In one of the many episodes and adventures with the imperfect being, she finds herself confronted with an age-old nemesis.
Our story tonight begins with the imperfect being, who, having newly found herself in the beginnings of what looked to be a safe and healthy relationship with a safe and healthy man decided she could not a imagine a happier place in life. Perhaps, she pondered, this was it. She had found it, a place she could exist forever. Perhaps she had finally found herself on the right track, with ticket already purchased, sitting next to Mr. Nice Guy and smiling while they waited for the train to the town called Happiness&Contentment.
But it happened, as it always does, that just as the imperfect being was packing her suitcase and imagining her journey to the town of H&C, that she met an untimely intrusion from her age-old nemesis--Favorite Mistake.
Picture this: bar-close, post-dancing, post-party, post-cab-ride, the imperfect being suddenly finds herself opening the door to her apartment accompanied by favorite mistake, a nemesis so familiar he felt comfortable. So seemingly benign, she forgot the danger. He helped himself to glass from her cupboard and poured water from her Britta pitcher into her new flower mug (the one a friend gave to her with intentions it be used for hot-chocolate with a nice guy on a cold day). It was only then that she realized her mistake. It was not Mr. Nice Guy drinking out of her nice guy mug; it was the favorite mistake.
What was imperfect being to do? Would she rid herself of the nemesis or would this episode become yet another re-run with the favorite mistake?
Luckily, the imperfect being had had a stern conversation with herself early in the evening and pre-bar, pre-dancing, pre-party-and-cab had given the vixen within strict instruction not to sleep with the favorite mistake UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
But favorite mistake was not so easily dissuaded from the mission. What followed was a slightly inappropriate and excitingly dangerous scene that no doubt one could place in both the categories labeled "Unhealthy" and "So fucking hot!!!" Think Gone with the Wind, Wuthering Heights, Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Dangerous. Destructive. Hot.
The imperfect being argued with the favorite mistake. She swore at him, he ripped off clothing, she lashed out at him, he reasoned with her, and finally- she drew a line in the sand:
"Fine, tell me you love me and we can have sex."
The room grew silent and stopped cartwheeling. Favorite mistake looked at her in a blue-green lock-down stare. A year passed and she did not blink. Did not waver.
We all know his answer.
And after he left the imperfect being felt suddenly the silence and darkness of her room empty of her nemesis. She had refused the favorite mistake. She still held her train ticket to Happiness&Contentment.
***
Later, following this episode, the imperfect being will sit in the train station and look at her ticket to Happiness&Contentment... and, she will hate herself just a little for wondering what town the train visits next.
Part II> Who I Don't Write:Memories...
Who have I left out of my writing?
In thinking of this question-- of course, my father jumps to mind--the words almost flinch as I let them out onto the page and the only way I can even allow myself to mention he does not surface in my work is to plug my ears, listen to my own breathing, and imagine I am at the bottom of the FMS pool. It is 5:30 a.m. The lights are sleepy and glowing under the blue surface of the pool and the lights in the room are still turned off so that above the surface is gray and tired. Here I can let these words out.
I do not want to think about why I do not write him. I do not want to ask these questions.
In the past I have done much writing about my father. Writings like snap shots taken at birthday parties, the glow of candles flickering in anticipation of breath, candles that dance in the breeze of a song. Writings and letters and cards and poems. All so happy and perfect. Girl. Father. He smiles tears in her direction.
I only say this now because as I look at the list of other life characters I omit, I see... well, men. There is something so secret about writing about men. And instantly I'm working out a pattern. Even Shawn. I have been writing him elegies, or us elegies for a marriage lost now for two years, but what do I write about him? How do I even know where to begin? I write about my grief. My loss. I don't know that I actually write him.
The new non-boyfriend rattled me this weekend. We had been out all night and he said something about how we didn't really know each other, not yet.
I stopped.
I mean, we have our little routine.
I tensed.
No, no, I mean- I like it. I like what we have. Chemistry- that's what I mean. We have chemistry.
I can't quite let this go. Routine. We don't really know each other. The words pull at my arms as I try to move forward. Could it be that I am the problem? That I can't know men? When I think there's a connection, well, what is there?
And look-- I've done it again. Set out to write about the men I leave out of my life, set out to describe my father, and all I do is dance around these stories. Sidestep the land mines.
I stay in the shallow end. So afraid of what is in the deep end of that pool.
What keeps me from going there? Am I simply scared of being teased? Is the shy girl within just keenly sensitive and perceiving that to like men, to talk about men, is not allowed?
I am nine and the doorbell rings on dark-blue snowy Thanksgiving evening. For me.
"Is it a boy?" my uncle Jerry, the one who sometimes thinks he is my godfather and who I see maybe once a year, teases me.
"Actually," my dad clears his throat, shrugging, "ah, it is."
The spotlight lands on my face and I feel it grow a little hot. I walk to the door in a dress that has a black and white taffeta skirt and a black velvet body. I am pretty sure there is a red bow in my long blond hair, which may be curled since company is over.
My neighbor stands at the door and I am mortified by the significance of this event. And excited.
A boy means something different. It's not allowed. Not yet. But it makes me special. That he's at my door and all my family sees a boy has come over to talk to me.
I get the book he came to borrow for an assignment that he will not need to complete as school will be cancelled on Monday from too much snow. He looks pained for having intruded. We barely talk on Tuesday in school. He returns my book. It is nothing.
There is no significance to this event. I am still wading in the shallow end, watching the lights dance below the surface.
Part III. What I Write When I Don't Want to Write Pain...
I want to write about his adorable face when he's totally calm and holding me in his arms--eyes closed, romantic, a poet. I want to write how he played music, how he is a little thoughtful and remembers my schedule and calls when he knows I will be around, and how he is also just a little insistent, pushing up against me on the couch, pulling my dress up higher, higher, running his finger across my thigh, pressing on the shape of my hip bone, and sighing at the touch of my bare leg.
So smooth, he says.
Just like you, I say.
He laughs.
My awkward Romeo pulling off my too-tight tights, asking politely if we should change positions, after a night out on the town asking if I would go down on him
Don't do it if you don't want to, baby. I just think it might facilitate the process.
His room, my refuge, is blue. Dark blue walls, white trim, a room that suddenly seems filled with light in the mornings. A room where I woke up after the night I met him wearing the pajamas he offered me when I said I was not going to sleep with him. A room where I thought: I like it here.
There is a tree outside that fills the space of the window and a yard that sits on the top of a steep hill so that there is the illusion of no nearby neighbors--only stillness, the city skyline, and a train yard below the tree and hill that you can easily pretend doesn't exist.
That tree's going to fall on this house and kill me someday.
He says this from below our two dogs, the golden retriever, his, and the yorkie-poo, mine, who are wrestling with their usual ferocity. The retriever raises his paw from the ground, swiping at the yorkie-poo's face. The yorkie-poo, in turn, dive bombs the retriever from his vantage point on the bed like a WWF wrestler.
I laugh at his comment, watching as my small dog leaps off his back.
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