Maybe a Bunch of Maybes

We were sitting at a table in Monk’s. A wood paneled wall adorned with pub appropriate art was to my left and you were resting to my right. Robin and John slid in across from us and we began our evening, ordering heaps of food and rounds of beer. As we finished our dinner of mussels and burgers, two more guys pulled up chairs to your right at the head of the table. I high fived John about visiting him in Denver over the wintertime, the stretch of months during which you’ll be in Afghanistan. We drifted off on tall tales of powdery slopes while you jokingly muttered ‘I hate you’ in my direction. I listened as Robin explained with controlled frustration why she had to be behind a desk in Iraq instead of out front like her male counterparts. She mentioned the drama of Jessica Lynch and the media and the way it all gets perceived by the public. And then I asked that guy to your right, the guy perched on a pulled up chair where he was from. You were leaning on your elbows with a beer sitting between them. I rested an outstretched arm along the back of the bench and spoke behind you.

“I’m sorry but I totally don’t remember your name,” I confessed as my words drifted over the echo of the bar and the hum of Aretha Franklin playing in the distance.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m Jason. And hey, thanks for showing us all around tonight.”

“No problem. Where are you from?” I inquired.

“Missouri,” he answered, knowing the town was too small to mention on its own.

“Are you psy-ops like the rest of these guys or civil whatever?”

“Civil whatever,” he replied, his smile embracing my inability to keep it all straight.

Then you turned a little. Leaving your elbows on the table and your fingers knotted into a single fist, you inched your head ever so slightly in my direction. With your chin now even with your shoulder, simple words fell from your mouth.

“You’re warm,” you quietly noted.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said as I looked down to see my hand on your back. I wasn’t sure when or how it ended up there. My last memory was wrapping my fingers around the curl of the bench. I halted my conversation with Jason and quickly lifted my hand as if it had been scorched. I examined my open palm and extended fingers hovering in midair, my focus interrupted by the sound of your voice.

“It’s okay. I’m just saying,” you offered before turning to rejoin the conversation you had momentarily stepped out of.

I uncurled my position to face the table. I lifted my hand, the one that had moments earlier been connected to you, and wrapped it around my beer. The warmth of my flesh collided with the chill of the beverage. Cold droplets of condensation dripped over my fingers. I raised the glass to my parted lips and let the beer slide down my throat. I took another sip, this time letting the bubbles dance across my tongue. And then I indulged in one last gulp before resting the glass back on the table and returning to my previous position.

I twisted my hips, I rested my shoulder against the wooden back of the bench, I bent my arm at the elbow and I slowly extended my hand. I dragged the heel of my palm across your back to smooth out the wrinkles of your shirt. I pressed against soft cotton shielding strong flesh. My fingertips dipped against the rut of your spine before peaking on your shoulderblade. Then I stopped, my open palm and extended fingers gently resting against you. It felt familiar and calming and, well, it felt right. So even though there was nowhere for it to go, I lingered in the comfort of you. The kind of comfort I know and crave with men I let in. The kind of comfort that since the start of spring had felt unfamiliar and awkward.

Maybe I was being selfish, using you to momentarily fill a void. Maybe I was being inappropriate, offering a subtle flirtation where there shouldn’t be. Maybe everything I felt was right but timing was all wrong and so I stepped forward knowing it was as far as I could go. Or perhaps it didn’t need to be disected or explained or excused. Maybe the intricacies of an unintended gesture driven by unexpected feelings weren’t meant to be understood or defined or spoken aloud. Maybe a bunch of maybes were merely a waste of words. Because in the end, I know you felt it too.

Innocence Is Bliss

Earlier in September, everyone rendezvoused in Sarasota for a family vacation. My mom, Leslie and the kids went down on Saturday so they could take their time settling in. There were beds to arrange, suitcases to unpack and wine to purchase. Meanwhile, my dad and I caught a Tampa bound flight late Tuesday. With weather delays and the hour drive south, we got in well after midnight. It wasn’t until Wednesday morning that I made a formal appearance. Olivia and Anders were in their jammies watching Wonder Pets and building magnet towers. My mom was stirring together the ingredients for blueberry muffins, Leslie was online shopping for shoes and my dad was in the shower.

“Hi guys,” I announced as I shuffled into the kitchen to pour a bowl of cereal.

