Almosts and Maybes

I think that he is my almost. While the thought has existed in the labyrinth of my mind for the last fifteen minutes, it pains me in a very physical way to write it out. Maybe he is almost my great love. Almost the man I had a child with. Almost my partner in crime, the adventure of my life. And yes, he most certainly was the adventure of my early twenties. Of all the men I have been with, he is the only one I can see next to me as I imagine my future. But what I cannot imagine is the details of it. Where, or how. Mostly how. And while I am quite confident that there will be other men, other lovers, intense conversationalists with strong hands and witty words, I have a strong feeling that none of them will be the person I give my life to. I am terrified, see, that I will end up like my mother, or his. Or any mother I know. In one of my favorite books, Francesa speaks of the choice made when a woman becomes a mother. About one life beginning, and the other ending. And by the time children leave, you have forgotten what moves you. I do not think that I can be that kind of mother. The kind my mother was, dedicating her every second to her family, to her children. Staying because of us. I am not that selfless, nor that brave. Although I am not facing any immediate decisions right now, I am somehow torn between the life I would lead if I followed all the rules or the path I could take if I made my own. My girlfriends follow rules. They have savings accounts and good credit, renter’s insurance and fiances. And for being so much like them, there is a constricting feeling I experience when I think of me, like them. My bookshelf, it actually says a lot about me. Anna Karenina. The Bridges of Madison County. Madame Bovary. I am, for some reason, fascinated by a good woman’s infidelity. Not the tacky kind, the cheating that provides a cheap thrill. It is the immense passion that drives a spirited woman to take that leap, from stable, good wife and mother, to lover, beautiful and mysterious. It is the self-loathing that these women feel for allowing themselves to submit to their desires that intrigues me. I know self-loathing. I know not allowing yourself to look away or to blink back tears. I know the lingering feeling of pain deep inside, the pain you know you caused yourself. I wonder if this is the same loathing these women must have felt, these women and the many more who have either submitted to, or denied themselves of, true passion. My fascination with this frightens me. In one thought, I see myself as a doctor, coming home to a man that adores me and children for whom I would give my life. In the next, I see myself in England, in Singapore, in Spain, feeling life in every ounce of my body, not being tied to any one person or worrying about children. I wonder how many thousands of women have tried to find the perfect balance of independence and dependence, giving themselves to their family without losing who they really are.
I’m not sure I want him to be my almost. If I could engineer my world to make it ideal, I would take him, infuse him with passion and just the right amount of emotion, keep him strong and classy, make him well-read and conversational. I would keep his broad shoulders and his strong arms, and the way I can always, always depend on him. I would make him love debates, and have him always know when to stop. I would put some innocence back into our relationship and I would take away all of our family issues. I would make it whole, and beautiful, and always passionate, and then maybe I wouldn’t be scared that he is my almost. Maybe then I would know that I wouldn’t be sacrificing an ounce of who I am for someone else. But there is also the distinct possibility, that maybe there is no perfect, or even perfect for each other. Maybe there is just me, just me that I must truly love and accept before I can be happy with anyone else.

Innocence

Innocence is not ours forever. Maybe it leaves us when we first hurt another person intentionally, on a playground during a recess. Or maybe some time in high school, when we learn all too soon that boys can't be trusted. By college, innocence is usually a fading memory. I remember how powerful I felt, knowing I had something that someone else wanted. And after I didn't have that anymore, I still felt powerful, knowing that I was in control of my own pleasure. I may have overdosed on that power. I cheated. I lied. I rationalized it to myself. And if there was a shred of innocence left in me when I became pregnant, I lost in when I chose not to keep the baby. And now, regardless of what anyone tells me, or of what I tell myself, I feel used and spoiled. There will never be pure happiness, pure unadultered joy in starting a family. I am all about feminism and conquering the world, but when all else falls away, I am small and hurting and angry at myself. And this, this typing, this is my therapy. This is what I can do that no one will see, no one will know, how truly weak I can be. Innocence may be a beautiful thing, but it is gone for me forever.

