in the first place.

Is it considered legitimate heartbreak if you signed up for it in the first place?  Or is that sort of thing caused by a preexisting condition?  Maybe something inside of you is disconnected or tangled up, failing to send vital messages to the right areas.

You hurt yourself because you can't help yourself.  You can't help yourself because you hurt yourself.  And nobody can afford to help you.

I'm not sure.

on holidays.

"As a child, Christmas seems less like a holiday and more like some invincible force of happy.  Of warmth and of light.  Of stockings hanging from mantles and picturesque fog on windows.  Of course, there are still some grown-ups who feel this way, and I can never decide if I think they're lucky or naive or both.

But the truth about Christmas is that it's just as capable of being spoiled as any other day of the year.  There is no great fortress around it. It has no superpowers.


The day I became privy to this was the day I found Josephina underneath the tree.  My American Girl doll.  Brushable hair and the kind of eyes and that closed and shut.  Flawless.  I remember holding her, standing alone in a quiet living room feeling unsure about what to do with myself.

White lights were still meticulously stranded on the tree, the imitation evergreen branches still aglow.  There was wrapping paper on the floor and garland around the banister and all of the Christmas paraphernalia you could need to feel merry and bright as ever.  I felt dim.

I remember an argument starting earlier that morning, in the corner where my parents sat.  A dark, fussy cloud settled over each of their heads.  Just like mistletoe, only garnering the opposite effect.  My brother and I, both masters of distraction, doing our best to talk over them and keep each other preoccupied with new presents.  Even though I doubt we were even paying attention to silly presents at that point.  We could sense a storm coming, and when a storm is coming, it's generally difficult to focus on anything else.  You know, the same way food doesn't taste good anymore when you're nervous.

At some point, the tempest reached a sort of pinnacle followed by my dad parading out the front door in a fit of Christmas rage.  This is similar to Christmas cheer, only not at all.  In any way. 

Somehow, all three of us, that being me, my mom and brother, ended up on my parent's bed - the mainstay of the family.  Kind of like Santa's sleigh, only for sleeping on instead of delivering presents.  I didn't fully understand the situation at the time.  I think I was mostly thinking of myself and wondering how this day of all days could have ended like this, in tears on a bed.  Now I realize that crying is just what you do when you're at a complete loss to console any of the people you love.  I also remember that my feet were freezing, even bundled underneath the white down comforter.  I remember wondering why did we go to all of this trouble every year anyway, if it was just going to make everyone upset?

The next year in school, I was supposed to write a letter to Santa Clause.  Apparently he needed another annual notification of my material desires.  You know the drill.  I wrote that I simply and sincerely wanted nothing more than for December 25th not to result in an argument.  I wasn't trying to be dramatic or anything.  Just, honestly, what good are presents if families couldn't all be in the same room together to open them?

My outrageously nosy teacher decided it would be a good idea to call my mom and inform her of what I had written.  Because, for reasons that escape me, she found it concerning and thought it was any of her business.  And I remember my mom crying, again.  Which was really the opposite of what I had wanted.   Thanks, Mrs. Lee.  (And if you're reading this, that was sarcasm.)

You see, Christmas puts pressure on people until they storm out of front doors.  Christmas plants a certain sense of helplessness inside of me causes it to grow and spread throughout my entire body.

And I'm not saying that liking this holiday is stupid or that anyone who does is inferior or even that any of this is rational or justified.  It's just that Christmas has always had a way of blowing up in my face.

So falalalala yourself."

         -From a while ago.  And for the record, this is a poor representation of the top notch job my parents did of raising me in a happy, loving home.  Because it was.  We've just always struggled with the big holidays, buckled under the pressure or something like that.

futile

Low-hanging clouds settle upon hills, white chocolate and ripe raspberry filling.  Frosting on grass.  Soft light coming in through a window.  Cups of warm liquid and feet bundled into thick socks.  Leaves losing chlorophyll.  A good story, the kind worth getting lost in.  Calico skies.  Early sunsets.  Fogged-up glass.  Wheels on a wet street.  Colors made richer in the gloom. 

This morning I woke up and the world was new.  And I would say that I'm happy.  That's what I would say if anyone asked me.  I'd say that I'm happy in the present, here and now, in that way I often find it difficult to be happy.  But that isn't always the point, is it?

Potential.  Growth.  All of these words I find exhausting and self-righteous and braggy, like the kind of people you might too often find at the gym.  Pain, but the kind that refines.  The kind that you feel after you've done anything worth doing.  Peace.  But the real kind.  That peace of God that "passeth all understanding."

