December, 1998
December 28, 1998
Dear Book,
I haven’t written in a diary in like ten years, not since high school when my nosy Aunt Jane found my diaries, and I had to lie and tell her the stories I’d confessed about being fingered by my boyfriend Tim were not really my stories at all. I told Jane that they were my best friend Vanessa’s diaries and her experiences. Jane had talked to her friend Johan, who is a psychiatric nurse, and he told her I was likely writing fantasies to make me feel better about myself. Oh, yeah. Because no one would want to finger me, right? Wrong. Tim did, and more than once. Pfft.
Anyway, I feel stupid writing Dear Diary. So I guess you’re Dear Book. Which, when I stop and think about it, isn’t really any less stupid, but at least it feels less childish somehow.
You were a Christmas gift from my dad’s sister, Josephine, and her new girlfriend, Rainbow (yes, that is her real name). I love Aunt Jo, but she’s not terribly great with gift giving, so I’m fairly sure Rainbow influenced her heavily this year. I got you and a $50 gift card to Barnes & Noble, which I am pretty sure is the happiest place in the universe.
I should introduce myself. I mean, not that you are a sentient being or anything, but well, whatever. Writing helps me process. And yeah, I need to process who I am. Who doesn’t, really?
I’m Tessa. I love little kids and made a career out of it, albeit one that pays shit money. I currently work with toddlers at a daycare center. It’s one of the few things in my life I know I am damn good at. I’ve been doing it for several years now, and the kids and their parents all love me (with the rare exception because there is always one parent in every class who cannot be pleased, no matter what you do).
Anyway, it’s that time of year. Post Christmas, pre New Years. So, naturally I’m feeling introspective and annoyed. I hate that whole hey, it’s the end of year, let’s mentally rehash all the shit I didn’t accomplish this year that I wanted to or meant to or thought I should kind of stuff. I hate New Year’s. I hate January. The pretty lights and sparkling decor of Christmas are boxed away, leaving January a bleak, blank slate of cold, grey weather and short days. People are full of (generally fake) positive energy about the New Year and all of the things they’re going to accomplish! I hate resolutions. It’s not like I’ve ever kept a single one. Fuck, I’m lucky if I make it out of January with one. In fact, I don’t think I ever have. Once, when I was not quite 16, I had a list 16 resolutions (one for every year of my life). What the fuck was I thinking? Oh, wait. I wasn’t. Of course, none of them was accomplished, and I probably forgot about most of them by the second week of January.
Still, I find myself thinking that if I make a list of objectives for 1999 today (instead of on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day), that means I haven’t made “New Year’s Resolutions.” If I’m calling them something like “goals” or “objectives,” is that different? Or is it just semantics? It’s probably semantics, but it feels less loaded. Also less bandwagon-y. I pride myself on being uniquely me, so doing something just because everyone else is… well… it annoys me. I never understood the popular kids in school for that reason. Who wants to sacrifice what they want to do or wear in order to please the Queen (or King) of the school? And then all the pressure to make sure you don’t fall from “grace.” No thanks. I’ll stick with being happily unpopular.
And I guess that’s part of why I hate resolutions so much. It’s just what it seems like virtually everyone does this time of year. Yet, the thing is, I’m tired of being afraid to live my life.
Did I mention that I’m fat? I probably should’ve (this is undoubtedly why Jane and Johan couldn’t possibly imagine I’d have a boyfriend). Not fat like my friends who are 5’5” and 150 lbs telling me how fat they are (ugh, sometimes I hate them even when I love them). No, I am actually fat. I’m probably like 400 lbs or something, and I am going to rejoin Fat Fighters in January because they’ll be running their specials. But it’s not a resolution. I swear. I’m just doing it then because it will be free to join. And I guess I decided that in 1999 I’m either going to do something about my weight or accept being fat forever. That part feels a bit resolution-y, but I’m going to attempt to ignore that by saying it’s just a goal.
I also really need to learn to drive already. I mean, it’s not like it’s easy getting around without a car. I rely on Vanessa (my best friend since I was 4) or my mom for rides to work, which is kinda humiliating, to be honest. I don’t know how I’d afford a car on my salary, but I could maybe at least borrow my mom’s. Of course, it’s a stick, which adds an entire layer of difficulty to the equation. Or so I hear. I’ve never driven any car, so what the fuck do I know? Not to mention I am not convinced my mother can teach me to drive without one of us killing the other.
I need to get back to dating, too. Not to “find the one” or anything. I’ve sort of given up on that dream. But I’m young, and I want to have fun, at least. I lived in Pennsylvania with my dad and his idiot wife (Carly) for four years, and while there I started using this telephone dating service. It’s like the phone equivalent of newspaper personal ads; in fact it’s oh-so-cleverly called Voice Personals. I met a lot of guys and had a lot of bad first dates, a few good ones, and virtually no second ones. Apparently guys are more than happy to make out with a fat chick, but they don’t want to date her. Assholes.
I moved back to New Jersey, where I was born and grew up, in May and discovered there was a NJ version of Voice Personals (which is free for women seeking men - one of the rare perks of having a fucking uterus in my experience). I’ve called, and while I’ve talked to a lot of guys, I’ve had very few dates with any of them.
I have been holding back for some reason. Maybe I’m just tired of not getting second dates even when I felt like the first went really well.
There’s a guy named Nick I’ve been talking to for like five months now, and he’s been dying to meet me, but I don’t know... I feel like he just wants to hook up with me because I have big boobs, and he’s into that. Then again, I haven’t really done much hooking up of late (as in none since moving back here), so maybe I should stop overthinking it and just meet him. What’s the worst that could happen? I hate him and leave early?
I just want 1999 to be different. I want to look back someday and say “That’s the year. That’s the year I changed my life forever.”
There’s this guy who delivers for Domino’s. He’s pretty cute, and I’ve had a crush on him since I moved back here almost eight months ago. Maybe I’ll slip him my number next time I order. I have no idea what his name even is, but hey - worst that happens is he never calls, right?
In fact, I’m going to do that tonight. I need food, anyway. I’m babysitting Olivia (my 7-year-old baby sister) tonight while our mother works. I know Livvy will be thrilled to have pizza.
Yeah, this feels like a good plan.
Okay, I grabbed a piece of stationery that has my name on it in a hot pink heart. I don’t even know where I got this from, since I don’t particularly like pink. Or hearts. Or anything overly cutesy. I’ve never even used it before, but I figured maybe it would be more flirtatious than plain paper. So, there it is… my name in a hot pink heart, and my number written below in purple ink. Nothing else. Maybe he’ll be intrigued. Maybe mysterious can work for me.
Or maybe he’s going to laugh his ass off at it.
But hey, at least I’ll know I’ve done it, right?
Now, I think I’ll call Nick to set up a date. Maybe.
XOXO,
Tessa
December 29, 1998
Well, I did it. I slipped Pizza Guy my number! I basically wrapped it inside the tip (which of course was generous). I can’t believe I did it. I doubt he’ll call. I feel half proud of myself for doing something so brazen and half stupid for thinking a cute guy would call me.
But hey, I said I wanted to be brave, and since I didn’t wait until 1999, it’s clearly not a Resolution. Right? Right.
XOXO,
Tessa
