Eyes and Ears

I can’t remember the last time I actually liked someone.

I couldn’t figure out if I was too picky, too shallow, confusing friendships with intimacy and pointlessly dating the mildly interesting and interested. Maybe I held my expectations too high; maybe I was afraid to fall in love.

Regardless, I couldn’t find the one that I simply liked. The kind of like that grazed over your skin and into your butterfly gut. The kind of like that made you try harder to make him laugh, and laugh harder when you realized it was so easy. To bond over burritos and dream over dairy and sweat through your armpits at first gland.

Late in the summer I swiped right for a boy. We started chatting, jokingly planning a trip around the world with intentions of baking M&M cookies before bedtime cuddle sessions. *swoon*

But it was all too good to be true. The bittersweet two-letter phrase I knew all too well shattered my chocolate-kissed dreams: “just visiting.” He didn’t even have time to meet because his flight to LA was in three hours.

We remained to text because he said he could be back for a film gig. When his boss said they weren’t going to pay for his travel expenses, I began to question whether or not I was ever going to see this guy. We would joke about me flying to LA, but then he seriously booked a flight to Seattle with his miles.

I silently freaked out. A cute boy was going to fly all the way from LA to Seattle for me. I felt crazy to say the least. I had never even met the guy. I couldn’t even imagine how crazy he must have felt.  

It would be two and half more weeks until we would finally meet. Our Snapchat game was on fire—literally. There would always be a fire emoji right next to his name, followed by a yellow heart that even blossomed to red.

And by the time we awkwardly FaceTimed, I knew I had fallen in like with him. It was just the right amount of awkward to keep us going, and it was only going to get better from there.

From our first kiss to our last, I had felt things I hadn’t felt in years—almost as if I was in a relationship. Weird.

We lay on my bed, trying to wrap our heads around such an insanely beautiful weekend.

“I’m feeling emotions,” I said to him.

“If you had to describe your emotions, how would you describe them?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s just nice to be liked.”

“I like that. It’s nice to be liked too.”

I felt like shit saying goodbye, only to end up cuddling next to a pint of ice cream that night.

He liked me enough to book a ticket to Seattle, so I thought I’d return the favor.

We decided to see each other a month later in LA—short enough to continue whatever this was, and long enough to feel like I was in a relationship.

When really, I wasn’t. I like to think I have an open mind, but when it comes to long distance relationships, life is too short to have them. But then again, life is too short to waste opportunities.

So there I was, missing him, cuddling my pillow tighter and tighter, and dreaming that one morning he would wake up next to me. And soon enough that morning came, and several mornings to follow. But those mornings turned to nights, and I found myself kissing him goodbye once more. Only, this kiss felt different, sadder, knowing that I probably wouldn’t see him again. Plus, airports are just depressing anyway.

I think we both knew what was to come because neither of us wanted to talk about it. He lay in his bed until I landed, until we exchanged goodnight texts as if everything was normal. He went back to cuddling his pillow, as I cuddled mine, and I realized I had been holding on to much more than feathers for a month. I had been holding onto this feeling I had, and a feeling we all so desperately crave.

A couple weeks before we met in LA I told him that this—whatever this was—was supposed to be fun. I told him that there shouldn’t be any jealousy, and we didn’t need to talk about the future. Because to simply like someone kept me in the moment, and that’s all it had to be.

A week later our red heart emoji turned to two pink ones, as our snap streak stayed strong and our texts began to dwindle.

I can see your eye-rolling emojis right now. All I kept saying to myself was…

My mom loves to text. I get paragraphs and paragraphs reciting her trip to Target, her complaining how Dad is farting too much, or her saying how much she loves me followed by four different colored heart emojis. Sometimes I can respond right away, but most of the time I feel like it’s too much of an effort—I’d much rather just call her than risk my thumbs cramping up. Haha.

 And even when she does call, she leaves the longest voicemails.

 “Hi honey, it’s 5:30…Dad and I are going to dinner soon at Toast. I think it’s going to rain soon. Just wanted to give you a call. Ummm…we will probably be back in two hours if you want to call back then. I love you…maybe you’re out with your friends or something. Give me a call back after dinner, Okay?”

 MOM—you could have just said nothing, and I would have gotten back to you. But you are my mom, and I love you.

 Recently I’ve been so appreciative of the messages she leaves. Like, it must have taken her ten minutes to write those paragraphs of text, only using one finger to meticulously press each letter on the keyboard and carefully select the perfect emoji to use. That’s love.

 Even the voicemails are touching. I mean, just the fact that I get to hear a voice and not read a text message is comforting.

 I always get excited when I receive a voicemail or get a call from an old friend, which is why I’ve decided to call people more often. Friends, new or old…I want to experience more human interaction. I want to leave interesting voicemails—I want to know what you’re up to right now instead of waiting twenty minutes for you to text me back. Sure, it’s fun to send emojis, but it’s more refreshing to hear a voice.

 People say it’s hard to stay in touch. I’m not going to disagree with this statement, but it is easier than you think. It just takes an occasion call at night or on the weekend instead of waiting months at a time. We all like to say we are soooo busy that we can’t talk, but five minutes on the phone won’t do you any harm. I feel instantly at peace when I hear some of my best friend’s voices. We talk as if nothing matters in that moment—a brief intermission from all the cares in the world.

