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.

Postcards

"So where's my surprise?"
"I'm not sure, babe."
"What? Not sure about what?"
"The surprise is not in my hands anymore."
"I'm so confused."

One month into our relationship, I went on a 10-day work trip. Just before I left, I sent him a postcard acquired in Hungary (of all places) - a black and white photo of "je t'aime" scrawled on a wall. It read: "I miss you already!"

After a recent trip to the Phillips Collection, I spied a postcard of the Chagall above. I immediately called him to tell him he'd get a surprise. When? he asked. When you deserve one, I replied.

Four months into our relationship comes another long work trip. I met him for a quick coffee at our cafe before my morning flight. On the walk there I dropped his Chagall postcard in a mailbox. It read: "I think you're wonderful - don't change."*

*Lest you think I'm ever so poignant to come up with such a phrase, think again. Thanks, Josh Rouse.

High Hopes for Another Fine Day

In my head, I would never see him again. I liked how it ended: with a hug and a look that meant, “This is it?” It was storybook. We were in Ireland, in front of the massive gates at Trinity College, and I remember the long walk across the campus, back to my room, thinking that I could go home happy now. I used the last few precious minutes on my Irish Nokia cell phone to call him, hours before my plane took off, and joke and laugh and put an extra sheen on the experience that was meeting him.

It was so lovely. Wrapped up in a package, neatly sealed, tucked in a corner of a country that I would visit again but never really experience in the same way. He was a part of that. The perfect day, inside the perfect 6 weeks.

Today I got a Facebook message.

Subject: Yo!

Hey Lauren,
I dont know how far along your "leave New York, go to culinary school" plan you are but if you're still in NY, I'm heading over to stay with some friends of mine on sunday. I'll be there for 2 weeks (4th-18th), if you’re around we should get together at some stage.
Hope you're well,
graham.

It’s been four years. And now that I know he’ll be here soon, I feel like I can’t wait another day.

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.

I am not too much

The LDC doesn’t want me to move to Seattle. He said it. It doesn’t matter how he said it, or his reasons, or how I reacted to it. It is a basic fact that I should’ve seen coming from 3,000 miles away. This is a fantasy. It always was. When the reality of me actually being in his city stared him in the face, he ran scared. Fantasy is easier than reality. Texts are easier than visits. We will never cuddle on his couch in Seattle and make fun of reality television, or go to dinner at the dozens of restaurants in the Pacific Northwest that I’ve told him about. I won’t meet his mom and he won’t meet my dad. I’ll never have to lie to him about eating fast food or smoking a cigarette because he’ll never be able to smell it on me. And at the most basic level, he won’t care.

I’m disappointed. I’m frustrated that this thing I’ve been laboring over for a long time was all for naught. But in a sick, sad, twisted way, I’m relieved. This is what I’ve been expecting. This is the thing I’ve been trying to pull out of him for a year now. “Tell me that this is important to you,” I begged, but I might as well have asked him to tell me exactly how it wasn’t important to him. I was digging for affirmations because I expected that he wouldn’t deliver. It’s like being led blindfolded through a garbage dump but being told you’re in a rose garden. The blindfold comes off, and ah ha! I didn’t want to be right, but deep down I always felt I was.

Seattle will be strange without him. I’ll walk by his office building, and his parents’ store, and the restaurant he took me to on our first and only real date, and I’ll think of him. We’ll probably see each other every once in awhile. I’d feel sadder about this if I wasn’t so hopeful about the other great things going on in my life. Someday I’ll peer out of a TV screen at him from behind the counter of my cooking show, and maybe he’ll feel a little pang of regret that I turned out so great and he missed the boat. Even now I feel that way, that he’s the one missing out, and I guess I should be grateful for that. I’m still reminded of JRenee’s quote, and the more misguided relationships I have the more I actually believe it.

“Be you. You are enough and you are not too much.”

