I lied, he says, and it's plain and it's simple.
Only nothing will ever be plain again.
And the truth floats between you like a teasing, helium balloon that neither of you reaches up quick enough to grasp.
It's a betrayal you can taste, it's a ravage of all you hold dear.
It's an anger you don't quite feel.
It's what was there all along, but what you, in all your childish delight, squeezed your eyes shut in front of, in defiance, in fear.
In love?
Monday, March 19, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Building her case
And it makes a case then, for being alone. It makes a case.
She makes a case, the girl does, as she screams into her cellphone on the corner of De Maisonneuve and Guy, spitting and swearing, cursing and crying. The male passersby chuckle, thinking 'glad it's not me,' and the women glance upwards shyly, because we all know we've been there.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she packs her things into boxes, forced to start over, to make a new beginning, again, only this time, it doesn't feel new. It feels tired and forced, messy and in shambles.
She makes a case, then, the girl, who rummages for phone numbers and sifts through errant pieces of paper, who checks e-mails and msn's and all the other voyeuristic technological mediums of our generation. She makes a case, because she's right. Of course, she is right.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she redecorates her house, as she cuts her hair. As she treats herself to measured slices of chocolate truffle cake and walks in the Arboretum. She makes a case, as she gets a library membership, a gym membership, an art club membership, as she sections off her time into manageable compartments, filling up the days, the hours, the weeks and the life not lead.
You make a case then, for yourself, you do, as the hurt rolls in, as it rolls over you, and you think, 'welcome in, old friend, welcome in again.'
But the question remains of when it will end, and as the fog slowly becomes replaced by a daunting clarity, that it will only end when you make a choice, when your case, is won.
She makes a case, the girl does, as she screams into her cellphone on the corner of De Maisonneuve and Guy, spitting and swearing, cursing and crying. The male passersby chuckle, thinking 'glad it's not me,' and the women glance upwards shyly, because we all know we've been there.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she packs her things into boxes, forced to start over, to make a new beginning, again, only this time, it doesn't feel new. It feels tired and forced, messy and in shambles.
She makes a case, then, the girl, who rummages for phone numbers and sifts through errant pieces of paper, who checks e-mails and msn's and all the other voyeuristic technological mediums of our generation. She makes a case, because she's right. Of course, she is right.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she redecorates her house, as she cuts her hair. As she treats herself to measured slices of chocolate truffle cake and walks in the Arboretum. She makes a case, as she gets a library membership, a gym membership, an art club membership, as she sections off her time into manageable compartments, filling up the days, the hours, the weeks and the life not lead.
You make a case then, for yourself, you do, as the hurt rolls in, as it rolls over you, and you think, 'welcome in, old friend, welcome in again.'
But the question remains of when it will end, and as the fog slowly becomes replaced by a daunting clarity, that it will only end when you make a choice, when your case, is won.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
A Million Little Failures
She stands, she hovers, arm extended, invisible particles of sea salt falling to the carpeted floor. Eyes bright, hopeful, she shakes her hand.
A silent offering.
I glance up from my computer screen, finish typing the sentence I have in my head before I lose it.
‘Would you like one?’ she questions tentatively, waving the Miss Vickie’s chip bag in front of me.
I wrinkle my nose.
‘No thanks,’ I reply.
The arm falls, the bag crinkles in her hand as she bunches up the top of it. She smiles a sad smile, turns and leaves my office.
I watch her go and I immediately I begin to feel badly.
My co-worker is on a diet. Of sorts. We cheer her on as she measures out her teaspoon of salad dressing at lunch and look the other way as the cookie cupboard is mysteriously raided in the afternoon.
I realized that her offering me part of her already guilt-ridden snack was in actual fact, a request for an accomplice to a little failure. A plea to share the pinprick of shame; to make it somehow seem not so bad.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. We fail ourselves, our friends, our families, our co-workers; strangers.