Upon hearing my voice, Anders popped up and came over to me.

“Hi Aunt Paige,” he said with a flat handed wave. “Did you come from Filthadelphia?”

“Um, yup,” I answered without bothering to correct him. I mean let’s be honest, the name isn’t that inaccurate. Drive into North Philly and you’d know exactly what I’m talking about. On second thought, don’t do it. You might get shot.

Anyway, as the days passed, we did typical Sarasota things. Like we went to Jungle Gardens and snapped pictures of us each holding parrots and alligators and offering handfuls of nibble to ravenous flamingoes. And we sat outside at Columbia and sipped Sangria while feeding the alcohol soaked fruit to the tykes. Listen, it was almost nap time and they were getting cranky. Drunken orange slices were our only hope for temporary sedation.

After activity laden days and lazy sleepy nights, I got myself together to depart. I tucked the summer items I was leaving behind into the bottom drawer of the dresser in the guest room. I dropped my damp towel in the washing machine before fetching my previously purchased white peach from the fridge. With everything taken care of, I made the rounds to say my goodbyes.

“Can I have a hug?” I pleaded from Anders.

“Are you going back to Floridelphia?” he asked as he walked into my open arms.

“Um, yup.”

A couple of weeks later, I was on the phone with Leslie trying to figure out a possible last minute visit. I wasn’t sure if I could swing the airfare and she wasn’t sure if she could swing the dates. When I rang her cell, she forewarned me she was a tad preoccupied. I might have been sitting at my desk but she was in the bleachers with Olivia watching Anders play t-ball.

“Is that Livvy yapping?” I interrupted with a giddy smile.

“Yup. Olivia, say hi to Aunt Paige,” she instructed.

“Hi Aunt Pay. Look at my sticker!”

“Hey Dingleberry,” Leslie said with a chuckle as she brought the cell back to her ear. “Aunt Pay is on the phone. She can’t see it. See Paige, this is what you’re missing by not being here.”

Oh how I adore and maybe even envy such innocence. To know no better than the minimal. To lack cynicism and bitterness and common sense. No matter how much you twist it, no matter how you argue otherwise, innocence is bliss.

Whenever I Question My Singleness, Life Hands Me A Few Answers

Every time I go to the bathroom at the office, no matter what I go in there to do, I spray the air freshener. Every. Single. Time. It’s a habit. It’s part of my toilet routine like smiling a big grin to check my teeth in the mirror when I wash my hands or using my right foot, never my left, to lift the lid on the trashcan when I go to toss the crumpled and damp paper towel. Without fail, after spritzing the spray but before replacing the deodorizer to the shelf, I walk into the mist. Every. Fucking. Time. I can hide in the corner pressed up against the wall for an hour so as to let the spray settle and I’d still manage to somehow get caught in it. So now, even though I earlier dabbed something delicate behind my ears to elicit the scent of fresh flowers drifting across a dewy summer morning or perhaps I dabbed something purrfectly sexy that drums up images of tussled hair and come hither glares, I smell like Glade. And let me just say that no matter how much sass you have in your step, no matter how high your stilettos, no matter how much confidence you exude as you strut your stuff, nothing can undo a sexy hair toss and devilish twinkle faster than leaving the scent of Glade bathroom deodorizer in your wake.

A little shy of lunchtime on Monday, while sitting at my desk preparing some numbers for an afternoon meeting, I adjusted my position. I switched my crossed leg from left to right. I arched my spine to stretch my lower back a little. I grabbed the liter of water sitting to the right of my monitor and took a swig. Then I reached my hand up to push my hair back off my face. First I tucked the right side behind my ear. Then I reached around to the left. But I misjudged the location of my hair and my ear and my head. And I didn’t clear my ear. Instead, I jammed my fingers right into it. The oval semicircle fold, to be more specific. The top of the ear that curls down to the lobe. But instead of colliding with flesh, I collided with goop. A hardened but still soft goop. I slowly pulled my hand down in front of my face to evaluate my findings. There on the tip of my index finger and wedged ever so slightly below the nail was a yellowy globule. The color of bile. Or, in my case, the color of Dumb Blonde Conditioner. I reached up to my ear again to see how much I had apparently been storing in that there fold. Turns out I had enough to condition my tresses a good three times. My initial sentiment of ‘oh lovely’ was upgraded to ‘oh lovelier’ when I realized I had been taking a Dumb Blonde break and using my Biolage products. For the last four days.

