Memory Lane

Memory Lane is such a treacherous road. I pulled out the old hard drive that contains back-up files of the past 8 years of my digital life, and I realized that no matter how many times you go through and machete the hell out of that trail, it always ends up overgrown. The fact that it always grows back isn’t always terrible, it’s just different branches from the same trees with new individual leaves. And to get through without too many scratches, you have to hack them down sometimes.

All of my ex-boyfriends except for one live in New York. Today, I ran into one of the most prominent people in a particular point in my life. He was the treasure of my heart for a year and a half, and it ended badly and immaturely. He looks great and seems to be doing well, although maybe a little skittish around me. He has good reason to be wary of me. The first time I saw him at a party a few months after we broke up, I drank a bit too much and told him in front of the entire room, “That awful mustache has gotta go.” Certainly not my finest or proudest moment, but I apologized for it later, and I was granted forgiveness.

Looking at the photos of us dancing and giggling and kissing brought back all of the wonderful details of young love, and how very silly it all is. We were a beautiful couple, him with cinnamon colored skin and jet-black hair, me with the flawless snow-white complexion and dark dyed hair, both of us with the brilliant smiles that beam with youthful optimism. And we had little but fun together, going on road trips around the Southeastern US and once to Hawaii with my family.

Today in the park, the two of us didn’t look too different or much older than we did those five or so years ago, but that palpable carefree exuberance is gone from both of us, possibly forever. Maybe the city took it out of us. Or perhaps if I can keep from pulling out my machete so frequently, I can allow myself to get scratched and maybe notice some of the older trees a little off the trail that seem to stay the same year after year.

Me, playing guitar

So, I have been trying to learn to play the guitar for years now. And I'm making rather slow progress.

But I thought maybe if I post about my progress, that could motivate me. I just this morning discovered that I can see the mistakes better and hear them better on video. So here's a video of me playing the guitar and singing.

About halfway through there is a really loud saw outside. Ooops. Anyways, I hope this isn't one of those cringe-inducing clips for my family and friends. I'm getting better every day. I promise.

3 Most Important...

The top three most important qualities to embody and look for in another person:

1. Loyalty
2. Love
3. Lack of Judgment (meant to be taken both possible ways)

Quilting B

I try to not be materialistic, but sometimes it’s impossible for me not to sentimentalize an object. If you ask yourself, “What would I grab and bring with me if my house were on fire?” and consider it, I think you could gauge your level of materialism. You’d also hopefully notice how many valuable things you have in your life because of your emotional attachment to them, and how easily some things can symbolize a person or an idea.

The first thing I’d grab is the quilt my grandmother made for me when I went off to college. It’s black and white triangles in a really simple linear pattern. It looks quite handmade, but it also looks incredibly modern. When I moved from a twin bed in the dorms to a full size bed, it seemed like the quilt was getting a bit small, and now that I sleep on a queen size bed, it doesn’t cover the sheets. Those cotton pills are forming on it, so I think I have to stop washing it or start repairing it.

Since she’s no longer with us, I don’t know if I am qualified to repair this quilt. Mimi was a perfectionist beyond perfectionism, and I know that she’d be furious if I did a shoddy job on it. I suppose I will have to leave it as is and let it age with me throughout my life, reminding me of one of the most important women in my entire life.

Things I want to teach my future children....

If you have a sense of humor about it, you'll never regret that tattoo/drug usage/ time you danced on a table.

My unabashed love.

I love Facebook. I don’t care what any detractors have to say about it. Recently I discovered my genuine love of people in real life. I had considered myself a disgruntled neurotic with the constitution of a hardened New Yorker for most of my life. However, that hard exterior has proven to be a soft cocoon, and I’ve emerged a very Southern and warm butterfly or at least one of those really pretty moths.

Now that I love people, I want to get to know them all. Or at least as well as I can in the limited amount of time I have to spend with them. And here is where the glory of the Internet comes in. I can keep in contact with my friends all over the world without having to track their phone numbers down and leave them voicemails. Some might say this cheapens relationships. I disagree completely. Recently, I posted on my Wall that I was flying down to Nicaragua to go surfing and less than half an hour later, I got an email from a friend I had met in Costa Rica a few weeks before. She said she’d meet me in Nica for a few days of surfing together in the middle of my trip. She showed up, and it was amazing. A quick opportunistic vacation friendship has now turned into a Surf Buddy friendship hopefully for life. We’re plotting our next trip at this very moment.

In spite of this love of the World Wide Web, there are still complications. Just today, I had a chat conversation where all subtlety was lost. I am a relatively good communicator in person using hand gestures a lot, and I’ve got expressive eyebrows and a loud voice. But this chat went awry when I tried to be coy and flirtatious while typing with a guy who speaks English really well but it’s still his second language. The Internet will rob you of your game every time. Instead of impressing this guy with my coolness, I think I may have insulted him deeply. I was just trying to be funny, but I suppose I need to be a bit more sensitive with my sense of humor when dealing with matters of the heart over the Internet.

But if it weren’t for the Internet, I’d never have been able to contact this person in the first place. Or I would have had to write a letter. I can only imagine how much humor and subtlety gets lost by the Postal Service every year.

What's in a name?

I’ve never had a nickname that stuck for very long other than Breastany in my early years of high school. Puberty was good to me in the boob department, but that moniker became a bit of a cruel joke after I got mono in 10^th grade and lost about 15 pounds, most of it in the upper body still never to return. My best high school friends still use this in mass emails and at group reunions, sometimes even going a step further and just using “Breast.” I’ve kept a sense of humor about it all these years. I might as well, because it probably won’t ever go away entirely.

Otherwise, BethyLou is the cutest nickname I’ve ever gotten, but it is especially reserved for my parents, my dad mostly. That one just shortens my middle name, Louise, into my first name. Far too cutesy for anyone who doesn’t see me as a little girl, it’s really only used affectionately by my parents. As I’ve become a real adult, my father simply invoking this name has an immediate calming affect, usually when I’m crying about some big life decision or heartbreak.

I suppose that Beth counts as a nickname for Bethany, and as an obvious shortening that one has had a bit more staying power. As simple as it is, it’s emotionally loaded for me. Only my family and anyone I knew before I was thirteen consistently refer to me as Beth. Once I hit eighth grade I took myself very seriously, and I decided that “Beth Scott” sounded far too simple, and “Bethany Scott” was a much more serious name for a serious adult. And it is a good name, rolls off the tongue quite well, and it’s just unusual enough that I don’t encounter many Bethanys. So I stuck with that.

I never offer Beth as an option, but people often ask if they can use it or just take it upon themselves. I only allow people who I have a good feeling to go forth with this nomenclature. As it happens at introduction or soon after, this is a litmus test for whether or not I feel comfortable with someone immediately. If I read your vibe favorably, I’ll give you permission or allow you to call me Beth without correction. It moves people into a particular realm of intimacy immediately, as if I’m allowing them to become family or old friends just by letting them take three letters off the name on my passport.