I don't believe in the one.

I don't.

And yet, here I am, 2 1/2 years into a relationship, wondering where I, he, we are going. If I lived in a vacuum, I probably wouldn't be this anxious.

But I don't.

It's wedding season on Facebook. Smiling faces that I only partly recognize, some not at all anymore, accost me with every log in. White finery, bundles of flowers, oh look, their signature cocktail was in a mason jar. Am I some sort of curmudgeon, scowling at the computer screen? 

I don't think so.

Quite the opposite, actually. I'm just a romantic with a bad sense of visioning. Because, deep down, I want it all - the white finery, bundles of flowers, quirky accent-piece. And I'm squee-elated, ecstatic, enthusiastic, when dear ones, like our M and D, decide to commit to each other. I know just how much they care for each other, how much they look forward to seeing each other at the end of the day, how they challenge each other and share inside jokes. I'm blessed to know them and even more honored that they asked me to share their day with them. But when it comes to me, my life, and my choices -

I don't know how to decide.

Starting up again...

Grad school, with all of the dense readings, the lectures on little known subjects, the lunches with friends sharing unbelievable stories, has been an enlightening experience. Yet, all the above mentioned factors aside, the most enlightening aspect has been the interaction with my male peers.

My undergrad experience was far from the see a cute guy in the halls, smile, know you will probably run into him later at whatever solo cup rager was going on that weekend, look as cute as possible on that night, and then who knows what. In my case, if I saw a cute guy in the halls, chances were I would probably never see him again. Now, here I am in a full on campus environment, where, after one semester, I know everyone's face if not their name. It's both comforting and disquieting.

Our Dean said in his welcome speech that some of us, undoubtedly, will get married to each other. How could that possibly be the case? It already feels incestuous to view each other romantically - and oh how people would talk. And yet that doesn't stop people, attached or otherwise, from making eyes and overtures...

The Talk

He got an 800 on the math section of the GRE. It was to be expected. At least, I expected it even when his nerves seemed to get the best of him. What I didn't expect was the turnaround. That I probably should've, but I didn't.

"Are you staying over Friday?"
"I'm intending to... why?"
"Cause we should go out for brunch on Saturday and have that talk I've been putting off."

He was right. He had been putting it off, with his "let's wait until after I take the GRE..." nonsense.

Now, here he is, with his expected perfect score, and his PhD applications to begin. And here I am with my future to ponder over before Saturday (which I have to make a sincere effort to do, since he warned me about "I don't know" answers).

Back to school? Look for a new job? Move somewhere for him? With him?

Truthfully, I don't remember much about our conversation over lunch today - the conversation announcing the date of another more important conversation. I remember lightheartedly making one of those fighting for air gestures. I remember saying that this feels so grown up, and him asking why. I remember telling him that I'd never had to do this before. I remember him telling me that we could be together.

A part of me is terrified. A part of me smiles. Most of me knows I need to do some thinking.

Dream of ways to make you understand my pain

“This is the third time this has happened.”
The third time.
The third time I had one too many drinks and let myself think too much and unleashed all my insecurities on him.
We yelled at each for half an hour in the street.
We talked heatedly on my bed for another half an hour.
And then we were laughing.
“I’m glad I’m here with you,” he told me later.
It made me so happy.

And then there it was again.
An hour later in the still dark heat of his bedroom.
One offhand comment, one rude statement that rubbed me the wrong way.
I was crying.
“This night is one big tantrum,” he snapped.
I didn’t answer.
“Lauren.”
“What?”
“Can you please get back in bed? I don’t want to wake up my new roommate.”
I crawled back in and then he held my hand.
This morning I felt sick.
What was I doing here?
Was I ruining this?
Was he ruining this?
Are we just too different?
And then a text at 10AM.
“The cleaners picked up my laundry this morning!”
The cleaners I found for him in his new neighborhood.
My neighborhood.

