“Take a chance,” you say over the background hum of a bustling bar.
“After a certain point, I have to learn my lesson,” I counter as I curl onto my side and tug at a stray thread dangling off the pillowcase.
“Yeah, I get that. But the past isn’t necessarily an indicator of the future.”
“Uh-huh,” I tentatively offer.
“I love you.” The sentiment feels like the period to a run-on sentence spanning four long years
“Thanks.” It’s all I have left to give.
I don’t sleep after hanging up the phone. Instead I stare at the ceiling and study a ridge running from the window to the wall. I scissor my legs back and forth to heat the sheets. I get up and pad to the kitchen where, in the dark of night, I lean my hips against the counter and slowly sip a glass of water. It doesn’t matter that I am not thirsty.
A few days later, someone else warns me not to be guarded. She doesn’t have a point of reference or distinct reason to suggest I be open-minded. “If you stay this way too long, it’ll become permanent,” she adds. In my head I see a child making a silly face only to have it freeze in that pose, her nose pug-like without the help of fingers or tape.
So I ignore the facts and take a chance, though I do so with caution. My gestures are easily classified as loving, but I never dare utter the actual word. Maybe it’s because I know what to expect. Maybe it is because I can time your silence, your inaction, down to the second. After four weeks of giving only to get nothing, I realize I am too tired to still play this game.
“I’m not coming up for your performance,” I write in an email. “I would have rather said this over the phone but my calls repeatedly go unanswered and unreturned.”
It takes a day for you to respond. “If I could have one person there, it’d be you,” you explain when you finally ring. “But, I don’t know, maybe it’d be better to have a weekend away, just the two of us, without distractions.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say as I squint at the muted television and try to decipher the words.
When I hang up the phone, there is no sour taste in my mouth, no knots in my stomach. I know you will never propose a weekend. And I know I won’t either. But at least I know I’m not guarded or controlled by fear. At the very least, I know I am not you. And maybe in the end, knowing that is enough.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
The Here and Now
They say you should live in the moment. Appreciate what is occurring now. The past and the future are relevant but it is the present that you should savor and embrace.
My friend Jen had a baby six months ago and last week I finally got over to her house to meet the tot. Juliet is this potato sack of a baby with delicate features and thick chocolate locks often tacked back with a small barrette. In her fleece onesie, she hung out on my lap and played with my necklace. The beveled baubles entertained for a solid thirty minutes. In that time, I felt a wave of amazement. In that moment, I understood the beauty of having a child.
This morning I got dressed for an appointment. I hesitantly reached for the suit I bought five years ago, a black wool crepe one-button snatched off the sale rack at Saks. The fabric drapes elegantly; the jacket's structure is formal but feminine. Although the last time I tried to wear it, creases tugged across the width of my hips and the flounce of the jacket crumpled above my rear.
Right leg first, left leg second.
Slowly, with both hands gripping the waist, the pants rose above my knees, past my thighs, atop my hips.
They fit. They fit just as they had the day I tried them on in the dressing room, a harsh glow of manufactured lighting exaggerating the dimples on my skin.
I buttoned the waist closed. I propped up onto my tippy toes and admired the way the leg lengthened me. And then I saw my stomach (still not as tight as it could be), my eyes (a sallow yellow circling the lash line), my chin (and the gobble that dangles beneath it). I turned and ran out of my closet.
Far too often in the moment I dismiss my good and focus on the bad. In the moment, I see all of my flaws and imperfections. I see all of the things that I use to define me.
There's a photograph in my apartment taken in Nantucket. It's of me, my mom and Leslie. There is nothing special about that picture. The lighting is mediocre and the background is the worn interior of a house we rented for a few summers. But for whatever reason, that snapshot of the past doesn't reveal any flaws. I think I look trim and attractive. Give me an hour and I'd find nary a criticism. Two shelves over? That collection of pictures is another situation entirely.
For the last few months, I've worked to hard to stifle these feelings. Since December I have been working out four times a week. Since September I have been managing my diet more diligently. It's to be a healthier me, I claim. But at the core it's punishment for not being who I think I should be.
