Inbetween the Lines of a Sane Monologue

Winter sucks. I've been it's defender, it's champion, it's constant companion for so many years, but we've had a final falling out, and the truth must be revealed: winter is a sorry excuse for a season. It throws off my concept of time so that since I never wake up before 11 I get about five hours of daylight, it chaps my lips and face and hair and hands so that I'm not nearly as cuddleable, it makes me an incredibly tiresome mooch to all friends with cars because I just can't bear the idea of being out in the elements, it ruins all of my jeans with the mud streaks from the slush, and I've fallen down on the ice so much I think my butt is getting as misshapen as my head already is.

And to add insult to injury (literal injury, I wasn't kidding about how often I've fallen down), now winter is doing a strip tease that's going to last for at least three months. Friday was an absolutely incredible day; the sun was shining without excess glare, the temperature actually matched the appearance outside my window, the air felt clean and crisp, pretty much there was a rip in the veil between this life and the next and it resulted in that day.

But it is freaking February 23rd. And despite the fact that we kne that that moment in time was pure bliss, we also know with even greater certainty that we're going to have at least 5 more snow days. To this I say humbug. I should now post the disclaimer that my bitterness toward the season probably wouldn't be so pronounced if I had the money to go skiing.

Oh, how I wish I had put my former days of leisure to better use. Says the self-important girl of 22 years. I spent my time in early adolescence doing all sorts of crazy things that I'm glad happened, but the thing that makes me cringe and hate myself is the soundtrack that my life was set to back then!

To this day, I can sing every lyric and provide every musical cue for the original *Nsync album. Pretty crazy embarrassing. But even worse? I could do the same for both 98 Degrees CDs, plus the first albums of Jessica Simpson, Mandy Moore, Christina Aguilera, and Britney Spears. Painful, shameful, hateful, it's true.

That was when I had both the time and inclination to sit in my room after dinner and just listen. The inclination is still there, and with my slacker status intact is quite often indulged, but this used to be part of my routine, for crying out loud. And I used to sit and pompously ponder about how these lyrics really spoke to me! Yeah, because a 12-year-old has so much life experience that relates to "Genie in a Bottle."

I just wish that I had had the wisdom in my sinful youth to focus on The Smashing Pumpkins, The Rolling Stones, The Who, AC/DC, or at least a band that I could name without preemptively rolling my eyes. Hell, at this point I would take The Offspring, at least that had a little edge.

Woe be me and my misspent hours memorizing all the wrong tunes. That, kids, is one of the many many reasons why I today have such a complex about not being cool enough. It's a Shurtz family trait already, but the wayward ways of the teeniebopper only serve to torment me all the more.

I was idly texting Jason yesterday and ended up articulating what I believe is my problem with finding datable guys much more succinctly then I ever had before: I'm too messy for the good guys and too principled for the bad eggs. Doesn't actually lead to any solution to the problem, but at least I have it defined now, which helps my brain rest a little bit.

So a few weeks ago I was down and out sick, so sick that the idea of drinking Diet Dr. Pepper was reprehensible to me. Basically I was at death's door. And no it is not a good idea to try and infect me with the flu just to keep from drinking. So put down the syringe and just keep reading.

From this bout of flu I have discovered that I am attached to my beloved DDP in more than one way: not only do I get headaches from the lack of caffeine, but I think I have added an emotional component to my habit as well. Basically, to my twisted brain, DDP=comfort. Because I really wasn't craving the taste, and I was too drugged up to feel the headaches, but I missed the sound. The kuh-shhhhhh of a newly opened can of perfectly chilled soda.

I have been a soda junkie for so long that I now rely on the consistency of my consumption as a crutch for the mess that is my day-to-day life. Yes, I did notice the crazy-awesome alliteration going on in that last sentence, and it made me very happy. Just not as happy as I would be with a Diet Dr. Pepper in my hand.

This obversation of mine may explain why I get really defensive when people jump all over me for how unhealthy this habit is. Because my brain doesn't interpret criticism as an attack on aspartame or phenylalanine, instead it sees it as an attempt by others to take away my portable mug-shaped safety blanket. So if I snap the next time you remark on my excesses, please take into account the fact that I'm a crazed person who thinks her best friend is a wholly unnatural liquid. No offense, Becca.