Part of me gravitates toward him because he swallows down all of my crazy and digests it.
And part of me wonders how much of it he’s storing up before it explodes.

The Effects of Danny and Annie

His parents have been divorced for ten years, and before that shouldn’t have been married at all. “They met at a knife fight when she was 17 and he was 20,” he told me. “I’m pretty sure I was conceived in a parking lot.” It is not the sentiment of someone who really believes in marriage. I, on the other hand, grew up with parents who used to stand hugging in the kitchen when they thought no one was looking. I know marriage as a long-lasting, loving commitment. He knows marriage as a situation of convenience that wears off eventually.

“Can I show you something?” I asked. “This might be totally cheese ball, and you might make fun of me, but to me… this is what marriage is.” He pulled up Danny and Annie on his iPhone. I saw his eyes blinking in the glowing light of the little screen as we watched in silence. He let out a barely audible sigh of surprise when Danny says, “I walked in with you, I walk out with you.”

He told me he thinks this situation is so rare, and happens only when two people really settle and feel lucky to be with anyone at all. “I think you’re very wrong,” I said quietly. His face softened. He watched my eyes for a minute and I could almost see the thoughts churning in his head. And then he let his walls down, just a little, for me. “Or maybe that could be us,” he offers. “But I won’t die on you.”

Putting a Label on It

It's first thing in the morning. I took a shower, I got dressed for work, and I crawled back into bed. He breathes heavy beside me. When he finally rises, I'm drifting in and out of sleep myself. I hear him laugh. My eyes creak open. "You laughing at me?" He's grinning. "I love waking up with you."

Half an hour later I'm ready to go. He walks into the bedroom and notices the TV on. He's grinning again. "I did it," I announce. "I figured out your ridiculous TV." "You're so proud. And cute. Cute and proud." And happy. I am so happy.

Ten minutes later he's packing his bag. One more grin. "Do you like me?" he teases. He doesn't know that the joke calms my nerves. That now it's absurd to even suggest a doubt.

When we're out in public together he is openly affectionate. His co-workers know we're dating. The bartenders at the club he performs at are starting to recognize me. He tells me, "You are the only woman I spend my time with."

I should feel so good about us. Until I hear it. "Hey Matt, this is my friend Lauren."

Labels shouldn't matter. But this one does.

I want you so bad I'll go back on the things I believe

E. turned me into someone who has preemptively ruined everything that could be important to me in the future. I was a rebound. He had her the whole time, tucked away deep in his heart while I was chiseling away at the edges.

He creeps into every relationship I've had, as if I'm dating him over and over again. I let men take on his qualities and kill them for it when I start to get attached.

I can let him ruin me again.

Or I can let this be the time I say goodbye to him for good.

Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now

11PM. An almost-empty bar in the East Village. Two people in the back, three drinks deep, four weeks in. She could tell He was going to be important to Her.

"Play 'King of Wishful Thinking!'" She shouted at the DJ. The song began to play and He spun Her around in the space around the tables, singing along and bumping Her hips.

"Hey!" He called out to the DJ. "Play that song from Mannequin next!"

And She knew He was a Keeper.

The Learning Curve

I’m good at being the flirt.
I’m a great first date.
I make a fantastic dinner partner.
I’m great at watching football with the boys.

I don’t know how to be a girlfriend.
I’m bad at putting one guy first.
I’m terrible at unloading my problems without crushing him.
I can’t find the balance between friends and boyfriend.

“I’m learning,” I told him.
“And I’m learning you.”

I just hope he likes what he finds.

Morning reading

I always cry at the end of Amelie. Always. Without giving it away (shame on you if you haven't watched the movie), there is something about the final scene - the joy, the energy, the love, the humor - that is so beautiful it brings me to tears. They're not sad tears, not really, but there is an element of pain to the feeling. Pain is the wrong word... longing perhaps? Whatever it is, I watch the scene, and I wish I could feel the way the characters do in that moment. Their complete happiness is so beautiful it hurts.