These are the things my mind gravitates back to, between sessions of prime-time television and sleep.

And they all make happy sound futile.  Like a pop song after a summer storm.  Like refined sugar after biting into the season's most perfect nectarine.

none.

You think I'm strange.  You do. You always have, and I know it because I've seen it in your face whenever I laugh too loud at my favorite movies that aren't stimulating enough for you.  I've felt it in the way that you avoid eye contact with me, even all of those times I was sitting directly across the table from you which would have been the most natural and logical place to look in that situation.    

I mean, it doesn't really bother me.  Not that being thought of as strange is a particularly enjoyable experience.  I get self-conscious, sometimes.  But I just try to remember that the only reason anyone feels that way about anyone is because they simply don't appreciate the same things as the other person.

And I guess, in that regard, I must think you're strange right back.

Some good reading from Take June for your Monday.

delirious adoration

It's finally past 5:30 again - This time that I find myself doubting the arrival of, every weekday of my life.  Somehow I know the universe has decided to to skip it and I'll be left here, rotting on my swiveling chair, in limbo, forever.  But come it does, saving my sanity upon arrival.  I'm on the freeway with my speedometer pointing to the big 80 toward the top of the 3/4 circle on my dash.  Because I speed.  I speed away from home in the morning and then straight back to it, hours later, just after 5:30 pm.

I look at the clock and I smile.  5:36.  I smile because any minute past 5:30 means freedom.  All of the minutes and seconds I waste and breaths I take past 5:30, I waste and take them freely.

My windows are open.  The sweet post-summer air envelops me, waltzes through my hair and over my skin and sends every movable object around me into an excited frenzy.  I feel the sun, kissing my cheeks in an affectionate hello.  She's golden and cordial and encouraging us all, in direct contrast to the merciless white-hot of the months behind us.

I look around to all of the other people, driving in their boxes of metal and plastic and wheels and wonder what they're thinking now.  With their windows up.  With their speakers muted.  With their hands securely inside of the vehicle and not dancing outside of their window doing air waves.  That's where mine was, and it felt like heaven.  A happy chill went up my arm and onto my shoulders and I about combusted right then and there with delirious adoration for this season.  This promise of Autumn.  This reverent celebration of the natural order of things.  Of finding our way back to the ground, to our roots, to the dust from whence we came.  This big breath, this sense of clarity before the haze of hibernation.

peaches and personal revelation

I first learned that God listened to my prayers through a hamster.  His name was Peaches.  My family named him this because he had orange fur, and his little bum looked just like a peach.  It was unanimous.

Peaches died a tragic death by marshmallow peep.  He found his way into my brother's Easter basket and thought he'd try eating one which expanded in his body and asphyxiated him until dead.  Like I said, tragic.  I've never really understood Peeps.  White, fluffy sugar covered in more sugar, just colorful this time, shaped like bunnies and baby birds.  Anyway, I digress. 

Before his passing, Peaches and I were thick as thieves.  The only trouble was, hamsters are small.  At the tender age of 7, I wasn't very skilled at keeping track of the day of the week, let alone small items such as hamsters.  I used to place him in random spots, like my sock drawer, and forget about him.  A few hours later I would realize -- the hamster was lost. 

This was typically followed by complete chaos, caused by my entire family's efforts to find our lost Peaches.  When I had exhausted every place I could think of, and resorted to shameless tears, I had a thought.  If anybody knew where my hamster was, it was God.  I mean, he knew lots of things, right?

I said a prayer, Please help us find Peaches.  Every time, without fail, Peaches turned up in a matter of minutes.  And that's how I knew.  God knew me.  He wanted to help.  He was generally easy to get a hold of.  He listened, he answered, he cared.

Last night, I felt a bit nostalgic.  The cat made a mad dash out the front door as we opened it for some visitors. She ran and ran, father than we had ever seen her run, through a neighbor's yard and into the dark of the night.  We knew we wouldn't be able to sleep until she was home safe, especially with a thunderstorm rolling in.  We had to find her, and quick.  And might I add how happy I was at this point that she was a cat and not a hamster.

After about an hour of walking around with flashlights, jingling bells, shaking bags of food, calling out, "Kitty kiiittyyy!" and a bunch of other things that I'm sure were sincerely concerning to our neighbors, we were at a loss.  Drew stood on the back porch, slumped his shoulders, said, "What do we do?"

"I don't know..."

Wait, yes I do.  "How about we say a prayer."