Crying Tomorrow

One of us would say something ridiculous, and then we'd laugh until our stomachs hurt and tears were rolling down our faces, one of us almost falling off the bed. And then, wiping the tears away, my mother would say, "Oh no, we laughed too much...we are definitely going to be crying tomorrow." She is superstitous like that, my mother, and I have wasted a lot of energy telling her one hundred and one reasons not to believe all that crap.
I think she might have a point though. I had an amazing weekend. I got an amazing haircut on Thursday (story to follow), had an amazing weekend with my friends, loved P's new ring and T's new man. Spent Monday night drinking wine with girls from work and Tuesday night cuddling with He Who Makes Me Happy. That's when I should have quoted my mom and stopped having so much damn fun. Come Wednesday, the crankiness was seeping out of my core and I was desperately trying to cover it up with the loud laughing and the hand clapping and, well, being generally bouncy. And by the time today hit, I surrendered to the evil that is my terrible mood and oh my god can someone please inject vodka into my veins. There is nothing quite like the feeling of inadequacy at work, the lingering thought that this is the second year I am spending not doing what I want to be doing, and WHY HASN'T MY MED SCHOOL APPLICATION GONE THROUGH YET DAMNIT!!!!!!
And although somewhere deep inside me I know that the main reason I'm moving is because I need to distract myself from the feeling of utter failure and panic that creeps into my head the second I stop thinking about something else, I'm looking forward to it. I'm busying myself with looking for new furniture and concocting decorative schemes for the second bedroom. But all I want to do is take a nap, and when I wake up, I want to be holding an acceptance letter in one hand, and a notice of being debt-free in the other.
Haircut story:
Thursday was a stressful day at work. My flight left at 9:30 and I had a hair appointment at 6:30. Of course, I left work late and got lost getting to the hair place, so by the time I arrived, they wouldn't take me. The Crazy started taking over my body, and I ran out with tears in my eyes. The second I got in my car, I was hysterically sobbing and calling Him. He answered, heard my hysterics and immediately thought of everything that could possibly be wrong. "They....wouldn't....cut....my....haiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrr!!!!" Good lord, woman, get it together. But he didn't say that. He told me to head to his apartment, we got off the phone. Five minutes later, he called back, telling me that I had an appointment at 7:15 at an uber-nice salon near his apartment, and (knowing that I couldn't afford it but not wanting to say it) that he had "taken care of it." And when my hair was done and I showed up at his apartment, starving but ready to be taken to the airport, he handed me a sandwich and cut up fruit, wrapped up so that I could eat in on the way. It doesn't get better, or sweeter, or more loving, or more amazing than that. What the hell. WHAT THE HELL. It's like a Greater Being is dangling chocolate chip paradise pie in front of me while taunting "you can't have it you can't have it!!!!!!" But I'm not complaining. Because seriously? Amazing.

Amazing AND Happy

We have been amazing this week. Granted, it's only Tuesday, but since Sunday, it's been three solid days of amazing. I understand that the whole "fighting leads to making up leads to lots of sex leads to amazing" thing is by no means new to relationships or even remotely healthy. But every time this happens, I get a little bit excited. And this time, the excitement is tangible. After dinner last night, he suggested (this has never happened, not once in four years) that we go for a walk. He also did not say anything when I turned the tv off (which meant I was turning off Monday Night Football). AND!!!! He put a picture of us up on his nightstand. I know that sounds very "I'm a crazy girl and want pictures of myself everywhere" but after we broke up, every picture of me in his apartment came down. And slowly, one came back up. But just one. And now, six months later, here is picture number two. Back with a vengeance.

This whole breaking up, and then being kind of broken up, and then being dating-but-technically-not-back-together, to whatever we are now can get a little confusing. Even for me, who doesn't believe in dating anniversaries and all that crap. And the fact that the no-baby pills dragged me, kicking and screaming, back on an emotional roller coaster through hell over the past month does not make the situation any better. But my picture is back. And waking up next to the big man is a sweet, sweet thing. And right now, I am HAPPY. I'm moving out of my apartment at the end of this month. He doesn't want me to move but I think he'll really like the new....TOWNHOUSE!!! I ate leftover PF Changs for dinner. Work is going well. And....I get to see my girlfriends this weekend!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No amount of no-baby pills is going to take this happy away!!!!

