Friday to Sunday: A Writer Gets Older
Nine days and it feels like my entire world is tilted wrong.
It all started on Friday the 16th when I, to go ahead and just stay vague, ran into some relationship troubles. It all seemed to be manageable, the usual places where the puzzle pieces don't automatically fit, and then we were moving forward with an eye toward smoothing it out. On Saturday, I moved, which was a lovely pile of crazy—too much to do, a personal space full of heavy boxes, furniture shifting and much snapping and swearing. Sunday was Where the Wild Things Are, which is lovely if not the same thing as the book, and tapas, which never stop being exciting. Both of these were lead-ins to my birthday, the cake and presents and all the good hugs and the people here just to see me. I needed to unpack, but no matter how much I focused there was a fat man sitting on chest, strumming the strings of my intuition and telling me I had something wrong.
On Wednesday, I was dumped.
My friends all rallied and the love-bombs began, just enough to help me but not enough to steal all my air; there was wine and sushi and a little bit of bitching and it all got handled. Then it was dinner with the family on Thursday, and the first of two sweet hats, and other gifts besides I have not fully had time to appreciate. Friday was dinner with the friends, which had a rocky start but was still delicious, and on Saturday I hosted my first birthday party ever in my new place, which was delightful and enjoyable and definitely a success thanks to a friend with a bag full of board games and another with an amazing hand in the kitchen; Sweet Hat Number Two was collected, bringing my Sweet Hat total to three, and I spent a wonderful night with wonderful people I love, watching them meet and talk and play and just be, and felt glad that even if I couldn't have a long conversation with each of them individually, I could at least have brought them here to this place and time.
Now it's Sunday, and the ex has come to pick up her things. We exchanged bins and books, pills and boxes, all the things we traded with each other when permanence was still a hypothesis; we had that long pink-eyed stare and the confused, cold goodbye, and the tacit understanding that we just closed the door on an era. I closed the door, sat down, and cried; and in crying ejected a ball from my stomach that I hadn't wholly realized was there. And then I sat up and got online, and realized that most basic truth: Now that all of this is over, I'm expected to go back to life as normal.
But it was all done while the day was young, and I have permission (granted by one of my best friends) to spend today relaxing and pampering myself as I see fit. There will be some boxes moved, and dishes washed; but today I get to sit down with a DVD in my player and just enjoy the feel of the space. Today I get to walk through Mountain View and know that I am loved. Today is my birthday present to myself.
27 was rough and full of failed attempts; here's hoping that the next bridge from October to October has a couple fewer missteps.
It all started on Friday the 16th when I, to go ahead and just stay vague, ran into some relationship troubles. It all seemed to be manageable, the usual places where the puzzle pieces don't automatically fit, and then we were moving forward with an eye toward smoothing it out. On Saturday, I moved, which was a lovely pile of crazy—too much to do, a personal space full of heavy boxes, furniture shifting and much snapping and swearing. Sunday was Where the Wild Things Are, which is lovely if not the same thing as the book, and tapas, which never stop being exciting. Both of these were lead-ins to my birthday, the cake and presents and all the good hugs and the people here just to see me. I needed to unpack, but no matter how much I focused there was a fat man sitting on chest, strumming the strings of my intuition and telling me I had something wrong.
On Wednesday, I was dumped.
My friends all rallied and the love-bombs began, just enough to help me but not enough to steal all my air; there was wine and sushi and a little bit of bitching and it all got handled. Then it was dinner with the family on Thursday, and the first of two sweet hats, and other gifts besides I have not fully had time to appreciate. Friday was dinner with the friends, which had a rocky start but was still delicious, and on Saturday I hosted my first birthday party ever in my new place, which was delightful and enjoyable and definitely a success thanks to a friend with a bag full of board games and another with an amazing hand in the kitchen; Sweet Hat Number Two was collected, bringing my Sweet Hat total to three, and I spent a wonderful night with wonderful people I love, watching them meet and talk and play and just be, and felt glad that even if I couldn't have a long conversation with each of them individually, I could at least have brought them here to this place and time.
Now it's Sunday, and the ex has come to pick up her things. We exchanged bins and books, pills and boxes, all the things we traded with each other when permanence was still a hypothesis; we had that long pink-eyed stare and the confused, cold goodbye, and the tacit understanding that we just closed the door on an era. I closed the door, sat down, and cried; and in crying ejected a ball from my stomach that I hadn't wholly realized was there. And then I sat up and got online, and realized that most basic truth: Now that all of this is over, I'm expected to go back to life as normal.
But it was all done while the day was young, and I have permission (granted by one of my best friends) to spend today relaxing and pampering myself as I see fit. There will be some boxes moved, and dishes washed; but today I get to sit down with a DVD in my player and just enjoy the feel of the space. Today I get to walk through Mountain View and know that I am loved. Today is my birthday present to myself.
27 was rough and full of failed attempts; here's hoping that the next bridge from October to October has a couple fewer missteps.
Labels: real life
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