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.

Making plans to change the world while the world is changing us

There she was. In a teeny-tiny Viking costume. I shouldn’t have clicked on her name but I did. Now I had an almost-naked visual to go along with his handful of stories about her. It didn’t matter how many times he told me she didn’t support his career or believe in his talent or care about his happiness. All I could focus on was how she made a lot of money and how tan she was and how below that picture of her in her teeny-tiny Viking costume was a comment: “TC likes this.” My stomach rose up in protest.

“We don’t talk,” he had told me once. “She texted me a couple weeks ago to come get some of my stuff and I told her to throw it away. Trust me, I have no interest in keeping in touch with my ex’es.” I had heard this same speech before from E. and then found out a year later he was telling his own ex that he loved her the whole time. And now here was my first red flag from TC. I couldn’t let it go.

“Are you home?”

“No, what’s up?”

“Just wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“It can wait, call me when you get home.”

“No, I hate that. What is it?”

I was trembling. I knew he would be so angry. Didn’t I trust him? Why would I snoop into his past? Why would I be digging on Facebook? How did I even know who she was anyway? But it didn’t matter. If I didn’t ask now it would bubble up inside of me, constantly marinating, churning, stewing until one night after a few drinks I’d scream out, “I know you’re still in touch with her! I saw her Facebook picture!”

I tried to explain as rationally as I could. “I clicked on your ex’s profile. I shouldn’t have, but I did and I saw this slutty picture of her that you liked. And it really bothered me.” He began his typically rational speech. They are not in touch. They had an amicable breakup a year and a half ago, and every once in awhile he gets a text from her saying hello. He saw the picture on Facebook of a cute girl in a tiny outfit and he clicked like. That was all. She texted him afterward to say she saw his comment and hoped everything was going well. “We had a good relationship. We broke up over my career, and we both knew it was the best idea. We’re different people now and I don’t really like the person she’s turned into. I don’t like how she treats me or who she’s become, and I’m not attracted her anymore; emotionally, physically, or sexually. At all. But I hope she’s happy.” I had nothing else to say.

When do I start to really believe in this? When do I start to feel secure in this, in us? When he says I’m different, how long until I actually hear it?

He called back half an hour later. I anticipated anger. You know, Lauren, this REALLY pisses me off! But instead I got a quiet voice.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” And I meant it.

Getting Warmer

Sometimes I think he is getting closer.

“I told my dad about you.”
“Hey, we should take pictures of us while we’re here. We don’t have any pictures of the two of us. Have you already realized that?”
I woke up in the middle of the night last night while I thought he was watching TV but instead he was watching me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and resting his hand on my face.

And then sometimes I think we’re right where we were two months ago.
“I can’t spend five nights a week with someone! This is why I can’t have a girlfriend!”
“I don’t think I believe in monogamy.”
I texted him on a Saturday night to ask about our Sunday plans and he canceled with no explanation.

When someone tells you who he is, believe him. Is this it? Is this him? The guy who loves me and wants to be with me but not completely? The guy who has been telling me who he is since day one but is also asking me to stick it out? He says he’s not “there” yet. I wonder if he’ll ever be.

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.

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.

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.

Hot Time

It was hotter than I could ever remember it being in my dark bedroom. I lay sweating, wondering what I could do to lessen the stifling air that seemed to be hugging my body. The fan was no help. I stood up, closer to the window. No breeze. I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of ice water. It was warm in minutes. I took a cold shower. The air felt hotter by comparison. I couldn’t shake the choking atmosphere.

I lay back down in bed, my eyes heavy with exhaustion and begging for sleep. I began to drift off when my phone beeped. A picture message. “Yum Cobb salad!” Cobb salad. The LDC was texting me at midnight to show me his dinner, and all I could think was, “Cobb salad? Who gives a shit about Cobb salad? Let me know when you’re eating scallops with champagne sauce. Jerk.”

I was wide awake. It took me another thirty minutes to drift off to sleep again, and around 3:30 I was startled awake one more time. This time it was my subconscious that roused me but I was thinking about the text. His stupid text. Whatever the meaning behind it, I was angry. And I was up again.

Another glass of ice water, but this time I perched on the easy chair in the living room, next to the only window in the apartment that provided a trace of a breeze. I sat motionless in the dark, letting beads of condensation roll down the glass, across my sticky skin, and through the thick air to the wood floor below.

I don’t know if it was the ill-timed text or the ill-timed sender, but at that moment, in the heat, I felt lucky to be alone.

Date of Execution

Growing up, and even in my 20s, I had very few straight guy friends. I spent most of my time in dance and theater, where guys are few and far between or, although it is a stereotype, gay. My heterosexual male friends were kept close and valued for the advice they gave and the offers they extended to pummel any guy who treated me poorly.

R. is one of those incredible, reliable guy friends that I’ve stuck close to since high school. He is a serial monogamist and, not surprisingly, proposed to his longtime girlfriend last year. They set a date for August and sent out ‘Save the Date’ cards soon after. I wrote the date in my planner: August 21. But something inside of me knew that I wouldn’t be attending.