I'm in transit but I'm stranded on this boat. And I pledge my self allegiance to a better night's sleep at home.

Happy Monday to me:

M: ok well i had a talk with S last night and im not sure if this is my place to say, or what was S just passive aggressively doing her shit
but if it was me i would prob want to know
she said he's still kind of seeing J
M: like they are together every day

And my answer. And the end.

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.

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.

Why Not Me

This weekend I went to spend some time with my best friend. She was my very first best friend, the one who packed a bag full of books and stuffed animals and “ran away” with me when I got mad at my mom, the one whose house I ate dinner at almost as much as my own. She is the one who knew me from diapers to braces to crutches to heartbreak. There were times when we drifted, but then we grew up and drifted back together again. We only live three hours apart now but we don’t talk as much as we should. I drove up to Albany on Friday, mostly to visit her and catch up, but also to get to know her boyfriend, the one she tells me she’ll marry someday soon.

My last morning in Albany, over far too much breakfast meat, I regaled her with stories of the men in my life. It almost seemed trite. She’s been dating her boyfriend for almost two years, living with him for six months. And here I was, whining about a first date gone wrong or a crush I had on someone in another state.

But then I remembered why she is my best friend, why I tell her any of this in the first place, and why I will continue to seek her advice long after our own kids are packing their stuffed animals and heading for the next block.

“It’s weird,” I said. “Even though you know the relationship wasn’t right, you know you weren’t meant to be together, you still watch him with someone new and you think, ‘Why not me?’”
“But then you meet the right person,” she said calmly. “And you’ll be completely over everything that happened to you in the past, and you’ll be happy again, and then that Ex will look at you and think, ‘Why not me?’”

I drink much more than I ought to drink because it brings me back to you

My communication with the LDC comes and goes in waves, and I’m finally learning to be okay with it. I didn’t hear from him at all on Friday and again, he was silent on Saturday. Around 2:30 Sunday morning I was jarred awake by my ringing phone.

“Hi,” I croaked.
“Were you sleeping? Why don’t you leave your phone on silent when you sleep?”
I’ve explained so many times that I actually don’t mind when he wakes me up but he hasn’t grasped the concept yet. I think he just feels bad waking me up. But when the person you most want to talk to is three hours behind, you learn to be okay with the being-woken-up thing. Sometimes those are the best conversations of all.

Around 4:15 there was a lull in conversation and he yawned. “It’s probably pretty late, right?” I asked, no clock in the vicinity to check. “I should probably sleep.”
“But we’re almost at the two hour mark, you can’t leave now.”
“Two hours?! We’ve been talking for two hours?!” My mind jumped back, tried to remember what exactly we had even been talking about. It began with movies, metamorphosed into relationships and marriage, swung around to careers, and then looped back to movies. We had disagreed on the quality of the Sherlock Holmes movie, agreed that relationships are only successful when both parties have their own lives, and disagreed again on the benefits of working for The Man.

Somewhere in there he told me he was so impressed by my food blog. “I think you have so much potential,” he said.

Around 5 in the morning I finally went to sleep with my contented smile pressed into the pillow. That phone call was worth more than all the Gchat conversations in the world.

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.

But for now...

It's been two weeks since I boarded a flight from Budapest back to Paris. In these two weeks, I have talked to the Hungarian all of two times (maybe three).

To be fair, I haven't attempted much more than that. When I see him online, I know full well that he is sitting at his dining table desk, brow furrowed, guzzling green tea, typing up a Roma integration policy paper or working on the blog for his political campaign. Mr. Candidate, I call him.

Do I wish that he think of me as much as I think of him? Of course. That he drop what he's doing and give me his full attention? Obviously. Yet, admittedly, part of what makes him so attractive is his intelligence, his determination, his need to constantly challenge himself.

He was still up at 2:00 am his time last night. I know he likes to get to bed around midnight, and so I sent him a "you shall overcome!" message. The phrase is a little inside joke of ours - one that I said during some crisis that stuck.

