We're in the hunnerts now. Maybe I am serious about all this.
Furthering my progress towards grad school apps, today I wrote up a 2 page CV and a "one page resume"--which I am assuming that particular school is using interchangeably with CV, as why would they care that I was a Camel girl, or an ice-cream scooper at Baskin and Robbins (oh, so many years ago--the closest to fast food I ever got).
I was also uncomfortable at Thanksgiving dinner after working at the store all morning and afternoon. Everyone's uncomfortable at Thanksgiving, that's part of the deal--except usually I'm not. We aren't fighters or stewers. There is never drama, just eating til we're sick and then some re-tellings of stories so funny that my mom cries.
Yet, my family has morphed into this collection of friends and relations that I don't even know. After the week of being nice to strangers and smiling til my face hurt and trying to be a calm, happy moment in what is otherwise a stress-ball of a week for people--I just wanted to be home, and not "on." But there's no home here. I didn't grow up here. This is my parents' and my sisters' home. Their (nice) friends and family all wanted to chat and be all chummy and ask me how was work, and how's my cat, and what have I been up to. It was really all I could do to not just stand up and walk out. I spent too much time away, I suppose, living in other states and States. My spot has been filled in like a sand hole at the ocean's edge. This is not a whiny, oh-sad-me thing, just an observation--a reminder that I need to get out of here.
A writer friend recently reminded me about the loneliness of the writer. It's the third-wheel syndrome of the perpetual watcher, I think. You can't belong and observe. Perhaps this is why I look to other writers or knitters or amateur runners, to feel like I belong to any community at all in all my otherwise solitary pursuits.