Now She's Gone in the Blink of an Eye

I'm feeling very restless.

Stability is great. I normally love stability, but right now I'm twitchy, I'm anxious, I'm jonesing for a trip, a journey, a way out. I know I want a traditional picket-fence life eventually, but not now. Not yet. I want to throw all my stuff in storage and hit the road. I'm not much of a car person but a bike would do nicely.

I want to see Amurrica. Really see it. I want to know more than my bubble. I want to see factories and ghettos and farmland. I want to see landmarks and rivers and woods. I want to see endless stormy skies and braided cornfields and untouched trails and I want to hike them and touch trees and explore towns and not sit at my desk like a girl in decay.

But I can't do this alone. I don't want to get raped or stabbed or killed or lost. I don't need to risk my life to appreciate it. I already do. I mean, odds are, the worst won't happen but ya never know... So then that brings me back to why I want to run in the first place. Am I trying to escape being alone or am I looking to justify my alone-ness. If you're on your own on purpose then at least you're not lonely. Accidental solitude is the worst.

When It's Time To Go

I had never been present at death until last night. It’s not exactly unlike what I expected, but it has a certain elusive component - a characteristic that simply cannot be captured. Death has many sounds.

His individual labored breaths intermixed with the steady hum of the oxygen tank and the syncopated beats of jazz music playing softly in the background. At 5 pm there was still enough life in him for me to get a final gesture of acknowledgement. Not quite a full squeeze of my hand, but enough. There was some fight left in him to leave a lasting tactile impression. Selfishly, I’m glad he knew I was there.

My mother held his hand and I rubbed his shoulder, bony from weeks of refusing food. At 5’11, he weighed less than I did. I joked with him that I’d kill to be at his weight, but he just looked past me blankly, not seeing, not comprehending. It was my first joke that failed to elicit even the slightest smirk from his lips.

The room smelled less medicinal than I would have imagined. I detected the same hints of laundry detergent and burnt carpet as always.

By the time I left, his skin was cool to the touch. The color had vanished from his face but he remained beautiful, taut – statuesque, really. In my grief, I asked myself, what are we if not impermanently stored carbon energy?

I’d say his last 86 seconds were a worthy reflection of his 86 years – courageous, sweet, surrounded by love.

He did not complain, did not cry out, did not even whimper. He breathed until he decided not to. Then he stopped.

Texting with Boys

I feel validated. And yes, it’s because of a man. Sorry feminists.

He’s a stranger in theory. A stranger who I locked lips with because we felt like it. Because why not? He reminded me of that blonde guy from Sweet Home Alabama minus the southern accent. Or maybe he had one? I don’t remember – we didn’t talk much. And that was that.

But then what? A few errant texts. A lot of nothingness thumbed between phones. I got antsy. I wanted more. And didn’t want to be forgotten or ignored. So I made my move.

Despite carefully crafting my text to sound casual and cool, I still regretted it the instant I pressed send. I watched the little blue thought bubble appear in our chat, feeling anxious and stupid and unsure of myself. I felt rejected before I was even rejected because I seemed crazy. He’d sent all oneliners and I respond with a six line chunk of text (that's practically a novel in iphone world!) asking him out on a date?!? Who does that? Crazy girls. Crazy girls do that.

But then. Then! That glorious ellipsis. Oh thank you iphone for letting me know instantly that this stranger slash new friend has received my message and chosen to respond. It’s so painfully pathetic of me to watch and wait and watch and wait but still. It came! The "yes". The "of course". The "you’re-silly-I-was-going-to-ask-you-but-you-beat-me-to-it" text. All the best words combined together in the best sentence reaffirming my desirability. I was good enough to kiss, but this, this is better. This says I’m good enough to have a conversation with. I’m good enough to go out with. I'm worth getting to know beyond the taste of my strawberry chapstick.

I know, I know. I shouldn’t need some silly boy to remind me of my worth, but sometimes, it's just that simple.

Too Much Time On My Hands

Since he left, I’ve devoured eleven books. I’m insatiable, looking everywhere for ways to satisfy my mind, occupy my time.

