baaaa.

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dateline: oZ hideout

25 august 1996 6:36 p.m.

I'm so restless. Frustrated. Nervous. Terrified. Right now, I feel like I actually know where the guy who coined the phrase "climbing the walls" was coming from. I'm only a few sips of Mountain Dew short of reaching that stage. I'm so very, horribly, pathetically not ready for classes tomorrow. I woke up today at noon. And suddenly I realized I could just about count the hours left in my summer "vacation" on my fingers. I was paralyzed with dread. Actually, even worse. The worst sensation humans can feel, in my view. I was seized by regret. Regret that I didn't go to the beach more often. Regret that I didn't spend even more time with friends. Regret that I didn't see Derek more. Regret that I didn't take more time for myself. Regret that I only read one book. Regret that I didn't get enough sleep. Regret that I didn't get enough exercise. Gods, I feel like I'm eight years old again, when I would throw awful tantrums over having to go back to school (insanely happy "Back to School" advertising would make me physically ill). It was the end of the world. I feel silly writing this, but I'm totally obsessed. All of a sudden I wanted to do everything today. As soon as I stood up, I wanted -- right then and there at the foot of my bed -- to explode into several mes that would head off in different directions to make up for what feels painfully like a wasted summer. Of course I'm not being fair to myself, or reasonable. I worked, for one. Survived losing a job without breaking stride, gliding into twenty-five hours a week in a madhouse. And I goofed off a lot. And I saw friends, and I met and took a fancy to Derek, and I hibernated, and I got Rollerblades (which I've used once)... Silly me, though, I decided to try and do everything anyway. And here I am feeling exhausted and still a total failure. I called Jen. She'd gone out with another friend. I called Derek, but halfway into the conversation I felt totally stupid for feeling -- if not sounding -- desperate just to talk to him and felt even worse for being just a whiny bitch the whole time. I apologized fifty times and hung up. Half a second later I'd stumbled into a swimsuit I pulled from the bottom of the laundry basket and stormed off to the beach, determined to enjoy it. I jumped in the water. I tried to relax and enjoy the open blue skies, the wisps of white-on-white clouds, the sound of kids and tourists being happy. I couldn't. I decided to walk. Maybe jog. No, forget it. I walked. All the way down to Queen's Surf, where there was some volleyball tournament and a hoarde of gawking teen girls that I thought I'd start shoving around if I didn't head back. I jumped in the water again, and felt doubly stupid doing it. I stomped back home, having a bus vomit black smoke all over me en route. I called Derek again, a short chat, but again it was a mistake 'cause I was so irritable. Then I took a deep breath and pushed everything aside in my apartment, suddenly about to embark on a complete, totally overdue full-on cleaning. Then I stopped and said aloud, "What am I, nuts?" And I went to the beach again. This time I did relax. I took deep breaths that I could hear whooshing inside me when my ears were underwater. I clenched my toes in the sand; watched people; floated on my back 'til I thought my forehead was burnt; listened to the surf (it was high enough to actually stand on longboards). I came back home and answered all my e-mail. All of it. That felt good. I tried to wander the web, but wound myself up all over again, becoming impatient with sites with huge images and no ALT tags and cackling cruelly over proud declarations of "Best Viewed with Microsoft Internet Explorer" on pages that look like shit on any browser. I watched some TV -- a few hours, actually, but felt guilty the whole time. So, I'm back, angrily assaulting my poor computer. No, not angrily. Desperately. Desperately dreading something so utterly ridiculous I know I'm going to hate having this mad rant sitting around after I calm down. And it's weird how when something has you convinced life is out to get you, your mind actively looks for other things to get upset about. Maybe I should move out of Waikiki, to someplace cheaper? Why am I so compelled to carry 13 credits -- what's so bad about being a part-timer? Will I be worth any effort now for Derek (or vice versa) now that I'm a "student" and not some whimsical free spirit? And hey, I'm supposed to have graduated by now -- this is my fifth year in college. I should have a primal scream. In Waikiki, no one would bat an eye. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! (Repeatedly whacking at one key on a keyboard is strangely satisfying.) And now I'm going to order a pizza, to eat all by myself. I finally broke down and ran myself through an on-line version of the Myers-Briggs personality test. David Keirsey's Temprament Sorter was a lot less painful than I thought it'd be. Bare-bones webforms at its near-best. The verdict? I'm an ENFP -- Extroverted, iNtuitive, Feeling, Perceptive. "ENFPs have a great deal of zany charm... They are outgoing, fun, and genuinely like people. As mates they are warm, affectionate (lots of PDA), and disconcertingly spontaneous... Less mature ENFPs may need to feel they are the center of attention all the time, to reassure them that everyone thinks they're a wonderful and fascinating person." -- Marina Margaret Heiss I love "zany charm," and the PDA thing is (unfortunately for innocent bystanders) true. But "less mature"? Ouch. Aren't categories, definitions and generalizations fun? Much as the above sounds a great deal like me, I still get the same feeling I get when I read through astrology columns (I have my favorite). If I read the stuff for any other category or sign, I could convince myself that what was being said fit me... Being pegged as any "type" gives me the creepy-crawlies (and I did it to myself this time -- go fig). I end up arguing myself into the ground. In my day-to-day life, half the time I go out of my way to obnoxiously assert my individuality. Yet the other half of the time I go Zen -- I'm part of a greater whole, swept along by fate, our lives already woven into The Plan. I admit, in this case I'm especially sore because this thing says we ENFPs are the most common type on the net -- or at least the most likely to stumble across the test. It makes me wonder... Am I here because I'm an easily-fascinated, curious soul with a lot to share? Or am I just being drawn online as one lemming in some mediocre collective? Common. Common. Say it out loud. Don't you get a yucky, chalky feeling in your tongue? That's it, I've pegged America OnLine's next, totally irresistable new slogan: "Resistance is futile." Now there's a mental image: a looming, wire-covered "Borg" straight outta Star Trek with an AOL logo stamped on his forehead.