He nodded.  We walked to our room, knelt down by our bed, and I said a simple prayer.  Please help us to find our cute little kitty.  We like her.  

After that, we decided to go sit out on the porch, wait for her to come to us.  I went to grab my book, and heard Drew say, "Hey, there she is!"  He was holding her when he walked inside and locked the front door, said, "Well that was fast."

transition.

I sit outside at lunch, eating home made mac and cheese in sandals and a breezy t-shirt with the entire half of each of my legs showing out the bottom of my shorts.  And I'm sweating just a little, but I resist the urge to run back into the air conditioned sanctuary.

Simply for the reason that I know this will seem impossible in a matter of weeks.

09-04-13

There is a change in lighting and the in-between-set music slowly fades until you're left with nothing but a quiet, hesitant room full of strangers.  And anticipation.  A substantial amount of that.

As soon as the act of the hour begins their set, they arrive.  Right on time.  And by they, I mean the people who think it's perfectly okay to squeeze right in front of you in blatant violation of the unwritten rules of concert culture, and put their drinks down on the stage that has a sign which clearly states, "NO DRINKS ON STAGE." 

I'm beside myself. 

They whisper.  As if whispering is any less distracting than just jumping on the stage and rubbing their tongues all over the instruments.  They wiggle around.  There is no end in sight to all of the whispering and the wiggling.  And they never sing a single word at all, ever, to any of these songs that have saved you in the past.

Some people might simply label this as annoying.  I would take it further.  I call it irreverence.  Because I'm dramatic like that and had been looking forward to this concert for my whole entire life.  Or maybe just a few years, but come on.

Towards the end of the set, which mostly consisted of me leaning to the opposite side of the tall wiggly whisperers directly in front of me and flashing angry eyes at Drew as he mouthed, "CALM DOWN", someone to my left gets my attention.  They have their friends clear a space right at the front of the crowd, and motion for me to move up there.  I'm hesitant, tell them I'm too tall.

This person, this glorious stranger insists. "You know every word."

And I was beside myself again, but in a much better way.

before-you's

I'll compare it to the feeling of hearing your own voice played back at you out of speakers.  Typically, you're the one who hears your voice the most out of anyone.  It's something you feel pretty confident in being familiar with.  But suddenly, when you hear it the way everyone else does, it sounds wrong.  There couldn't be more repulsive auditory stimulus in existence, and all you want in the world is for it to stop.

It's kind of like that.  Where I have this idea, this picture in my head of what I think I resemble.  But then I look in the mirror and find staring back at me a creature I can't recognize.  I swear we've never met.  And whenever I was around any of these others, any of the before-you's, the vision of myself in my mind had arms that were at least 13 inches too long for her body.  She was definitely cross-eyed.  She had a substantial uni-brow or something equally horrific.  Her teeth were all sorts of sticking-out and crooked and she was like an outhouse in the sense that you wouldn't want to be near her for any longer than your breath could be held in your lungs.

This was how I assumed I must have looked, based on all of these before-you's treatment of me.  Then I'd crawl home at the end of the night, look in the mirror and come to a realization.  The coast was clear - No uni-browed monster here.  I wasn't half as ungraceful and revolting as I had been made to believe.  So, I'd ask, What gives?

It was like this with you.  Except, of course, the exact opposite.  I could describe the entire initiation of our relationship with two words: Who, me?  After spending time in your oh-so lovely presence, I would face that mirror at the end of the night thinking that exact thing.  Here you had me under the impression that I was some sort of prepossessing cherubim when I was really, in fact, just plain old me.

doers.

"Well, are you a dreamer or a doer?"

That was your question.  And I didn't want to answer, because I think that was the moment I realized just how ill-suited we were.  I knew an honest answer would inevitably tear you and I into the separate walks of life we were headed toward.

Me?  Not a doer.  More like, easily satisfied - to a fault.  And I wish someone would have revealed that to me, at some point.  At some point before I woke up to the terrible realization of what I had missed.  I wish they would have grabbed both of my shoulders in their hands and shaken that satisfaction right out of me.

Not that I can justifiably blame anybody else.  Even though I'd like to.

I never used to think I was a perfectionist.  That never came up on the list of "Words I Would Use to Describe Myself."  Not even once.  But I'm coming to figure out that I am, although a peculiar breed.

When I consider doing, my mind immediately informs me of all the better doings other people have already done.  And I think to myself, well, if I'm not the best, if it won't be perfect, if I can't make it just-so, then what is the point?

