When I found her collection of photos of me, saved so meticulously in a pretty blue box with white letters, I didn't mind. It was sweet that I mattered so much to her, and I loved that she would let my friends see the photos so easily! After all, everyone came to her house.
A few weeks later, while visiting again, I found the neatly preserved news clippings from my scholarship award in the box. It seemed appropriate. I left her house smiling. Being relevant feels great. I could come by and see the stories and the photos whenever I wanted, they were there for me too.
My stomach cinched up when I found the logs last month. She was keeping track of every day that we met and where we went to eat. There was a whole page for what movies we saw together. There was a list of the books I'd read--or at least, every book I'd told her I read. She had a list of books she wanted me to buy, too.
I want to be known, sure. I like sharing my time, yes. But this felt... obsessive. It's possible to matter too much.
Now, as I stand here holding the recordings of our last trip to my favorite bar---recordings I didn't know I'd agreed to just by sharing her presence---I feel sick.
But maybe what people say is right. Who cares if someone is paying attention? Careful attentive notes written as someone points a microscope at you and everyone you know, keeping track of how you know these friends of yours.
Still, I think I might start spending Happy Hour with someone else.