I’m the one. You know … the one.
I’m the one sitting on the park bench with a book in one hand and a steamed hazelnut milk in the other, totally oblivious to any other world than the one inside the fluttering pages.
I’m the one who devours cold take-out–Chinese, pizza, pasta, you name it–for breakfast the next morning and loves it. It’s practically the best thing about ordering in.
I’m the one who rolls down the car window during a rainstorm to stick my head out and feel the water on my face and smell the air.
I’m the one who hosts dance parties–for myself–in the bedroom, the kitchen, the hallway …
I’m the one who uses punctuation when texting and refuses to use annoying acronyms and/or abbreviations like CU L8R, and I’m also the one who finds it disheartening when others do.
I’m the one who color codes the clothes in her closet and alphabetizes her CDs–after they’re categorized by genre, of course. (And I’m the one who still owns all her CDs, and even a few cassette tapes, because I’m also the one who can’t seem to let go of tangible history.)
I’m the one whose favorite punctuation mark is the ellipsis.
I’m the one who has actually spent a significant amount of time thinking about which punctuation mark deserves the title of “favorite.”
I’m the one who feels passionate about language and ideas and people and finds nothing more rewarding than an honest, sincere, thought-filled conversation.
I’m the one who loves to throw parties. And a good party, I throw.
Although, I am also the one who finds herself feeling a little out of place at other people’s parties–perhaps it’s because I’m not in charge.
But regardless of who does the hostessing, I’m the one who requires a bit of downtime after said party to quietly retreat inward in order to process, regroup and recharge. An extroverted introvert, I am.
I’m the one who collects dishes and office supplies and globes and stationary, and I’m the one who owns a significant number of high heels that have never been worn.
I’m the one who subscribes to the idea of “play before work,” no matter how hard I try to swap it. And I blame this on my mother. She is the funnest, after all.
I’m the one who forgets that a load of laundry has been sitting in the washing machine for days, that I signed up for the neighborhood blood drive, or that I have a television appearance one morning, but–I will always remember your birthday, your big work meeting day, and every detail of our first kiss. (And even though I might forget about that TV appearance, I’m the one who will still make it to the station in time, looking great, ready to rock my segment.)
I’m the one who grows impatient with incompetence and with people who can’t make up their mind.
I’m the one who plucks her eyebrows daily.
I’m the one who thinks.
I’m the one who daydreams of love letters and hand-held walks and starry nights and porch swings and old-fashioned romance.
I’m the one who is quite simple, really.
And I’m the one who is quite complex.
But I’m the one who loves easily. And freely. And big-ly.
And I’m the one who’s waiting.
But waiting, none the less.
p.s. I’m also the one who thought you could use this list as it seems you might be having some difficulty finding me in the sea.