And that is the thought that has kept from from doing, that, as it seems, will be keeping me from it my whole existence.

my brain, lately

-I'm in a pr-etty intense peanut butter phase right now.  I put it on an apple every morning.  I regularly eat peanut butter toast.  You know, where you spread it on that warm bread and it melts into heavenly goodness?  And sometimes I just eat it plain off of a spoon.  But only natural peanut butter.  Not that fake, plastic crap.  And I'm not saying that because I'm all healthy and pretentious.  I like natural peanut butter better because it...actually tastes like peanuts?  Which I thought was the whole point of peanut butter.


-Old friends.  Aren't they weird?  Some of them you can go years without seeing, and it feels as if they never left, while you simultaneously wonder how you ever made it through a day without them.  Other times, it's plain uncomfortable.  You're just standing there, staring at each other, waiting for the conversation to flow the way it used to.  And you're thinking, what happened here?  We used to be tight!   Back when you knew all of their secrets and favorite songs.  But now something is off.  And you'll probably never figure out what.


-I have this tendency, to get lost in beautiful things.  Which are far more common than people tend to realize.  Especially when you consider all of the insanely beautiful things that the sky does, every single day.  Really.  I am fully convinced that paying attention to the sky on a regular basis makes an individual's life at least 8% more enjoyable.  Lately I've been particularly taken with those few moments between sunset and night.  Where the stars are barely coming out, but there is still the tiniest bit of light coming from the western horizon.  Magic.


-Do you ever forget your age?  When someone asks you for it, you get all mixed up between last year's and this year's and wonder if you're even a person at all.  If it weren't for math I probably would have lost track years ago.  I hate that I just found a practical reason for math to exist.


-There is this line from a Conor Oberst song: "I watch you braid your hair; you're from another time, when the earth wasn't so angry, and God was on our side."  I've always wanted to be that girl.  You know?  The soft, gentle, sweet-natured lady with the loose curls and the classy wardrobe.  Who is typically found in a skirt somewhere, picking flowers and singing.  But I'm much too distracted.  With short, edgy hair cuts.  Busy patterns.  Jeans.  And the fact that part of me also wants to look like Maja Ivarsson.  Contradiction, contradiction.

-I'm definitely PMSing today.  Definitely.  And I know this because every single person I've had to call for work today has hurt my feelings.  Or, I guess I should say, I've gotten my feelings hurt by them.  All I can think of is that line from You've Got Mail.  "It's not personal - it's business."  But I can't fathom that right now.  Because right now, the perfect storm is brewing inside of my body and everything, and I do mean everything, seems as personal as the most awkward medical exam.

07/31/13

when i woke up

I was sitting in my Sunday best across the room from the kind of man I hoped would still exist in a few years.  As opposed to the loose canons I always seemed to find myself in close proximity to.  The kind that ignore your phone calls and inhale illegal substances and then tell you they didn't. 

Yes, this man in front of me was the kind of man who most definitely answered every one of his wife's phone calls, and who probably never inhaled things for fun.  That's what I was thinking.  He told me that my past was set in stone, but that I couldn't let that tether me down, away from the better things.

I remember imagining myself as a statue.  Set in stone. My past-self, with the blank, passive expression and the terrified eyes.

The only thing you can do is move forward with all of the strength you have and make as many memories as you can to make the bad ones, the repulsive ones, seem smaller somehow.  After awhile, they feel like less apart of you.

So, if you're one of the unfortunate, one of the manipulated and deceived who let a poisonous boy who never deserved to touch you, touch you, at least you have that to look forward to.  And by "that" I mean the entire rest of your life.

valediction

Whenever Drew writes me a note, he ends it with:

                            All my love,

                                             Drew.

And I cannot get enough of that.  I can't even explain why.  I just look down at the scrawled-on piece of paper, with a closed-lip smile, squinted eyes, and think, youuu charming devil, you.

Because he just is, in the most subtle, no-agenda kind of way.  The very first time we "hung out" alone, he put his arm around me.  He just did it.  And I call it a hang out because it wasn't a date.  It just wasn't.  Can't possibly qualify.  We went and got sushi.  I paid.  And I'm pretty sure every single person he has ever come in contact with decided to call him while we were sitting there.  I was annoyed with all of them.

We headed up to one of my three favorite parks.  The one that overlooks the valley, that everyone now knows about, so it's always crowded.  We laid in the grass and listened to music and never once touched each other.  At all.