I’ve perfected the art of the grilled cheese sandwich. This might not sound very impressive, but I assure you, it’s a feat nonetheless. I’ve experimented with four types of bread, six kinds of cheese, varying butter/margarine combos, and three different pans in my kitchen. I’ve also figured out the perfect mustard to honey ratio to whip up a great little dipping sauce. This is my comfort food, warm gooey goodness enveloped in buttery, flakey crust.

When I’m lonely or sad or just a little blue, I’ve found that reverting to childhood comforts is the best way to perk up. When I was a kid, there was nothing a good book couldn’t cure. Lose yourself in someone else’s world for an hour or two and you’ll forget your own problems in no time. It’s a little harder now, but at least reading is a constructive time waster. At least I’m not drinking my sorrows away.

I feel so much pressure to fill my free time with a hundred thousand activities like the rest of the people in this city. Trivia! Spin class! Happy hour! Yoga! It’s like I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts for a single second, so I plan my days down to the last minute.

But when life is life and plans get cancelled, I come unmoored. I’m distraction-less. My roommate walks in to find me weeping over a sandwich in the kitchen.

Seeing an Ex

When you break up with me, I like to think you cease to exist. It’s not like I want you to die or anything (I swear, I don’t) but it would be nice if we didn’t have to share the planet let alone this tiny city.

I was tipsy when I passed you on the street last night, and you caught me completely off guard. You were smiling, relaxed, enjoying the company of the girl you were obviously on a date with and it felt offensive and unfair and insulting.

I get that we weren’t really a couple. I get that we had virtually nothing in common. And I certainly understand that I am belaboring a point here and clearly have spent far more time analyzing our non-relationship than is appropriate for the quantity and quality of time we spent together but aghhhh.

Without you, I’m so bored I’ve resurrected all of my drawsomething games. I’m cooking elaborate four course dinners for myself. I’m making one-woman acoustic music videos personalized for each of my non-DC friends.

I have TOO much time on my hands and it’s pathetic. I mean, I guess I’m doing things I like to do, and I’m obviously improving my skills in the kitchen, but it seems like I’m just biding my time until I can fill it with someone else. You might have found ways to occupy yourself – as you made evident on your annoyingly adorable dinner date – but I don’t want to witness how you spend your time now that it’s not being spent with me.

I’d really like you to move so I don’t ever have to think about you again. K, thanks, bye.

Good News - Rock Bottom Isn't Bad At All

There’s a me-shaped dent in my couch cushions right where I flop down to watch tv at the end of every workday. I’m half proud, half disgusted with this discovery.

Tonight I bailed on getting drinks with a friend because a Ryan Reynolds movie was starting on Comedy Central when I walked in the door. Despite my normally social instincts, I refused to deny myself the treat that is RyRey's beautiful onscreen bod to walk down a big hill, pretend to care about chit chat for an hour, and pay upwards of $30 for bitter liquid calories. So, I settled deep into the pillows... and didn’t get up for four hours.

Is this some sort of rock bottom? I always pictured it as a gray, shadowy place with jutting cliffs and flames and crusty syringes scattered about, but maybe since I’m not a drug addict, or a villain in a Disney movie, my rock bottom can only be as low as binging on breyers mint chocolate chip ice cream and eschewing happy hour for endless, commercial-filled, cable movies. Yes, I know. #Whitegirlproblems.

And wasn’t some girl recently attacked for confessing her white girl problems in the Huffington Post? This normal college grad accepted a stable job that appealed to her and paid the rent. She got a car and an apartment and health insurance and yet, felt totally disconnected from her peers. It was like the world expected her to be angsty and suffering because she's a member of a generally jobless and hopeless generation, but it was difficult for her to muster any real outrage because life was going pretty well.

I suppose I can relate. I am luckyluckylucky. Gainfully employed. Affordable apartment. Fully-owned vehicle. Check check check. When things are going fine in most areas of your life, it's like rock bottom is compartmentalized. You only experience low points in one chunk of the total package but that makes it feel all the more extreme. Eventually, that segment of my life will work itself out too and then I'll wonder what I was even whining about.

So today, right now, I’m going to psych myself up for my weekend and its 48 solid hours of freedom. I can essentially do whatever I want, whenever I want, wherever I want, and ya know what? That’s a luxury most people would kill for.

