A strange victory

It's strangely cloudy tonight, cloudy and gloomy like it used to be back East, in a different land, in a different life. Under normal circumstances, I'd think there's a freakish change in the weather coming. But tonight, I'll accept it as the gift that I'd like to think it is...a birthday gift, of sorts. Three years ago today I came to California.

I keep typing sentences, inane sentences with these empty, vapid words that clutter up the page, kind of like the cheap trinkets and knick-knacks and cosmetics and accessories I buy that are actually worthless, just cluttering things up. I don't think there's any words I can really summon to effectively describe these last three years, and the hopes and disappointments and realizations and resignations that I encountered...there are no words that can effectively summarize the life--such as it is--that I have made for myself here.

It all simply comes back to that thing that my friend Deshka and I told each other, over and over, during that bleak winter and spring of 2006:

It is what it is.

And so it is just that--it is I, who sacrificed a good man to my stubbourn pride within six weeks of moving here. It is my life here, my life of work and not much else. It is the consequence of me trusting one too many of the wrong kind of man, the bad kind, one too many times. It is the friends I have made here, the younger-than-me girls that seem to have it more together than I do, the older-than-me women who talk (a lot) about plastic surgery, it is the harsh sunshine and relentless dust, it is the bird that sings every night, just after midnight, right outside my bedroom window. It is the stubbourn, dogged and ultimately fruitless commitment I maintained for two of those three years, commitment to a boy that didn't really want me that much. It is the gut-numbing, limb-freezing terror that siezes me every time I feel the floor tremble or hear the windows rattle. It is the Pacific Ocean, still freezing cold and foreign to me, it is the three-hour-time difference between me and those who know me and my life, it is the three years of priceless work experience, it is three years in which I can count on two hands the number of cloudy days we've had.

It is all of these things...until it just isn't anymore.

I don't know when that will be. A month ago, the thought of staying here for countless more years made me want to weep with frustration and fear. Tonight, as I drink a glass of Shiraz and listen to the fan hum behind me and keep one eye on the chick-flick I've got playing, and as I watch my cats fight each other, annoyed with the vigorous brushing I gave them both, I understand that it doesn't just happen right now, overnight, on demand. I don't know when it's going to happen. And right now, at this moment, I'm okay with it.

That feeling will pass. But it's here for now, and for that I am grateful.

Happy birthday to me.

Waiting, waiting, waiting...

'Way back in the day, I was a born-again Christian. Hard-core. Went to church three times a week, sang in the choir, sat on the youth group board, certainly talked the talk, tried to walk the walk. For three years of my life, it defined me, my existence, my future. I loved Jesus, went up to the altar every Sunday morning, didn't drink or swear or do drugs or take god's name in vain or have sex before marriage. After all, that could lead to pregnancy or the clap or a broken heart or an irate Jesus.

One of the most tangible pieces of evidence that remain from that time in my life is my chastity ring. Yes, that's right, you read that right, my chastity ring. Not quite a chastity belt, sure--it was 1996, after all, not 1396. They presented the rings (subsidized by my doting, if somewhat misguided, grandparents) to me, during a church ceremony in which I, along with several other earnest young ladies, pledged to remain virgins until our wedding night.

Shortly after I turned 16, I became a "recovering Christian." Slowly, gradually, I fell away from the church as I experienced a crisis of faith, withdrew from my religious activities, and...well, grew up. Opened my eyes. I began to cuss like a sailor. Socially drink, even. The last thing to go was my pledge of chastity, but even that went out the window, a little later than most, when I was 19.

And life carried on. God (if s/he exists) and I left each other alone. I became more secular, more "of the world", and so I remain, to this day. I retained my honesty, my sense of justice, my code of ethics. I retained my sense of self, even as my self changed so vastly from what I once was. But even as I remained constant in some ways, I strayed very far from who I once was in others.

Best example: within the past year, my friend started dating a new guy. They...waited. Or, rather, he wanted to wait. And so they waited. And waited. We debated why. Was he gay? That was just weird, waiting six damned months.

And it's not a complete anomaly. Another friend is seeing a guy--they've been seeing each other for half a year, and they haven't (to borrow an old phrase) "gone all the way". They are both fine with that, and choose for it to be this way.

