but not a real green dress, that's cruel.

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19 march 1997

12:11 a.m.

Dear diary, Barring any airport disasters, Nate is back in town tonight. He somehow wrestled some vacation time out of the "Evil Empire" and is here to visit his girlfriend, Jaimee. Which means, perforce, he'll probably be indisposed for most of his visit. Still, last I'd heard he was gung ho about going to the "Save Radio Free Hawai`i Rally" this Friday. Provided RFH fans like me still scare Jaimee as much as we used to, I'll probably be able to corner him there and maybe collect on one of the two hundred or so dinners he owes me. He hasn't called yet, and I have no idea where he's staying. I'm half expecting, for old times sake, for him to just show up at the door to claim his corner of the couch. I wish he would. I've missed that guy. It just struck me how large a part "friend tracking" plays in island life. I'm sure its prevalent in any town, but the isolation of this particular state seems to make the phenomenon more prominent. My dayplanner is littered with "ARRIVES HNL" and "DEPARTS HNL" months in advance. Often it seems as if my social life revolves around when this or that friend will be back in the islands. Long weekends and breaks, though greatly anticipated, end up a whirlwind of touch-and-go lunches and picnics where we barely have enough time to verify eachother's pulses and e-mail addresses. Then we return to our now-distinct and seperate lives, and I fend off the sense of isolation by counting one afternoon of "so what are you doing now?" and, "oh, that's great!" as the year's dose of quality time. Every once in a while I stop and look around and realize that although nearly all the people I consider the closest of friends are still near and dear to me in spirit, a simple best-friend hug is, on average, 3,500 miles away. Island fever. Claustrophobia. The compelling need to be anywhere except in Hawai`i. While it's an extremely common affliction, thankfully it's one I've never been able to identify with. Sometimes, though, I wonder if its contagious. It's a good thing green is one of my better colors. While orange holidays (Halloween, namely) are generally a nightmare, I generally enjoy getting tacky for St. Patrick's Day. Green dress, green fingernails (courtesy Cyna's Christmas 1995 gift set of Hard Candy nail polish, which I'd once vowed never to wear), jade green earrings, and other green garments not suitable for public viewing. It sounds garish, but it really wasn't. A guy in my Hawaiian class said I looked like a Nature Company store employee, though. He'd forgotten the significance of the date, but was also fortunate enough to have worn olive-esque shorts, which just barely passed the class' evaluation. Sadly, most the folks on campus weren't as green-savvy this year as they were in the last. I remember walking into the cafeteria and wondering if Marriott was hosting a leprechaun convention. Or maybe all that green stood out 'cause I'd forgotten mine. (I had to wear a green paper shamrock provided by my old boss in order to survive the day.) All my efforts this year were pretty useless at work, of course. The more juvenile of my colleagues wrongfully and willfully enforced the St. Patrick's Penal Code, only to recoil from my protests with, "Sorry, I'm colorblind." By the by... everyone knows you're supposed to wear green for St. Patty's, but did you know it's just as much bachi (bad luck) to wear a substantial amount of orange? Whether or not it's true, I got to inflict my share of gratuitious office abuse as a result.