I don't get the feeling often, but when I do, it lingers for a while. It colors my outlook, casting this slight melancholy tint on things that, on any other day, would be considered unremarkably normal.

This morning, I got the feeling. A friend passed along an old New Yorker short story, and I read it over a latte at a cafe down the street. When I looked up from the page, the tears stung in my eyes. But, in a rush to make it to work on time, I couldn't dwell on my reaction. Now, hours of brooding behind my computer later, I know it's here. So what to do?

Well, for starters, I took care to lift my spirits today. I got gelato during lunch. Called a friend who lives in another state. Bought tickets to see a movie. Made plans to check out some apartments this weekend. Looking ahead, I hope to: finally move out of my house, fully explore new job prospects, and pick up my guitar again.

Truthfully, I'm not sure if complete happiness is attainable (or if it is, whether it's sustainable). No matter. It's worth a try.

The Heart Wants

"So, I'm calling because I'd like to move back home the last week in June. And I need to know if you're okay with this so I can start putting things in motion."

A pause. A long pause. There is never a pause in conversation with my mother.

"Well, yeah, you know we're always here for you! But... what will you do if you can't find a job?"

"I'll have saved up enough money as a cushion and then I'll move to Seattle at the end of August."

"Without a job? Without health care?"

I felt my confidence deflating, slowly, slowly. My chest tightened. My eyes threatened tears.

"I have to do something!" I proclaimed, my voice wavering only slightly. "I can not stay in this job, I can not stay in this apartment, I can not stay in this city. I have to do something!"

I feel so helpless. I feel trapped in technicalities like money and health care when my entire heart and soul is telling me to go.

"I don't think it's that crazy!" I exclaimed, trying desperately to pull her to my side. It's not crazy, you're not crazy, this is not crazy. Maybe it is crazy. Maybe I will get to Seattle and have a break down and think to myself, My GOD, what did I do?!

Or I will stay in this dirty, overpriced apartment, in my dead end, brainless job, in this cruel and soulless city, and I will break down in a different way.

It shouldn't be so hard but it's the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

Advice

Mid-20s, quasi adulthood, anxiety ridden future pondering. I know I am not the only one agonizing through the two, three, four (or more) year itch.

Talking to parents, friends, colleagues, well-wishers, and pessimists often helps. Sometimes, though, inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places.

In 1995, Iggy Pop answered a 20 page fan letter from a 21 year old girl in Paris. His scribbled note has some of the most eloquent, heartfelt advice I've read anywhere.

Words to live by: "take a deep breath and do whatever you must to survive and find something to be that you can love."

She's Got a Way

When I was 18, I hated her. She was comfortable and familiar, and I got used to her but in the way that you get used to a limp. I wanted to leave her so badly, and when I finally got a break at college, I couldn’t wait to come screaming back. “Remember me?! I’ve changed. I’ve outgrown you.”

I’m twenty-five now, and I miss her. I remember her familiar curves, her radiating warmth and her distancing cold. I don’t want to go back to her. But my heart breaks when we’re forced apart.

On Tuesday morning, I sat at my parents’ breakfast table, far away from my childhood home, but not so far that her hold on me wasn’t achingly apparent. My mom packed up her bag for the day and I spooned cereal between my quivering lips. I started to cry. "I feel like I'm in third grade again," I whimpered. "Don't make me go to school, mom, I want to stay home."

I know that there are great things waiting for me out there. I am destined to be successful, as a chef, as a writer, as an eater, as an editor, or maybe as something I haven’t even considered yet. But part of me wants to slink back home to the predictability and comfort of friends who have known me since I was ten years old and love me whether I am an exacerbated version of myself, or not myself at all. Part of me wants to buy a car and move into a cheap apartment in the middle of streets I could traverse with my eyes closed. I want to sink down into the cushion of home.

I used to tell myself that there was another home out there for me. I’d learn to love a different city with different people, and I’d create a better life of my own, instead of claiming one that had already been created for me.