And because the previous two incidents aren’t humbling enough, I just about killed myself on my treadmill the other day. It was my usual routine. Decked out in my broken in Brooks, favorite Nike t-shirt and Marika shorts, I stepped off the rails and onto the belt. I cranked the incline to 8% and upped my pace to a rapid clip. I struck the belt with confidence and determination as my ponytail bounced around in the air. I pushed my glasses higher up on my dewy nose so I could still be properly distracted by the entertainment on the television. Then my phone rang. So like a good treadmill trained girl, I hopped on the rails and performed a safety-comes-first dismount. It was my mom. With a pressing question about, um, I forget. Anyway, I ended the call and stepped my left foot onto the right rail. So wrong but it felt so right. And then I crossed my right foot in front of it and stepped onto the zooming belt. Right leg slammed against stationary left leg. Right hand grasped the handrail with a death grip and mouth expelled a gasp of air, perhaps my very last breath. My life flashed before my eyes as I teetered on the brink of death by treadmill. Lucky for me and luckier for the person with whom I share the wall I would have been propelled into or perhaps through, I caught myself. Yeah, my shoulder was a little sore from struggling to stay upright. And there’s a slight bruise on my left shin from where my right foot kicked it as it un-dosie-doed from the original position. But nothing else was damaged. Well, except for my ego.

In My Opinion

Sometimes when I watch my husband Jon Stewart ramble on about the ridiculousness plaguing American politics, my jaw drops to the ground and I fall in love with him all over again. His brilliant thoughts, his witty delivery, his smirky smile - I just melt.

Yes well, I can now say the same thing about Kris Likey. Especially after reading her most recent post.

Cleaning House

I remember when Ex moved from Alexandria to Georgetown, we spent a weekend or two unpacking all of his crap. He was downstairs figuring out where to put what in the kitchen and I was up in the third floor loft determining the best way to organize boxes that didn’t need to be unpacked. Things labeled office I stacked under the dormer. Things labeled miscellaneous I stacked on the far side against the wall. Toward the end, I came across a suspiciously large box that had no label. The corrugated edges were tattered and the tape keeping it together had yellowed from time. I broke open the crisscross fold of the top and cautiously peered inside. In an unorganized shuffle were business cards. Stacks and stacks of them. I plucked one free. Sharp black ink dotted crisp white card stock. My eyes carefully traced the lettering naming Ex and his law practice from way back when. I was sitting on the top step balancing a card on my fingertips when I heard the creak of floorboards approaching.

“Paigie, you done?”

“Sorta. Hey, um, I found your business cards,” I announced, my words hanging in the air with uncertainty.

“Oh yeah,” he said with a sigh as he turned the corner and settled in on the second step up.

“I don’t know if this makes sense but I’m really proud of you. That you even tried to strike out on your own. I mean, it must have been difficult doing that down here. I hope you know that this stash of cards shouldn’t be a reminder of failure but a reminder of trying,” I said, my words drifting off until the only audible noise was the low hum of the air conditioner in the window.

“Let’s go get something to eat,” Ex said as he backed down the stairs and retreated into his current life.

I reassembled the top of the box and pushed it under the dormer. Because even though the contact information on the business cards was three residences and two states ago and the career of note was no longer accurate, Ex felt a need to keep the past within reach. And that was it. I understood. He didn’t need to explain. And so the box and his past remained tucked in the shadows. We never spoke about it again.

This past Sunday, I set out to tidy my apartment. Bags and shoes cluttered my entryway. Dress slacks, a fleece and my golf skort draped across the chair in my bedroom. An unsettling amount of dust coated the better part of my furniture. With a Swiffer sheet in hand, I set out tackling the gray hue that separated air from wood. I wiped down my nightstand, moving the clock and plant out of the way instead of lazily cleaning around it all. And then I went over to my tall dresser and cleaned there. I moved the ceramic Tiffany box, a gift from Allison, to the left. I scooted the silver piggy bank I bought at Banana Republic to the right. I lifted a small stack of books to swipe underneath. But before I could drag the cloth across, I noticed a piece of paper. A two by four inch white sheet with Alaska’s name formally printed across the top and chicken scratch filling the space below. It was the score sheet from our first Scrabble game. His name was scrawled on the left and mine was on the right and a collection of numbers noting our efforts scrolled down to the bottom.

