through these glasses

reconnecting

Today the universe sent me a former confidant and partner in crime. I've been feeling more and more adrift in the question of "what next" lately. and truth be told, had asked the night sky on more than one occasion for some sort of nudge to know which direction to go in. The universe is a cagey beast, though. Instead of directions, it sent me the Accompanist, a blast from my high school past and current (musical) director.

Yesterday, he called  out of the blue saying he happened to be in the state, and did I have tomorrow afternoon free. (yeah!) He who has seen me through my most neurotic and most exuberant. He who stood beside me during what I thought then was the most stressful thing I could ever attempt: music competition  (ok, in actuality, he was sitting, and a bit behind and the to side. irrelevant. as he's more musician than I'll ever be, there was a certain comfort in knowing he wouldn't falter, and I could key off of him if I did. together, we won me more than my fair share of shiny gold medals, both in locally and at state.) Also, he who lives many states away and with whom I correspond with somewhat sporadically.

Back in the day, we had many an intense conversation about life the universe and everything over hot cocoa and the occasional wine cooler (hey! it was the 80s! wine coolers were SO cool, no matter what you say...). then I moved. and he moved. and life got busy.

As a lover of the metaphor, there seemed to be something poetic about being able to reconnect and share some of the recent questions ("what's it all for?! what should i be doing?! and where should i be doing it?!") with someone who directs for a living. Ok, fine, he directs music. and people! and a program!

directions, director.

poe-tae-toh, poe-tah-toh.

isn't music life? and couldn't someone who always had your musical back potentially symbolize everyone who has your spiritual/emotional back?

So while it was fantastically great (and calming) to be gifted a perfect afternoon with an old friend, it feels like there's more to it than that. There's a part of me not willing to underestimate how superb it is to feel firsthand that it's all about the people. Some are in your life for a time and then for whatever reason, not. Others, no matter how much time and space moves you (or them), they are there for good. Now that. THAT, is comforting. ...especially since i'm toying with the idea of quite physically moving myself away from some pretty amazing people who I quite intend on having in my life for all time. (i'm looking at you big ten. and you roommate 1.0.) 

weathering the seafaring

her: "Any news on the boy ? Where is He? Sorry, I'm not helping."

me: "I got nothin. ugh. The boat is due back in port Saturday afternoon I think, so maybe some sort of contact then, but I've been telling myself not to expect anything until Sunday at the earliest.

so....

this is me being patient...

I. Hate. Patient.

In fact, why don't we just take the "i" out of patient altogether since it really doesn't belong there. That gives us patent -- as in cute patent leather mary janes I nearly bought yesterday to cheer myself up... now THAT I can relate to."

channeling miley

So, in an effort to tame my inner starry-eyed crazy-girl and give her an outlet in the radio silence, I let her troll through my itunes library and create a playlist for the boy. I didn't realized just how often she's taken control of my music purchases until I noticed just how much tween pop I have in there. I nearly allowed her to put miley cyrus into the mix ("I've got a way of knowin'  when somethin' is right.  I feel like I must have known you in another life.  'Cause I felt this deep connection when you looked in my eyes. Now I can't wait to see you again." What?! It fits!!!!!). Instead, I grounded her and sent her to her room.

i hate it when i'm right

"I'm just afraid being surrounded by all that money is going to warp me somehow."

-overheard in south Minneapolis in October 1993 as I pondered a job offer.

After three and a half months of gainful unemployment, I was going a bit stir crazy. The previous fall, I'd come home from a three month stint overseas and trashed everything I'd been working towards. I didn't apply to the grad or law schools I'd picked out. I didn't take the LSAT I'd been studying for. I didn't move out east. I didn't even pack up and move to Denmark; my long standing Plan B. The office job's main selling point wasn't how in line with my university defined interests it was, it was the paycheck. my own personal Daddy Warbucks was offereing financial security, and I took it, though I feared a bit for my soul.

Perhaps it's because I came home heartbroken. I'd like to think my inner girl power was more evolved than that, but I'm honestly not sure it was. is. Because instead of doing all the powerful things I should have been doing to lay in a course for my future, I threw myself into... dating.