The first time I heard the word “hipster” was during my freshman year of college because someone in the dorms wanted to dress up like one for Halloween. I was like, “Oh yeahhh, that’d be greatttt.” I don’t think I really understood what it meant until people started calling me one. I mean—I did reside in the “creative hall,” but that was just to make sure I wasn’t rooming with Keystone guzzling, pussy poppin’ fraternity brothers.

  My tastes just changed. I started listening to Andrew Bird instead of My Chemical Romance, I wore sweaters instead of plaid, and I became obsessed with surrealist photography perspectives in film and on Instagram. But I was not a hipster. Neither was I emo for listening to My Chemical Romance in high school. I’ve always liked things because I liked them—not because I was trying to be something I’m not.

  The first time I heard the word “normcore” was from my friend who couldn’t get over the fact that I was rolling into her house with tall Nike socks and high top Converse. And I couldn’t get over the fact that this was actually a trend. Naturally she showed me an Urban Dictionary definition:

  “Normcore is an exercise in irony. it's being cool through not being cool. it's an existential statement about value: that everything is valueless, and that's what gives it its value. because we're only yolo'ing once. so you might as well yolo in comfortable, non-descript clothes that mirror the reality of your both existing and not existing in the flux.”

  The first time I bought tall Nike socks was because I thought they looked hot on college guys in the midst of spring. It was something about them looking so unfashionable that was kind of cute. I slowly associated the bro tank with masculinity because I could see their muscles from a mile away. (No, it’s not a defining characteristic of masculinity, but I couldn’t help but be attracted to that feature.) All you haters can hate, but the backwards cap and a pair of white high top converse just seemed to be the next logical choice. I started coining the term “slutty bro” because it was the least amount of clothing deemed acceptable for a dude…besides taking off that tank of course. So you can see how I had no prior intention of joining a normcore movement.

  GAP actually created a campaign to “Dress Normal,” alluding to the normcore trend and showing that the brand has been selling basic essentials since 1969. I have been buying GAP for as long as I can remember. I like to dress comfortably—deal with it.

  Now almost every day I hear the term “basic.” And no, it’s much different than wanting to dress normal for the sake of being cool. It’s more of a put down to show how predictable and conforming people can be. So I’m basic because I, and most of America, like pumpkin flavored things instead of strawberries in the fall?

  Since moving to a new city I’ve been called a hipster for wearing my Warby’s and skinny jeans, normcore for wearing a thrifted jean jacket and a pair of Blundstones, and now “basic” for liking to talk about how much I love Chipotle.  

I was on the phone with my dad a week or so ago.

  Me: “Hey, how are you feeling on your last day.”

  Dad: “Well, son, I say son…it’s been…it’s just been so surreal. It’s weird. I’ve been working here for so long—It’s become my life. And now I don’t know what I’m going to do for the rest of my life.”

  Me: “Ha, well that makes two of us.”

  And suddenly I wasn’t feeling 22 anymore. I was sympathizing with my 67-year-old retired father who was going through a strikingly similar transition period.

  Saying “goodbye” is always hard. Reading my birthday cards this past May made me feel like I was dying before I even graduated college. And I was only in college for four years—I can’t imagine how my dad must have felt after working in the same place for more than twenty-five years. THINK OF ALL THE SENTIMENTAL CARDS. ALL OF THE EMOTIONS.

  My dad said he was on a diet, but was going to get a cinnamon twist on his last week. If I were him I would have gotten a lot more than one little pastry for another milestone completed. I guess that’s where the age difference comes in.

  Usually you hear the phrase “welcome to the rest of your life” after high school or college, but there’s not much talk about retirement. Every day I question what I should do, what I want to do and where I want to be even though I have already taken a career path. But when you ‘re retired, it’s more of the “what do I want to do” than “what I should do.”

  My father worked his ass off to help support my family—I want him to do what he wants to do for the rest of his life.

I was reading an article on Quartz the other day on the rising cost of zinc. The US pays 1.6 cents to make just one penny. I remember conversations in high school revolving around the idea of eliminating the penny completely, but still to this day it is all talk.

  Quartz quoted Obama on the matter, “It’s one of those things where I think people get attached emotionally to the way things have been. We remember our piggy banks and counting out all the pennies and then taking them in and getting a dollar bill or a couple of dollars from it and maybe that’s the reason people haven’t gotten around to it.”

  Which brings up the question: does nostalgia halt innovation? Does it encourage attachment to things or does it promote healthy habits?

  Working in the advertising field, I’ve noticed more often than not that brands like to showcase their deep-rooted history. Nostalgia has become an opportunity to connect with the consumer. It’s a chance to mold sentimental memories to products and show that they have traveled with you each step of the way.

  If there were an ad for the penny, it would make your heart melt. Think of all the times you’ve made a wish next to a fountain. Think of that euphoric childhood moment when you finally collected one hundred pennies to make a dollar. Or when a Hershey’s chocolate bar would actually cost five cents.

  There’s this fear of change (no pun intended), and we get attached to the way things used to be. I already miss college. I miss unexpectedly running into my friends on campus, hiking above the clouds, or the feeling of endless opportunity. Recently, I’ve been craving some familiarity so I started swimming and biking again. I’ve been listening to music I listened to sophomore year. The Chicago weather is even starting to feel like Oregon’s cozy overcast fall.

  Nostalgia can be a form of attachment, but more so it’s a reminder to reminisce. It’s like photographs: they are a chance to revisit what kind of person you were and what made your mind tick. There are nostalgic habits I associate with happy memories, which is why I continue to do them, but when it comes to physical objects I am more relieved to own less.