R. is marrying B., who has a drinking problem. At one point, her problem got so bad, that R. and B. split up. “I can’t handle her when she gets blackout drunk,” R. said once. And every time B. drank, she binged to the point of blackout. During their split, she worked on “giving up hard liquor” and once she did, they got back together. “It’s only hard liquor that makes her black out,” R. said. This past January, on B.’s 25th birthday, she got blackout drunk off of beer (what happened to that hard liquor rule?) and kissed another guy. She never told R.

Up until this point, I have been elated for all of my friends who have gotten married or engaged. Everyone has seemed to fit so perfectly together, to complement each other, and really benefit from their unions. Except for R. and B. I can not go to a wedding and pretend to be happy for my dear friend and the woman he is settling for.

That little RSVP card sits on my dresser, asking far bigger questions than “Yes” or “No.”

Hating the Player

Saturday. 3:30PM.

"You don't want to watch the Germany/Aussie match tomorrow, do you? 2PM? For your birthday..."

Saturday. 9:00PM.

"Awww you remembered! I'm getting drunk with cousins tonight so I might be recuperating but if not we could hang out later in the day?"

"Sure." You'll be recuperating until 2 in the afternoon? I let it die. His birthday. His day. Chill out, Lauren.

Sunday. 1:46PM.

"Probably watching the game at Van Diemens today dear." Is that an invite? Is that a statement? Wouldn't he have said, 'Want to come and meet me at Van Diemens at 2:30?'

"Okay."

No response.

For the past month I've been the one suggesting plans. He either bails or tries to reschedule. I imagined myself walking into the bar and facing him and his friends, all surprised to see me since I was never technically asked to join. It was a possible confrontation I didn't want to endure.

Sunday. 7:10PM.

"You never made it."

"I didn't know if that was an invite or a statement. Probably for the best. Ouch, Australia."

"It was an invite, silly."

Am I wrong to want to be wooed? Invited? Wanted? We split every check. After I spent the night at his place for the first time and told him I really liked him, he didn't have time to see me again for a week and a half. I haven't seen him in a month because he is incapable of making plans in advance or following through on anything. He went to Europe for two weeks and texted me the day he got back. To ask to see me? No. Just to say hi.

"If he really liked me, he'd want to see me," I told a guy friend. He shrugged and agreed.

"Yeah."

Occasionally I feel crazy. I feel like I want too much, like I hold men to standards that no one could ever meet. But I think that I am not wrong to want to be wanted.

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."

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.

Facts and Figures

I take all the signs and I add them up and I see what’s left. It’s like baking a cake without a recipe using whatever I have in the cupboard and hoping it comes out edible.

We don’t talk every day like we used to. I watch the little green icon next to his name on Gchat but no message box pops up. I send texts at midnight on Saturday, telling him that there are some girls from Seattle at the party I’m at. No response. “Where ARE you?” I try again. He answers, “Soooo high. Passing out.” It is infuriating.

But then there are the other signs. On a random Saturday afternoon he texts me about a delicious sandwich he just had for lunch. “What are you up to?” he asks. I tell him I’m about to pass the time playing beer pong with a friend. “Don’t judge me,” I tease. He writes back, “Remember the first time I met you? It was your birthday and we played beer pong and I sunk every cup and we won. And then you dipped out to your ex b.f.’s.” It’s the same story he brings up all the time.

Last week he called, and I missed it. “I’m at a movie – will you be around later?” He answered that he’d be busy making sushi with some friends. He called on his walk home from work when he had a free five minutes, the negative side of me said. And the positive side answered, But he called.

Things are not the same. I don’t get the 3AM, “Come oooover” texts anymore. Part of the reason things are different is because I feel different. I am so preoccupied with finding a new job, moving across the country, and dealing with drama on the home front that to occupy myself with him, too, is exhausting. I want to push him away until I can really pull him in. As much as he doesn’t message me, I don’t message him, either. It’s too much work.

For every point in the plus column, there is one in the negative. For every text sent there is one unanswered. I just have to believe that it’ll all even out in the end.

Calm during the storm

My dad asked me to fill out the census.

Does this person sometimes live or stay somewhere else?

I let out a short laugh. Oh, the irony of it all.

I found out my mom and a suitcase had left our house during a work trip, specifically in a wine bar in New Orleans. I rejoined the group of Europeans and attempted to make small talk, while the tears welled in my eyes. Politely excusing myself, I made my way to the bathroom and called him (first, again). Stammering, sobbing, incoherent.

She has been with my grandma for a week, and I am now more frustrated than upset. Careless and haphazard are the two words I use to describe the situation. Still, my mind reels with questions ... what is my role in this mess? will she ever come back? what of my future? will we ever be "the same"? Yet, in spite of this black hole of uncertainty, one aspect of my life is stable.

When I come over for coffee before work, he has a latte and pain au chocolat waiting for me; when I wear long white socks under my boots, he teases me; and when he asks if I want to talk about it and I say no, he leaves me be. We discuss health care legislation, hang out with mutual friends, and make love. Ours is an island of peace.

One day not too long ago, I apologized for the black cloud over our very new relationship, for dragging him into my misery. Without hesitation he responded: "It's part of the deal, no?"

