I find this song endlessly interesting. (The song begins about a minute in–my suggestion is to skip the commentary before).
I find this song endlessly interesting. (The song begins about a minute in–my suggestion is to skip the commentary before).
I should clarify, a proper first date.
There are so many reasons for this.
Most deeply personal—not understood by even my closest confidantes.
But a year goes by. And a boy kisses you. And it feels so good.
I mean, the thing is, I forgot how a kiss can be so simple and easy and fun. And satisfying.
Mostly because the kisses this year have been anything but.
Which should have been a clue.
But we learn how we learn.
So, should a first date come along, I think I might say yes.
I think I might want to say yes.
But I want to wear a dress.
And I want it to be fancy—almost inappropriately so. Inappropriate because no one ever dresses up for anything anymore, and how terribly disappointing that is.
Let the man wear a suit. A nice one. (Tie optional).
Let us, middle of July, dress like it’s New Years Eve. And drink like it’s a new beginning. (Or a very good end).
I want the restaurant to be just cold enough that he has to offer me his jacket. Has to drape it over my shoulders. And do that thing, that men do, where they stand behind you and ever-so-inexpertly rub your arms.
It won’t matter where we choose to eat. It could be McDonald’s. Or the Corner Bistro. (In fact, I’m partial to burgers).
I just want, for a single night, to feel young and foolish and exquisitely beautiful.
Just for a night I’d like to be the sort of couple that other people look at—wistfully, longingly, knowingly. That other people regard with a sort of fondness, remembering their own youth—remembering that time the future rolled out before them like an invitation.
I’m feeling a little bit sad this morning.
But in that way that is mostly sweet.
Like I’m just about to turn a corner and my body already knows and it’s scary and good but ripe with loss.
Because once that corner is turned, it cannot be unturned.
Like I’m shuffling towards something really important, but don’t yet know what it is.
And I don’t yet know if it’ll be enough.
And that makes me a little sad.
But good sad.
Because I think it might be.
And so I lick my lips and taste my own sadness and give thanks for its peculiar flavor.
It is always, without fail, the weekends that you have not one expectation of, that bloom the most exquisitely.
I came home from work on Friday bone-tired and a little worn down. Little did I know that my Friday night would end with karaoke in Koreatown at some ungodly hour–as the strangest and most exciting nights in New York City always do.
(Of this there are no pictures, and let us all give thanks for that).
Saturday was spent at the Rockaways with Sam (with whom there is never enough time– she lives too far and the occasional conversations do not suffice). We lazed on the beach, narrowly avoided seagull poop, talked as only two women in their twenties can, ate well and cheaply (as Hemingway would say), and patiently supported each other’s photography endeavors.
And of course, Sunday, the loneliest day of the week, wasn’t so lonely at all. It was filled with a quiet afternoon of eating and strolling and browsing. Books and candles and the first cappuccino in New York (or so the caffe claims).
The whole thing was the perfect balance between the ridiculous and the sublime. And I feel better and fuller and more myself because of it.
As for whether or not it makes me any more ready to take on the week… well…
…maybe less so.
But let’s give it a go anyway…
When things were harder, which is to say, I was less well and life was less full, I was so very good about carving out time and space each day to just be with myself. Doesn’t that sound so terribly…something…new-agey or pretentious…I don’t know. But I was so good about doing some things–that now as I look back–I realize those things are forms of meditation in their own rite. Because they quiet the mind and connect me to the truest, deepest part of myself (yeah, yeah, this whole thing is sounding spacey and cliche–but that doesn’t make it any less true).
The Canon around my neck–the weight of it in my hands, I find that tremendously grounding.
So two mornings ago I rose extra early, threw on an easy sundress, my best pair of sunnies. And just walked. Camera in tow. Looked at the buildings and streets I see every day through more discerning eyes. And I clicked.
Because while I’m not a skilled photographer by any means, the act of it brings me round to myself.
Holding a camera. Seeking out new music. Stillness in the morning. Baths. Lit candles. Lattes. Writing. Always writing. These are the things that engage me with my life.
And just because the need for these things isn’t as immediate as it once was, well it doesn’t mean the need is any less (if that makes sense). And what this really means is, I sort of have to have a radical commitment to the simple things. To both my awareness and appreciation of them.
So as I was stumbling around youtube this morning, looking for music by the band SLEEPING AT LAST, I found this gem. And because the original song is one of my absolute-all-time-favorites, I can’t even tell you my excitement at unearthing this.
The thing about getting bed bugs for a second time is that it puts your life in a rather harsh perspective.
Who gets bed bugs twice? my friend Joy asked, over meatballs and mac and cheese a little white wine (well, wine for me, growing baby for her).
The first time I got them I was living in an apartment with three other girls. They were concentrated in a room a just up the hall and off to the side. So I was mostly safe from their reach, wasn’t bit more than two or three times. But the thing about dealing with them—which is to say, attempting to eradicate them—which is to say, attempting to decimate the little blood-sucking disaster of a bug by any means possible—is whether you have a wee of case or not, you have to package everything up into plastic bags. And then you have to live out of said plastic bags for like six weeks.
It’s miserable. The whole ordeal is absolutely miserable.
They don’t pose a huge threat to your physical health. If you google at all, that becomes clear.
But last go round they precipitated a nasty case of the blues (which google makes clear is quite common).
So this go round, I braced myself. Kept my eyes on the horizon and watched as the sadness approached.
And for about a week there, I didn’t think it would end well. Not well at all.
You’re meant to be able to see the things, the bugs—they are meant to leave some trace. You’re supposed to be able to find them hiding in seams, spot their tracks (which is a nice way of saying blood and feces) on your clean, white linen sheets.
But this go round they remained invisible to me.