This morning I woke up to a smiley face from him. For now, that's all I need.

The Nicest Thing, Hungarian Version*

*Even though you could basically substitute the Hungarian for the LDC in Lauren E's last post and get the gist of my three days in Budapest...

He looked at me, smiled, shook his head, and kissed me. "You just bumped into my life again." Within minutes of entering his apartment, I was hanging his damp laundry on a drying rack. I separated his striped sweaters and socks and laughed to myself: So this is how it could be.

I laid on the couch and read my book, while he sat at his dining table work desk answering incessant emails and phone calls: So this is how it could be.

He gave me some radishes and peppers to wash while he sliced fresh bread. We ate our dinner of toast and brie from high stools at the kitchen counter, drank red wine with his friend that dropped by, and then watched a movie in bed: So this is how it could be.

As we parted for the day, he worried that I would not find my way back to the apartment, making me repeat the name of the square where all the buses and trams met. Later on, confusing me for a local, an elderly woman asked me for directions: So this is how it could be.

We split an apple tart and a chocolate cake. With a squinty smile, he ordered another slice of chocolate cake from the waitress: So this is how it could be.

He fell asleep in my lap: So this is how it could be.

His grandmother made us a traditional Hungarian lunch. Even though she didn't eat, the two of us drank coffee in her living room. He stole my cup twice for a sip: So this is how it could be.

I bought pastries from one of the fancier bakeries in the city. We made a mess of ourselves gobbling them up on the metro: So this is how it could be.

We ran our fastest, holding hands, to catch the last bus of the night: So this is how it could be.

At the train station, we kissed each other goodbye. I sat in my seat and looked out at him looking at me. As the train pulled away, he kissed his hand and I kissed mine: So this is how it's going to be.

The Nicest Thing

It was easy. The entire weekend felt so seamless and simple. I was a ball of nerves when I arrived in Seattle on Thursday night, as if frayed wires were trying to send out signals inside my limbs. When the LDC walked into the bar where M. and I were drinking I wanted to leap across the room at him. He’s more attractive every time I see him.

The next three days were a barrage of knee squeezing, hand holding, and cuddling. We didn’t spend every minute together but at times it felt like this is what it would be like to live here and be with him. He’d pick me up and take me out, his friends would hug me hello, we’d automatically be each other’s beer pong partners. I found myself falling in love with the little things I wanted from him. I was so tired of maintaining feelings based on texts and phone calls. This real life was so much happier.

Sunday night came faster than I could’ve ever imagined, and we said goodbye outside M.’s house in the dark. I didn’t get to say any of the things I wanted to say, all the things I had prepared. I want to know what you think of us, what you think of this thing we’re doing here. Does it worry you? Does it stress you out? What do we do about it? Instead I let his fingers find my belt loops and focused on the feeling of skin on skin.

“I hope you had a good weekend,” he said. I assured him that I did.
“It’s nice spending time with you like a real person,” I answered.
“Yeah, we should do it again sometime.” What if I moved here? Or even to San Francisco? Would we be together then? He kissed me. Twice. And then he got in his car and drove away.

I kept feeling the tears threaten, the pressure on my face, all the way to the airport and the entire flight home. I held it together through my shower and makeup. And then Kate Nash came on Pandora and her sweet little voice spoke the words in my head.

I wish that without me your heart would break
I wish that without me you’d be spending the rest of your nights awake
I wish that without me you couldn't eat
I wish I was the last thing on your mind before you went to sleep

Look, all I know is that you’re the nicest thing I’ve ever seen
And I wish that we could see if we could be something

Take Off

My heart hurt for twenty-four hours straight. One of my biggest fears in the whole LDC situation was that I thought it was more than he did. And with his “I don’t want to make all these expectations” comment, I was immediately convinced that my worst fear had come true. I was laboring over this and he didn’t want to deal with clearing three days in his schedule.

