we're all in the dance.

Okay, so I’ll be up-front here and be the first person to say that you’re not at all alone when you find yourself weirded out, wigged or otherwise occasionally troubled by the behavior of certain individuals. It might be the guy who walks a little too slowly past your cubicle throughout the day, or the guy who sits by themselves alone in the breakroom when you’re trying to enjoy your epic tuna melt and stares enough to make you lose your appetite, or the girl that laughs a little too often (and just loud enough to be overheard), tempting you in your bitterness to the point where you almost turn around and ask her just what’s SO funny. Let’s just say I’d be lying if I told you that these instances are completely fictional and not autobiographical whatsoever. The real truth of the matter, however, is that I’ve had a revelation - today, in fact, as I sit here contemplating what the real reason is behind me being so bothered by the behavior of these people, and WHY does it bother me so much?

And then I realized that there are plenty of things about me that would probably wind up on someone else’s nitpick list. Like the fact that I chew at least ten pieces of gum a day (while writing this article, I just popped piece no. five into my mouth). Or the part where I prefer to take the long walk down to the better, slightly more private and much bigger ladies’ restroom across the building, so I grace all the other departments with my long-legged and slightly awkward stride, reminiscent of a giraffe back and forth, over and over - and bear in mind, this walk happens twice as often when I’ve made it a two-cups-of-coffee day (as I’m sure you ladies can attest). I can almost hear everything they must be thinking in their heads as I get up to make the trek for the millionth time today: “Okay, she’s going to the bathroom AGAIN? Seriously, just how small IS her bladder? Oh, look, she’s chewing more gum too.”

It’s this revelation, combined with the realization that I really can’t come up with any valid reason why I get so annoyed, that brings me to my real point: we all have our quirks. We all possess those unique qualities that are not only inherent to who we are, but often what others use to define us. We might be the girl with the long legs, or the face full of freckles, or the loud laugh (or, like me, the penchant for chewing gum and peeing often), but that’s all the more reason to embrace our individuality. Not two people are made alike, and rather than nitpick and scrutinize others for what we deem as faults, we should celebrate uniqueness on a day-to-day basis.

So the next time I hear that lady’s laugh from over my cubicle, I’m going to smile to myself, and when that guy lingers near my desk a little too long, I’ll remember to say hi, and when that man in the lunchroom stares at me while I’m eating - okay, maybe I won’t go so far as to share my food. I do have my limits.

And that tuna melt is bangin’.

I don’t know what I expected when I woke up this morning. I don’t know if I expected much to happen, other than some time wasted on the computer and a paper that I’d made myself swear I was going to finish. It’s due tomorrow; three to five pages, totally doable, but for some reason I couldn’t make myself start it.

It’s not that I’m not a good paper-writer. Actually, it’s something I pride myself on. But it’s easier for me to talk about things in a paper when I can distance myself from the topic. Sure, it’s okay for me to have an opinion on literary theory or history’s treatment of women, but when I have to personally relate myself to the subject? Forget about it.

And maybe it’s that simple: I don’t like to talk about myself in papers because I don’t like talking about certain aspects of my life with people. No, I don’t want to talk about my dating history in a paper that someone I barely know will read. No, I don’t like to get into the fact that in all the relationships I’ve been in, I’ve been on the receiving end of every painful break-up. No, I don’t want to personally connect my life to the texts we’re reading, but this is what you’re asking us to do, and if I B.S. my way through, you’ll see right through it.

But it’s okay, really. I got through the paper, I talked about myself, and it was okay. Does it still make me uncomfortable to address the bad luck I have in relationships seriously? Yes. Humor is my defense mechanism, and I’ll joke about it until the cows come home, but really? Sometimes I just want to curl up in somebody’s arms and kiss them until I can’t feel my lips anymore. I want to take advantage of these fall evenings not just with a cup of something hot, but with the security of a warm embrace and the assurance that it brings me. I just want to know that I can find what I had with my past relationships - as brief as each of them were, I want to have that again. I miss it. Sure, I can joke about it, but really? I like to be referred to as somebody’s girlfriend. It makes me feel good inside. I’m not defining myself by them, but I’m not going to lie: I miss feeling like I belong to someone, and them to me. Like all those little pieces of them are mine alone to have and everyone else’s to simply appreciate.

But I woke up, and I found notes of encouragement in my inbox, and I’m sitting in Panera with an oversized ceramic mug full of pumpkin spice latte still hot against my hand and half of it warm inside my belly. I’m swapping my flip-flops for boots and going out with scarves on and I feel good. Fall brings this - the crisp, cold air and the coloring leaves and the promise of change.

I know I’m going to be okay.