I write about that which I care to write about.
I drove today for a final supper. A final lunch. A final pizza pie. I have decided that I want to start low-carb, the spring diet ritual. It ain’t new. It an’t different. It ain’t some magical reformulation the boys cooked up in the lab. It’s just me thinking and not wanting to encourage panic in myself when I have reason enough to freak out on a daily basis.
The pizza is around the old job’s stomping grounds. I realize that old job may no longer have the same meaning in posts of this era as it did in the past, but it hardly matters when what I want to say is that the pizza I like best is not easy for me, with my driving anxiety, to get to. It is not inaccessible, but it is not within my safety circle. And yet, I knew that’s what I wanted if I really was committing to giving up carbish treats. So I went and sat there and had it and liked it well enough to not feel stupid for having made the trek – and I am grateful that the muscle memory is refreshed for the new day so I don’t feel like I’m starting from square one when I wake up tomorrow morning.
I am ready to do this. It’s a Monday. It’s not the first of a month. It’s not auspicious, save for the fact that I do seem to do well in Aprils (we have the breadth of data to back this up), but it has to start. So tomorrow, up in the am, arse on a bike. Shake to slug. Lunch is a salad.
I am in a better mood, overall. J. and I are…in some sort of nebulous realm and I realize now how little I like that. He mentioned having a hard few days. He mentioned that I am kind and good and he doesn’t want to hurt me. He mentioned wanting to go slow on this so that he won’t. I have my hand on this flotation device around my heart which is meant to save me if he up and tells me that as he sees it, it can’t work. Right now, it’s a bit of a vise.
My mother worried over me – worried that I’d get hurt – and I laughed. I was so cavalier as to think it impossible that anyone might reach in and matter enough that I couldn’t see sense. I have been alone so long that a few months of consistency couldn’t be all it would take to boggle the mind. I can still see the shore of reason, where I could understand how really this is hardly workable, hardly what I would want in terms of romance. But it is a long swim to get back there, longer still when you don’t know how to do it.
It’s just…I have feelings for him. Real, like, legitimately harvested and requited feelings, and chips on the table and these periods of disconnection frighten me. What does it mean not to speak today, for your answers to be one word answers. And then we joke and it softens slightly and then you want to call too late. I’ve never known proper jealousy before and now I see how insidious a beast it is. How it drives you over hill and dale, crafting flags you can’t wave and can’t plant. He’s mine, I want to say, when they coo over him. But he’s still under the moonshadow of some other woman and knowing it all, I can hardly demand that he have a flag for me.
Of course, others would. Others do. Others are others and I don’t understand how we’re suddenly here, or if we’re here at all. If this is a moment of being frightened, of me, for me, of himself and for himself, what do I do? Is it an eclipse we sleep through or a truth that is bubbling up? Am I supposed to analyze a quiet day or am I to be grateful for it?
I hope Monday tells me more.