A boy with a smile

He's a really cute boy. He has a square jaw and a really nice smile. And his hair kind of falls over his eyes. He's got this cute Irish accent and a joke that makes me laugh.

And I wonder if I would flip my hair a little. If I would widen my eyes just a smidge more. If my smile would be a little wider, my laughter a little tinklier. I wonder if I'd stay on for just another drink with friends. If I'd try to sit next to him at the table. I wonder if I would touch his arm as we talked. I wonder if he'd buy me a drink. I wonder if I'd let him walk me home. I wonder if I'd pause just long enough by the building entrance. I wonder if I'd finger my keys for that extra couple of seconds.

All this I wonder as I say goodbye. As I decline that extra drink and tell them I have to get up early tomorrow. As I wave and enter the building without pausing. As I lock the door and take off my coat. As I slip into pajamas and start up my computer. As I type - I love you, goodnight.

All this I wonder and then smile a little smile. No. I won't be flipping my hair a little. I won't be smiling that extra-wide smile. I won't be exploring this possibility.

Because my guy - the one without the hair falling in his eyes, the one without the square jaw - that guy has a smile even nicer than this one. A smile that speaks to my heart.

And even as I wonder, even as my imagination flits over the possibilities, I know. I know I would rather be here alone, with a smile a little short of flirty and a pause a lot short of inviting, if it means I get to "be" with my guy. Even if it's just over Skype and phone calls. That guy. The one whose smile melts my heart.

It's only appropriate...

There are so many!

Baby, it's cold outside...

...that's really about it.

Also, I don't know about you, but this seems prettttttttttty familiar...: SAD

Celebrate Me Home

I love Christmas. As I emerged from the subway station at Steinway Street in Astoria last night, I heard the tinny sounds of old holiday standards crackling out of speakers attached to the lampposts; the tiny white lights were twinkling on snowflake-shaped decorations; the Salvation Army bell ringer clanged away begging for donations. It’s Christmas time in the city. It should’ve been so perfect.

But I had to go “home” to the apartment I have barely lived in for the past 2 months; the apartment I never really felt at home in anyway. And then I spent the night in an apartment that I have been sleeping in for two months but am not really fully welcomed into. “She can’t be here seven nights a week,” the roommate said. So I keep my things in one place. I sleep in another. I visit my parents in their temporary extended-stay living suite upstate while they deal with their transitional time, too. Every single Christmas decoration I own is in a storage facility in Rochester, in boxes piled 20 feet high, where they can’t be accessed until Spring. I have nowhere to decorate, or anything to decorate with. I don’t have a place where I can cuddle into at night in my flannel Christmas pajamas and wake up at in the morning to stumble out into the living room and sip hot chocolate and watch Rudolph. His place is not my place. My place is not my place. Their place is not my place. And for the last five years all I’ve been aching for is a home.

I’ll wake up Christmas morning this year in a hotel in Rochester. Our first year without a family home in Rochester, I cried at the thought of waking up in a hotel on Christmas and so my parents rented a house. But as the years have passed, and the reality of the situation becomes as familiar as a limp, I have tucked that sadness away until it turned into a tiny pit in the depths of my chest. And it hurts the most this time of year.

Out sick

I just wanted to stay inside my little cocoon of a blanket. Just a little opening for some air, but otherwise I just crept deeper and deeper into my bed. My neck hurts, I say to myself. From sitting awkwardly in long flights. My tummy growls, I say to myself. From eating too much rich food over Thanksgiving. I hug myself under the blanket and turn away from the truth.

Sure my neck hurts and my tummy could use a little break, but that wouldn't have been enough to keep me in bed otherwise. It's sadness. And loneliness. It's the fact that this weekend I got used to having his arm around me again. I got used to slipping my foot under his knee and my hand into his as we sat on the sofa. I got used to getting a hug out of the blue for no reason but that it just felt like a good time for a hug. I got used to having someone who thinks I'm funny around me all the time. I got used to having someone to talk to and cuddle with and really just hang out with all the time. I got used to being 'us' again.

And then I got back. I slipped into my cold bed and tucked my foot under my own knee. I wrapped my arms around myself and burrowed into my pillow for comfort. And I just couldn't make myself get out of bed today.

I know this from living far away from my family and my friends for a good portion of my life, but now it comes to me again. The powerful 'missing' that you don't even realize exists for most of the time you're apart, but that hits you with all of its force as soon as you get even a little taste of the companionship that could be. You stay away for weeks and months, and you get used to it bit by bit. And you still miss the other person, but you fill your life with work and people and books and activities until you don't leave too many free moments to think too deeply. But then you visit. And you re-live the joy of being together. And then you leave. And then you just can't get out of bed.

Time to shower and clean the apartment and head back to work tomorrow. A lonely heart doesn't warrant more than one sick day.

Continuing with the alcohol and love theme...

A is a sweet, affectionate drunk. He isn't drunk all that often but when he is, he's adorable.

Case in point, last night at a friend's dinner party:

"I love the shit out of you."



(It's cuter than it sounds, I promise.)

Feeling Good

I had always taken pride in the fact that I had never gotten seriously drunk. No real lapses in judgment, no wondering about what had happened the night before, and certainly no nights spent hugging the toilet...

until Friday.

I had taken a big, scary French exam that morning. I had met with two fun work contacts. I had seen my bff from high school for the first time in six months. With two very promising parties on the agenda, I was feeling pretty good. And it was going pretty good...

until we remember I'm a lightweight. One drink (any drink) usually gets me a bit silly. As was the case after my gin tonic at the first party. Silly and happy. At the second party, after a little bit of beer and a little bit of wine, A's coworker convinced me to take a shot. Of vodka. Which was bigger than it should've been. But I was feeling good! Down went the fiery stuff. I'm chatting, dancing, and then WHOOSH. Not feeling good. And he can tell.

Glass of water in one hand, arm around me, we're out the door. Apparently I mentioned to him that one of my friend's commented that we'd get married. We get to his house, more water. I sit on his bed and then I'm up, making my way for the bathroom. He sits on the edge of the tub throughout and gives me mouthwash when I'm done. Back in his room, he tucks me in, a trashcan on my side of the bed. In the morning, he lets me sleep in while he goes out to buy me bread. He makes me breakfast and naps with me on the couch.

I was humiliated, and he tried to make me laugh at myself. I apologized a dozen times, and he shook off each one.

He took care of me, and I love him for it.