The other day, in the locker room of my gym, a middle-aged woman, relatively new to the club, stands on an electronic scale for an agonizing, five full minutes. She leans slowly to her left side; re-balances to the right. She steps off, removes the elastic band from her graying hair, shakes it out and steps back on again. Frowns. Leans forward. With a final sigh, she steps down.
No one says a word. No one, myself included, says what should have been said to that woman. That it’s OK. That she is beautiful anyway. That she looks healthy. That her skin is rosy, that her smile is bright. That she is a woman and she is radiant.
And most importantly, that the scale on the other side of the room weighs you in at five pounds less.
You phone a girlfriend at two in the afternoon on a Saturday.
‘Hey hon, how’s it going? What are you doing?’
‘Drinking a glass of wine and watching my roommate make my bed.’
‘You ok?’
(Laughs) ‘Why, because it’s two in the afternoon and I’m drinking or because I wasn’t able to make my own bed and my roommate is doing it for me?’
‘Well, you know. Either.’
You’re in a food court, trying to manipulate a piece of sushi in and successfully out of an impossibly small plastic cup of Soya sauce. A woman, standing in line for a piece of pizza, is holding a roughly eight-month old baby girl who is screaming with fierce determination. The child’s face is red and angry; she is pushing with all her force against her tired, frazzled mother. The woman tries to shush her. Rocks her. Tries to give her a bottle. A Pacifier. The child screams and then screams louder. Finally, in a moment of pure frustration, the mother looks into her child’s face and screams back.
A man you care about, a man you care about a lot, tells you he’s sorry, that he’s really sorry, that he can’t. That he’s failed you; that he’s failed her. Tells you he’d like it if you understood, but that it isn’t really necessary at this point in time.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. But I find, that as I bumble along, that it’s the failures in people that make them human. It’s the failures in people that I like.
A silent offering.
I glance up from my computer screen, finish typing the sentence I have in my head before I lose it.
‘Would you like one?’ she questions tentatively, waving the Miss Vickie’s chip bag in front of me.
I wrinkle my nose.
‘No thanks,’ I reply.
The arm falls, the bag crinkles in her hand as she bunches up the top of it. She smiles a sad smile, turns and leaves my office.
I watch her go and I immediately I begin to feel badly.
My co-worker is on a diet. Of sorts. We cheer her on as she measures out her teaspoon of salad dressing at lunch and look the other way as the cookie cupboard is mysteriously raided in the afternoon.
I realized that her offering me part of her already guilt-ridden snack was in actual fact, a request for an accomplice to a little failure. A plea to share the pinprick of shame; to make it somehow seem not so bad.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. We fail ourselves, our friends, our families, our co-workers; strangers.
The other day, in the locker room of my gym, a middle-aged woman, relatively new to the club, stands on an electronic scale for an agonizing, five full minutes. She leans slowly to her left side; re-balances to the right. She steps off, removes the elastic band from her graying hair, shakes it out and steps back on again. Frowns. Leans forward. With a final sigh, she steps down.
No one says a word. No one, myself included, says what should have been said to that woman. That it’s OK. That she is beautiful anyway. That she looks healthy. That her skin is rosy, that her smile is bright. That she is a woman and she is radiant.
And most importantly, that the scale on the other side of the room weighs you in at five pounds less.
You phone a girlfriend at two in the afternoon on a Saturday.
‘Hey hon, how’s it going? What are you doing?’
‘Drinking a glass of wine and watching my roommate make my bed.’
‘You ok?’
(Laughs) ‘Why, because it’s two in the afternoon and I’m drinking or because I wasn’t able to make my own bed and my roommate is doing it for me?’
‘Well, you know. Either.’
You’re in a food court, trying to manipulate a piece of sushi in and successfully out of an impossibly small plastic cup of Soya sauce. A woman, standing in line for a piece of pizza, is holding a roughly eight-month old baby girl who is screaming with fierce determination. The child’s face is red and angry; she is pushing with all her force against her tired, frazzled mother. The woman tries to shush her. Rocks her. Tries to give her a bottle. A Pacifier. The child screams and then screams louder. Finally, in a moment of pure frustration, the mother looks into her child’s face and screams back.
