"It's a romantic weather report."

The ordinary can be extraordinary.

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.

I am yours now...?

I didn't cry that morning in the Hungarian's apartment nor in the train on the way to the airport, his image getting smaller and smaller on the platform. I didn't cry whilst sitting alone at the gate nor when the plane took off for Paris. But when this song came on my iPod, I couldn't hold it in any longer.

A part of me knew what we had was special; another part of me knew it was over.



And somehow this video sums it all up.

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.

How's It Gonna Be?

He walked into the bar wearing a black coat with a giant fur collar. His jeans were ripped and on his feet were expertly worn-in oxfords. This isn’t how it should be.

He ordered a gin and tonic, explained that he’s been a vegetarian for fifteen years, and hesitated before downing a shot bought for us by an old man across the bar. This isn’t how it should be.

He touched my knee after every joke, every light-hearted statement, every smile. He went to the bathroom and when he came back he hugged me from behind and kissed my temple. This was only date one. I pulled away rigidly. This isn’t how it should be.

He led us to another bar and sat next to me instead of across. “I’m sorry, I’m listening to you talk but all I can think about is kissing you. This is bad.” “Why is it bad?” I retorted. It was just a line. He leaned forward to kiss me and all I could think about was the feeling of his stiff hair on my forehead. This isn’t how it should be.

He walked me to the train station and the whole time his arm was draped over my shoulders. At every stop light he hugged me. All I could do was look down at those white oxfords and notice that he walked pigeon-toed. This isn’t how it should be.

Forget that he is Australian with a beautiful accent, has a lucrative and promising career designing computer software, plays the piano and sings, speaks eloquently and with conviction whether he’s discussing politics, pop music, or pizza. Forget that he was polite and listened to every single word that came out of my mouth, and that he laughed at my sarcastic jokes and told me how beautiful my eyes are. Forget all of that, because I have.

All I can focus on is how that’s not how it’s going to be.

The OC Series Finale

I’m great at the passive aggressive ending. Texts seem like such a passive way to reach out to a potential mate anyway, that I have no problem ignoring them until the suitor gives up. I’ve heard “If you’re interested, you can call me” more times than I can tell you. But I had never dated anyone from work before and I quickly realized it would not be so easy.

OC: I couldn't tell you this at work but I thought you looked fabulous today. Very cute. I hope you can make it to the office Happy Hour on Friday. If you can, would you like to get a drink with me after? I’d love to hear about the Swell Season concert.
L: Thanks for the invite, but I have plans on Friday.

I know it was cold. If I’d received something like that myself I would’ve been so offended. I might as well have typed “Thanks, busy.”

OC: Ah… ok. It seems like you’re always busy, so if you’d like to hang out again let me know. Hope you’re enjoying the concert.

I spoke to a friend about it the next day and she firmly but gently told me I couldn’t just keep blowing him off. “What if some guy did this to you?” she asked. But the truth was, this had happened to me before. I had been the one blown off, or promised a phone call and never received one, or been told a guy was “really busy” but he’d “get in touch soon.” It feels terrible but it is so much easier than dropping the bomb.

I have a friend who’s great at it. “Listen, Phil, I think you’re a very nice guy and I’ve enjoyed spending time with you, but I just think it’s better if we don’t see each other again.” She said it to his face. I decided since it had to be done with the OC, e-mail was my weapon of choice.

“Hi M.,

Just wanted to drop you a line because I felt bad about my vague text message yesterday. I think you’re such a nice guy and I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, but I just don’t think this is going to work out. I hope we can still be friendly at the office.

All the best,
Lauren”

It should’ve made me feel better. A clean break. Done and done.

But he never responded. Why should he? And today when I saw him in the hallway, he stared down at his hands and bolted in the other direction. I guess I did the right thing by being honest but it sure doesn't feel that way when we pass in the hall.

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...

Before Sunrise, Before Sunset

I carry you / You'll carry me / That's how it could be / Don't you know me? / Don't you know me by now?