Seriously?! I'd like to go back and shake that girl, but I understand the draw of trying to mend a broken heart with rebound guy spackle. That the spackle had lived in the same danish city my heart belonged to, was the same height and build as the heartbreaker, and was crazy about ME was intoxicating. As an added bonus, he spoke the language of my heart. So I did what any silly girl looking for stability in all the wrong places would do. I ignored all the warning bells and buzzers, picked up the slack personally and financially (because that's what partners do, right?), and married  my rebound spackle.

Someone should have told me you aren't supposed to marry your rebound guy.

One good thing did come out of hitching myself to someone with downward mobility. It focused me. I turned Daddy Warbucks' job it into something I adored. I've always been grateful for the opportunities that came with the golden handcuffs. If I'd gone on to be a lawyer or environmental activist, I wouldn't have discovered my affinity and passion for all things related to design, and been in a position to turn it into a livelihood.

But because life has a way of evening things out, there was a price to pay. I gave up little bits and pieces of myself along the way. I figured it was ok because I was earning enough that we were more than comfortable and got to travel obsessively. I had the trappings of security; it was a pretty picture (outwardly) until it cracked. the more you have, the more you spend, the more you spend, the more you need. the more you need the more you are tied to the money. the more you are tied to the money, the more you lose perspective on what is really important. big gifts compensate for actual time. and then...

 

death.

divorce.

death.

downsizing.

more death.

rebuild. rebuild. rebuild.

Rebuilding has brought me full circle to myself. slower pace. more people, less junk. and back to the heartbreaker, time and again. We've had good, awkward, amazing and phenomenal visits. And until this time, a period of non-communication at the end of it all to keep it in a same time next year sized box.

what if it's busting out of that box? do I try and stuff it back in? or take it out in the sunshine and give it air to grow?

I think the universe must be invested in making me consider all of the ramifications of trading a known life here for the unknown of my lifelong Plan B.

Last night I attended a wedding a former coworker's daughter. at one of the poshest country clubs in town. the one that's in a gated community full of designer mansions... if there's a den of rampant capitalism in town, that's it. I was seated at a table of former coworkers (most of whom have also moved on to new and exciting opportunities), and Daddy & Mrs. Warbucks.

Seriously?!

I knew walking into the playground of the rich and infamous might impact me, so I made sure I donned the appropriate armor before setting out. expensive, understated clothes? check. ostentatiously expensive jewelry? check. expensive shoes? check. beemer? check. outward breezy air of attitude? check. nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach and shallow breathing? check...

If I needed a reality check to see if I wanted back into the life that gave me a backstage pass to the area's upper crust theatre, that was it.

I made the most of the evening, tried to enjoy the awkward conversation, but fled as soon as was politely possible. If I could have fled straight to the airport, I just might have. but he's on a boat, somewhere on the baltic sea. and I need to be sure that this time around, my inner cinderella doesn't hijack the carriage. again. last time, i ended up with a wicked case of stockholm syndrome.

   

A crown is not a tiara

"I heard you have some teeth issues, too?  I was talking to Mom about your crown and the kids said "wow, what does it look like?" because they thought you might be a princess!"

I've always known crowns were in my future. I grind my teeth. hard. Still, I would much rather be getting fitted for a shiny new tiara & all the royal regalia, than facing hours with a dentist I'm not sure I like...

don't blame it on the roses

What do you do when you come home from work to find a dozen long stemmed red roses lodged in between the doors to the house he was banished from years ago?

You know he's looking for a reaction. Any response, even a negative one, will be a change from the the silence you've imposed (again) since last fall. Yet there they are, twelve reason to call and chew him out. again. Twelve reason to call him at work (the home number became off limits when it came out that he was moving back home. was in fact not actually divorced, but he would really like to continue seeing you. just as long as you understood that he was back with the wife "for the kids" not because he loves her. "I love YOU, baby. I just... I can't leave... I wish I'd met you before I'd met her." lather rinse repeat.) and threaten to show his wife the tawdry emails he still sends. It's an old threat, but it works. Or rather, it works for a time. It has yet to work for longer than six months....

