About PeyPey

...and speaking of me. Wait, we were talking about me, right? Thought so. I was thinking yesterday about all of the potential items I could put in the "About Me" section on a social networking site. And I just know that you guys are dying to know more about me, right? Well, that doesn't really matter. I'm going to tell you anyway.

If you look to the right, you'll see my profile. This is the place that Blogger has designed for the writer to mention something about themselves so that the readers won't just blindly read some random person's blog. This is the space for you, the reader, to know concrete things about me. You know, like, "I live in Georgia. I have brown hair. I am a girl," that kind of stuff.

My "About Me" section simply says, "I like hosepipe water."

While I feel that this sentence is pretty indicative of the kind of person I am, some readers may not read between the lines of that sentence and may not understand or get a grasp on the fact that by me telling you that I like hosepipe water, I am also trying to convey to you that I am a whimsical, random, fun-loving, laid-back, and thoughtful person. And as the reader, you can expect to come to this site and read my entries which exemplify all of the above. Instead, some Type-A readers will read that one line and think, "Um, that's really weird," and go on their merry way, not stopping to read one single blog entry.

I'm okay with that.

But for those of you who have patiently stuck around, I have a treat for you: a detailed "About Me" section. This may go on for several posts, so if you're interested in getting to know the real PeyPey, keep sticking around. So here we go.

1. I make friends easily. I have never been lacking in the friends department. I still keep in close contact with several friends from elementary school and middle school, while my high school friends are very much still a huge part of my life. The friends I have made since high school are abundant and at any given time, if I want to go to dinner, I have about 65 friends who I could call to join me. Making friends just comes natural to me. Sometimes, however, this can be a dangerous trait.

Case in point: while perusing the lip gloss shelves of Walmart as a fifteen-year-old, an unassuming light skinned black girl came to stand next to me. She appeared to be a few years younger than me and from her appearance, had an affinity for tweety-bird clothing. Because at that point in my life, I could spend no less than thirty minutes on this particular aisle each time I visited Walmart, I was there for awhile after my tweety-bird clad friend showed up. We struck up a conversation. She had a weird speech impediment which I decided to dismiss because, after all, I make friends easily. "So what's your favorite lip gloss?" I replied without hesitation, "Bonne Belle, hands down." We continued our lip gloss discourse and then she introduced herself. "I'm Tamara." (Pronounced Tuh-MARR-uh. I don't think that's important, but I thought I'd throw it in there.) "Hi, I'm Peyton."

And then the conversation went somewhere I wasn't expecting it to go. I mean, any girl can discuss beauty products, at length, with a complete stranger and without formal introductions, but I was just humoring her and being nice, because, after all, I make friends easily. "So, where do you go to school? How old are you? Can you drive? Do you have brothers and sisters? What do you do for fun? What's your favorite school subject? Do you like going to the movies? Have you ever dyed your hair? Do you have a boyfriend? Have you ever kissed a boy? Who's your favorite celebrity? Do you like Coke or Sprite? Do you like wearing jewelry? Have you ever been out of the country? What's your favorite ice cream flavor? What do you want to be when you grow up? When's your birthday? Do you want to be friends? Can I have your phone number?" After this daunting diatribe, I sat there in stunned silence not knowing what just hit me. Again, Tamara asked, "can I have your phone number?" This simple, joyful lip gloss shopping trip had transformed into a balls-to-the-wall interview from a stranger named Tamara who now wanted my phone number. "Can I have it? Your phone number?" Panic. But then I calmed down, and thought, "how harmless can she be? She's wearing tweety-bird clothing for heaven's sake. And after all, I make friends easily." So I said, "Um, sure. It's ***-****." "Awesome! Ok, I gotta go Peyton, but I'm going to call you and we're going to hang out soon!" And with that, she trotted off and I quietly laid down my basket full of Bonne Belle in the middle of the aisle and high-tailed it out of there.

A few hours later, the tweety-bird stranger was forgotten and I was back to normal. Until later that night, when she called. I sat on the phone with her for what seemed like hours, agonizing over the fact that I had just given out my phone number to a complete stranger who seemed a bit off kilter. After that phone call, I was sure there would be no more. That was just a fluke, something random. Probably won't hear from her again.

A few hours later, the speech impediment on the other end of the line was forgotten and I was back to normal. Until the next day, when she called.

This went on and on, everyday for a few weeks. I was weirded out, my family was weirded out and was getting tired of my lengthy phone use. So one day, my little brother, who at the time was 5 or 6, picked up the phone when she called and lit into her. I had no idea the capabilities of his little lungs or the ugliness of his tongue. If I were Tamara, I probably would have crapped my pants after being yelled at like that from a 5 or 6 year old. He was ruthless. I wasn't mad though, because I was annoyed by Tamara. I mean, who did she think she was trying to be my friend and all?

A few hours later, the tongue lashing from the kid was forgotten and me my little bro got back to wrestling and picking on each other and all was back to normal. Until the next week when she called. People, this went on and on for ten years until my parents finally changed their number. TEN. YEARS. Ten years.

Ten years.

So while I consider this make-friends-easily trait among the best and most attractive things about myself, it has its flaws. Moral of the story: Not everyone is your friend, Peyton. Some people are crazy. Don't give your phone number to strangers on the lip gloss aisle. You can say no. You already have plenty of friends, ok, self?

Ok, I feel better that you all know that story about me now.

Stay tuned for more "About Me" stories!