A man you care about, a man you care about a lot, tells you he’s sorry, that he’s really sorry, that he can’t. That he’s failed you; that he’s failed her. Tells you he’d like it if you understood, but that it isn’t really necessary at this point in time.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. But I find, that as I bumble along, that it’s the failures in people that make them human. It’s the failures in people that I like.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
10 little things
A tag by Vila over at http://thesmokingsection.wordpress.com prompted me to put together a little list on the ten oddest things about me.
Alors!
1) I always spoil the ending of a book by reading the last page before I get there, no matter how much I'm enjoying the story.
2) I never pay parking tickets, license or medicare renewal fees or return library books even remotely close to on time. Which reminds me...
3) One of my absolute favourite snacks is peanut butter stirred with Splenda. Don't judge.
4) After finding a bug on my pillow a few months ago, I now unmake and remake my bed every single night, just to make absolutely certain no unwelcome visitors are crawling around in there!
5) I am shamelessly addicted to Oprah magazine and read it religiously every month. From finish to start, of course. Don't you judge me!
6) I don't own a working television.
7) I have absolutely no fascination with celebrities. I can honestly say there isn't one famous person I feel my life would be enriched by meeting.
8) I make 99.9% of my phone calls from the bathtub.
9) I once got yanked over by security at the airport for a 'conspicuous-looking item' in my bag, which, I humbly admit, was my bathroom scale. I was 16. So don't judge.
10) This list got progressively easier to write as I went along. And that makes me nervous.
I am ridiculously terrible at inserting links properly, so I'm not even going to try. But Arthur, Walters, K, Mood Indigo, S'Mat and Jonasparker, kids, you're up. A vos tours!
Saturday, March 03, 2007
What they didn't tell you
It hurts a lot more.
That crossing your own boundaries is harder on you than when someone else does it.
That no, you actually won't grow up to love green beans.
You won't feel as guilty as you should.
That the world can be polarized into two, broad categories: People who are good at math and people who aren't.
And that the people who are good at math hate you.
That a piece of you really in fact does die from a broken heart.
That time doesn't heal all wounds. Some remain oozing, gaping gashes for years to come.
You don't learn from your mistakes. You keep making them until you simply arrive at a point where you've accepted the fact that you are a person who makes mistakes.
Big ones.
Scary movies get scarier the older you get.
That always being true to yourself doesn't always work out.
That just being yourself is really, the hardest thing in the world to do, because your concept of self is in perpetual shift mode.
You really weren't the prettiest girl in the class, and plaid did, in fact, make you look fat.
That crossing your own boundaries is harder on you than when someone else does it.
That no, you actually won't grow up to love green beans.
You won't feel as guilty as you should.
That the world can be polarized into two, broad categories: People who are good at math and people who aren't.
And that the people who are good at math hate you.
That a piece of you really in fact does die from a broken heart.
That time doesn't heal all wounds. Some remain oozing, gaping gashes for years to come.
You don't learn from your mistakes. You keep making them until you simply arrive at a point where you've accepted the fact that you are a person who makes mistakes.
Big ones.
Scary movies get scarier the older you get.
That always being true to yourself doesn't always work out.
That just being yourself is really, the hardest thing in the world to do, because your concept of self is in perpetual shift mode.
You really weren't the prettiest girl in the class, and plaid did, in fact, make you look fat.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Face forward
I know.
I said, I know.
But in my defense, I was blackmailed.
I joined facebook.
And all that it implies.
I said, I know.
But in my defense, I was blackmailed.
I joined facebook.
And all that it implies.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Explain me this
Finally.
I finally got myself accepted to grad school. Two years and an amount of money I'd really rather not acknowledge spent on under grad classes later, I got that coveted piece of paper that officially tells me I'm in.