It was late May and a rainy afternoon, the afternoon falling just before my scheduled red eye back east. We settled in on his sofa and alternated turns with the board. Later, when we packed up the game, I told him I never wanted to see that piece of paper again. It noted his victory or, as I liked to claim, his cheating. Adding an ‘s’ to an already existing word? That’s lazy play. Anyway, when I got home the following morning and pulled my things from my bag, I found the paper. Two corners were creased from the way he had hurriedly tucked it into the outside pocket when I was off doing something else.

When I went back to visit in August, we wound down my visit yet again with a game of Scrabble. Just like before, we used the same personalized notepad to keep score. The one big difference was this time I won. And at the risk of gloating, I fucking killed. When the game was over and he was collecting the tiles and folding the board, I tore the score sheet free and handed it to him.

“Here,” I said with my hand extended.

He looked blankly at the paper in my hand, tiles clanking against tiles as they dropped into the bag.

“You have to keep it. Like I kept the one from before. When you cheated,” I joked.

“Okay, though I didn’t cheat before,” he said with a chuckle as he took the paper and placed it down on the coffee table.

“The rules in your box are wrong. Simply making something plural is totally cheating. But listen, I forgive you. Just promise you’ll keep it,” I asked or perhaps pleaded.

“I promise,” he said with a warm smile.

Standing in my apartment, dirty dust cloth in one hand and Scrabble score sheet in the other, I halted everything. I eyed the way his writing and my writing collided on the page. I reworked the math of the last few plays. And instead of crumpling it up and dropping my past in the trash, I pressed the pads of my fingertips against the wrinkles in the paper. Without thinking it all through, I placed the cloth on the dresser, gathered the books that needed to be shelved and rested the paper on top. I scuffed my feet against the wood floors and worked my way out to the living room. Standing in front of my bookcases, I hunted for free space. One by one, I slid the books onto the shelves. The only thing left was the Scrabble score sheet. I looked at it one last time before tucking it between the firm wooden edge of the bookcase and the soft paperback cover of a book pressed tight against it. I slipped it safely into the shadows of a small space, letting a corner remain visible. Nothing noticeable. Nothing that would be immediately identifiable. Just a crisp white triangle ever so slightly poking out. And then I got back to cleaning.

Living Out Loud

I have a tendency to delay going public with relationship details I’m not all that proud of. What I mean to say is when I think someone will pass judgment, I hold off on uttering anything. Or, well, when I think someone could possibly respond the way I would respond, arms thrown up in the air and a voluminous ‘what the fuck’ echoing off the walls, that’s when I hold back. I keep it all to myself until I’m ready to hear what I already know.

Case in point, when Ex told me I was fat, it took me four weeks to repeat the exchange to anyone. Even Leslie was in the dark. I kept the hurting words and aching pain to myself. I lingered in isolation and sadness and confusion while I grabbed at my dimpled thighs and soft stomach in angry frustration. I stayed mum because I full well knew that if someone I cared about, someone who admittedly struggled with fucked up body image, told me her boyfriend of almost two years had erroneously accused her of being fat, I’d scream a stream of expletives before instructing her to walk away. The thing was, I wasn’t ready to break up. So I went on a diet and cursed my naked self and stayed in the relationship. I kept it all inside until I was ready to go, or at least more ready to go than to stay.

“What’s going on over there?” Joe asked, his hand fanning in front of my face so as to interrupt my gaze.

“Yeah, you’re being suspiciously quiet,” Hope chimed in.

We were sprawled out in the lounge of Twenty Manning. Plates of food dotted the low tables. Martini glasses left dampened rings on cocktail napkins. And I was bent forward, my elbows firmly resting on my knees and my phone clutched in my hand. I paused before answering. I took in a slow and paced breath, the air passing over my parted lips and filling my lungs as I evaluated my response.

“I can’t tell you,” I childishly muttered, my fragile gaze lifting from my phone to Joe. “You’ll be mad.”

“What? What now?” he asked in a half joking humph.

