.moving again.

i am getting ready to move for the sixth time in three years. lining up my books in small boxes (so they won't be too heavy). folding up sweaters and putting them in big ones. this time, i'm giving a lot of my stuff away. i took a trunk full of clothes and things that i never use to the goodwill yesterday. i tend to move in warmer weather, and this has lead to giving away most of my bulky winter clothes on several occasions. this move is no different. i threw my robe into the giveaway pile this time. i'm down to one pair of pajamas. i've started giving away knick-knacks: plaster figures of the virgin mary, candleholders, useless decorations.

i'm thinking about giving away my books. all of them except for my favorite: a children's book by lois lowry called "the giver." that's the only book i reread. that and some hemingway. i'll keep some hemingway.

i'm sitting on my couch now, among boxes and wrinkled, strewn clothing, among wreckage of my home and a couple of lazy cats. my cats couldn't be cooler about the situation. they fail to notice that the house is in shambles, instead relishing the new hiding spots in tipped-over boxes. i'm eating a cookie and letting crumbs grind into the grooves of the couch. i'm getting rid of it anyway. it was free.

i spend most of my time sorting and consolidating. putting matchbooks with matchbooks, snapshots with snapshots. the tiny objects get much more attention than the big ones. i open up boxes of bagged tea. i put the mint with the mint and the green with the green. i pace from closet to kitchen cupboards, doing a little bit at a time. fold a few sweaters, bag a few canned goods. i really have this process down.

i don't know if it's the impending move that facilitated my leaving early from work today. it was 4:30 when i got in my car, and i was already crying. it wasn't hard to cry today, but instant – quick and fast and hard. i choked up in the break room, pouring coffee, talking about sufjan stevens. when i wasn't crying today, i was angry – gritting my teeth, slamming down the phone receiver. i don't think it's fair to put them in different categories. they're the same bad mood, the same symptom of distress. it's just more appropriate to slam a receiver than it is to shake and sob at work.

there's something about anticipating a move, packing and letting the house go to hell, that feels just like the dream i had when i was little where i was alice and i was falling down the hole. it makes me feel totally out of control, helpless, and alone. i dread asking people for help, but i am absolutely dependent on the generosity of friends. their hands, their trucks, their saturday mornings.

there are always friends who won't do it. they won't give up a few hours on their weekend to give me a hand. they don't offer, so i have to ask them. i do it jokingly and graciously, making it clear that i'll fill them up on beers and thai food. asking for help in this straightforward manner is the most vulnerable position i ever put myself in. i'm desperate and helpless, and i have to admit it. people who won't help you move are not your real friends.

it's just like the "emergency contact" form that i have to fill out at work, at the doctor, the dentist. it made me ill when i was little, when we had to fill out the form for school. it was simple then, because we all just filled out our mothers, fathers, or legal guardians. everybody had someone who was legally required to pick her up if she felt sick or caused a raucous during recess. it was the law that everyone has at least one person in the world who would love her and have her back. i feared, even then, that my mom wouldn't answer the phone on the day that something bad happened to me at school. it was her habit, to ignore the ring completely, and she had mastered it. if i ever felt ill at school, or forgot my homework, the phone would ring and ring. i understood that my mother's disdain for the phone didn't reflect emotional abandonment, but as far as i was concerned, from 9 to 3:30, i was on my own.

that's how it feels, asking friends for help when i have to move. like having a tummy ache at school, sitting in the nurse's office, and listening to the phone ring and ring. hoping that someone will pick up.

.earning my stripes.

something to keep in mind when dating: when you pick up a guy who works at a bar, you may not be able to frequent that bar anymore if it doesn't work out. i thought i was playing it safe last night when i went for drinks after work to a bar in north portland where, a few months before, i had hit it off with one of the employees. it was friday, his day off.

we had gone on three dates on three consecutive weekends. then we just stopped. i'm not sure what his side of the story sounds like, but mine is simple: we lacked a certain chemistry and mutually lost interest. no hard feelings.

i was facing the door when he walked into the bar unexpectedly. i assume he was picking up an extra shift. the sun was on the horizon and the window-walled front of the bar faced west, so all i could make out was his silhouette and a smile. i was sitting with a big group of people, co-workers, mostly, and after a forty-hour week and a couple of drinks, we had become a sloppy group. i waved at him and smiled a stunned, dopey smile.

i recognize that this situation is not a big deal. it happens all the time: you go on a few dates, it doesn't work out, and you run into each other weeks later. it's awkward. awkward is what it's supposed to be. no hard feelings.

but it's this kind of situation that demonstrates my inexperience in the dating world. i didn't know what the hell to do.

logically, i turned to my colleague and veteran dating woman for advice. "should i say hi to him or not?" i was helpless. "i mean, am i supposed to go over and talk to him?" unfortunately, she was less in a mood to mentor me and more in a mood to yell drunkenly across the bar at him: "you mean say hellooooo? hellooooo! HELLO-oooo!"

so there i am, embarrassed from the shouting and trying to reason out a solution based on my extremely limited experience. two main arguments were taking shape in my head. part of me wanted to be the bigger person and act graciously and politely. "just get it over with," she snapped. "he's a very nice guy and you have nothing against him. you're being rude. you've sucked his dick. he bought you dinner. you can't say a simple 'how are you'?"