By no means am I film critic. However, that does not mean that I do not have discerning taste, because I do. I much prefer a low budget, critic's darling to an over the top Hollywood spectacle (though certain superhero movies are an exception). Eyes roll whenever I casually mention an obscure foreign gem or say I haven't seen a universally deemed "classic." But, all of the above notwithstanding, I love a good movie. And I absolutely love Before Sunrise and Before Sunset.*

In Before Sunrise (1995), Jesse meets Celine on a train from Budapest. He spontaneously asks her to get off the train in Vienna (she was supposed to continue to Paris) and spend the afternoon/evening/night with him, since he will be on a flight back to the States in the morning. To their surprise, she agrees. Unsurprisingly, it's totally awkward at first - neither knows what to say to the other - but during the course of the night, they say it all. They have those intelligent but entirely nonsensical conversations about life and death, love and heartbreak that you have with your closest friends. They shop for records, watch street performers, play pinball, drink beers, and kiss. It's both realistic and idealized, in the sense that, should you meet someone in such a way, you'd hope for the same. (At least I would.) What makes the film so charming, though, is that it manages to capture the innocence and spirit of their nascent love without schmaltz.

They meet again in Paris in Before Sunset (2004). I won't reveal under what circumstances, but let's just say much has changed in nine years. He has to leave, again, for a flight to the States, so they decide to walk around the city for an hour or so (the film takes place in real time). At the beginning, they exchange pleasantries, but as the day wears on, they delve into the heavy stuff - fate and circumstances, successes and failures. Since you know these characters, it's neither too melodramatic nor too burdensome. For lack of a better word, like Before Sunrise, it seems real. That being said, the ending always makes me cry.

Out of happiness or sadness? Watch and find out.

*Be warned! What follows may include some spoilers. Now, I won't divulge everything, but maybe just enough to compel you to (re)watch the movies.

Make Me Stay

“I’m going to turn and walk away.
You can watch me go,
Or you can make me stay.”

Three weeks from today I’ll be on a plane heading West. I’ll have it in my head that the next time I’m on a plane I’ll be sad because it’ll be over. I’ll plan on the ending but I won’t believe it.

Every time I talk to the LDC we discuss my visit. “I have five restaurants I’m taking you to.” “I’m in town for four days!” “So? Trust me. You will want to eat at these places. I’ve already started saving for all the meals I’m taking you to.” My overzealous heart counts it out: four dinners, three lunches, three breakfasts. He wants to see me every day.

I’ll plan to end it. But I’ll be hoping for an Ani ending instead.

The End...?

Since his dad just happens to be the Hungarian Ambassador to the United States, we both left New York for DC that Friday morning. His flight back to Budapest was on Wednesday.

I wrote him an email welcoming him back to DC. No answer. I wrote another the following day, Halloween, to see if he wanted to hang out after the fancy dinner his parents had arranged for him. He wrote back, to my glee, saying that he had had that in mind. Would it matter that he didn't have a costume? I checked my phone all night. He didn't text, he didn't call. In an email Sunday night, he apologized for not getting in touch. His dinner had ended late, and feeling under the weather, he had passed out. Did I want to hang out Monday or Tuesday night?

The plan was to go to a hip little show on Monday night. Completely absorbed in each other, over a drink at the venue, the show sells out. No matter. We exited into the night, arm and arm, and made our way into a diner. At the counter, we split a chili cheeseburger. So comfortable, so easy. I didn't want to leave him, but it was getting late, so he walked me to the metro. Until lunch the next day.

We laughed, discussed our favorite European films, and shared soup and spring rolls. Our goodbye was near. Unseasonably warm, he wanted to sit out in the sun, so we strolled through Dupont Circle and sat on the steps of the fountain. We nestled into each other. I told him I would be sad. He said that he wouldn't always be there, and I wouldn't always be here. That I made him like the States, something he didn't think possible. That this past week was like a dream. But what if it's a dream you don't remember in the morning? Nah, it's like surrealism, you can always access your dream life. Our last goodbye kiss, and then the walk away. We looked back at each other twice. When I sat at my desk, the tears rolled down my face.