I’m not sure why I want her back. All I know is that I do.

Packing

T-shirts. Jeans. Pajamas. Dressy tops. Socks. Dresses. Skirts. Jackets. Purses. The piles grow higher as I sort through everything. The bags are open on the floor, empty, waiting for my life to be filled into them. These tights have seen their last days, I decide, adding them to the pile of "to-gos" on the floor. Those shoes have served me well too, but unfortunately they too must go.

I find the corners of my mouth drooping silently. I fold up shirts and socks.
I find my eyes getting heavy. I place a pair of jeans on top.
I find myself sitting there staring. I handle a soft dress delicately.
I shake my head. These bags have got to be packed.

My photographs come out of their frames and into a notebook for safekeeping. The cards that lined my shelf in the living room get tucked away as well.

I make a list: pick up dress, buy macarons and chocolate and cheese, mail my box of things that won't fit, buy a book for the plane.

I sit on the sofa then, suddenly tired.

I pad over to the desk where D is studying for his exam. I kiss his shoulder. I shake my head when he looks up. I wish this hug would never end.

My bright orange living room smiles at me reassuringly. You'll be back, it seems to say. But not to live - at least not soon, I cry back. And silence.

I don't have any music as I pack. I find it makes me too sad. The happy upbeat tunes seem out of place and the melancholy ones feed into my mood too much. Me and my thoughts, then, folding, placing, stuffing, closing.

My bags are almost filled. And yet somehow my life seems to be flitting around, evading my reaching hands, refusing to be packed away just yet. Come on, I say. We've got places to go. We'll do brilliant things and have some fun. It's been a good ride, I think to myself. I just wish it didn't have to end just yet. I know exciting things await, but. Some part of me, it's here to stay.

Long Awaited Meet and Greet

I met him outside. He had been so built up in my mind; this tall, familiar, comforting stranger that caused my head to turn. Never being one to get caught in a fantasy, I was shocked by the effect this man had on my imagination. What a strange feeling it was to wait outside for him. I felt as if I knew him, although, I did not. We only had months of distant attraction between us and a recent bombardment of text messages. Finally a face to face meeting, perhaps it could be considered a date. I had dreamt of this moment, filled with witty banter and possibly an overwhelming attraction shared by the two of us. Alas, there hung that looming hope, perhaps this is something real, perhaps this will turn into something lasting and true; perhaps I need to get to know him.

Stepping through the door in his entire six foot six inch splendor, stunning in his perfectly tailored, beautifully crafted pale grey summer weight suit; I noticed instantly his nervous energy. Leading me through the crowded streets of midtown Manhattan, he took the lead deciding which streets to cross and which lights to patiently wait for. Making comments about my city and commenting on the neighborhood as if I were the newbie; I found it quite endearing. Turning to enter the park to my regular favored spot, he stopped and gently guided me on to a further entrance. Laying out a blanket he chatted on boldly full of fumbles and mumbles.

The suiting jacket came off, the French cuffs were rolled up, socks and shoes discarded, he made himself comfortable exposing his perfectly sun browned skin. Situating myself on the blanket next to him, my shoes remained on, my stature much stiffer, I sat in puzzled amusement, something wasn't quite right. There was a familiarity about him, a comfort and ease about him that did not match his scattered dialogue or inappropriate over-sharing. Conversation was not easy or fluid as I had hoped. In fact he began to share of his family's dysfunction in detail. He let his heart leak out of the pain he'd experienced from his childhood, in front of me spilling out into a pool between us. He spoke of it with sarcastic tones as if it were all a joke. I was embarrassed by his nakedness, the brash bare reality of his situation. It was laid on me like a sack of dry bones. Though not what I was expecting during an afternoon picnic meeting this man for the first time, I felt for him, taking on his details like precious relics to be protected. He shot jabs at me too, using every piece of information I shared with him as ammo for his sarcasm. I realized, despite his cool demeanor, he must have been rambling out of nervousness. This conflicting confidence and unmistakable self doubt keep me confused. I left taken a back by his seeming insecurity.