And so, if everything goes to plan, which it rarely does (with an ironically disturbing amount of regularity), I will be leaving Montreal for a city I've never so much as set foot in, to study public policy.
I'm happy about this. Really happy. And what has made me even happier has been the reaction of my friends and family when I shared my news. It was the reaction of one person in particular that gave me slight pause, and prompted me to write this.
One of my very good girlfriends is married to a fantastic man, has a spectacular child, and lives in a lovely home. We've known each other for years, and although our lives have gone in drastically different directions (read: I live in apartment, sans fabulous husband or child and this situation is unlikely to change in the foreseeable future), we have remained mutually supportive of one another's endeavors, and highly respectful of each other's choices.
I wasn't surprised, therefore, when she sent me a beautiful, congratulatory note, telling me how proud of me she is. It was the way she signed it that threw me for a loop.
'Just wait- now you're going to meet a fantastic guy, the man of your dreams, and then you'll be set!'
Why can't I be set without the man of my dreams? What if there isn't one? Does this somehow make my life unfulfilled, somehow less than what it should be? Does it inevitably imply that I still have my work cut out for me, that I've failed in my inability to find someone to share my life with? Can't I share my life with me, just me, and have that be OK?
It wasn't that her reaction hurt my feelings, but it did make me think, make me question the female perception that anything a woman does outside of marriage, of having and raising children is just that -outside. Just part of the waiting game, just a girl biding her time and trying to make herself useful in the interim.
Just filler.
I finally got myself accepted to grad school. Two years and an amount of money I'd really rather not acknowledge spent on under grad classes later, I got that coveted piece of paper that officially tells me I'm in.
And so, if everything goes to plan, which it rarely does (with an ironically disturbing amount of regularity), I will be leaving Montreal for a city I've never so much as set foot in, to study public policy.
I'm happy about this. Really happy. And what has made me even happier has been the reaction of my friends and family when I shared my news. It was the reaction of one person in particular that gave me slight pause, and prompted me to write this.
One of my very good girlfriends is married to a fantastic man, has a spectacular child, and lives in a lovely home. We've known each other for years, and although our lives have gone in drastically different directions (read: I live in apartment, sans fabulous husband or child and this situation is unlikely to change in the foreseeable future), we have remained mutually supportive of one another's endeavors, and highly respectful of each other's choices.
I wasn't surprised, therefore, when she sent me a beautiful, congratulatory note, telling me how proud of me she is. It was the way she signed it that threw me for a loop.
'Just wait- now you're going to meet a fantastic guy, the man of your dreams, and then you'll be set!'
Why can't I be set without the man of my dreams? What if there isn't one? Does this somehow make my life unfulfilled, somehow less than what it should be? Does it inevitably imply that I still have my work cut out for me, that I've failed in my inability to find someone to share my life with? Can't I share my life with me, just me, and have that be OK?
It wasn't that her reaction hurt my feelings, but it did make me think, make me question the female perception that anything a woman does outside of marriage, of having and raising children is just that -outside. Just part of the waiting game, just a girl biding her time and trying to make herself useful in the interim.
Just filler.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
She's a big girl now
"It's a big girl world now, full of big girl things."
-Kendall Payne
Enough said.
-Kendall Payne
Enough said.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
It's all around me
I am not going to release yet another disparaging post about the commercial, despair-inducing, chocolate-indulging nature of Valentine's Day into the blogosphere, as I am quietly confident there are already enough of them floating around. I have never been a large supporter of the day to begin with, and although the temptation to condemn it with a vengeance this year is perhaps slightly stronger than holidays previous, I will not give in! If Hallmark tells us this is a day to celebrate love and the joy it brings to our lives on an individual and collective level, I figure I can do that. Because to be truthful, although I won't be going home to a bottle of wine and a home-cooked meal, lovingly prepared by some fabulous man, this doesn't discount or discredit all the other amazing ways that love rears its lovely little head in my life on a daily basis.
It's in the Valentine's card my best friend made sure was in my inbox this morning.
