Moderation

19:52, 03 April 2003

I'm ready to go! Forty-five minutes early. I'm so excited to go home to the East coast. I get to see my darling dog Molly. I get to sleep my wonderful bed. I get to cook! I get to traipse about in NYC with my best friend Kristen. I get to wear my rockin' coat wardrobe. I get to blow this fucking pop stand, basically.

I'd like to make a goal for my trip, though, regarding drinking. See, the problem is that I don't pay attention to how drunk I am: I don't check in with myself to see if I'm at a good level and if I really need more to drink to have fun. Like yesterday, I was a great level of drunk when I was at the registration table checking people in. Seriously, if I had quit drinking then I probably would have still had a great time.

It's really frustrating that I drink so much: I just don't know how to stop myself once I get to a certain point. I can make all the rules, proclamations, goals I want to, but I start to get drunk and I toss all the rules out the window! Last night it was such a triumph that I even put my drink down for a bit, even though I'd told myself repeatedly beforehand that I would do so. I've written shit on my hand, worn a rubberband to remind me, told friends to tell me to stop drinking at a certain point, set a drink limit, etc. None of it works. Once I'm on my way, I'm unstoppable. And I refuse to accept the idea that I'm relegated to sobriety or severe intoxication every time.

But anyway, so when I go out with Kristen on Saturday night I'm going to drink a few drinks and then check with myself as to how drunk I am. Then I'll chew some gum rather than get another drink, just to give my mouth something to do and to make the thought of having wine mix with peppermint gum taste turn me off the whole idea of another drink. I'm going to let Kristen know about the plan so she can help me, too. Wish me luck.

Another Josh

09:57, 03 April 2003

Given the social anxiety of my 10-minute sobriety experiment last night, I didn't exactly follow my plan for the evening. First, I gave in and had some beer with my diet pills. I was super-busy checking people in, so I didn't have more than two glasses of wine for the hour I was there.

Then I went into the party, passing right by the food line (it was very long and I was very unhungry given the diet pill protection) and I was beelining to the bar when I ran into Josh, one of my first-year advisees and another of my slavering minions. Anyway, he spent much of the evening fetching me drinks and telling me how he'd been hot for me from the moment he met me. Too bad I didn't even remember that he was in my advisee group! Ha! That's because I was too busy flirting with Ryan, the Air Force Academy grad. Who I eventually hooked up with. So now I'm up to two advisees under my belt. Oh wait, not under my belt, since my clothes never come off. So, um... over my belt, or whatever.

I did get very drunk, but I was conscious of it and put my drink down now and then. I remember everything, although I do feel a bit disappointed that I didn't moderate my drinking a bit more. But hey, it was a step in the right direction. I'm also disappointed that I spent the whole freakin' night with Josh and didn't mingle more. I did talk to Marc, the German guy, for a bit, and I think he wanted to sit with me and spend the party with me, but I was hanging out with Josh. Whatever, Marc, you have a girlfriend. I like you but I will not help you cheat.

I did run into Lee-Ann, with whom I was supposed to spend the party. She was with Greg, though, and that meant I stayed far far away. I knew I had to explain myself: I told her, in French so Greg wouldn't understand, that I could barely hang out with her solo and could most definitely not handle it seeing the two of them together. Extreme, I know, but I hate Greg and I hate sex and the image of both is just nasty.

Josh and I finally left and I agreed to go back to his place to smoke some weed. Like I needed more intoxicants. We smoked and I noticed the exact moment when he made the decision to kiss me. Bing! Like an egg-timer went off. I thought that was a very interesting observation. Meanwhile, in my head, I sighed and thought, ok, I suppose I had this coming. I cursed myself for going home with him.

Not that it was so bad, mind you. It's just that it's not the hooking up that I wanted. All I wanted was the approving attention, the look in his eyes that told me I am hot, I am intelligent and witty, I am lovely and amazing and desired and admired. The droplets of compliments, tacit or spoken or shown with a hand on the small of my back as we walk through the crowd, fill the leaky bucket of my confidence to the brim--at least for a short time--and I feel worthy.

It is a delicate operation to sever that attention from the inevitable hookup that it leads up to. I feel guilty because I suck up all the adoration and I don't want to give the guy my body in return. Because that's what he wants when he looks at me like that. So sometimes I just kiss him anyway, just to get it over with and let him feel like he got something out of the bargain.

Here's something hilarious: I was totally imagining someone else when I was kissing Josh. What a cliche, right? Ha ha ha. I was pretending I was kissing Piyush. And I don't even know if I want to kiss Piyush. Christ, I'm so confused. All my personalities are contradicting each other. Drunken Hippo, Stoned Hippo, Sober Hippo in the morning, Sober Hippo at night, Diet-pill Hippo... one says one thing, then the other one takes over and says another thing. Sigh. Who can keep track?

So Josh and I are hooking up and his hands start wandering. Red Alert! I try to shut him down but all I hear is, "Oh my God, [Hippo], you have the hottest body... you are so turning me on right now... God, you are so hot... your body is just incredible... I just want to... I just want..." ad nauseum.

In my head, I'm saying, thank you kindly for the compliments, but please remove your hand from the zipper on my pants. I tried to shut him down, but he was one of those "cajolers." You know what I mean: the guy that tries to convince you to go farther than you want to, as if he could rebrand the concept and make you change your mind. Ha. Unfortunately, conventional means were not making Josh give up, and I hate being assertive and saying no with no explanation. I was forced to bring out the heavy artillery, even though I am loathe to do so. Nothin' says back off like a nice little story about sexual trauma. Actually, I think he was really weirded out. Whatever, at least I got him off me.

I woke up at 5:30 and seriously considered fleeing, as per usual. I didn't, although I stayed semi-awake until 6:15ish, when Josh got up and took a shower. While he was in the shower, I got up, reconstructed my last night's makeup and surveyed my options. $5 in my wallet meant I couldn't bolt now and take a cab. Shitskies. I looked around his room. Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughn posters. Two guitars (which he played very well last night). Bong and bag of weed. I imagined hang out here if he was my boyfriend. I shuddered. This guy was not my type. I only like him because he likes me and is 6'6" and spent all night telling me how hot I am. The urge to flee struck me again. I made myself stay, if only to practise being less escapist all the time. I've now concluded that escapism is much more satisfactory.

Classically, I made up a story about needing to be somewhere and therefore needing a ride home. Who the fuck needs to be somewhere at 7:00 in the morning? Ha! He wasn't very into me in the morning, which is good and bad. Bad because I always like to leave them wanting more, so I can still get longing glances of admiration when I pass them in the hallway. At the very least, I want him to feel neutral about it, so we can have the casual nod at each other when we pass in the hallway. I think he's really weirded out by last night's admission, though. I wonder if he'll tell all his stupid guy friends. Bah.

I wonder what guys think about my schizophrenic confidence? Half the time I'm spewing hubristic comments about how hot I am and how every guy wants me and how incredulous I am when a guy doesn't ask for my number or otherwise swoon at my feet. And half the time I'm cowering in insecurity, wondering if I'm good enough or thin enough or witty enough or smart enough or cool enough or pretty enough. Is the insecurity the rule and the hubris the exception? The confidence is directly related to external cues: reinforcements from others that I am fantastic. The insecurity is internal: reminders from myself that I suck. I wish I could see myself how others do. Or rather, I wish I believed in myself as much as others believe in me. I wonder what I look like from the outside?