Baffling. Or so I thought.

See, I am, at heart, a historian. And I have an eye for how things once were. And I know that once, it was considered weird, freakish, inappropriate, abnormal, or at least taboo, to go all the way. People--especially women, mainly women--were ostracized if it was known that they did. Not a good way to live and love. But yet--we've done an about-face in recent decades. Now it's considered weird and freakish if people don't go all the way before marriage, and fairly soon after they meet, too...and somehow, I've internalized this. I got on board, and apparently, I had forgotten my 16-year-old self, in which I said, "If he loves me, he'll wait."

Now it's sexsexsex nownownow, and those who don't do that are not quite right.

Neither extreme is good or right or cool. But less cool is the fact that I bought into both extremes at different times in my life. Neither particularly helped me. Neither guided me down the right path. And I won't say that I've learned my lesson (how trite would that be?)...but I have learned that there is some wisdom in my friends' caution. And not only that there is wisdom, but that it's acceptable. Maybe not socially celebrated, but that caution, that waiting exists. And there are people in my age group who are wise enough--and comfortable enough with themselves--to wait and not need to validate themselves through quick sex.

If I get around to dating again--right now, not particularly high on my list of priorities; it comes right after getting leprosy of the eyeballs--I'm going to wait. A lot. At least six months. And I am only going to go for it if the person and I love each other.

And I am going to know that it's okay.

The ones who can know you so well are the ones who can swallow you whole...

It's my 29th birthday, and I am spending it in Washington DC with my family (good), where it's raining (better), and where I am not freaking out too much about turning 29 (best). I thought it would be hard, but it's turning out better than I thought. Maybe I'm just coming to terms with getting older, or maybe I'm just comfortably numb, but I'm okay with which ever it is.

Being back East helps--being in the humid, green climate (if not location) of my childhood, being with family. Both are familiar, and comforting, and I've felt more like myself than I have felt in a very long time. And I think that's the best birthday gift I could ever get.

Decisions, Decisions

Generally, I don't believe in love at first sight. But with Indiana, it's always been a little different.

Technically, it wasn't REALLY first sight. But we don't need to worry about that. From the second I crossed over the state line, back in 2004, I was hopelessly in love with it. I remember John the Saint and I stopped at a rest stop about twenty miles in. It was late in the afternoon, maybe around four or 5. I stood at the edge of the pavement, where it met up with a field. My back was to the moving truck and John and the car; I was facing the field and the tall, burnt-yellow grass. A warm wind was blowing, and it promised excitement.

Indiana? Exciting?

Later that night, after we arrived at Duncle's in Bloomington, after we had all gathered around the dinner table and gorged ourselves, after the plates were cleared, after the sun had set, I went out onto the screened porch and settled onto the porch swing. A late-evening storm was brewing, and silver lightening lit up the sky, the back yard, Aunt Jo's vegetable gardens, and the hay bales beyond her yard. Even the air felt different, after Florida--a little less humid, and a lot more electrified.

John the Saint joined me, and together we watched the storm roll in. And then, between flashes of lightning, there was something else lighting up the evening--tiny little gold lights, burning silently and bright for a second, and then disappearing just as quickly. An enormous smile spread over my face as I realized I was seeing fireflies for the first time since I had moved away from the Midwest, almost twenty years before. I glanced over at John, who smiled back, enjoying my simple bliss.

And just like that, I was hopelessly in love with Indiana. With the whole Midwest, really.

Now, as I am beginning to contemplate where to go next, my mind keeps drifting back to the Midwest. Should I try to go back? Am I only considering it because, after the disappointment and emotional desert that is California, it seems safe and comfortable and familiar? Or is it time for me to return? It's felt more right than any other place. Or should I leave that love in the past and move on to something else? Should I try to forget the fireflies, the haze settling on the landscape in a summer dusk, the iron-grey skies of an endless February, the shabby nobility of 100-year-old barns, long abandoned to decay in overgrown fields, the chilly autumn evenings?

I don't think I can forget it.

But I don't know if I should try to go back.

In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning...

