The Importance of Being

Somewhere between spending the weekend in a cabin with twenty of J.'s best, lifelong friends, meeting his mother, and spending 6 hours on a stretch of sunny New England highway, J. fell out of it. Or at least it seems that way. What happened to my afternoon texts and my immediate-response phone calls? Something is so wrong and I haven't a clue why. So tonight we have to "talk." Whatever the outcome, it can only get better from here.

And as my battle cry, I use these wise words from a beautiful soul:

"Be you. You are enough, and you are not too much." --JRenee

Hope

by Banksy

A question like a blot on beautiful parchment

Today I had a drink with a boy who used to like me, with whom I am now officially "only friends," whose face visibly fell when he heard I had a boyfriend. We continued after that little mention of D, sneakily slipped in by me, as if nothing had ever passed between us apart from pure and platonic friendship. He joked about law school loves, I asked about his love life, he told me how he'd been seeing someone but they broke up, we joked about the waitress, everything as usual. Because we're friends now. But his face fell. He took a long sip of his beer, but I saw it. D called while we were in the middle of drinks. I didn't pick up.

D called again. I picked up.

"Hey I'm with my friends, what was the name of that restaurant you were telling me about?"

I was sitting across from a boy whose face fell when he heard I had a boyfriend. Why was I sitting across from him, and not across from my boyfriend, at that restaurant I had been telling my boyfriend about?

Cheers!

Have a fabulous extended weekend and enjoy your Memorial day! Cheers!

If I Need You, I'll Just Use Your Simple Name

“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I’m not allowed to stare at my girlfriend?” Panic. Fear. Wide-eyed, unabashed terror. I think he wanted to take it back as soon as he threw it out there but there it sat; a rock heaved into a placid pool.

He hasn’t used it since (at least not in front of my face) but I am so aware of it now. Girlfriend. It’s quite a leap. While I was under the impression that we were just dating, taking things one day at a time, leaving commitment out of it for awhile, I think he already has me holding a serious place in his life.

To me, using the “girlfriend/boyfriend” label signifies something more. It means meeting my parents and getting to know my brother. It means stepping out of your comfort zone and pretending to enjoy the Model as Muse exhibit at the Met because it’s important to me. It means that you are obligated to occasionally blow off your friends to watch romantic comedies with me because I had a rotten day at work. In other words, with the labels come a responsibility. And with the responsibility comes a promise that while maybe we’re not slipping rings on each others’ fingers, there is a commitment being made.

One reason why this has shaken me so much is because I am still petrified of the fall out. I’m scared that I’ll lay out my relationship expectations, he’ll recoil in typical-boy-fashion, and shudder at the thought of my definition of commitment... to me. And where will I be then? It’s easier to maintain the escape clause.

The Mean Reds

Overcome by a ferocious, insatiable frustration. It is not the first time. This feeling comes over me like a tide; suffocating and smothering I feel trapped and don’t know what to do. Holly Golightly called it having the “Mean Reds” and Tiffany’s was her source of solace. That is, until she found comfort in a loving relationship that took its place. Do I need someone to save me from myself? Is there someone that can help carry the bone crushing burden of life? Where do I find comfort on days I have the mean reds?

Such Great Heights

I’d been noticing the signs for weeks – red flags that I turned a blind eye to, in the hope that it was bigger than us. He was really stressed about swimming, I was putting too much pressure on him to visit me at school, classes were getting really tough at the end of freshman year, and he had that academic scholarship to keep. But we were in looooove so there was no way we were breaking up. Right? Right.

It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever been through. E. became a fixture in my life. When I spoke to my parents on the phone in my first year of college they’d ask how I was doing and then, “How’s E.?” His pictures were on my walls, his clothes in my dresser, his scent on my pillows. And then all of a sudden he decided he didn’t love me anymore. It should’ve been painful for a few months, and it was, but the sting lingered. Lingers, I guess.