“Alaska contacted me. Yesterday. And I responded. We’ve been talking. Well, not talking, emailing. Anyway, I know he’s on a flight right now. About a five hour flight. I used to always leave him a voicemail when he was 35,000 feet up. This way, the first thing he heard when he landed was a message from me. Old habits die hard.”

“Emailing? He didn’t call you, he emailed you? Christ. This guy is forty-something and he can’t even pick up the fucking phone? No. You are not leaving him a message,” Joe sternly announced.

“I know what you’re feeling, I do,” Hope consoled. “But I’m siding with Joe on this one.”

I knew they were right and well intentioned but as I sat there pondering what to do with all of it, I started to wonder if I’d shared too soon. If I should have just gone my usual path and kept it to myself. I could have fibbed that I needed to call Leslie. I could have politely excused myself, stepped out to the bustling sidewalk and left a message. Something short and sweet that dangerously mingled the present with the past.

“Paige?” Joe asked, my name hanging in the air with uncertainty.

I didn’t have a response. I was frozen in place as I struggled to take the next step, a step either forward or backward. I still wasn’t sure where I was heading.

“Listen. I’m not mad at you,” Joe started, his voice calm and understanding. “And you’re going to do whatever it is you feel you need to do. I get it. But let me just say one last thing - I’d rather you get back together with Ex than give that lying Alaska one more undeserved second of your life. Yeah, Ex said some fucked up shit that hurt you but you know what? He put all his cards on the table. At least you knew where he stood.”

“He has a point,” Hope noted as she leaned forward and gently placed her glass on a cocktail napkin.

I sat there and digested it all, every last word. And when I was finally ready to speak, I did.

“He lands in an hour. Just occupy me until ten and I’ll be fine. I promise. It’s a valley. I have my highs and I have my lows. Today I miss him. Tomorrow I won’t even think about him,” I explained before my voice drifted off. I tucked my phone in my bag and rested my tired body against the banquette. A gentle quiet floated between us until Joe finally spoke, his wise words answering all uncertainty.

“Well heck, all of this can easily be fixed. Excuse me, Miss?” Joe said, his voice directed to the server passing through the lounge and his finger pointing in my direction. “She’s going to need another lycheetini.”

You’re Kidding, Right?

In early August, my dad’s partner hired someone part-time to fill in the blanks. Someone who could jump right in according to her claimed experience in the field. Someone who could hit the ground running and lighten his load as we started in on our crazy season. A married thirty-something with mousy brown hair, mom jeans and a two year old was the only prospect. Neither my dad nor I were involved in the hiring process since she was not technically one of our employees but we were asked what we thought.

“Well,” the partner said as he leaned on the counter by my desk and peeled a piece of licorice free from the wrapping.

“I didn’t really talk with her but I will say this much – she totally gave a dead fish when I shook her hand.”

That was the extent of my opinion.

Two weeks later she was hired. Four weeks later she started. And last week I almost slammed her head into a filing cabinet. It started off innocently enough with her aimlessly wandering around my open work area clutching a large envelope.

“Hey, over on the wall by the postage machine is a sheet with additional pricing. It varies according to size and that’s considered a large envelope,” I informed her, my head nodding in the direction of the item in her hand.

Blank stare.

“The Postal Service rolled out higher prices for larger envelopes. It’s different than what reads on the scale,” I elaborated.

Blank stare.

“Go look at the sheet on the wall.”

Blank stare with slow shuffling of feet.

“The wall. By the meter. To the left,” I directed.

Blank stare with shuffling of feet to the right.

“The left,” I repeated.

Shuffling of feet to the right while looking blankly to the left.

“The left,” I said one more time before getting up from my desk and walking over to the wall by the meter, my presence acting as a beacon on her horizon of confusion. She adjusted her trajectory just before completing a full circle heading in the wrong direction.

“You have to weigh the letter and agree it to the fee schedule on the sheet,” I said while pointing to the paper pinned to the wall. The one with 'large envelopes' highlighted in yellow.

Blank stare with an ever so slight twinkle of recognition.

