The Ink-Pot and the Palette

tehomet picked 28 as the age I should chronicle in the Age Meme. It was a banner year in my life.

I lived
--The first half of the year, in a cockroach-ridden dump just off the Portland State University campus in downtown Portland. It was horrific.
--The second half of the year, at a boarding house on the Rue Alfred de Musset in Guéret, France.

I drove people crazy? There have been 20 years of my life during which I drove a car. This wasn't one of them.

I was in a relationship with I take it this means a primary or sexual-type relationship, so, the usual: nobody. There was this one French guy, though. Antoine. Taller than me, which was unusual. Lived in Paris. Took me dancing. One of my more picturesque memories: translating the lyrics of Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" into his ear. Damn. I really am getting old.

I feared Intimacy, apparently.

I worked
--The first half of the year as the dogsbody and general factotum for the University Honors Program at Portland State University.
--The second half of the year as an English teaching assistant at the Collège Martin Nadaud in Guéret.

I wanted to be Better. Stronger. Faster. Thinner. Prettier. Cooler. Almost anything other than what I was. I did not foresee that self-acceptance would take another 28 years. But it did. Children, don't let this happen to you. Except the slow dancing in a Paris nightclub part. Definitely let that happen to you.

If you want to play, tell me your age and I'll pick a year.