I am at a point in my life where I am secure enough with my identity to admit a few things, and here they are in no particular order:
I hate to hike. I know that hiking is supposed to be something that everyone is supposed to enjoy, and when you tell them that you hate it, they act like it is a sin against nature. Invariably they get this look on their face that says you hate to hike? How can that be? Are you saying that you hate outdoors?!? I mean, if you want to get all hot and sweaty walking around through itchy plants and bugs with the sun beating down on you--be my guest, but it's not for me. Ironically, when you use the term "hike" to describe a distance it is generally a negative connotation, as in I had to hike all the way up here from my house. Or it's quite a hike from here... And yet when it's used in reference to the canyon, suddenly it becomes a positive thing...
I'm so over the dog thing. A couple of years ago, I really wanted a dog. And then two things happened: I dog-sat for my Mom for the weekend, and then I got my own dog*. All of the barking and hair and bad smells and poop in the house got really old really fast. Now I'm to the point where I honestly can't understand people that like dogs. I think that the "I love dogs" gene goes hand in hand with the "I don't mind messes and dirt and incessant barking" gene, and I was given neither of these genes. I'm not sure I even like puppies anymore (Gasp!!). I mean they are fine and cute as long as three inches of plexi-glass separate us, and I'll smile and wave, but really those are dogs in there.
U2 and Dave Matthews Band:
Here's where I betray my generation. Lately I'm finding that I forward all of the U2 songs and Dave Matthews Band songs on my ipod, and when one comes up, a little groan enters my head partly because I feel guilty for forwarding them, and partly because I want to go on to more enjoyable songs. This forces me to ask myself-- do I really like U2 and Dave Matthews Band?
I have not recieved the first official "I'm calling Ali on her cell because I can't reach her on her home phone" yet, and I haven't been able to hear my ultra cool custom ringtone as a result. it's driving me nuts, and I have to keep calling my new number just to make sure it works...
I stalk my own blog. I read and reread and reread my posts. And then I read the comments, but I always reread my post before I read the comments. Jon caught me doing this once. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Reading my comments" I answered. "but you are reading your post..." "...yeah..." "...but you wrote it..."
I'm upset that it isn't hotter this summer in Arizona. I want to be able to wow people with my tales of 115 degree or higher weather, but then I check the weather on my computer and it is only 105 and I get disappointed. (I mean while it's already too hot to enjoy being outside, it might as well be impressive, right?)
I do this odd thing when I am reading a book, I start to think in the same style that the author wrote the book in. For instance, when I read Jane Austen I think the word "one" a lot, as in "one would think so," or "securing one's happiness." When I read Uglies and Pretties I began to use the author's slang: "littlies" for kids and "happy-making" for, well, things that make you happy. And recently, as I am reading An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life by Amy Krouse Rosenthal I find myself compartmentalizing my thoughts into short (hopefully amusing) anecdotes just like I read in her book (hence the style of this post). Also, I have started writing more in italics because I like the way she does it.
I still make faces at myself in the mirror. And then, when I'm done, I look around a little embarrassed that I was just making faces at myself in the mirror.
I always expect things to be smarter than they are, like the fly in my car for whom I roll down the window to allow him to be set free, and when he refuses to fly out, I angrily wonder why he would rather stay in a car where he will most certainly die. Another example is my cat who is not allowed to jump on the counter, and he gets squirted with water when he does, but even after all that, he still meows over and over as he stares at the counter right before he jumps so that I know exactly when to squirt him. And then I am always disappointed that he wasn't smart enough to mask his intentions.
*this only lasted two very long days, and then she was safely returned to the breeder to be sold to a more tolerant-of-poop-in-the-house kind of person. I'm sure that she has now found such a place to live.