What’s the word for when you have a crush on someone, but in a strictly platonic manner. As in, you really want to be their friend.
Someone translated hydraulic press videos through interpretative dancing, and it’s the best thing I’ve seen so far this year. Not only is it a unique idea, but also it is super well-executed. I’m shocked the video has only 1,600 views.
So, I figure this means Sarah McCreanor isn’t famous enough to refuse my friendship. I, too, enjoy spending an inordinate time and energy creating something superfluous. She must also get “But why?’d” all the time.
Today I had an encounter with a former co-worker who quit to work for a competitor. This keeps happening. Why is this a thing? Do they get bonuses for providing their new employer with insider information? Although they mentioned going back to school, implying the new job wasn’t all that, and I had zero input to offer. I’ve never gone down that road. However, because I was in the middle of organizing socks on pegs, I could’ve serve as a cautionary tale. I should have asked what the field of study was because they could’ve answered, “Interpretative dancing.” And I’d have responded, “Duh, yes. Do it.”
I keep branching out to do something different in all aspects of life. So, if you, dear reader, prefer adventure over stability, then I can coach you through life. Or teach you how to afford new teeth on a shoestring budget! Go poor so that you don’t have to look poor!
Coincidentally, Gator and I had gotten into a discussion about schooling last night. I didn’t get a post-secondary education in part because I could not fathom paying rent while going to school.
Anyway, the things I would love to learn would not result in a better-paying job. I could dig being a pastry artisan, but not if it comes with a staggering debt. I could probably hack it the same way I ended up becoming a bike mechanic: be trained on the job.
Alternative, potentially stimulating careers that may or may not require a degree:
- Poultry judge
- Sarah McCreanor’s backup interpretative dancer
- Boiled water salesperson
- Being one of those fuckers who dart across the court to retrieve balls at tennis matches (Uh… Do tennis folk know about dogs?)
- Shitty advice columnist
- I don’t know
And, finally, professional grid wall reorganizer, which is a job I suck at doing. I pride myself in being a visual person, yet pegging sock styles in an aesthetically pleasing layout eludes me. I was instructed to leave a whole row for headwear when we only carried three units of one style, and I did not even contest this.
Serves me right for not pursuing an education.
My friends have to be ready for an abrupt change of subject. Unlike with blog posts, I can’t be bothered to look for a smooth transition. Even then, sometimes I still don’t bother.
Gator and I went from talking about school and work to the fashion choices of our teens.
I find it funny that there were specific articles of clothes all kids had to have, like that jacket, Club Monaco sweatshirts, checkered Umbro shorts, and Airwalks. In the late 90s, anyway. What have kids these days agreed upon as a must-have fashion item?
Champion sweatshirts? You could buy those at Costco.
Our conversation took a dark turn when we discussed how we’d like to be presented when being welcomed into the afterlife. I want to be buried in that diagonal Adidas logo windbreaker, with my hair pulled back in butterfly clips and my cold, dead skin slathered in body glitter. This is so that I’d make others suffer second-hand embarrassment, perhaps to the point that they’d die with me.
Gator had something more romantic in mind: Cremation, then be planted in a compostable box with tree seeds. A fruiting tree, so that her spirit can go into you when you eat her fruit.
I don’t have a photo of myself in that windbreaker online. But I recently tested the scanner side of my printer/scanner combo, so here’s a picture of 16-year-old me wearing the most glorious pair of pants I’ve ever owned. (And Airwalks.)
More importantly, I am now living in a house. I feel so grown-up. I can’t believe it. It’d been ten years since I last lived in a house, and it is so much better than living in an apartment.
I have my own door, around the side, past some prickly cotoneaster shrub that projects over the walkway, forcing a mini muddy detour. I clean my shoes using a doormat with “BE OUR GUEST” printed on it. The mat came with the place: I rotated it so that it’s like nature is welcoming me when I step outside. It is insanely wonderful.
I am not sure about my landlords yet, though. The feeling must be mutual.