Let us mark this evening as the very beginning of the terrible mistake. My heart is just getting too hungry while my belly holds the line.
After getting a message asking me if my nose was real, I decided that this was just my lot. I read another profile – someone far further away than the last stupid foray – someone carved out of a list of compassionate, feminist, writerly x’s and o’s and said fuck it. Life is so egregiously short and torn out of our hands and lonely. It is sometimes so unbearably lonely.
The man that is: He seems to have a clarity. He seems to be at peace with my distance, though every few weeks we fumble so madly, like last night, at each other, like we both suddenly woke up and realized we were drowning. Suddenly, I realize I know how to save myself in this moment, I know how to give in, dive into the current and not be pulled by it. I know what I’m doing, and I do it and it’s good…but you lay there, afterwards, having said the words, having smiled the smile, and you are alone with it. Nobody’s there to talk to about your mom.
I mean, he’s there. But There Are Limits. And the more I ignore them, the more they present themselves to me. I said I didn’t want it to be about that for us. And it’s not, but as I pull back the time we spend together, that piece of it becomes the anchor and the focus and his wanting is the knock on the door that I always answer. Mine feels like there are towers upon towers to traverse before any gate can be opened. Guards must be wakened. Timing must be aligned with the heavens.
So me, affirmatively single, who took an alright selfie the other day…at least per the kind orbit of souls that follow me on FB, sent someone in SF a message. Just because I need to move the needle. I need to cause myself some sort of significant trouble. Because the longing for emotional engagement with someone that doesn’t come with this trail of…but We’re Not a Couple, so Don’t Get Any Ideas, or Embarrass Yourself by Being Angry…is a stick of plutonium. It’s unbearable to look at my plans for vacation, to torment myself by plotting out all the carbs I’m going to destroy my diet eating, and contemplate all the fun I’ve set up for myself and the pretty hotel and the games and nobody’s ever going to have any idea about any of it but me. It’s the tree falling in the woods, entirely inaudible. You can believe me or not, you weren’t there to prove me wrong.
So maybe I’m a terrible person. I think it only matters when the choice is on the table. For now, I am doing my level best, chickadees. To matter, to commit, to look after myself, to be a loving soul in a far-flung universe, to honor my promises, to not give up before the starter pistol goes off.