Which made me feel crazy.
Because the only evidence of their nightly terror was the welts my body bore.
And I am, as it turns out, highly—highly—allergic (this is of interest because not everyone is).
Seventeen bites I awoke to one morning. After spending the night on an air mattress on the living room floor.
As a species we’ve evolved to protect our sleep. So much of what we’ve done over the past two hundred thousand years is to figure out how to sleep more safely. Mostly because sleep—good sleep, restful sleep—is incredibly important for cognitive function, and health, and most other good things.
Two months into a new apartment and there are plastic bags everywhere. Some clear. Some not. (Which feels like a metaphor for my life).
Every morning is a so-not-fun-treasure-hunt for what I will need to get through the day.
The thing about bed bugs—the upside, if you will, is that you become rather ruthless about sorting through all your stuff (even more ruthless than when you move). And having just moved, I know this with a high level of certainty.
It is not lost on me that my new year’s resolution was to live with less stuff.
Ah, the irony.
Because here I am, knee-deep into the new year and wouldn’t you know, less stuff.
Suddenly the clothes that don’t fit are in a trash bag in the entry hall. The suitcase with the busted wheels is out the door. And all those fancy-glossy-pacific-northwest-isnpired-magazines that I’ve been keeping because I thought they’d sit so well in that one-day-home—gone, tossed.
Live with less stuff. Or live where you are. Imperfect as it is.
But holy shit is it imperfect.
And I’m really trying to be okay with it. To hook into that notion that all this mess is in service of a something else. And that wrong turns are better than right turns and on and on. But some days it’s so hard.
Because people can be shitty. And selfish. And unkind. And totally not great on every level. But you can’t change that. You can only change how you react to it. Which is hard, and a little unfair, but more rewarding in the end (or so I’m told—and so I’ve occasionally found to be true).
I’m trying to rise above, but today, well, today I don’t feel like rising.
Because there’s a lot of garbage bags around, and what’s worth saving and what’s worth tossing isn’t terribly clear.
**Also currently accepting reasons to move someplace else…like Chicago (because as my cousin said, New York is totally rejecting me–who get’s beg bugs twice, indeed?!)**
The thing is, it’s about having a witness to my life.
I didn’t understand for such a very long time. I’d had my heart crumpled young – too young, really. I was too naïve to understand that he was the making of me, not the breaking—and that misunderstanding coloured my choices for days that became weeks that became, in the end, about five years of healing. It took many forms: promiscuity, celibacy, travel: searching so that I got my answers but was still puzzled as to the question.
But, you see, because of all that, I’m really fucking proud of who I am. And the woman I’ve become? She wants to share her life with a man. A husband.
It’s not a desperate kind of want. It isn’t sleeplessness nights and pints of ice-cream salted with the tears of singledom. It’s not the ticking of a biological clock, nor the irritatingly true knowledge that rent would be cheaper split by two. It’s not about sex. I’m not searching for my other half, the soulmate who will make me whole. I’m not incomplete.
I’m not incomplete.
The obvious, practical stuff aside – making my own money, being able to change the fuse on a lamp, backpacking solo and how to figure out interest rates and train timetables and reverse parking and the best way to mow the lawn – emotionally, I’m ripe.
Beyoncé said it best (because she always does): you have to have a life, before you can be somebody’s wife. Oh baby, have I had a life. I’ve cried tears enough to earn the right to be empathetic and strong with the man who will feel courage from standing by my side. I’ve laughed so much that I’ll be able to make the future father of my children see the funny side of our lost luggage, or the leak in the ceiling, or even, with enough time, the tragedy that’ll blindsid us both one sunny Friday afternoon.
Make no mistake, I’ve experienced so much anger and frustration, that when he thinks he can’t take anymore – of work, of family, of the tiredness of life – well, I understand the difference between psychological space from words, and the closeness of my chin on his shoulder, just for a minute. I’ve known the aching for roots, so we can build a home together, somewhere in the world. And I’ve developed a taste for freedom, too.
I don’t need a yes man, and won’t be a yes woman, either.
This man, my husband, the one I’m ready for, he’ll have lived as well. He’ll be whole from experience. I don’t need a project, somebody to mother. He doesn’t have to be broken to be interesting (why do we always look for them to be broken?) but there’ll be cracks in us both that being together will help mend. He’ll know himself, and his self-kindness will teach me to go easier on myself. His manners will make me more accountable to those around me, and possibly his ambition will guide my own. I might be whole, but I’m not perfect; I still have more to learn, than has been learnt. But I’ll navigate those lessons eventually, with or without him. I don’t need him.
It’d be hella fun to do this next part of growing, of understanding, of learning and becoming together, though.
This want, it’s a want for watching how he talks to his parents over dinner, so that I get insight into how I engage with my own mum and dad. I want long and lazy Sunday afternoons wrapped around each other in bed, surprising myself with truths that feel safe to share in dappled, early evening light. I want blazing, heated rows in the aisle of Ikea over everything and nothing at all, friends over to our apartment for dinner, children who look like me and sound like him – everything it takes to unfold another human being so that I might unfold myself.
I want to love whole-heartedly and without restraint with a man who is there when I wake up, and knows when to leave me alone and when to take the small of my back with just the right amount of pressure. Doing so will make me better, will teach me – as will letting myself lose control enough to be loved. Because, of course, that’s harder than loving when we’re all waiting to get found out that somehow, we don’t deserve it.
We do. I do. My husband does, too. We all deserve a cheerleader, a champion, an equal.
I’ve taken it this far, and I’ve done it goddamn well. If this is life alone, then life in a partnership – a coupling where we make each other better, compensate for weaknesses and amplify strengths – well, shit. That’d be some life.
All rights reserved © Meg Fee 2013