten years later. Thankfully, Namibia has
not been quite so… scro. Miss you K—, M—, D—, et al.).
Anyway. The
way I hear it is Elvis bedded quite a few ladies. He was, after all the King. But,
as he shared a quite close relationship with his mother, his way of
figuratively notching the bedpost —
versus literally — was to notch a pair
of jockeys so she wouldn't get wise. (See what I did there M—, you grammar-nazi?) Who knows if this is
true, but it’s a rumor.
We all have
a prime number. The King’s was
everyone else’s prime number times 6 to the power of 25, or so. The standard
rule of thumb is to take a man’s admitted number and divide it in half. And a
woman’s number and double it. Because there’s a double standard. On everything.
Or everyone could be telling the truth all the time. Who knows? It’s what we
all least expect. (Or that’s what Steinbeck implies.)
But I keep
thinking of mine. Blame it on serendipity (or Clerks), but this here is blog
post no. 38. I've been staring at no. thirty seven for two days. And I've been
living in SW Africa for 10 months, almost exactly, if the incessant/constant
countdown by some of my other group 38 members is accurate. (Not that I wasn't
just complaining to A— the other day about my
own internal countdown that kicked in the day I got back to site)…
And my point
is that living here in this place gives you a lot of time to think. Yes, we’re
working our asses off, and according to the PC volunteer surveys, PC Namibia
volunteers mostly work far and away in excess of the normal 40 hour week… But
you still have a lot of time to really get to know yourself. This of course
implies one might not already be acquainted with themselves; and some of us aren't fully. You even might chalk up the number of existential crises up to time spent alone with one's self, really... (As an aside, I think all this time alone might be solidifying all of my bad
habits rather than breaking them…) But with all this time, we’re also trying to
figure out what we want next.
So I’m
thinking on my prime number. Have I hit it? Surpassed it? Can I even remember
it? Maybe I’m just getting old?
Here’s what
I know.
I’m twenty
nine years old.
I've been in
two serious relationships.
One, if I’m
truly being honest. And I hope I am.
I've kissed more men than I care to count.
I have felt an inexplicable, physiological connection five times.
I've been in
love three times.
I have the
best, most amazing, friends than I could ever hope for, even if I am a terrible
at correspondence. The antithesis of my mother, in that, at least. (Thank you
all for loving me, anyway, guys. I appreciate it).
So next for
me. Which side of my personality shall I embrace?
Becky Sharp?
Or Anne Shirley? Just their finer points? Or those not so fine?
And, really.
How did the number 37 take me on this unexpected mental ramble through the
weeds?
Oh. First, worst,
best, last.
Mother, turn
away.
F/W Same
guy. Ten years apart.
(If you’re not, technically, counting California C—, which I do, really, but not for this application).
B/L Same (but different from the above) guy.
The exercise struck me as waggish the way life turns out when you don't bother to look ahead.. The introduction of random information, situational
conversation, how it fires one’s mental synapses, and what it quickly reveals
about us.
Now playing:
A Goldfrapp + Grace Potter + Haibe Koite + Hall & Oates
+ Hot Chip random mix.
Perfect. And unsurprisingly alphabetical. Love my Zune.