Live in the moment, I said to myself as I used the pad of my finger to dab concealer across my under-eye area. Appreciate the now, I announced as I slipped my feet into three-inch patent pumps. Or just know this will pass because it always does. Both the good and the bad roll in and out like waves upon a shore. Step one foot in front of the other and walk your way toward a better now.
My friend Jen had a baby six months ago and last week I finally got over to her house to meet the tot. Juliet is this potato sack of a baby with delicate features and thick chocolate locks often tacked back with a small barrette. In her fleece onesie, she hung out on my lap and played with my necklace. The beveled baubles entertained for a solid thirty minutes. In that time, I felt a wave of amazement. In that moment, I understood the beauty of having a child.
This morning I got dressed for an appointment. I hesitantly reached for the suit I bought five years ago, a black wool crepe one-button snatched off the sale rack at Saks. The fabric drapes elegantly; the jacket's structure is formal but feminine. Although the last time I tried to wear it, creases tugged across the width of my hips and the flounce of the jacket crumpled above my rear.
Right leg first, left leg second.
Slowly, with both hands gripping the waist, the pants rose above my knees, past my thighs, atop my hips.
They fit. They fit just as they had the day I tried them on in the dressing room, a harsh glow of manufactured lighting exaggerating the dimples on my skin.
I buttoned the waist closed. I propped up onto my tippy toes and admired the way the leg lengthened me. And then I saw my stomach (still not as tight as it could be), my eyes (a sallow yellow circling the lash line), my chin (and the gobble that dangles beneath it). I turned and ran out of my closet.
Far too often in the moment I dismiss my good and focus on the bad. In the moment, I see all of my flaws and imperfections. I see all of the things that I use to define me.
There's a photograph in my apartment taken in Nantucket. It's of me, my mom and Leslie. There is nothing special about that picture. The lighting is mediocre and the background is the worn interior of a house we rented for a few summers. But for whatever reason, that snapshot of the past doesn't reveal any flaws. I think I look trim and attractive. Give me an hour and I'd find nary a criticism. Two shelves over? That collection of pictures is another situation entirely.
For the last few months, I've worked to hard to stifle these feelings. Since December I have been working out four times a week. Since September I have been managing my diet more diligently. It's to be a healthier me, I claim. But at the core it's punishment for not being who I think I should be.
Live in the moment, I said to myself as I used the pad of my finger to dab concealer across my under-eye area. Appreciate the now, I announced as I slipped my feet into three-inch patent pumps. Or just know this will pass because it always does. Both the good and the bad roll in and out like waves upon a shore. Step one foot in front of the other and walk your way toward a better now.
Monday, February 07, 2011
This Is How I Roll
Monday Night
I adjust the phone against my ear. Did he just say he can appreciate Chopin and Marilyn Manson? I’m not sure if I should be impressed or concerned. Chopin would surely be concerned. More importantly, has Marilyn Manson released anything since 1998? I’ll ask him that, but in a nicer, less judgey kind of way. No, I can do this.
“So I’m not really well versed in Manson’s work, can you suggest something to sample?”
Nailed it.
“Not sure if there’s any one song that particularly stands out from the rest.”
Because it’s all out-dated teen angst crap? Then again, I am the girl with a CD collection that includes Yanni. Listen, I had a rough few years in the late nineties, so sue me. At least I’ve evolved, come to embrace Mumford and Sons, Frightened Rabbit and Lil Wayne. Suck on that, Marilyn Manson.
“I had no choice but to like Chopin considering I spent most of my teenage years figure skating competitively,” he explains.
Blades of Glory. Chad Michael Michaels. Or was it Michael Chad Michaels? Whatever. Do not, I repeat, do not make a triple axle joke.
“That’s interesting. Hey, what’s all that noise in the background?”
“Casino. I’m down in Delaware. Right now I make a living as a professional poker player.”