I haven’t heard from him since, though the thought of him lingers. He remains a mystery and an unquenchable puzzle. Perhaps he will reach out again and we will give it another go. I can only pray he is more relaxed, a bit more himself. I wish to get a true glimpse of who he really is. If he does reach out again, I will make sure to bring a flask.

Ready Ready Ready Ready

I’m tired. And all I want to do is cut and run. The LDC and I hadn’t talked in a week. No texts, no Gchat, no phone calls, nothing. Somehow the balance of this “relationship” shifted from him texting me every three minutes to me texting him so we could at least have some contact, to no communication at all. I’m tired. I’m worn out over a lot of things and it is easier to just ignore the heartache that is him.

He: Hey stranger. Hope you’ve been well. Let’s catch up this week.
Me: Yeah, let’s catch up. Call you tomorrow?
He: Sounds good.

The next day
Me: I’m going to a movie soon – call you after?
He: I’ll be watching a movie, too.
Me: Well, if you want to call after I’ll be up late.
He: Why don’t we catch up over your lunch break? Seems like we’re both too busy after work.

Ouch.

Me: Um okay.
He: Am I off base here?
Me: No, I just haven’t really been on Gchat much lately.
He: You can call me on your lunch break. Who said anything about Gchat?
Me: Oh… You can talk on your phone at work?
He: Yes, I’m actually allowed to leave work whenever I want to.

Ouch.

He: Sorry, too much attitude. I’m just stressed.
Me: It’s fine. I’m stressed, too. I’ll call when I can.

This is too much work. I’m so tired and I don’t need this right now. I want to call him and cry my eyes out and pour out everything I’m terrified of right now that has nothing to do with him at all. I want him to be his logical self and tell me that everything will work out, that I just have to go for it and believe in myself and take a risk.

Instead we’ve become strangely platonic acquaintances. Every little scared bit of me wants to stop all communication right now and then call from the Sea/Tac Airport on August 1 to tell him I moved to his city, and can we start over now?

I’m tired. And all I want to do is cut and run.

Grey

Today I am discouraged. I am disheartened. I am in despair. Because today, again, that gnawing feeling has asserted itself, almost breaking through my heart and out of my lips. Today again I have suppressed it and shrugged it away. Today again I've played an April Fool's joke on myself just as I have been doing for the past three years.

I should never have sent in that acceptance letter. I should have walked out that very first day. I should have waited a year to see how I felt. I should have waited for that Masters acceptance - the one that got there two months too late. No.

I should have applied for that Masters two months earlier, I should have only applied to programs I liked, I should have only applied to city schools. No.

I should have sat for a moment and thought. Thought deep and thought long. Before I registered for the LSAT. I should have researched and read blogs and stories. I should have looked into myself. I should have searched inside and outside and I should have found and listened to that voice in my heart. Yes.

I should have taken diverse classes. I should have majored in literature and languages. I should have taken writing classes. I should have explored my interests more. I should have tried harder to find myself. Yes.

Today I started an internship. And my feet were heavy walking out of the door. And my eyes didn't sparkle. And my hair felt limp even though it was freshly washed. Because once again I find myself doing things I don't want to do.

Ditch it, you say. Do what you want. Go find yourself. You're so young, your entire life stretches out in front of you. You can do anything. Don't get caught up in the daily doldrums, don't forget what's important in life: you!

I can't. I know it. In some ways I don't know myself at all but in some ways I know better than anyone else. I can't stop once I've taken a path. I don't know how to turn away. And even if I'm rolling in the wrong direction I cannot bring myself to stop.

Today I whispered "April Fool's" under my breath as I got off the metro. Today I shook my head at myself. Today I knew, once again, I'll still play this game for a while.