As we walked back to the car, he just grabbed me by the waist and pulled me toward him.  As if this were a normal, expected kind of thing, that had happened on a regular basis for a considerable amount of time.  And I'm reeling on the inside, trying to act cool about it on the outside.  Like, yeah, you know, Drew's arm is around my waist.  No big.  NBD.  (It was.  It was a BD.  A B-freaking-D.)

I asked him about that a few weeks ago.  Because, from my experience, it takes a lot of nerve, to just reach out and touch another person without their explicit approval to do so.  Given, the greater the risk, the greater the potential return.  But still.  Scary.  There were times that I had to have a countdown in my head before leaning in to kiss someone.  Like, three....two....one....smootch. 

I guess I just wanted to know where in the world someone gets that kind of nerve.

He said to me, "Meg, if I wanted to date someone, I just did."

So, there you go, I guess.

contend:

        to struggle in opposition;
          to assert or maintain earnestly. 

I was angry with you.

Not by any means was this justified.  But I was angry, with you.

Never mind that everything I needed had been provided.  I had been held up and prodded forward in every challenge I faced.  Never was I forced to do any single thing alone.

You knew I knew it.

I didn't want to bend my knees or lay down my head in submission.  Trying, shameless, to prove some pathetic point.  That I was capable of handling this.  I could do it.  On my own.

All that I really proved, I think, is that I wasn't and couldn't.  Which had been made clear eons ago. The only way to be supported was to put my weight on you.

You knew I knew it.

I was complaining in my mind, about how I never heard from you anymore.  That it used to happen all of the time, don't you remember?  A sentence or a thought stood out, an old friend came back from the dead.  And I was so sure that this was a means of communication.  Straight from you to me.


Of course, I took the time to explain my plans.  I was going to give up.  And don't you try to stop me.

I said that every morning was impossible.  Every day a battle.  I was going to allow this relentless current to pull me out, to take me where it would.  Because what did you care.  I didn't.

But that was all a lie.  And you knew I knew it.

portugal.

I'm not sure what it is about concerts, for me.  Because, when I really think about it, they're basically torture.  Torture that I pay for.  In tickets and service fees and gas money and beverages bought just to stay alive after I actually make it into the overcrowded, overheated venue. 

Just hear me out.  And don't get me wrong.  Because I love live music.  I love it to the point that I used to refuse to get serious with any dude who wasn't happy to take me to see it.  When Drew and I spent our first Valentine's Day at a MuteMath show?  I knew it was meant to be.  As I said, I really love concerts.  But sometimes I wonder if this love is logical, or if it's even somewhat abusive.

You drive many miles to get to the venue, because when are they ever in a convenient location?  Then there's parking.  If you don't want to pay for parking, you're looking at walking approximately five blocks.  And that's a moderate estimation.  If you don't want to walk, and decide to park, you'll most likely realize that you don't have cash to pay for said parking.  This results in a scramble between you and all of your friends, searching through purses and pockets and underneath seats.  Usually though, you'll have to find an ATM anyway.  This is an ordeal in and of itself.

After you've parked and made the treacherous journey across several busy streets to the venue, you get in line.  I'm convinced that these lines are apart of some sort of alternate universe.  Where people with unnaturally-colored hair and spiky accessories stare at you.  Just stare.  As if they're questioning why you think you deserve to be here, in this line, to see this band, that they have clearly liked for longer than you have because they're wearing a shirt from a tour that happened five years ago.

Now, if you want to be anywhere near the stage at this concert, you'll need to get in line in advance.  How far in advance?  That depends on the popularity of the band you're planning to see.  The time varies anywhere from 1-15 hours.  Also, keep in mind that the doors always open at least half hour after the ticket says they will.  So get comfortable.  Not that this is possible.

Sometimes it's raining, other times you're under direct rays from the sun.  Either way, you'll probably be at least moderately miserable.  In this case, glare at the bouncers.  It doesn't do anything to really fix your situation, but seems to help me.

Once the stars align and all of the bouncers are finally able to see our of their third eyes, they decide to let you into the venue.  That you paid to be able to go into.  Regardless, they still act as if it's some huge service on their part.  They also treat you as if you're a convicted felon, and will pull a knife out on them at any second.  Oh, and your ID is fake.  Even if it's real, they're sure it's fake.  At this point, you are herded like cows through the doors.  If you're lucky, you'll be frisked.  But only on special occasions.

Then comes more waiting.  You like standing, right?  Because you're going to be standing for a long time to come.  The show most likely won't be starting for another hour or so.  And if you try to sit down, one of those pleasant bouncers will come over and let you know that such actions are unacceptable.  Because reasons.

