1...2...3...Breathe. Glide.
1...2...3...Breathe. Glide.
It's a welcome relief from my inner monologue.
I love to swim. The feeling of length and weightlessness and calm repetition. Most of my brain goes on standby as I focus on the rhythm of my breath and the movement of my arms. Constantly making minor adjustments. Correct the entry of my left hand to appease the tendons in my bad shoulder. Steady the kicking of feet so that I don't sink on my right side.
It's a welcome relief from my inner monologue.
1...2...3...Breathe. Glide.
A week ago I was sitting the exact same place I am sitting now, anticipating the arrival of the man I love, who has promised to bring pizza for dinner. My hamstrings are tight from a thirty minute run around the waterfront. I am reading the new Thomas Friedman book and listening to the local news on OPB. One cat is tucked in at my right elbow staring at me with his big, cartoonish eyes, and the other is massaging her chin on my big toe. The fireplace is on and the room is bathed in the comfortable light coming from my reading light and a few candles. All was right in the world.
I had no idea how wrong I was.
1...2...3...Breathe. Glide.
[Intermission]
When a week officially passes, at 7:30PM, I am sitting at a bar in North Portland with my friend Mel, drinking my second beer and looking at the coagulated remains of my macaroni and cheese. I really haven't laughed like this in a long time, and definitely not so in the last week.
I am having a conversation that you can only have with Mel. We talk about serious and sad stuff, of course, but we also have a conversation about putting a glory hole in a Pabst can. Her friend Russ invents the phrase "dilettante hobbyist freak" and rants about how people that dress up as Santa Claus for pub crawls really can't truly commit to being weird because it might hurt their band/freelance graphic design work/ability to get Cat Power tickets.
Since Mel thinks it will take at least four relationships before I am back on track, I break up with Russ and then with some guy in a blue hoodie that I outweigh by about 30 pounds. He looks confused and a little scared. Only two to go.
We are the most hysterical people in the bar. The gal at the table next to us is obviously not pleased, but the two men with her keep sneaking glances over at us and snickering under their breath. For the second time in 24 hours, I am having an unexpected amount of fun.
We leave about an hour later. I have class at 5:30 the next morning and she is trying to sell off the last of her worldly possessions before moving to California. I get into the car and my chest tightens at the thought going home to an empty condo.
1...2...3...Breathe. Glide.
I put the car into to drive, swing a u-turn and head for home. If I'm lucky, I can catch the end of the Monday night "Lost" marathon on the SciFi channel.
I am having a conversation that you can only have with Mel. We talk about serious and sad stuff, of course, but we also have a conversation about putting a glory hole in a Pabst can. Her friend Russ invents the phrase "dilettante hobbyist freak" and rants about how people that dress up as Santa Claus for pub crawls really can't truly commit to being weird because it might hurt their band/freelance graphic design work/ability to get Cat Power tickets.
Since Mel thinks it will take at least four relationships before I am back on track, I break up with Russ and then with some guy in a blue hoodie that I outweigh by about 30 pounds. He looks confused and a little scared. Only two to go.
We are the most hysterical people in the bar. The gal at the table next to us is obviously not pleased, but the two men with her keep sneaking glances over at us and snickering under their breath. For the second time in 24 hours, I am having an unexpected amount of fun.
We leave about an hour later. I have class at 5:30 the next morning and she is trying to sell off the last of her worldly possessions before moving to California. I get into the car and my chest tightens at the thought going home to an empty condo.
1...2...3...Breathe. Glide.
I put the car into to drive, swing a u-turn and head for home. If I'm lucky, I can catch the end of the Monday night "Lost" marathon on the SciFi channel.
9 comments:
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(loved this post)
Thanks, my goat. I figured the part about hobbyist freaks would bring back some good memories.
And Cat Power tickets. Hilarious.
Also, I'm glad you got through two new relationships on one night.
You're so efficient. :)
The best comment of the night: Dilettante Hobbyist Freak. Thank you, Russ.
The second best: Let's play a game called "Where's it Going Now?"
I will miss you and our horribly inappropriate, terribly funny conversations involving glory hole cans and the smell of fresh genitals in the morning.
It makes me so warm and fuzzy that (1) you are my friend and (2) my mom reads this blog. Awe-some.
I am warm and fuzzy as well. If you could see me you would know that is not a good thing. Mostly it means I smell weird and have mass amounts of body hair. It's creepy.
Linds,
I would consider it an honor to be Get Back on Track Relationship Number Three; what do you think of 3:15 to 3:25 this afternoon?
Please be gentle.
Mikey--I love you too much to break up with you quickly...can we extend it out from 10:15 through lunch tomorrow?
Of course, my little Pumpkin. :)
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