Until one day I throw up my hands and cook and write and draw and sing loudly and badly as I do all of those.

But I'll play this game for a while.

Here's an idea...

Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?

When I was fifteen years old my dad lost his job. Tried as he could to find a job in Rochester, the only positions he could land were located in Kansas City, San Francisco, or New York City. He took the year long commitment in California, hoping that after that time something would open up closer to home.

But it never did. And for five years my parents endured their own long distance relationship. As far as I knew, there was no mention of divorce or separation. They simply made it work. I went through my formative dating years under the bizarre and misinformed assumption that a happily married couple could remain just that way, at first cross country and later cross state. “We’ve never really had to work at our marriage,” my dad once told me. He looked at my mother. “Right? Have we?”

“Well, it was really tough when you got cancer and you had to go through the radiation.”
“Were you going to divorce me when I got cancer?!”
“Well, no! I just mean that it strained our marriage.”
“But that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean we’ve never talked about getting divorced.”

But I knew that was a lie. After the fourth year of my father’s weekly six-hour commute from New York City to Rochester (every Friday there, every Sunday back), my mother sold the house in Rochester and moved to New York so they could finally live together. She was miserable away from her friends and family in Rochester and suddenly the word divorce hovered around that house like a ghost. But it came with melancholy, not malice. “Sometimes I think your father would be better off without me holding him back,” my mom would say. And my father would say quietly, just to me, “If it wasn’t for me, your mother could still be in Rochester. And happy.” But divorce was just a far away, simple solution that no one would ever capitalize on. They could never be without each other, for better or for worse.

I never realized how this affected me or my views on relationships until I started to examine what I have with the LDC. What’s so wrong with long distance? With the way I grew up, I may never know.

It's been three years since I'm knockin' on your door, and I still can knock some more...

I did it. I mustered up all of my courage and I instigated “the talk.” When I told him I needed to define this thing that we’re doing here, he got defensive. I told him I was invested and he cut me off and said, “So then you’re going to tell me that it’s my fault you’re not dating anyone! I’m keeping you from seeing other people.” I groaned in frustration, my heart pounding away in my chest. This was exactly what I was afraid of. “So we’re just friends?” I asked. “Well, no,” he said slowly, “I mean… we’re not just friends. But I consider you my friend.” I felt woozy. But I didn’t lose my courage.

“If you think that we are nothing more than friends, then things have to change.” He didn’t like this answer but it was the catalyst for a less dramatic, more honest discussion.

He told me how it was hard to have me in Seattle and not be hyper aware that I was leaving in three days. I told him I felt the same way. “You did?” he asked. “See,” I answered. “This is why we have to talk about this stuff.”

“I think we both knew this conversation was coming,” he said, a far cry from the ‘friends’ proclamation he had made earlier. “I think neither of us wanted to bring it up.” It was true. Neither of us wanted to bring it up. But there was something I was after here… even if I didn’t know exactly what it was. I wanted him to tell me he saw me in his future. I needed to hear that this wasn’t all in vain. I posed it delicately, using the unassuming words ‘potential’ and ‘eventually.’

“I don’t really have an answer for you,” he said. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I can’t predict the future and you and I are in very different places in our lives right now. Who knows where either of us is gonna end up.” I didn’t quite know what else to say. There were long stretches of quiet where I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on the breath passing in and out of my lips.

“I don’t want you to be upset with me,” he said. “I’m not upset. I just… I ultimately want to hear that I’m not just your buddy. I want to know that what we have is different, and that you don’t have this same relationship with all your other girl friends.” “I don’t,” he answered. “And you should know that.”

I was tired. I didn’t want to talk anymore. Nothing was being answered, and as much as he’d given me part of what I wanted, I knew I wasn’t getting anything else. “Okay,” I sighed. “Well, you’re packing so I’ll let you go.”

“No,” he answered. “I don’t want you to let me go.”

It was the most to-the-point thing he’d said all night, and he didn’t even mean to.