It's in the e-mail my mom made sure I would get as soon as I got into work, wishing me a happy day.
It's in the exchange I had with my elderly neighbour in the elevator this morning, when he asked me if I enjoyed the books his wife gave me.
It's the anonymous someone who collected my newspapers for me all last week while I was away at a conference, and slipped them under my door when I got back.
It's in the shared cup of coffee with a friend as she confides in you about her excitement about moving in with her boyfriend, and her fear of what her Catholic family will say.
It's in the guy in your economics class who shyly hands you copies of the notes he took for you, unasked when you missed last week's lecture.
It's in the excited message from your friend who tells you to find something decent to wear, because she bought you tickets to the opera for Valentine's Day.
It's in yourself, in the cup of tea you brew, the workout you force yourself to do because you know it's good for you, it's in the evening you spend reading a fantastic book.
It's in the smiles you give, the hugs you squeeze, the tears you dry, the consoling words you speak.
It's in the letters you write, the compliments you give, the favours you extend.
It's knowing that this year, you don't have to look outside for love, because it's all around.
It's next door, it's down the street. It's in a friend's apartment, it's in your family home.
It's in an e-mailed letter, it's a phone call away. But most importantly, it's in you.
So Happy Valentine's Day to you all. However that happens to play out in your corner.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Expecting the accepted
It's the said, and the unsaid.
It's in the eyes that follow you, and what they scream.
It's in the smoulder.
It's in what you shouldn't have done, but what you did.
It's in what you feel the next day.
It's in the quiet realization, the quiet compliance, the quiet acceptance.
Of yourself.
It's in the eyes that follow you, and what they scream.
It's in the smoulder.
It's in what you shouldn't have done, but what you did.
It's in what you feel the next day.
It's in the quiet realization, the quiet compliance, the quiet acceptance.
Of yourself.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
In the eye of the beholder
If I ever had doubts about my ability to be a good mother to a baby, the piercing skepticism in this child's eyes certainly brings my insecurity to a head.
Monday, January 22, 2007
A guide
I feel I can say this because I have been on the receiving end of a broken heart myself.
And I can honestly say that while yes I did indeed resort to eating ice cream directly from the tub, I did get ridiculously, falling-down, embarrassingly drunk, I did call my girlfriends in the middle of the night, bawling, I did listen to David Gray and cried until my face hurt, I did max out a credit card and I did call in sick to work.
I joined a gym; I joined a new gym. I worked at a gym.
I took a yoga class, I oil painted. I took a feminist literature class, I cut my hair, I grew it out again, and I resorted to all the other token, get-over-him tactics that any girl in the depths of despair would turn to when her world feels as though it has been shattered and her heart feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder and then strained, just for good measure.
But for the love of God.
I didn’t continue to text message him with little notes that read *hugs* every week. (Isn’t it painfully obvious that when someone decides to take leave of your relationship that they likely don’t want you hugging them anymore? And what are we, 13?)
I didn’t send a barrage of e-mails.
Nor did I elect to attach copies of my political science essays to those e-mails in the hopes of impressing him with my witty (wordy?) examinations of social democracy.
I didn’t call at 2:30 in the morning, two weeks after the fact, asking if we could 'talk.'
I didn’t send birthday cards and I sure as hell didn’t send flowers.
So P.S.
You shouldn’t either.
And I can honestly say that while yes I did indeed resort to eating ice cream directly from the tub, I did get ridiculously, falling-down, embarrassingly drunk, I did call my girlfriends in the middle of the night, bawling, I did listen to David Gray and cried until my face hurt, I did max out a credit card and I did call in sick to work.
I joined a gym; I joined a new gym. I worked at a gym.
I took a yoga class, I oil painted. I took a feminist literature class, I cut my hair, I grew it out again, and I resorted to all the other token, get-over-him tactics that any girl in the depths of despair would turn to when her world feels as though it has been shattered and her heart feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder and then strained, just for good measure.
But for the love of God.