"absolutely not," insisted the other side. "he rejected you. you can't go over there all desperate and pathetic and be nice to him. it's like you're begging him to take you back."

i don't even know if he rejected me. i never called him back. but i think we both lost interest.

"it does not matter who dumped who," twinkled my apparent better self. "there's no point in pretending you don't know someone who you spent every saturday with in june. it's polite to say hello. besides, you're going to look much more mature and well-adjusted if you can suck it up and talk to him."

he finally came over to clear our table. he made a special point of sayings, "hello julie" and i responded, "hi, how are you?" to him and an audience of six. he gathered up our glasses and carried them off to the back room. i got up and left before he came back into sight.

i guess now we know who's the bigger person.

i drove away feeling ashamed of my own overwhelming cowardice and insecurity. i know it's not a big deal. i know he probably didn't care one way or another whether he talked to me or not. while his childishness was what ultimately repelled me when we were dating, he had suddenly surpassed me in maturity and grace, courage and kindness with two words: "hello julie."

maybe i should have called him back when i had the chance.

.hiking solo.

i went for a walk in forest park this morning. i threw myself out of bed at 9 am, fighting the urge to stay under the covers until at least noon. depression doesn't need more pillows; it needs a thermos full of espresso and a walk up a big hill.

i often question my intentions for these solo activities. as i pull my green sports bra over my head, i imagine a kismet meeting on the trails. probably someone scruffy and brooding, clutching a wrinkled paperback book: something classic and revolutionary. or maybe a man with two dogs, both of them big and irresistible. that's how we start talking, because i can't stop myself from lavishing his saint bernard with hugs and baby talk.

"you're not going for a hike to meet somebody." this is my habitual self-scolding. what's the point of spending time by yourself if you're subconsciously motivated by bumping into some cute boy? besides, for those of us who aren't sara jessica parker, meeting someone on a hike is highly unlikely.

i forced myself to wear my ugly shorts – the green shiny soccer shorts handed down by my ex-girlfriend. they must be boys’ shorts, because they hang almost to my knees and i have to roll them up at the top. the whole effect is awkward. combined with white running sneakers and yesterday's sweaty socks, the look is less sexy-hardcore-hiker-girl and more i-haven't-brushed-my-teeth-yet-don't-talk-to-me.

besides being practical, the ugly outfit affirms my independence. it says, hey, i'm not cute and sexy-sporty, i'm fucking exercising and thinking and looking at trees and stuff. it says, i'm about me and not about you. wearing something ugly also obviates the letdown when i see the angsty tattered book guy, reading under a tree, and he doesn't so much as look up at me.

the hike was beautiful, as usual, and amazing solely in its proximity – forest park is a ten minute drive from my house. and on my way back down the trail, this guy who's been slightly ahead of me all the way up, stops and turns around. he's toting a tired little dog – no wonder, junior is thirteen years old – and wearing fluorescent orange gym shorts that make my green ones look like tasteful slacks from j. crew. he's bald, with a prickly chin. and his t-shirt says something about donating organs. i've been staring at it the whole way up the trail.

so this guy turns around and says, "hey, i beat you." i am sweating and tired and have no witty response, so i just laugh – but hard enough that i seem interested. which i am. he asks if i mind if he walks back down the trail with me. i say no, of course not. i ask him what he does, and he gives possibly the best answer i've ever heard to that question: "i'm cut out dead people's eyes so they can be used for tissue donation." wow.

he's from texas (bad. i bit my tongue and refrained from asking if he's a republican.) he's 32 (good). he owns a condo and is buying property out by suavie island (excellent). he likes to travel, ski, hike, do lots of other sporty things. he refers to a gay friend without a hint of homophobia or judgment in his voice (thank god). he wants to meet a nice girl and get engaged and build a house together on his new property (oy, buy me a drink first, will ya?).

all in all, a sweet guy. i am suddenly at an age where job stability and home ownership actually make somebody more attractive. we walk down the trail making pleasant conversation, and i caught myself on more than one occasion laughing because something was funny and not because i felt bad for him.

when we got to the bottom of the trail, he shook my hand and said, "it was really nice to meet you. good luck with whatever you do." and walked the other direction. i was visibly surprised i know i made that face like i do ten minutes into the new york times crossword puzzle: perplexed and kind of pissed off. isn't this the part where he asks for my number?

at home now, sitting at my dining room table, well hydrated and full of breakfast, it makes a little more sense. sometimes i think that dating is a numbers game. if enough guys ask for my number, i'm bound to find one that fits perfectly. but of course it's idiotic to date like you shop for jeans. in twenty minutes of conversing with ocular tissue donation guy, i could already tell that we wouldn't know what to do together on a saturday afternoon. he'd want to go windsurfing and i'd want to go to the library. he is buying a house and wants to get married. i can't stay in the same apartment for more than six months. the jeans don't fit. take them off and move on.

i just want to try on a lot of guys right now. and going into the dressing room with a big fat stack of them is more important to me than coming out with one that actually fits.

and right now, i do prefer to hike alone.