Friday, January 15, 2010

Things Mr. C. does not know.

Andrew works Friday nights and I loathe it. I don't have class at all on Fridays, so mostly I hang around the house, waiting for my lover to come home so I won't be bored anymore, even when I have five or six projects I could be doing if I really wanted to. I used to occupy my own time extremely well. Then I got married and I don't know what to do with my alone time except sleep and think.

A few minutes ago, an old lady showed up at our little apartment looking for people who do not live behind our front door. After telling her she had the wrong place, she made me feel really uncomfortable and I shut the door before she had completely started on her way. Then I walked two feet and sprawled on the couch, thinking about how I am too judgmental and then I started thinking, for some reason, about how no one entirely and completely knows you. You are the only one whose seen your every bit of your life, and sometimes even our own memories skew what really happened. There's a lot more to everyone's surface, even if it's just superficial.

This picture was taken a few weeks after I first saw Mr. C.

Wait. I can do better.
This was taken before I saw Mr. C., but about sixteen hours after he first saw me.
I have some from that night, but I don't want to use them.

This was taken within a few minutes after I saw Mr. C. for the first time.
He was hanging out with his brother or his brother's friends a few feet away.
Kendra and I were way too cool to socialize that night. Obviously.

And this is just one of my favorite pictures, taken a few days later.
I love my little niece.

Those pictures don't really have anything to with what I'm thinking about. I wanted to post the first one and remembered that I had already met my husband, though I had no idea. Then I got a little carried away. I could probably tie them in somehow, but I don't think I will. I'm too lazy.

Anyway, as I laid across our orangey red couch that I'm still in love with, I couldn't stop thinking about first impressions and relationships. No one can fully know everything about you, and if someone met you on one day, they could easily think differently about you than they would have on any other day. I mean, look at the pictures above, they weren't that long ago, and lately I look strikingly different than I used to, mostly because of my bump, my tired eyes, my hair and skin color. I always joke to Andrew that he married one girl and then got another as soon as I cut off my hair. Not true, obviously, but sometimes I feel like it.

It's weird to me that I have twenty-two years of memories before I met my husband, and it's even weirder to me that he has twenty-two years of memories before me. There's just so many things you can't tell about a person, so many stories you don't know, even though when you hear the stories, everything makes a little more sense, whether you just met the person or whether you've known them most of your example. Simple stories. Like...

When I was almost eight years old, my family had just moved to Missouri from Mobile, Alabama. Unlike our Mobile neighborhood, our Lee's Summit neighborhood was in a suburb that had virtually no crime and no honeysuckle, either. During the summer, my dad bought me a new bike. The bike was pink. After the purchase, I begged and pleaded with my dad to take me on a bike ride. He said he would come, but that I had to wait for a little bit so he could get something done. I kept begging and hinting that I could ride around the street all by myself and my dad staunchly refused. After I kept whining, he told me I could ride the bike in the garage or the grass, but that I could not go on the driveway and that I could not go on the street. After a few minutes of garage and grass, I got bored and looked behind me to see if my dad was coming out of the house. He wasn't, so I sped onto the driveway and into the street for a quick thrill. Then I crashed my bike and tore off all the skin on and around my knee. I screamed, my dad came out, he carried me inside, and I had a nasty scab on my knee for months.

I also stepped on a nail that summer and my mom pulled it out of my foot in the bathroom.
There was blood everywhere.

I don't know why I just told that story, but I'm pretty positive it's a story Mr. C. does not know about me. He also does not know that I only learned how to ride a bike without training wheels because my brother Josh took them off my bike and hid them.

Mr. C. also does not know that when I was a year or two older than seven, my mom and I chopped off and permed my hair during the summer. My skin was darker than the darkest of anyone I knew and I wore my brother's NFL shirts everyday paired with biking shorts. I am not lying. He also does not know that once, when I was in fifth or sixth grade, I wore Josh's flannel shirt and cut off shorts to school one day and the shirt was so long (or the shorts were so short) that one of my friends asked if I had on pants.

Everyone has a lifetime of stories.
Is it weird that I want to know all of them?