I didn’t continue to text message him with little notes that read *hugs* every week. (Isn’t it painfully obvious that when someone decides to take leave of your relationship that they likely don’t want you hugging them anymore? And what are we, 13?)
I didn’t send a barrage of e-mails.
Nor did I elect to attach copies of my political science essays to those e-mails in the hopes of impressing him with my witty (wordy?) examinations of social democracy.
I didn’t call at 2:30 in the morning, two weeks after the fact, asking if we could 'talk.'
I didn’t send birthday cards and I sure as hell didn’t send flowers.
So P.S.
You shouldn’t either.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Grey's epitome
It seems an irony of the cruelest proportions.
On my 26th birthday, in the locker room of my gym, I happen to look into the mirror above the sink while washing my hands, only to be nearly blinded by the light glaring off of it.
A grey hair.
Sigh.
On my 26th birthday, in the locker room of my gym, I happen to look into the mirror above the sink while washing my hands, only to be nearly blinded by the light glaring off of it.
A grey hair.
Sigh.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Required reading
Are men necessary? by Maureen Dowd.
And when you're finished with that, The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen.
And when you're finished with that, The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
This life
It can be hard, sometimes. It can shake your faith, sometimes. The faith that there is some sort of plan. Some sort of big, general idea. Something bigger than you that says, 'this is how it will be.'
She was a woman full of grace, a woman full of of love. A woman full of life.
This life loved you, Angela.
And this life will miss you.
She was a woman full of grace, a woman full of of love. A woman full of life.
This life loved you, Angela.
And this life will miss you.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Bigger than this
It’s 7:30 and your alarm is screaming. You open your eyes and think 'you have GOT to be kidding.'
But you force your feet to slide to the floor and into a pair of slippers and pad your way down the hall. You toss a piece of whole wheat bread into your toaster and pour a glass of skim milk. You drag out a yoga mat and yawn your way through a series of crunches.
You eat, shower, try to do something that could be considered acceptable with your freaking wreck of hair. You go into the office. You drink coffee and chat with your co-workers. You drink more coffee.
You check your e-mail, arrange an interview for the story you’re writing, you check your e-mail again. You do some writing, slash some red pen marks through other people’s writing, you go home.
You change into a pair of jogging pants and drag yourself to the gym. You suffer through a 45-minute workout. You go back home.
You set your alarm to time the fifteen minutes you have to soak in a bath. You dry off, get dressed and head off to a board meeting.
You drink more coffee. You give a little presentation about the financial status of the women’s shelter project you’re working on. Two and a half hours later, you get back in your car and drive home.
You open the textbook for the economics class you’re taking and force yourself to study for a half an hour. A measly 30 minutes. 28 minutes pass. You figure this is enough.
You turn on your computer. You open the file and wait for inspiration to come. You decide it will likely come along with the handful of mixed nuts that are calling out to you from the kitchen. Definitely the next handful. You contemplate the right combination of words that will impress the review committee of the grad school program you’re applying to. You work on this for an hour and when your eyes feel like they’re going to bleed or roll out of your head or both, you shut off your computer, wash your face, smear an antioxidant you paid way too much for all over it and climb into bed wishing you never had to get up again.
You lie down, and just as you’re about to close your eyes you notice that the light on your phone is blinking furiously. You know you won’t be able to sleep until you’ve listened to that message. You dial the number and wait.
Her voice comes through the phone and with only the words, ‘Hi Heath,’ you immediately know that everything in her life has changed, for good, forever.
Her baby is born, although there is no more ‘her,’ no more ‘his,’ it’s ‘theirs,’ it’s ‘ours.’ A little girl, a little person, a little life.
Suddenly, your eight hours, your static hair, the flatness or complete and utter lack thereof of your abdominals, the illiteracy story you’re working on, the shelter, the economics class, the applications, they all seem very, very small. You feel very, very small. Like no matter what you do, no matter how hard you work, how little you sleep, how much you study, it will never be big. It will never be bigger than this.