Part of me sees the end of J. before I can even get past the beginning. I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the, “Maybe we should just be friends” speech even though I’m getting the, “I really like you” speeches instead. There is very little to lead me to believe that it’ll end anytime soon. And yet there is a tiny, nagging sting deep in the pit of my stomach that reminds me of how the higher the climb, the harder the fall.

Dear Old Friend...

There was a time that you loved me well. You knew what I needed on the worst of days. You knew how to calm my ferocious attitude; you knew how to make me smile.. And you did. We were kids together. We discovered the world together and philosophized under the stars when we were just learning what the world was all about. You would come to me with your moral dilemmas and I would seek your advice on everything. I’d call and ask how to make sauce. You would tell me how even though you’d never made it before. You were brilliant in every way and just knew how to do things. We possessed a beautiful mutual respect and admiration. How long have you been without someone to love you? We are three thousand miles apart. Perhaps we are meant to be friends. Perhaps we will venture on learning life together, but apart.

New York, New York.

I woke up today and yawned. I stretched a little stretch and then I started snuggling into my blankets again. And then I opened my eyes. A little peep. And I started smiling. Smiling. Smiling. If I had been a fly on my own wall I would've thought: what a creepy little person, she peeps out at the world and smiles weirdly into her blankets and then tosses away the covers and jumps - but jumps - out.

Outside my window the New York City skyline rose, bright and beautiful, full of hope and surprise and adventure and comfort and convenience and...life. For the first time in a long time I couldn't wait to get out of bed.

I'll search for the cities made of gold some other day. Here the streets are paved with diamonds winking in the sun.

Just thought this was so lovely... happy weekend!

Subway Love

I saw you on the subway. I must have stared you were so intriguing. Taking license to look and admire, knowing I'd never see you again... until today. This time you saw me. With surprised delight you caught my gaze and gifted me with the most beautiful smile. Thank you for that. Next time can we speak? Would the mystery be broken or only heightened? Let's be friends. Or maybe more... I think you are cute.

Love is . . .

I require, on average, 12-14 hours of sleep. I can get by with 8-10. 6 or less and I know I’m going to need a nap. My favorite part of the day is just as I climb into bed, snuggling between the sheets, curling my toes up and burrowing into the blanket and pillows. I curl up and for a half hour or so I have my own personal time. Everything is pitch dark, the cold bed slowly warms up, I drift into my imaginary world. The worries and tensions of the day get lost in the stories and dream worlds I conjure up for myself. The excitements of the day get built into larger than life joys as I form a little burrito smack in the middle of my bed, rolled up in blankets and pillows, eyes scrunched tight, my head and my heart cooling down as I drift into sleep.

When I sleep over at D’s or when he sleeps over, it is a different story altogether. For one, I can only lay a claim to half of the bed and half of the blanket. It becomes next to impossible to burrito myself. I try, of course, by wrapping him around me instead of the blankets. And while it’s wonderful to entangle myself with him, it is also pretty much impossible to fall asleep when you’re snuggling with a person instead of blankets. His chest is my pillow, but as I engage myself in discerning the secrets his heartbeat is telling me, I am too lost in him, in the being with him, to be able to get lost in my own solitary world. Just as I am falling asleep I worry that I’m crushing his arm. Just as he’s falling asleep I burrow into his neck. I slide down the middle of the bed towards him; I take all of the covers; the pillow doesn’t sit quite right on one side of the bed.
In the morning it is just a little bit harder to wake up with the alarm clock than it is when he isn’t there.

So why is it, then, that I feel robbed of something if one of us has an exam the next day or an early start, and so can’t spend the night? Why do I feel lonely on the nights I sleep alone even as I revel in the pre-sleep self-burrito-ing and spread myself luxuriously and diagonally across my bed? Why am I so willing to not get 12 hours of sleep even when it is otherwise possible? Why do I train myself to get a full night’s sleep with him?

I don’t quite know. Perhaps it’s the waking up with a smile that does it.