Mommy Dearest

The Crazy is genetic, and I get it from my mother. Yesterday morning, I get an email from my dear mother, stating that her and my father were going to visit me for the weekend. I was half panicked (i have to scrub my apartment clean!) and half excited (she's bringing me real food! and that set of knives I've been wanting!)....until last night, when the Crazy popped in for a visit with her. And today? She changed her mind. She's not coming.
BUT. My father still is. God knows I love him so dearly and deeply, but the truth is...I don't think we've ever spent a weekend, just the two of us. We have spent many hours in front of our fireplace at home, arguing about politics, playing chess, agreeing to disagree on so many things...But after two hours, when we start getting under each others' skin, we can go to different rooms, different floors even... When we speak on the phone, it's usually about one of two things: my inability to get into medical school (I'm trying for the third time as we speak, and no, I'm not an idiot) and whether my finances are okay (I'm terrible with managing my own money). So the thought of an entire weekend filled with "I can't believe they haven't accepted you yet!" and "Have you been saving money?" is seriously cringe-inducing.
And I realize how sad this is, especially as I get older and he gets older, and the fleeting thought that they won't be with me forever makes my heart momentarily stop...
But at the same time, I hope that at the end of the weekend I will still possess my will to live.

And the more pressing issue on my mind right now...should I move? Should I spend $45 more/month, but live in a TOWNHOUSE? With one AND A HALF bathrooms? And a PATIO?? In a much better area?!?
It's not all good though...cute on the inside, plain and ugly on the outside. Small kitchen, no stainless steel appliances. And the worst part....NO WASHER AND DRYER. I have gotten so used to doing my laundry whenever I want to (I'm doing whites right now!) that I am stricken with fear at the thought of having to use a coin laundry. Or doing my laundry at his apt, but we're not currently speaking. But I'll save that story for another time. I must go fold my whites.

Robbed

She got robbed at gunpoint. If they had hurt her...I cannot even finish that sentence. But she's not hurt, physically. I hear her speak, and it's so matter-of-fact. This happened. This is how I'm dealing. End of story, we're not speaking about this anymore. And I'm so far away, and I can't see her and just know that she's ok. It's the worst thing about being far away from the people you love...the inability to just see, and just know. I hear her, and I hear that they took away her ability to feel safe and secure, and I hope the regret that these 15-year-old kids whose parents did a shitty job raising them is so deep...I hope they don't sleep and I hope they can't eat, because she doesn't and she can't. Above all, I am so grateful that she's unharmed. I'm so grateful that I will be with her in a week. I'm just so grateful.

Laboring Away

I'm not quite sure what labor day signifies (laboring possibly?), but for me, this one was extraordinarily quite. I find immense pleasure in reading, whether it be chick-lit kitsch or gigantic russian novels, a ridiculous (read: juicy) blog or my latest find in the New Yorker. So when this particular Monday rolled around, when my girlfriends were off in their respective states barbecuing on the Cape or tubing in Maryland, when he was back in Buffalo eating at all the places I miss so much, I decided to read. All day (except for the two hours spent at work...but I plan to excise those two hours from my memory)...I brought my book and several articles I'd been meaning to read to his apartment, put on my pink polka dotted bikini, and lay on his wonderful reclining chair out on the balcony.
And oh, how I've missed it. Evenings and weekends with him consist of the tv on. And I'll be the first to admit how I've grown to love HollyBridgetandKendra and how I actually look forward to finding out what Flower and her fellow meerkats are up to, and seriously, let's not even get started on how I think Barb, Nikki, and Margene actually exist (and really are married to the same man!), but it just came to me today how much less READING and how much more WATCHING I do since the Move. And so I warn everyone of this: Move to the midwest and you will probably watch more tv, and ultimately gain weight. So maybe I shouldn't blame the minor size jump of my jeans on the midwest as a whole, but still, there's a correlation! And I refuse to blame him for taking me out to eat wayyyy too much...because the alternative is starvation. And that? I can't live with.
And now I sense that the sun might go away soon so I must go back on the balcony. And read, before he gets home tonight and that damn giant tv that takes up his entire wall must be turned on once again.