But you force your feet to slide to the floor and into a pair of slippers and pad your way down the hall. You toss a piece of whole wheat bread into your toaster and pour a glass of skim milk. You drag out a yoga mat and yawn your way through a series of crunches.
You eat, shower, try to do something that could be considered acceptable with your freaking wreck of hair. You go into the office. You drink coffee and chat with your co-workers. You drink more coffee.
You check your e-mail, arrange an interview for the story you’re writing, you check your e-mail again. You do some writing, slash some red pen marks through other people’s writing, you go home.
You change into a pair of jogging pants and drag yourself to the gym. You suffer through a 45-minute workout. You go back home.
You set your alarm to time the fifteen minutes you have to soak in a bath. You dry off, get dressed and head off to a board meeting.
You drink more coffee. You give a little presentation about the financial status of the women’s shelter project you’re working on. Two and a half hours later, you get back in your car and drive home.
You open the textbook for the economics class you’re taking and force yourself to study for a half an hour. A measly 30 minutes. 28 minutes pass. You figure this is enough.
You turn on your computer. You open the file and wait for inspiration to come. You decide it will likely come along with the handful of mixed nuts that are calling out to you from the kitchen. Definitely the next handful. You contemplate the right combination of words that will impress the review committee of the grad school program you’re applying to. You work on this for an hour and when your eyes feel like they’re going to bleed or roll out of your head or both, you shut off your computer, wash your face, smear an antioxidant you paid way too much for all over it and climb into bed wishing you never had to get up again.
You lie down, and just as you’re about to close your eyes you notice that the light on your phone is blinking furiously. You know you won’t be able to sleep until you’ve listened to that message. You dial the number and wait.
Her voice comes through the phone and with only the words, ‘Hi Heath,’ you immediately know that everything in her life has changed, for good, forever.
Her baby is born, although there is no more ‘her,’ no more ‘his,’ it’s ‘theirs,’ it’s ‘ours.’ A little girl, a little person, a little life.
Suddenly, your eight hours, your static hair, the flatness or complete and utter lack thereof of your abdominals, the illiteracy story you’re working on, the shelter, the economics class, the applications, they all seem very, very small. You feel very, very small. Like no matter what you do, no matter how hard you work, how little you sleep, how much you study, it will never be big. It will never be bigger than this.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Breaking up is hard to do
It's hard when you know that across town, in a cozy little apartment, there is a man, a really good man, with curly hair and a smile to melt your heart, who is crying himself to sleep over you.
It's even harder to realize that you cannot quite, although you really, really try, muster up the same sort of qualifying sadness that prevents unwelcome thoughts such as 'if I eat this banana at 11 o'clock, will I have nightmares?' and, 'is it cold enough to wear socks to bed?' from creeping into your mind.
Breaking up is hard to do. But I think the knowledge that you're going to be fine, that you're going to be better, is even harder.
It's even harder to realize that you cannot quite, although you really, really try, muster up the same sort of qualifying sadness that prevents unwelcome thoughts such as 'if I eat this banana at 11 o'clock, will I have nightmares?' and, 'is it cold enough to wear socks to bed?' from creeping into your mind.
Breaking up is hard to do. But I think the knowledge that you're going to be fine, that you're going to be better, is even harder.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
Missed that memo
And as you sit, drinking a cup of tea, laughing at taped episodes of Arrested Development, thinking to yourself, well, this is comfortable, it's comfortable at least, it changes.
He calls to you, through a door steamed shut, faint scents of cologne and shaving cream seeping from underneath it,
'Hey -babe, do we have plans on the 30th?'
And suddenly the Earl Gray in your mouth turns to cement and you think,
'Christ, when did this happen?
He calls to you, through a door steamed shut, faint scents of cologne and shaving cream seeping from underneath it,
'Hey -babe, do we have plans on the 30th?'
And suddenly the Earl Gray in your mouth turns to cement and you think,
'Christ, when did this happen?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)