That was a month ago.

We've kept in touch, albeit not nearly as much as I had hoped (who knew starting the green party in Hungary during an election year was so demanding?). Nevertheless, during our last chat, I mentioned a potential visit to Paris to see MP this January. What if I tacked on a trip to Budapest?

"Bring some good luck charms in your bag."

Don't give away the end, the one thing that stays mine

I bought my ticket to Seattle. I leave January 28th and fly back on the 31st. It’s short and it had better be sweet. I’ve run over every possible scenario in my head, including one that involves the LDC chasing after me in the airport, begging me not to end it this way. The entire weekend will probably be much less dramatic than that but I can’t help but devise these ridiculous situations. Nothing about our relationship has been conventional so why should the end be?

The end. I’m already looking at this trip as the period on the much-too-long run-on sentence. I want to end it while I can still control the ending. If it doesn’t end here, with a romantic dinner and a sweet kiss goodbye at the airport, it will end in furious tears six months from now in a phone call across the miles of country that involves “I met someone” and “I really like you but…” And I can’t handle that. I don’t want to handle that. I don’t want to build myself up for the inevitable epic fall. It’s gone much too far already.

Joy and Pain

This totally made me cry at my desk just now.

Blast from the Past

"You look absolutely gorgeous in all of your shots from S's graduation. I can't wait to take you places come fall so that others will think I did something admirable to have you next to me."

Meet B.

We held hands through middle school hallways and fought when high school came around. I asked him to Sadie Hawkins my junior year. He invited me to his school play. B- the last boy I kissed before I packed up my bags for New York.

Flash forward four years, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, senior year of college. Our eyes locked across the bar, and the room disappeared. We separated from the crowd and grinned over a drink. What followed was a delirious bit of youthful indiscretion better known as a serious make-out session in the parking lot. I still laugh at the thought of it. And I kick myself.

I call him Flaky B to his face, because he is both impossibly charming and unbelievably frustrating. He distances himself when you take interest, making plans but never following through. He reasons it's one part selfishness, one part insecurity, one part unconcern, one part genuine forgetfulness. It's beyond inexcusable but... we have history, on top of the little fact that I actually like the kid, and so I forgive him each and every time, even when I put up a fight.

Two sentences from him (sent from continents away, I should add) make me giddy, and I love and hate him for it. It just might be masochism, knowingly setting myself up for disappointment, but after ten years, ruefully, I don't know any other way.

Something Real

“The weekend was hard for both of us. It put us in a place we weren’t ready to be in yet. You scared the crap out of me when you called me your girlfriend a couple weeks ago.”
“Yeah, well… this weekend made me realize I’m not ready for anything serious. I’m not ready to be in a relationship.”

All I could think about in that moment was how lovely he looked. I wanted to hate him and see all the wicked things I’d been stewing over all week long, waiting for him to talk to me. But I couldn’t see them. He looked like he’d just taken a shower; his skin was glowing and the patch of curls at his temple that he kept tugging at was shiny. I wanted to see his ugliness. All I could see was this person who had turned into someone I cared about.

“I should’ve known. It’s my fault, really. I should’ve known.” I spit it out with as much bitterness as I could muster. I stood up and told him to leave. He didn’t move. I went on about how he was the instigator. He had pushed me into a relationship, he had called me his girlfriend, he had forced me into going away for the weekend and meeting his mom and now he was bailing as soon as I was invested. I was trembling. “Get out of my apartment.” Stillness.

After a second, he rubbed at his eyes. “I’m sorry. I thought it was what I wanted… but I haven’t known what I’ve wanted for a really long time and I’m trying to figure it out. I want to say, ‘You’re right, I’m wrong. Let’s go back to the way things were before the weekend.’ But I’d just be doing it to make you happy. And that’s not fair to you. You’re… incredible. I’m sorry.”