What do you do? You put the roses in water, and steel yourself. A present left on the doorstep when you're not home is the second shoe. The first shoe is a barrage of phone calls. (does he have your emotions low-jacked? he must. otherwise he can time his "i just needed to see how you are" messages times so perfectly with my low points because he is somehow tapped into my emotional vibrations. This time, I'd been on U.S. soil for under 12 hours and was sobbing when the call came.) The third shoe is the drive by/pop in.

Third shoe dropped this morning. and while it's a relief that he no longer pushes any of my buttons at all, I'm still getting tired of saying "I can't see you. You have to go. No, you can't call. No, you can't even email. Because you're married, and I'm not other woman material."

...anymore...

I want the storybook ending. I want someone to choose me most of all, and the only way I get that is to make sure no one is hanging onto the fringes of my life. So I guess a bigger question than what to do with the roses is "how do I get him to leave me alone for all time?"

Perhaps I can disappear into the mist and leave no forwarding address. It's not in the top ten of why I want to move, but it sure would be a nice side benefit.

shopaholic

I have a long history of trying to buy Denmark piece by piece and reassemble it at home. I have needed to buy a suitcase for the return trip because I bought so much. I've packed an extra bag in anticipation of shopping binges, and bought enough porcelain that they actually shipped it back here for me. Tea pots, egg cups & tea mugs, a gravy boat, breakfast cereal, canned mackerel, books, crafting paper, magazines, cds, candle holders, linens, jewelry and clothes. oh, the clothes. I've hand carried it all back here many times over.

She who has been with me through bumpy reverse-culture shocks since the second grade was in town for a soccer tournament this -- the first, most painful -- weekend back home.

"What'd you get this time?"

"Two necklaces and a magazine."

"That's it?!"

"I couldn't exactly fit a new job, a flat and  a new life into my carryon..."

"You always want to move there right after you come home. It'll pass."
________

It might pass. It might not.  I do know that if I decide to uproot my life, it will have to be for me. not for him. though he is a compelling argument in favor of putting my stuff in storage, renting out the house and heading right back over there, if it isn't for my reasons it isn't the right thing to do. I'm not afraid I'll forget that as much as I'm afraid I'll be too petrified to make a leap of faith that I let an opportunity pass me right by.

hello goodbye

What does it say that I've been home for under 24 hours and have already looked at my work calendar and trolled my favorite internet travel sites trying to find time and cheap flights to return to the time zone I just left? With most other countries, one visit satiates my curiosity. A taste of the local culture or must see sights is enough for me to check the entire country off my list. There are a few I'd return to, but only one I obsessively daydream about escaping back to. Tony Bennett left his heart in San Francisco. Yesterday, I left mine in Denmark. again.

Yesterday morning seems like years ago. In the window of the train, I watched the girl sitting kitty corner facing me watch us continue our long goodbye through the glass. She giggled when I stuck my tongue out at you – a act of levity that nearly worked. She looked down but not away as tears started to stream down my cheeks. She nearly looked away as my tearsoaked fingers smudged the window opposite where your fingertips were pressed. She nearly said something a few minutes later as I lost sight of you on the platform and buried my head in the pillow you kept stealing from me in the middle of the night.

When we're not complicated…
before a heartwrenching goodbye worthy of a badly written bodice-ripper, there is a perfect hello. you meet me at the airport, alone. I can drop my bags at your feet and without saying a word, fold myself into you, my lips searching skyward for yours, like baby birds deprived of their morning meal. Strength restored, and for the moment, nearly satiated, I can sink my head into your shoulder and home in on your heartbeat before we break apart and walk to the car. We're that couple. The one I otherwise enviously watch when I'm the one who walks straight out of the airport without a sideways glance, knowing no one waits for me. The one that instead of going straight home, stops for lunch and an afternoon swim in a hidden, tree ringed lake, because you brought a picnic basket, a blanket and a plan with you when you came to the airport for me.

When we're complicated…
we meet in a kindred crowd and I have to force myself to practice restraint. Restraint I've been practicing for nearly 25 years. And I hate it. It makes my heart race and if I don't remind them, makes my lungs stop dead in their tracks, like a marathoner hitting the wall. Sheer willpower makes them move forward through the paralysis, robotically, else they would keep holding their breath, waiting for a moment. any moment. more specifically, THE moment. The one where our eyes meet and without saying a word, I know that whatever it is, it's still there.