Accidental Ambivalence

High-Maintenance

Bradshaw and I are excellent at talking on the phone. From five-minute chats after important life events (last hurrahs, surprise kisses, quarter-life crises) to the marathon calls that last longer than we've realized, this is something that we have down to a science. We could say that it's because we've been living in different cities for the last two years, but I think this was a skill that we brought to the friendship (I remember having some weirdly long phone calls when we were going to see each other just a few hours later).

Last night, we had something in the middle, and she mentioned something that set my mind working. At a baseball game, the men sitting next to her mentioned that she seemed like a low maintenance kind of girl, which, of course, made me wonder if I'm a high maintenance kind of girl. It forced me to attempt to define what that means, and I'm not entirely sure.

The example the boys used was the jacket that she wore in lieu of something fussier, and I don't really follow. Does the fact that I don't even own a jacket (but do own a trench, a purple military-style wool coat, and a houndstooth wool coat) mean that I'm high maintenance? Somehow, I think that's too general. It's been suggested that my propensity for skirts might make me high maintenance, but I can do anything in a skirt that I can do in jeans - unless you ask me to stand on my head, but I can't do that at all.

Cosmetically, I am most certainly high maintenance. I don't go out without makeup on, my preferred hairstyle takes at least twenty minutes (though I'm not always willing to work that hard), I'm a fan of the half-hour shower, my skincare routine is very involved, and last night I spent an entire episode of The Rachel Zoe Project* painting my toe- and fingernails. I sometimes wear extremely precise liquid eyeliner, I do a twice-weekly clay mask, I would have my hair cut and colored every six weeks if I could manage to keep up with it, and I have eight different pots of eyeshadow in my bathroom (at $18 a pop, that's pretty bad).

I alphabetize my DVDs and books and I tend to hate loaning them out. I wash my whites, delicates, and other clothing separately. My computer folders are arranged to exacting specifications. I can tell when things in my bathroom have been moved - and I can tell the different between things people have moved and things nudged by nosy cats. My makeup brushes have their own little bag separate from the actual makeup, and all of the bristles must be facing the same way.

Having said all of that, I'm not sure that describing me as high-maintenance is true. I need alone time far more than I need to spend time with other people. I am more than capable of feeding myself, cleaning up after myself, and entertaining myself. There is no one in my life that I feel the need to speak to every day. I live alone - and I love it. I can figure out how to open the most stubborn jar, kill spiders, find flashlights and candles when the electricity goes out with minimal anxiety, talk myself down from a nightmare, go to the movies alone, and choose outfits without asking anyone's opinion.

Maybe I am high maintenance. In pondering this, I've realized something a lot more interesting: I like who I am, whatever that means. And if there are people - and I do know some of those people - who love me for being this person, that's fantastic. I am constantly being reminded that I would much rather have fewer friends who love the girl I am than more friends who either don't know me or don't care. And those people, who think I am too high maintenance, aren't the sort of people that I need in my life.

*The fact that I'm watching The Rachel Zoe Project is probably a red flag, huh?

Labels: everyday musings, personal growth

posted by nicalyse @ 8:54 PM