I felt ridiculous. Before he came over I’d brushed my teeth, put on blush, sprayed myself with perfume. I was like a little girl dressed up for the carnival that had already left town. He couldn’t even look at me. Tugged his hair, rubbed his eyes. Rubbed his eyes, tugged his hair.

Tears formed in my eyes, threatening to spill past the lids and embarrass me further, so I ordered him to get out of my apartment, out of my life. I held the door open for him in the hallway and he paused as he walked past. His head was lowered and for a second he reached his hand out to brush my fingers. I jerked back, pressing myself against the wall and asked him once more to just go.

In my haste, I caught his heel as I slammed the door shut. I hope he felt it.

A hug. A kiss.

I no longer remember being able to give him a big bear hug, though I know I once did. However, as I throw back my memory as far as it will go, at least I remember being able to give him a proper hug. Maybe not the jump on you and get lifted up into the air kind, but at least a solid, proper hug - one where your hearts meet for an instant, where for a moment the world is no longer a scary place, where you know there is something, someone, solid, to anchor you.

I was in the habit of randomly giving him a hug or a kiss on my month-long summer vacation visits. An outpouring of affection that was meant to make up for the rest of the year when I would be across an ocean and out of hugging distance. I still remember the soft skin of his cheeks, the stubble that was all white. He stopped going out too much because it was exhausting, and so he would walk around the flat. Thankfully it was large so going from one end to the other about ten times, especially when you're walking pretty slowly, took up some time and was enough exercise. I would walk with him sometimes. Other times I would be reading a book in a chair in the sunlight and every time he would pass he would lay a hand on my head or exchange a comment about my book.

One day I was just getting up to get another book from the cupboard that houses books that have belonged, at one time or another, to some member of the past three generations of my family. Our paths crossed, and I reached out to give him a hug. A sick sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I felt him falter. A fear in his heart, a fear in mine. I retained my balance and he regained his. And I went and got another book, and he continued his back and forth.

Since that day my hugs became gentler. I warned him that I was putting my arm around him by saying a random 'Hi' a moment before I slipped my arm through his. I cuddled up to him when he was sitting on the sofa. When we hugged, he was not the one pulling me in, I was the one supporting him.

And then came the day that I saw him wince as I gingerly leaned over the side of his hospital bed to brush my lips against his cheek. Even the slightest movement of raising his head to receive my kiss required more effort than his emaciated body could summon. Since that day I held his hand, wishing, wanting, to somehow make my own life flow into him. My hands were warm, his were habitually cool and dry. The pulsing heat that quickened my blood didn't make it past my hands into his, past my heart into his.

I remember the last time I kissed him. Cool, dry, like soft thin silky paper, his skin stretched across his face, his cheeks, his forehead. I can feel, distinctly, his hands in mine. The memory of the countless times I have held them does not fade from my palms. I feel his earlobe still in my fingers. As a child I had a habit of holding on to it whenever I would sit in his lap. I don't feel his skin against my lips as I recall that last kiss. He had already left by then. There was nothing to feel.

"Whatchu thinkin' about?"
I looked at D, startled. He had been telling me about how he is going to visit his grandparents in a month or so, and I had fallen silent, leaning my head against the car window.
"So how long will you be there? That should be fun!"
I didn't want to start bawling in the car.

Why Can't We Be Friends?

Everyone has their own opinion on whether or not guys and girls can be friends. My opinion on that has never wavered: they can not. One is always in love with the other. The length of the friendship is determined by how well the lover can keep his love for the lovee under wraps. And if it isn’t love, by God, it’s lust.

J. was in love with me from the minute we met. He told me I was “different” and that he knew we could be really “special” together. He’s an actor. And I know actors. He fell out of love the very minute I fell in it. He wasn’t smooth about ending it and while I harbored a grudge for about six months, when we saw each other again I remembered why I had been drawn to him in the first place. We made peace and I felt content.

Cut to last week.
J.: Plans tonight?
L.: Having dinner at 8:30.
J.: Pool after?

