Big Fish (Nic)

8/24/08
Nic-
I'm flying back to Tucson tomorrow. I guess that means it's officially over. 

The amounts you owe me, I believe, are as follows

plane tic: $320

plane tic: $396

cash: $160

Let me know if this is different from your records. 

I guess that's the end of it. I hope you find someone who loves you as much as I do. I hope I do, too. 

Joce

Mars in Transit (Joce!)

My little sister got married last week. It was, as they say, a grand affair, with sparkle lights strung through the trees, a dance floor on the lawn, Champagne for days. It took an army of dedicated friends and family to pull it off – everybody was enthusiastic to make the day, the week, the ceremony, the after-party, an absolute ball. And it was. I enjoyed every minute of it.

Throughout the weekend, while I was dancing and eating and laughing and schlepping things here and there, and when I was in quiet contemplation, curled up in bed with my pups, I was thinking, of course, about myself and my own relationships. This time, this thinking, really caught me off guard because it wasn’t what I had expected to think and feel. I was surprised, standing up at the ceremony, holding the bouquet while my sister and her husband took their vows, that I didn’t feel a twinge of jealousy. That I didn’t feel sad for myself that it wasn’t a celebration of my relationship, my success at love. Isn’t this the exact time and place where I would feel those things, I thought to myself?

What I actually felt was relief that it wasn’t about me. That scenario – the big wedding, the three-ring circus of friends and family and dogs and proclaiming my undying love for someone, forever, in front of many, many people in a fancy, fancy, dress – it’s not for me. And the bouncing babies and the swinging toddlers on the dance floor, not even the tiniest twinge of heart wish – it’s not for me. And the talk of renovating houses and day-to-day at the job and one-week vacations and the water heater going out and sending the kids to college – not for me.

I don’t want to diminish or downplay or be discouraging about any of these things, because I do think they are great and wonderful and perfect, for most people (except maybe the water heater going out). Just not for me. Part of me really, really wishes that I would long for, and be content with a marriage and a house and a baby and everything else that we’re all supposed to want and be content with having. But, if I’m really honest with myself, not one ounce of me can get comfortable with a blockbuster wedding, a baby on my hip, a house in the hills: it makes me feel anxious and claustrophobic and trapped.

Trivial Pursuit (Joce)

I’m deep in the September sads. This month always makes me melancholy: the promise of a coming fall, imminent winter, inevitable inversion and long, dark days. It is the opposite of spring – lush, living things dry up and blow away, stone fruits drop and rot into sweet brown mush in the lawn, those things I said I’d do in June, remain undone. I didn’t work on my book. I didn’t lose 30 lbs. My summer fling has flung. The sweaty fervor and electric heat of summer wanes and my hopes go into hibernation.

There are babies being born, weddings on the docket, but there’s nothing in my small, quiet life that warrants a celebration. Like a squirrel, my sister says, I’m just puttering around, putting food away for winter.  I find myself more resistant, more cautious, less willing in fall. Which means it’s going to be a long, and lonely winter.

The Deep Sea Diving Suit (Clint, Nik, Rocco)

I bought a house at 19. My dad insisted it was a good investment and helped me with the $3,000 down payment. In the mid-90’s you could build a brand new three-bedroom house with a two-car garage on a half an acre for $68,000 with a 5% interest rate.  My house payment was $550; I split it with my boyfriend at the time. We spent the next two years spending every disposable dime accumulating stuff: a washer and dryer, trashcans, hoses, a guest bed, a tree for the yard. We furnished creatively with yard sale finds, hand-me-downs from grandparents and splurged on two bright blue barrel chairs and a zebra striped rug from Ikea. We saved months for a new TV. Evenings and weekends were spent taming that half-acre into a lawn, which then required weekly mowing and endless sprinkler moving, I hoed the old, dry ground for flower beds, and planted and weeded, and tended the rose bushes. We assembled a bench for the front porch and installed an old brown fridge in the garage for overflow beer.  

But, less than a year into the new house, our relationship was pretty much over. I had grown to hate my lazy, alcoholic slob of a boyfriend; he thought I was a nag and a shrew, which was probably true, too. We didn’t break up though, mostly because of the stuff. I was working full-time, and a full-time college student. Clint worked nights. I knew we would both have to find a new place and then find the time to split up the stuff which would inevitably lead to bickering which would take more time. Neither of us had the time or the will, frankly, to deal with all that. So, our stuff was the anchor that kept us tied. After four years, though, I finally had had enough.

Instead of splitting up the stuff, I just let him have everything. The barrel chairs, the TV, the mid-century modern couch that had belonged to my grandfather. When we sold the house, the beer fridge was his problem, and the garage full of yard tools, the computer desk that had to be disassembled, and the zebra rug. I packed up my clothes, took only the things that I had owned prior to our co-house, like family pictures, and my dog.

I did this mostly because I wanted a clean break. I didn’t want “our” crap around when there was no longer an “us,” I didn’t want to be reminded of him, of our space, our things, or the stink of our bad relationship tainting up my future space.

Also, I was moving in with another guy and he had his own house with his own stuff, and there wasn’t much room for additional stuff.