Great, now Poker Face is playing in my head. No, I can work with this. He makes me laugh and I like the way he thinks, the way he picks something apart to understand how to put it back together. He has a rather sexy brain. Or as he writes it in texts to me, sxe. Don’t judge, don’t judge, don’t judge.
“Hey, I need to get back to the table but any chance you’re free tomorrow night?”
“Yes,” I answer.
Yes, I’ll go on a date with this guy. I’ll ignore the fact that he has an active MySpace page. I’ll overlook his fondness for goth night at a club I thought was long ago converted into condos. This man is a gem, a rare find. There aren’t many people I can talk with for two hours on the phone. Plus, I can always fix his taste in music.
Tuesday Night
“Hey sexy.”
I hear it as sxe and know it’s him. I will adjust my hair to expose the length of my neck. I will flirtatiously tip the toe of my Prada boots, the ones that gouge into my Achilles tendon and render me a cripple if worn for more than four hours
“That’s me!”
And is that a 3” lightening bolt pendant emblazoned with diamonds hanging around your neck? Diamonds.
Avert your gaze. Whatever you do, do not laugh. Go to your happy place. Ignore the fact that he is mounting the bar stool with the grace of a three-legged elephant. Conclude he competed in the Special Olympics. You. cannot. laugh. It is mean. And rude. You are neither of these things, at least not directly to someone’s face. You’re better than that.
Now how the fuck do I sneak a photo of that jewel so I can post it on Facebook?
I adjust the phone against my ear. Did he just say he can appreciate Chopin and Marilyn Manson? I’m not sure if I should be impressed or concerned. Chopin would surely be concerned. More importantly, has Marilyn Manson released anything since 1998? I’ll ask him that, but in a nicer, less judgey kind of way. No, I can do this.
“So I’m not really well versed in Manson’s work, can you suggest something to sample?”
Nailed it.
“Not sure if there’s any one song that particularly stands out from the rest.”
Because it’s all out-dated teen angst crap? Then again, I am the girl with a CD collection that includes Yanni. Listen, I had a rough few years in the late nineties, so sue me. At least I’ve evolved, come to embrace Mumford and Sons, Frightened Rabbit and Lil Wayne. Suck on that, Marilyn Manson.
“I had no choice but to like Chopin considering I spent most of my teenage years figure skating competitively,” he explains.
Blades of Glory. Chad Michael Michaels. Or was it Michael Chad Michaels? Whatever. Do not, I repeat, do not make a triple axle joke.
“That’s interesting. Hey, what’s all that noise in the background?”
“Casino. I’m down in Delaware. Right now I make a living as a professional poker player.”
Great, now Poker Face is playing in my head. No, I can work with this. He makes me laugh and I like the way he thinks, the way he picks something apart to understand how to put it back together. He has a rather sexy brain. Or as he writes it in texts to me, sxe. Don’t judge, don’t judge, don’t judge.
“Hey, I need to get back to the table but any chance you’re free tomorrow night?”
“Yes,” I answer.
Yes, I’ll go on a date with this guy. I’ll ignore the fact that he has an active MySpace page. I’ll overlook his fondness for goth night at a club I thought was long ago converted into condos. This man is a gem, a rare find. There aren’t many people I can talk with for two hours on the phone. Plus, I can always fix his taste in music.
Tuesday Night
“Hey sexy.”
I hear it as sxe and know it’s him. I will adjust my hair to expose the length of my neck. I will flirtatiously tip the toe of my Prada boots, the ones that gouge into my Achilles tendon and render me a cripple if worn for more than four hours
“That’s me!”
And is that a 3” lightening bolt pendant emblazoned with diamonds hanging around your neck? Diamonds.
Avert your gaze. Whatever you do, do not laugh. Go to your happy place. Ignore the fact that he is mounting the bar stool with the grace of a three-legged elephant. Conclude he competed in the Special Olympics. You. cannot. laugh. It is mean. And rude. You are neither of these things, at least not directly to someone’s face. You’re better than that.
Now how the fuck do I sneak a photo of that jewel so I can post it on Facebook?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