Tuesday afternoon he sent me an IM. I tried my best to convey over Gchat that I was angry. It didn’t take too many one-word responses for him to get the hint. “You ok? You seem kind of tense.” I answered that I was but I didn’t really know what to say about it. He pressed me until I finally gave in.

And what followed was honesty. Pure, unabashed honesty. I told him about how the weekend was turning into a mess and I couldn’t believe that he told me he couldn’t take three days out of 365 to just be in town and hang out while I was there. “You act like I dropped a bomb on you today that I was coming in for the weekend and needed you to clear everything you had planned.”

He told me wasn’t going skiing after all and after explaining how he was afraid that it would be like Three’s Company all weekend long and that M. would feel like the third wheel, I assured him I would balance my time and everyone would be happy.

He apologized. Later that night he called and left a voicemail, one of two he has ever left me. He said he was thinking about me. He sent a text later on that simply said, “I can’t wait to see you.”

I fly out tomorrow and I have no idea what'll be in store when I land. All I know is that I feel better about taking off.

I was a fool, I was a fool to think...

LDC: welllll alright
sooo
i might be going skiing this sunday
that gona be a problem?
me: no, it's fine
LDC: haha ok
u talked to M at all?
me: nope
LDC: sweet
LDC: well ur gona be here soon
its sunny right now
me: nice
LDC: yuppp

10 minutes later...
me: i lied
LDC: about?
me: i don't want you to leave for a whole day when i'm only in town for 3
but i can't tell you not to go skiing
and i can't even guarantee how much i'll even be able to see you that day because no one will make any freaking plans
LDC: well when do u leave sunday?
me: at 9
LDC: ur worrying too much about this i think
me: i'm not worrying, you just caught me off guard
LDC: well dont worry bout it
obviously i wana hangout with u alot
but i cant just clear my schedule for 3 full days
me: i get it
LDC: i dont wana make all these expectations
its stressful
ur gona come up to visit
were gona hook up
have a great time
i wouldnt worry about nething
and i dont wana piss off M by stealing u all weekend

I fly out to Seattle in three days. And what am I supposed to do now?

Expectation Management

I'm learning (see here) but it's still a struggle. Tomorrow, I
will be off to Paris to see the lovely MP. In less than a week, Monday morning to be specific, I will land at Budapest Ferihegy Airport.

Will he pick me up? Will I take a bus into the city and meet him at his apartment? Will I, duffel bag on my shoulder, spend the day sightseeing until he gets a break from work? Not the faintest idea.

I will talk to him about these things... likely as the day approaches. See, my reluctance stems from not knowing how he perceives me. Crazy romantic? Tourist-friend crashing on his couch? Or, the worst of the worst, desperate fool?

In the two and a half months since we said goodbye, we've stayed in touch. He knows when I submit a grad school application, and I know when he has a marathon political party meeting. Odes to love? Definitely not. But, I do count the smiley face emoticons and occasional term of endearment (my favorite came after I informed him of my birthday last week: "see you soon, princess") as signs he is equally happy to see me.

Now I just have to keep those expectations low...

Following A Dream

I had a dream last Tuesday. I was in Seattle, staying with S.'s parents. My weekend had gotten so busy that I realized suddenly that it was Sunday and I hadn't seen the LDC yet. I called and heard laughter in the background but he hung up on me. I texted instead: My plane leaves in a couple hours -- I'm not going to see you?

And then I woke up. It wasn't the worst dream I'd ever had but it definitely stuck with me. It was bad enough to remember.

Thursday afternoon at work the LDC sent me an IM.

He: So I had the weirdest dream about you last night.

Me: Oh yeah? A good one?

He: It was strange, you were in town for the weekend but both our schedules were so busy that before I knew it, it was Sunday and I never got to see you.

If he and I are really not meant to be, then fate needs to stop messing with my head. And stay out of my dreams.