When It Don't Come Easy

I had had too much to drink. I attended a swanky St. Patrick’s Day party at Cipriani and the quality champagne was flowing and the Irish men were so charming and I let one of them walk me to a cab and kiss me goodnight. I should’ve just gone home and let the lovely memories of the evening and the champagne bubbles carry me to sleep.

But I didn’t. I texted the LDC. He wrote back immediately and when I asked what he was doing he said he was at a basketball game. It was nothing out of the ordinary. But when I said, “I should stop texting before I say something I regret”, he wrote back, “Okay, have a good night.” And because of the champagne and the Irishman and the ache in my bones when I think about the LDC, I lost it. I cried and buried my face in the pillow and woke up with puffy eyes because I want something I just can’t get. And the little moments where I want him to care as much as I care and he doesn’t, to feel burdened by this as much as I am and he isn’t, feel like weights added to one side of the balance I’m always holding.

I feel myself slipping. I’m holding onto this, white-knuckled, fingernails scraping, but I’m losing my grip. I thought I knew the best way to handle it but it turns out my positioning is all wrong and it’s getting tough to keep it steady. All I know is that whatever happens, I can’t let go now.

First

I got rejected from a grad school yesterday, and without thinking, I called him first. He didn't answer, so I sent him a text.

Then I waited.

Three hours later, he called. I was already upset about so many other things.

"I called you first."
"Are you upset with me?"
"I don't know."
"Can I tell you where I was and then you can tell me if you're still upset?"

He helps low income families with their taxes one night a week in a basement of a library. The thought had vaguely crossed my mind, but in my disheartened state, it was quickly ignored.

"I called you as soon as I got out. Are you still upset?"
"No ..."
"Good."

"... I still think it's fucking huge that I called you first."

"And it's easy for me, and it's better for the soul..."

It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Work is hectic; my family continually teeters on the edge of a breakdown; and rapidly approaching grad school decisions scare the crap out of me. It's as if all of these major life components met and conspired against my mental health.

This crippling anxiety then infiltrates its way into other aspects of my life. Remember when a smiley-face email from the Hungarian was enough to keep me content? Not so anymore. Now when I try to talk to him I feel like a little girl tugging on his sleeve.

I don't mean to be melodramatic but it seems as if (for the moment at least) my life isn't mine, as if I've lost control. Even though it's tempting to indulge in such broodiness, to bitterly retreat into myself, I know better than to get caught up in this whirlpool of emotion. I try to do little things, do my laundry or finish my book, to regain my footing.

More substantially, I will leave the Hungarian alone for a bit. The decision is my own, and that, in and of itself, is a confidence booster. Listening to (and watching) Jack Peñate helps, too...

The OC cont.

“I have to apologize. I got my hair cut last night and it’s way too short. I don’t want anyone looking at us saying, ‘Why is he with her?’” I knew I was in for a long night. He tried. He tried hard. He tried so hard that we left the office at 5:15, finished with dinner at 7:30, went for, what I thought was, a single drink at a bar in my neighborhood, and I didn’t get home until 12:30. For the last three hours of the evening he talked. He told me the long winded story of his best friend and how he got married and then divorced and now he’s married again and expecting his first kid. He told the endless story about how people who don't like movies made from books are actually just plain old wrong, and why, specifically, their perceptions are skewed. He talked about authors and books and college. He asked me how I felt about kids and marriage.

It scared me. I felt like this guy that I was just getting to know was picturing me, in all my post-work, slightly-melted-makeup glory, with a veil on, cradling a baby in my arms. I found myself constantly reminding him of my age and my reckless, youthful ways. “I think I’d like to try living on the west coast for awhile,” I said more than once.

He walked me home and I gave him a hug goodbye; the kind of hug that typically signals to the other person that you’d rather kiss the curb than their face.

Now I long for the days when I used to see the OC in the hallway at work and experience some awkward sexual tension, as opposed to now when I walk by him and he winks. One date. And I think I’m in way over my head.

The best medicine

I couldn't breathe. I doubled over. My entire body shaking, convulsing. My belly seized up and I gasped as my eyes teared up. My hands seemed to have their own life, moving every which way as I struggled to get the words out.

This was after a day of realizing that I had three days worth of studying to do and only one day in which to do it. A day of realizing that my job prospects weren't so much prospects as they were mirages in the desert. A day of looking at my to-do list and seeing fifteen things that must absolutely get done in the next twenty-four hours. A day of freezing temperatures and an interview that required a skirt and heels. A day of eyes bleary from staring at my computer screen too long.

I stamped my foot. I snorted. I thumped my thigh with my hand. I saw stars. I saw darkness.

I hadn't laughed so hard in ages. Laughing till the sides of your mouth can't open wide enough. Laughing till your belly feels like it'll pop with every peal. Laughing till you can't breathe anymore. Laughing till your eyes water and scrunch up tight. Laughing till your hands go weak.

I tried to explain to D that he'd somehow made the world all glowy and warm, that even the white clouds seemed to have silver linings, that my heart must've tipped and let the weights slide off itself.

I couldn't though. I was too busy letting out peal after peal of laughter.

I think I sounded like a horse.