Wherefore Art Thou Romeo?

I forget what it feels like to be in love and I want so badly to be reminded.

I have a vague recollection of yearning; so much want and need and a heightened awareness of my being. Like a homunculus come to life – all lips and hands and overly sensitive private parts.

And I want that again.

I want more than a casual crush on a coworker who smells like herbal outdoors and cracks Dilbert jokes by the water cooler.

I want more than a lustful fling who’s all touch and no talk and leaves me breathless but confused.

I want more than a convenient companion – someone you fool yourself into believing you’re in love with just because it would be so easy.

No, I want that can’t-talk, can’t-breathe, forget-how-to-act-like-a-normal-human-being kind of all encompassing love. Thanks Disney for making me believe that exists. Can I just go to sleep for a decade or two until some hot guy who owns the kingdom wakes me up with a kiss?

When my parents interact, I see something rare. I see love wrapped up in friendship with a dash of passion. They found each other young and grew together and somehow, against all odds, made it last. If they could do it over again, I know they’d tread the same path, retracing their steps. Because they are part of the lucky few who found earth-shattering love and guard it, cherish it, and appreciate it every day.

I’m exhausted by my own ambivalence.

Relax, This is Fiction

If I actually wrote an accurate depiction of my life, you would be bored. And you wouldn’t read this blog.

But, just to hammer home how totally uneventful my life is 99.9% of the time, let me walk you through my super awesome Sunday.

The other day I spent more than five hours watching three Anna Faris movies back to back. Do you know who that is? Did you even know she was in 41 movies? I did not. Until I IMDB’ed her and discovered she was not just in the whole scary movie series but also "what’s your number", "house bunny", and "just friends", all of which I enjoyed tremendously, thank you very much.

What else did I do? I went grocery shopping. At the little market down the street. I bought butter and an onion and some sparkling water. Oh and avocados were on sale so I grabbed a few of those too. How freaking expensive are avocados these days? It's an outrage. Really. Are you totally loving this scintillating chit chat about my food choices of late?

This is my actual life. I read books on my kindle, and shamefully peruse US Weekly (Stars! They're just like us!), and illegally stream movies from projectfreetv (um yeah, it’s awesome – maybe I’m late to the game with this one but after megavideo vanished, I was really lost for a while). Anyways, I run and play guitar and it’s all very nice and typical but then I get antsy and need…something!

I can’t pick up and take spontaneous vacations. I can’t go on adventures in the middle of the day with friends. I can’t day drink on a rooftop with a pool.

Tonight I ran home from dinner in a torrential downpour, barefoot. My first thought was shit, did I get my tetanus booster? But once the initial panic of bloodborne pathogens gave way, I felt exhilarated and invincible and in love with my city. This is my life. Sometimes it's painfully boring. Sometimes hopelessly pathetic. Sometimes completely enviable.

Today was an excellent Tuesday.

I'm Stupid When I'm Single

I’ve never really been good at acting like a normal, functioning adult when I’m boyfriend-less, but lately, let me just say - UGHH I HATE SINGLE ME.

Single me does stupid stuff for attention. Single me wants every weekend night to become an awesome story, or a better-than-average blog post, or a fogged over memory of epic-ness. Single me encourages my friends to booty call randos they don’t really like just so I can live vicariously through their drunken, horned-up exploits. It’s not that single me can’t have sexploits of her own, but single me has to be careful. Single me doesn’t want to get a reputation or anything.

Single me wakes up with a hangover at 2 pm with an entire Sunday gone and a craving for Shake Shack that borders on desperation. Single me looks like a hot mess after a night of partying and passing out in my bed with a made-up face and lips swollen from making out with someone I don’t remember. Ok, confession – I just don’t want to remember. Single me prays to black out and misremember a night but usually, thanks to an ever-climbing alcohol tolerance, single me’s adventures just get blurry around the edges – like an instagrammed snapshot of the evening. Only worse.

