Lately I have been thinking about my own assimilation into the “normal” crowd. Or at least, what I considered as more “normal,” “bland,” “boring,” when I wasn’t so much those things. I would say opera singers, as opposed to other artists of sorts, are way more bland. I decided it was easier to make friends with people I wouldn’t normally be friends with because of convenience. I stopped thinking so much about.. everything…and decided that people who are happy are just uncomplicated.
I know that in some areas I may have “improved” because of what others thought of my hygiene (meaning my kitchen, laundry habits…) or at least attempted to improve. But I think I sacrificed a lot of other things. And I don’t those people should have been complaining anyway. At least, I have never complained about anyone’s….anything before. I try to be as easy going as possible. At least, I really am on the inside. I really don’t care.
Anyway, this is just one example: how I feel about push-up bras. I would never, ever wear one. Sometimes when I am with my cousin, however, I will buy things I wouldn’t normally buy since she is a big shop-a-holic. Just, sort of as an experiment. I bought a black and white polka dotted one from Victoria Secret just because it was on super, super sale and I liked the pattern. The way it made my boobs feel was O.K. and I figured that for certain shirts sometimes it might come in handy. But anyway, my girlfriend at the time really liked it and told me it looked hot. I told her they aren’t really my boobs.. all of them. She said, “I know, that is the point of a push-up bra.” Okay, I feel like that should have been a red flag. I am just so used to girls in sports bras, or no bras at all, being my objects of affection. I felt like an object then, and come to think of it now, I have often felt that way with her.
“Just because things are different, doesn’t make them bad. (Hansel, Gretel, they’re the finest names we’ve ever had!)”
Singers. We all know and love them, or really.. none of us do? But you can bet if there is a loud gaggling group of females, and males that seem feminine, all dressed up in way-too-fancy-for-whatever-they-are-doing attire, and you can’t really tell what any of the girl’s faces look like because of all the make-up they are wearing, and you can’t hear your own thoughts over them, they are probably opera singers. They surround my every waking task on a daily basis. They can of course be sweet. They make good friends much of the time. But there is something about always subconsciously competing for a spot in your line of work against the only people you ever see and call friends, and having it come down to every little detail of your life being criticized essentially, that takes all of the personality out of someone, inevitably. It is not that I think they would be any other way, or should be. It is just about wanting to be the “it” thing through doing things that make you feel like you can be “it,” but which really just takes all of the things that made you special, away. And you don’t even realize it. But you see it, time and time again, right in front of you on stage. At auditions. Little waify sopranos doing generic hand movements. Were it not so true, it would be enough to make you gag. It just makes me depressed though.
It is not about any of this though, really. It is about losing myself. Losing my psyche. My footing. I’ve lost my heart recently, my passion for simple things. I threw in the towel for wanting something better. I thought I’d had it, and I probably hadn’t. So I went for something—someone—simple, and just resented it the whole time, but didn’t let myself know that I resented it. I pretended like life was golden—on the outside. Except to one person, who resented that I told them about it. I’ve lost the ability to cry not because I can’t, but because of quite the opposite. Although, it feels so stupid to think I should cry or even have a reason to. Everything seems so futile. I put all of the things that reminded me of her, and of caring in a box and sent them down the river. I think I may have put too many things in there.
I don’t want to be this assimilated gumby opera singer anymore. I don’t want to wear the new boots I got with heels on them. I want to go on adventures. I am afraid of getting distracted and failing, and not being successful. But what is success? Can’t I do it without being too confused about what it is that will actually get me there, or do I seriously need to fall into that trap completely only to send a rescue squad in to get myself, once I am the lowest, most unconscious, most sell-out individual? Will I even realize it before? Or, am I making everything up?
I wish I had someone to tell all of these things to who actually got it enough to talk to me about it, and cared enough to be interested even though what I seem like on the outside is not someone who would attract the type of mind I am interested in. As people grow, differences just become more different…gaps grow bigger. Divides are stronger, and those who haven’t picked a side are probably going to be left stranded in the middle of two polar options. Maybe if they are quirky enough, someone from either side will be interested in being there, but not try to force them in either direction.