This never used to happen, but lately, it’s getting to be an almost regular occurrence. I awakened around 4 this morning, and could not go back to sleep. A full bladder may have been the culprit, but I suspect the real cause was a distubing dream in which I was a caregiver to an old lady and her 101 (not Dalmatian) cats. Fears of becoming my mother, much?

Anyway, any normal person would have used the litterbox, shaken off the dream, and re-commenced slumbering, but that would be a normal person. Not the Sassy Kitten, here. I’ve got about a billion things on my mind lately, so as soon as I awoke, all one billion of them slammed back into my awareness like an inconvenient tsunami on Boxing Day. And stupid me, I spent the next hour in bed, thinking about them, until I gave it up and rose to meet the day at 5 AM.

There are worse ways to go–I tend to roll out of bed 30 minutes before I need to be at work, and this barely gives me enough time to bathe, let alone prepare my responsible, professional (fraudulent) self. So having three and a half hours to get ready is an unexpected luxury–it gives me time to make my oatmeal. Clean. Write some emails. Blog about pointless minutiae. Spend time on the exercise bike. Fold laundry. Even lay out my work clothes. Not bad for a Monday morning!

But lord, I will be hating life by 4 PM today.

I Guess At the End, You Start Thinking About the Beginning...

In another six weeks, I will be celebrating my third California birthday. Like any birthday, this is going to be–inevitably–a time of reflection for me. Uppermost in my reflections will be the knowledge that I had never intended to celebrate three California birthdays here; I had planned to be gone from this state after a year and a half.

And yet.

And yet, here I am. Three years older than the 26-year-old that drove in on the 10 on a hot, dusty day in mid-June, feeling no excitement, no joy, no anticipation, only relief to be at the end of my journey and a grim determination to get through it. Thank god I didn’t know, couldn’t know how long I would be here. Three years older, but not necessarily wiser. And here I am.

Part of growing up, growing older, is having the courage to admit when a thing–a situation, a relationship, a job–is no longer working. It’s having the courage to admit when it’s time to give it up as a bad show and walk away. And it’s having the good sense to know when it’s time. Kinda like the serenity prayer, like that. So I guess I’ve learned something in California–I’ve learned when it’s time to walk away.

Now I just need to learn how.

Huh. How 'Bout Them Apples?

A few months back--heck, it was probably last summer by this point--I was talking on the phone with one of my out-of-state Best Good Friends, Eric. Now, I was snivelling to Eric about some inanity or another that I was unhappy about, and Eric, ever the perceptive friend, clued into something deeper.

"How's A----?" he asked, referring to my boyfriend

"He's fine," I responded cautiously, caught a little off-guard. "Why?"

"Okay, how are you and A----?" Eric persisted.

"We're fine," I snapped, probably a little testily. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Eric paused, trying to formulate his words carefully. "Well...it's just that you never talk about him. At all. Ever. I mean, in the beginning, I could understand why you didn't, but you've been together almost two years, and you still don't mention him. It's weird, how little you mention him."

He's a really smart guy, that Eric. And he tapped into something that has been a key theme in the relationship I have had with A----: the absence of him in my life, and me in his. Now, I can only speculate (probably pretty accurately) on why I was not a huge part of his life, but I can certainly account for his absence in mine: it was by and large my choice as much as his. I haven't talked about him a lot, not to my colleagues, not to my family, not on any of my blogs (and believe me, there are quite a few), and only a very select few of my friends...most of whom did not like him. But that's neither here nor there.

I think we held each other at arm's length, A---- and I did. Again, I can only imagine why he did (I bet I'd be pretty spot-on in my guesses, too) but I know the decision was, for me, deliberate. I loved him, and I had hopes...but I had no expectations. So when the end came, as it did a little over a week ago, there was very little drama, and perhaps most sadly, very little heartbreak. I cried that day, and then a little a few days later, but that was all.

I genuinely mourn the passing of our relationship. I genuinely mourn the wasted potential. I genuinely mourn the fact that love was never given a chance to grow--love cannot flourish where it is not nurtured. But I walk away with my dignity intact, and with the knowledge that even though in some ways I held myself back, I did give the relationship my best. Some things just aren't supposed to work, and some times we keep relationships on life support long after we shouldS have pulled the plug.

Next time, I'm going to listen to Eric Smarty-pants more. That guy really knows what he's talking about.