I have this awful habit forgetting that my blog is public and on the very public Internet and end up posting personal things on it. For whatever reason I think that the things I wouldn’t be willing to tell people in person are safe on the Internet. I’m clearly wrong, and I’m quite aware of that, but I’m writing this blog post anyway. I’m way too open. Talk-a-lot-itis strikes again.
I’m really lucky with the bunch of friends that I have. For whatever reason, a reason that I’m not totally sure of, I have people that will listen to me whine for no apparent reason, tell me everything is okay and try to make me feel better. But this entry isn’t about the people that I expect to be there, or the people that I’m expected to turn to in times of need. This is more about the unexpected.
Yesterday I made the mistake of watching Secret Life of the American Teenager. Yeah, that show about pregnant 15-year-olds. When it first aired, I never watched it. I was one of those people who made fun of it, as I sat around not watching it and instead watching shows of “higher caliber television.”
While watching an episode of Gilmore Girls on Monday, the episode featuring my very most favorite scene in the entire series (the part where Jess looked it up. If you know what I’m referring to, I love you. If not, click here), I saw a commercial for the final season of Secret Life. I was prompted to begin watching the show on Netflix.
Whoa buddy.
I like to consider myself a person that isn’t emotionally affected by media. Movies and shows don’t get to me, at least not many of them do. Nashville has a way of getting to me every week, and for whatever reason I cried in theaters when I saw Parental Guidance. Things that are supposed to get to me usually don’t though. It was surprising to me, and everyone that I’ve since informed, that Blue Valentine didn’t leave any emotions in it’s wake. I saw it, I liked Ryan Gosling, and that was that.
Secret Life threw my pitter-pattering little heart for a loop. That plus an unsavory interaction with my mother and another person from my past just threw me into a lurch. Plus I’m a girl and am fully entitled to mood swings, or at least that’s what I tell myself to help me sleep at night.
Just kidding, that’s what the sleeping pills are for.
As an aside, I could really do for a better sense of humor. I’m just not amusing. That whole sleeping pill comment was supposed to be funny. I don’t need to be reminded that it wasn’t, because I’m fully aware. And no, I won’t be deleting it just because it wasn’t funny. Blog posts are written stream-of-consciousness style, damn it! There is no going back!
Back on subject, countless people would have been logical for me to turn to last night when I was in the midst of an emotional hiccup spurred by a stupid television show geared towards prepubescent girls. Later in the night I would find myself turning to Patrick for solace, but neither him nor Kellie, Josh, Ciera…none of these people were my first thought for help. Any one of them would have listened to me babble, no judgment, provided some sort of witty commentary, been the fabulous friends that they’ve all proven time and again to be.
But I didn’t turn to them. I also, thank Yahweh, didn’t sit in my room alone watching Secret Life as an emotional heap on my bed with my pillows and my Barney (not ashamed). That would have been weird and pathetic. Naturally I did something that is quite possibly even weirder and more pathetic than the aforementioned weird and pathetic activity.
I reached out to Jon. Because that’s normal. It’s perfectly normal to reach out to someone who isn’t even one of your close friends when you need someone to be there. Except it’s totally not normal. I didn’t just reach out to him, either. I sent him a novella of a text to launch our conversation. Something along the lines of, “Whine whine. I’m sad. Tears. Whimper. If you feel awkward talking to me it’s okay, I’ll just creep on you at work and we can be awkward in person. Whine. Babble. Awkward.”
Jon and I have a really strange relationship. Period. Exclamation point. Strangest relationship ever. Question mark. Exclamation point again. And last night I turned to him for help. Even more surprising, my obvious cry for help was answered with what almost seemed like open arms. Despite our weird relationship, despite how awkward I was being, Jon listened. He said what he thought would talk me down off the ledge that I was precariously perched on. It worked. Sort of. I guess. Eh. He’s not the best with words.
Whether it was genuinely helpful or not doesn’t really matter. What I really needed last night was just someone to care. Someone unexpected to care. Jon did that for me last night, and I don’t think I could express how grateful I am to have a friend like him or how glad I am that he was willing to have that interaction with me last night despite the fact that we aren’t even that close.
I don’t think Jon reads my blog. I’d be highly surprised if he did. Then again, I was also surprised that he cared enough last night to listen to me whine and babble for as long as he did.
In case he does, I’d just like to say thanks. Yahweh knows I have way too much pride to properly thank him when I see him at Target this weekend, so I’ll just do it now and pretend that he sees it.
Jon, darling, you’ve got a cray cray in the hay hay friend named Eden (that’s me). I appreciate you being there for me when I needed you, despite the fact that you probably didn’t want to and it was probably really awkward for you. You’ve been, all things considered, an amazing friend to me since July and I’m really lucky to have you as a friend. Even if our friendship is weird, even if you think it’s funny to come up behind me and tickle me when I’m trying to help a guest, even if all my other friends want to murder you and even if we probably won’t talk at all once I leave Target. I really appreciate you. So thanks for last night. It means more than you could know.
Also I think I’m going to stop watching Secret Life. It’s probably not good for me.