This was my chance to test the theory. I had never actually experienced this before: dating a guy, hating him, getting over it, and being friends. But I did go to pool and I had a great time. Granted, his roommate came, too, but I had fun. Only one lingering “Remember when?” glance across the pool table (why do ex’es do that?!) and a hug goodbye. I got a text later.

J.: Really good to see you.
L: Good to see you, too. I like this friend thing.
J.: Me, too.

Liar.

Monday night.
J.: Plans tonight?
L.: Watching a documentary on Everest.
J.: Bring it over and watch it on the HD big screen. I’ll make dinner.

Friends! So glorious. And it was… until half way through the movie. A hand on my thigh. When I didn’t react to it, after a minute he took it back. He leaned close enough so we were semi-cuddling and I should’ve known then what was coming. The kiss.

I had to leave after I gave my “we can be friends or we can be nothing” speech, and I did so with a heavy heart. I didn’t want my theory to be proven correct. And another “friendship” bites the dust.

Not so secret

I read a blog post today on one of the random silly websites that I would never really own up to reading but that sometimes make me think about interesting things. This blogger asked: can you sum up love in six words? A modified haiku, shorter perhaps because of the breadth and depth of the topic at hand – love. Readers had posted some responses – some were hilarious, some were sad, all were wonderful.

This also reminded me of a book I recently received as a gift – A lifetime of Secrets. Frank Warren, the author, started up a website where you can send in your secrets and he will post them up for you. Because of the power of anonymity, everyone who sends in their secrets is starkly, painfully, horridly, beautifully truthful. A woman who knows her lover is having an affair, a man thanking a teacher who saved him from molestation, people’s fantasies, their desires, their dreams, their fears, their truths. Catharsis.

So I thought to combine the two and write down some secrets or just some thoughts in six words each. Of course I am not, after all, anonymously posting on someone else’s blog or writing an anonymous postcard. Perhaps not completely catharsis. But still, something.

• When I’m with you I’m happy.
• I see through you. Won’t tell.
• You’re not funny but I laugh.
• Will you be at my wedding?
• She used to smile. He died.
• I’ll always be in your life.
• I am not exotic. Just me.
• You were beautiful; now only thin.
• Thin paper stretched over dead wood.
• The only one with sparkling eyes.
• I really truly laugh with you.
• Since when do you smoke? Why?
• He liked the idea of me.
• I wish you had lived longer.

Forgiving and Forgetting…sometimes it just takes you by surprise

I am one who neither forgives nor forgets easily. I mull, I stew, I create fantastically elaborate scenarios in my head. What if this happened, what if that happened? What if I said this at the beginning, didn’t say anything at all? Perhaps I could prevent things that eventually become that annoying buzzing around and in and throughout my head, unwanted and even dreaded for the flare-ups of frustration and anger that they produce in me at the most random of moments.

This inability taints what it touches and especially has a significant effect on how I view people in my life. When someone acts in a way that tarnishes my opinion of them, it is difficult for me to see past the cloudy build up of my bewilderment and disgust and even judgment and realize that sometimes one incident does not sum up the worth of the whole person. Even while struggling through this, trying to force myself out of this hateful trap, I feel a twinge of disbelief, mistrust, or wariness when I am with those who had acted in such an unforgettable, unforgivable manner.

However, recently, I was utterly knocked over the head with the fact that somehow, at some unknown instant in time, I have completely gotten over certain misdeeds of the past. I have forgiven the perpetrators and have forgotten the old feelings that reflecting upon their actions used to arise in me. More than a nothingness, I feel almost an amusement now when I think about them. A curiosity. A desire to know what in the hell where they thinking or weren’t thinking. The judgment call. The cost-benefit analysis. A stratagem? What what what? I now see the hilarity where there was none before. How human it is. A delightful mystery. And this makes me happy. It makes me happy to have the ability to once again look upon these people without a shade over my eyes. To place value upon our relationships based on a larger spectrum of interactions. To not distress and have once again have a carefree-ness in our words and actions toward each other. A joke, a laugh of mirth, and it is over.

Who would have thought that forgiving and forgetting would be so easy.