Content she understood or perhaps too frustrated to direct her any further, I went back to my desk. I settled into my chair and returned my attention to the files spread out in front of me. Or at least I tried to get back to work. It was hard to focus on much of anything when ten feet behind me all I could hear were quiet moans of despair and mutters that the act of calculating postage was hard. Very hard. Five minutes later, still not having heard the sound of the postage machine stamp anything, I got up and walked back over to where I had left her. She was in a crouched position with hands on her knees and she was looking at the scale the same way a mesmerized three year old stares at a snow globe.

“What does it read?” I inquired.

Blank stare with a crinkled nose.

“Four ounces,” I answered.

“It actually looks like it’s a little less than four ounces,” she countered.

“Right. So find four ounces on this grid and that’ll tell you the price you need to plug into the meter,” I instructed, my tone and annunciation similar to that one would use when speaking to a foreigner.

“Oh, I get it.”

No she didn’t. And I was officially done with my original approach of let’s-learn-from-this.

“It’s one thirty-one,” I squeezed out between clenched teeth.

With the envelope finally stamped, the coworker went back to her cubicle and I went back to the clutter on my desk. An hour later, my phone rang. It was my mom.

“What’re you doing?” she asked in between munches of something crunchy.

“Trying to not kill the new girl.”

“That bad?”

“Let’s just say that even though Olivia is only two and a half and can’t count to twenty without saying thirteen twice and fifteen never, she’s more qualified for the position.”

For What It's Worth

I cleaned out my wallet last month because over the previous few months, quite a bit of crap had accumulated. There was a wad of folded up receipts, my favorite being a slip from my dry cleaner dated May 8th, 2006. Way too many coins bulged against the sides of the change purse and a collection of crinkled bills overwhelmed another slot. Sure the zipper still closed but I was tired of having to manage the clutter so as not to get papers caught in the teeth.

As I shuffled things into two piles, stuff to keep and stuff to shred, I found the business card from that guy on my Quito flight. You remember him, right? Mr. Lolliracket? Yeah, me neither. It seems I had transferred his card from my backpack to my wallet but that’s where things stalled out with a sputter and a spit. Never once had I plucked it free and pondered utilizing the noted contact information.

Staring at the card, my eyes tracing the tattered edges and scanning the formal lettering, I realized it had served a purpose and the purpose had passed. When I stood there in day old clothes with fuzzy teeth and tussled hair, his advances reminded me that there were other boys in the world. Boys who would willingly offer silly grins and nervous giggles in response to my presence. Boys who, unlike the ones from my recent past, were moving in a forward motion. Maybe it wasn’t fair that I ended things before they could ever begin but at the risk of sounding selfish, I got everything I needed out of that interaction. And so I tossed the card in the to-be-shredded pile.

Two weeks ago Sunday, I found myself talking to a guy from Boston that I had spent the previous month or so getting to know.

“I just got a ticket for going through EZPass too fast,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, um, I just found a nail in the wall of my back right tire,” I countered.

“You know, I should have just come down there. We could have had a first date and the net expense of visiting you would have easily been less than my speeding ticket,” he joked. There was a long pause, the cogs of his brain echoing and creaking. “I’ll be home in five minutes. Let me call you back.”

I was pulling into the driving range when my phone rang again.

“So I can get a flight that will land in Philly at seven o’clock this evening. And I can take an overnight train back up to Boston. What do you think?”

“I think you’re crazy,” I answered without hesitation.

“I wouldn’t offer to do it if I wasn’t interested.”

And so a few hours later, I found myself lingering outside airport security while flipping through the most recent issue of Town and Country and waiting for a boy from Boston.

We relocated to the bar at Twenty Manning where we sipped drinks and settled into first impressions. I noticed the way he held the globe of his wine glass instead of the stem. Or the way I playfully rested my hand on his knee, curling my fingers around the inner part of his thigh. With our glasses drained, we strolled two blocks down to Tinto for dinner. We sampled the Spanish cuisine and swapped more stories all the while melting deeper into the banquettes. The date continued for another few hours, ending when I dropped him at the train for a midnight journey northward. He disappeared into the station and I merged into traffic.

As I pulled off the highway and onto Broad Street, for some unexpected reason I started to cry. Nothing that involved heaving gasps or trembling moans. Just a steady stream of tears pushing over the creases of my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. With my car coasting from light to light, I ran the back of my hand across my face. It was a simple gesture that accomplished nothing. Stopped at a corner, I looked to my left. The driver, caught in the act of observing my sadness, dragged an extended finger down his face and warmly mouthed that I shouldn’t cry. I crinkled my lips into a crooked smile and spoke a hushed thank you before shifting my gaze forward and willing the light to turn.

