that sparkly feeling

My parents met in a single digit grade level. They had some silly mock wedding production behind the schoolhouse. They tell me they didn’t go to proms because apparently they spent high school as “just friends,” but it’s interesting to me that neither one of them went. Of course, those were different times, and perhaps the prom attendance rate was lower than it is today.

They were married when they were 20, and had me when they were 22. Their birthdays are within three weeks of each other. They’ve been in love for forever, and I’ve never seen them have an actual fight.

When you grow up with *that* as your example, you set yourself up for some serious disappointment. I met lots of people in grade school. I’ve kept in touch with two or three of them, and there’s no way I’d marry any of them. When I hit 20, I realized that my version of Dad was nowhere to be found, and I cried. When I turned 22, I noticed that I was nowhere near getting married, much less having kids. But I didn’t cry because I figured there was lots of time for that.

When I turned 25, a friend asked me if I ever get scared that I’ll never have kids. I was. For a few years I felt that time clock pressure that women like to use when asking men for serious commitment. But I’ve learned that it goes away, that feeling that I NEED to have kids. Yeah, it doesn’t go away for everyone, but it did for me. My life isn’t perfect now, and having a family isn’t going to change that.

I spent many years being angry about the fact that my quest for a man was so much harder than my mom’s. But then I recently realized that she may have gotten to where she is on the direct route, but I get to see the scenery. The scenery is nice. I’ve gotten to make some great mistakes, and felt all kinds of wonderful love. I may never find “the one,” but if you add up my messy past, it really equates to some great stuff.

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It’s Over

It had been building up for awhile, I suppose. The feelings that weren’t there, the feelings that I tried to create, out of air and breath and all the things that are abundant in this world. The feelings that would allow us to be happy together, to build a future, and grow, and love each other. But no, it just wasn’t there. And I was so scared of what might happen. Afraid of getting back to where I was two years ago, because you and I both know that *that* was embarassingly ugly. There’s never an excuse for behavior like that.

So I went back and forth, wondering if it could work, wondering if maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough, if I wasn’t giving enough. The last time this happened, I spent a year regretting the decision. I spent a year feeling so shitty about myself and the future that I had enabled. And in that time, I told myself that if I were given a second chance at it, I’d do it right. I’d hold it carefully in my hands and never let it fall, crashing to the ground.

And I did a pretty good job at that. It didn’t crash on the ground. In fact, it barely even fell. It was set down on a table, and before it could really get to the point where it was broken and dismembered, I picked it up. I examined it. I looked at all its faces. All its lovely edges. Some were still sparkly, full of love and treasure, but most were dull. They don’t shine anymore, and I’m pretty sure they haven’t in quite some time. I even tried to buff out the hazy spots, but to no avail. The more I looked at it, the more foggy it became.

I was confused.

And I stopped writing.

Not only did the writing stop here, it stopped in the several notebooks I have laying around the apartment. Just picking up a pen to write a simple sentence down became too much trouble. Because there was only one thing that I had to write about, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it. I wasn’t ready to think about it, and I definitely wasn’t ready to tell you all about it. Writing it out makes it Very Final. Very Real. To write about it when I really wasn’t sure was a sort of betrayal. He didn’t know what was going on in my head, and for me to share it here – no, I couldn’t do it. So the pages here went blank. My hands got fat and lazy from not writing, and my insides got sick, full of pain and unrest. And yes, I suspect my brains have started to turn into mush.

After enough time mulling, I started to talk about it. I’m no good at talking about it, mostly because I’m way too dramatic about things, and I’m tired of being The Girl Who Loves To Talk About Herself. But as someone so gently pointed out to me recently, we are what we are. And friends are good. Living away from home, it’s hard not to have the comfort of familiar faces, especially when you’re as anti-social as I am. But miraculously there are people who care.

So here’s the deal: Sunday night it ended. For the last time. The lease is up November 1st. It looks like my November vacation home is turning into Moving week. And that sucks a little, because I miss home. I miss the ocean and the sun, and my family. But also I’m looking forward to closing this chapter in my life. It’s been going on for too long.

Not only is happiness on the horizon, it’s finally Right Here.

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