Single me awakes to an iphone crammed with texts from worried friends – did you get home ok? How did your night end up? I'm fine guys. I'm always fine. Single me looks at the old family pictures on her bedroom wall shamefully, wondering if she’s dishonored the lineage. Single me shuffles blearily into a kitchen of pregamed chaos. Limes and sticky solo cups lining the counters and chairs in disarray. Single me drunk-eats leftovers at 3 am if she doesn’t make a stop at jumbo slice first. Single me eats jumbo slice. Although, come to think of it, non-single me eats jumbo slice from time to time too.

Single me is the worst version of me. She’s the one who drunk dials ex-boyfriends in the middle of the night just to hear a familiar voice even if she regrets it the next day. She’s the one who thoughtlessly gives her parents cause for concern. She’s the one who favors reckless decisions over rational ones.

So, despite the outrageous amounts of fun that single me has, it is certainly time to become non-single me. I can’t take much more of this.

Three Life Lessons

My grandparents are all pretty old and they’ve done a lot of living. When I make time to fit in a visit or a quickie phone call, these are the three simple life lessons they preach.

Live clean work hard. 
One day at a time. 
It’s not over ‘til it’s over.

My grandparents have a great deal of combined wisdom so I know I should pay attention to what they say because what do I know? Life is still very much without meaning to me, so if octogenarians want to offer tips, I’m all ears.

My grandparents have experienced more love and loss in their lifetimes than I can ever begin to imagine. My DC-grandpa fought in wars and watched close friends die in combat. He suffered from his soulmate’s tragic demise. He remarried only to lose again.  But on Sunday afternoons when I stop by his nursing home with Comet pizza and a slice of chocolate cake, he reminisces joyfully, lingering on only the happy memories.

My grandparents tell me I look like my grandma. They’re not the only ones. Those who see photos remark on the eerily similar countenance and tell me I’m lucky to resemble such a classic beauty. She was too pretty for words so my grandpa says none at all.

My grandparents remind me to live clean and work hard because they know karma will always balance things out.
My grandparents remind me I should take one day at a time because they know, better than I do, that sometimes you don’t get another day.
My grandparents remind me it’s not over ‘til it’s over because they’ve seen endings and beginnings and they know sometimes the end doesn’t look how you expected.

Hello, Goodbye

Who says goodbye for real anymore?

Aside from the ultimate au revoir, death, humans are just too technologically connected these days to lose touch completely. A goodbye is only a see-you-later, not a see-you-never.

But what about when both parties know that it has to be the end? It has to be. For the sake of everyone involved. It can be healthy to completely cut yourself off from the past now and then, right?

Sure, paths cross unexpectedly and a random 3 AM drunk text can be the grape-scented glue stick weakly binding two individuals together, but the final goodbye lingers. It’s been formally announced and acknowledged and the gavel’s been pounded.

So why is a goodbye still so hard to accept?

Maybe it’s just me, and I don’t know how to do goodbyes, but in the middle of this one I simply stood there, awkwardly biting my lower lip and softly mumbling ‘bye, like I’d see him tomorrow, or this weekend, or next.

Forever goodbyes are so unlikely, so few and far between. Most of us don’t know how to be gone for good. We cling to our pasts, and re-visit old loves, and wonder what if.

A Weekend Getaway

It’s weird to feel at home when you’re not.

This weekend, a whirlwind trip brought me through Chicago and I ached for everything I gave up.

Waiting on the weather-worn platform to metro into the city, I was transported back to so many summers before. Stifling heat accosted me every time I stepped outdoors, while inside, icy blasts of AC immediately dried sweat in salty, sticky patterns on the back of my neck. This is not just Chicago but it is Chicago and her hellishly hot summer days...

There is a sweet wholesomeness to the Midwest. Everyone talks about the friendly faces and slower pace, but it’s more than that.

In the Midwest, there is a spirit of generosity, of saying “excuse me” when you jostle someone, of putting the damn iPhone away and making eye contact with strangers. This is the land of honey blonde highlights, curly hair with straightened, side-swept bangs, and wide faces pancaked with make-up hiding flaws that barely exist.

On Friday morning, I watched a pretty girl erase herself on the train. With a hand mirror and a battalion of brushes, she powdered and concealed and blushed and transformed herself into another. Somehow, her own insecurities made me feel better about myself. I thought smugly, I don’t need to do that. I’m ok as is.

Turns out a weekend in the Midwest was just the escape I needed.