It was at that very moment I realized that Boston like Mr. Lolliracket had served a purpose and the purpose had passed. It had been a nice evening and I had enjoyed certain aspects of the interaction. But at the core I was numb. Sitting in my idling car at a glaring red light, I realized that while there are other boys, cute and funny boys with the ability to make me laugh and make me think, I’m still not ready meet them.

Slide Show

That post I wrote last week about getting into bed alone but acting as if I weren’t? I penned that back in late March and I wrote it for Alaska. I gave it to him upon completion but never bothered to post it for public consumption. It was written because of something going on inside me, a something that was clearly motivated by my interactions with him, and it felt better keeping it between us. Sure I loaded it on my blog but I kept it dormant in draft mode.

I always liked that piece. It is honest and raw and genuine. It is vulnerable and sexy and somehow even sweet. And if you asked me to write it again now, if you instructed me to sit down and pen something similar, I’d fail miserably. I just couldn’t. Since the start of summer, I have strolled through my days moving to a soundtrack of David Gray and Paula Cole and The Fray. My pace dominated by deep pensiveness and deeper melancholy. There is neither space nor provocation leading me to feel such raw sexuality. The intimacy of touch and longing for someone specific is just too distant right now to inspire such feelings of want. And if you don’t believe me, well, let’s just say I bought a new toy in early September and I’ve used it exactly twice.

Three weeks ago, Sean sent a quick email asking if I was okay. That I hadn’t written anything in a while or what resembles a while in my blog posting world. I wrote back saying I was tired of my tone. That my posts were all so glum and serious and sitting down to write was draining the shit out of me. I’d stare at the blank monitor and will myself to pen something with charming wit or sassy commentary. My fingertips would hover over the keyboard with the hopes of tapping out words that were light and playful. But the emotions and sentiments carried through my body, from my heart out to my limbs, they stalled out at gray. I continued to write and also intermittently turn to uninteresting ideas or previously penned but never published pieces to interrupt the sullen spots.

Leslie and I were in Florida for a few days last week and as we walked down Main Street in Sarasota, shopping bags grasped in one hand and an espresso shortbread cookie crumbling in the other, I mentioned my blog.

“I posted something last week about masturbation. Something I’d written months ago for Alaska,” I started as we stood at a corner and waited for the light to turn. “It’s probably one of my favorite pieces. And no matter what, I could never ever write it today.”

“You’re just going through a funk. You’ll get back there,” Leslie soothed.

“Yeah, I know. Nothing is ever permanent. I think what I’m saying is I never quite realized how my writing is so dictated by what’s going on in my life.”

It isn’t that this realization was unexpected. I tend to write with an honesty that comes from someplace deep within. It makes sense that the words I string together are genuine to an exact moment of time. I guess what I didn’t expect was to be startled by this realization. For the first time ever I saw my essays equal to a collection of photographs. The kind snapped with one of those traditional cameras with film you have to crank and settings you have to determine. A photograph that can’t be doctored with PhotoShop or some other digital media editor. It’s a picture that once taken can only be altered by shrinking the perimeter or adjusting the printing time, thus making it the purist version of reality.

I love photography. I adore the absoluteness of the image. It is a sliver of time captured for infinity. A sliver that will never occur again. Ever. Two children giggling and running around a fountain in Italy – click. A towering wave crashing against a sandy stretch of Nantucket – click. My dad holding me in his healthy arms with his Scirocco in the background – click. Leslie on the tennis court at camp halfway into a forehand with determination cast across her face – click. A photograph is a keepsake of one second in time. A second you may not remember otherwise. I always knew this and always appreciated it. I just never quite understood how it directly applied to me.

As I skimmed over old posts, some I adore and some that make me cringe, for the first time, I saw it all not as a collection of words dotting the page but a continuous slide show of my life. A journey of intimate snapshots capturing moments of time. And just like a photograph, not all are flattering. But as they click past, snippets splashed across a blank wall, I find myself enjoying the view. I also find myself pondering with eager curiosity what slide will pop up next.