If you're fortunate, there will only be one opening band.  But usually, there are three.  Three half hour sets with 45 minute breaks in-between.  But you want to be in front for the band that you actually came to see, so you stand your ground.  Even while being pushed around by these people.

These people are not your friends.  They are very unhappy that you got to the concert before them, and have a better spot than them.  So, naturally, they spend the rest of the evening making you as uncomfortable as possible.  At least one of them will be extremely inebriated, and fall all over you, the entire time.  Just accept it.  They are never going away.

By this time, It's 11:00 pm.  You've been standing up since about seven, when you got in line to be judged by all of the judgy judges.  You're exhausted and dehydrated.  But you can't go get a water, because 1) Water costs a million dollars, and 2) You'll lose the spot you've worked for all day.  That can't happen.  Then, finally, the lights go off.  The horrible reggae album of Beatle's covers stops blaring in your ears.  It's happening.  The actual band that you actually want to see is actually coming on stage.

By now, you're probably at least partially delirious.  Your legs are numb and the soles of your feet feel like they're bleeding.  The crowd has started doing this thing where they get into a circle and shove each other in different directions.  After countless efforts at a countless number of shows, I still have found no valid reason for this to be happening.  But it happens.  It happens every time.

Somehow, you're moving around and banging your head and singing along to these songs you've been waiting for all day.  You magically have energy again.  You once were lost but now you're found.  And you don't even care about how tired you'll be at church tomorrow.  Because Portugal. The Man is just that good.

even then.

When I was in first grade, I had a major crush on my teacher.  His name was Mr. Chapel, and he was apparently the man of my 6-year-old dreams. Him and that questionable toe-headed lurp of a boy, Josh Monson, but we've been over that.

I didn't begin the first grade as one of Mr. Chapel's students.  The original teacher I was assigned to was Mrs. Christiansen (that's Chris-tchee-AAn-sen), who, in short, terrified me.  I don't remember exactly why, but I do remember that her classroom had no windows and I went home crying every single day.

Naturally, my mother had me transferred to this new dreamboat of a teacher.  He was so very kind.  Always making a point to say hello to me and giving me gummy bears.  He also didn't mind when I decided to just hang out at the back of the line when the class had times table flashcard competitions.  I could NOT handle that kind of pressure.  (Not much has changed in that area.  To this day, if you show me even one of those flash cards, I will collapse on the floor and my tongue will go numb.  I hate times tables.  Hate.)

Eventually, my first day in his class came to an end.  I had my pink back pack on, all zipped up and prepped for the long walk to my mom's car on the other side of the street.  I was lined up at the back door, ready to leap into freedom and spend the rest of the afternoon playing in dirt.  Mr. Chapel, the angel that he was, knelt on a knee in front of me and put his hand on my shoulder.

Six-year-old Megan wasn't sure how to react, and so I stood there, wide-eyed and paralyzed.  It was all that I could manage.

He smiled at me in all of his perfection and said, "G'bye Meg!"

He was just being a friendly, totally normal teacher, making sure that I felt extra welcome on my first day in a new class.  But I, of course, interpreted this gesture as something exponentially more awkward than that.

At this moment, I fully expected him to lean forward and give me a goodbye kiss.

Of course.

Because that's what all nice teachers do before getting arrested.  Right?

I closed my eyes and puckered my lips in anticipation.  A few seconds passed, and I vaguely remember losing my balance.  This resulted in me somehow tripping while standing, which, up to this point, I wasn't even aware was possible.  My eyes opened, and I saw Mr. Chapel's puzzled expression staring back at me. 

I can only imagine what he must have thought at this point.  What is this, a seizure?

He tried again, with the normal-ness, "...Goodbye, Meg!"

I was mortified.  I don't even remember if I said anything back, I just know that I made my way out of that school as quickly as my little legs would take me.

This was sixteen years ago, over a full decade, and it still dominates in my mind as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.  And I guess my point is that I seem to have an infinite amount of space in my brain for storing memories like this one.

Also, any time that a relationship ended with me being dumped.  Which was approximately 3 out of 11.  But that's not bad, is it?

my husband the pitcher man. my stylish father.

There was a sunset last night.  There was a sunset as we loaded the last of our boxes into cars.  I don't mean that in the way that there are sunsets every night.  I mean there was a sunset last night, that burned pink and orange and dark blue, getting brighter by the minute.

I need a picture of that.  After this box, I'm getting a picture of that sunset.

I never took a picture.  And I'm still thinking about how I regret not taking a picture of that gorgeous sunset that bid us farewell on the last day in our first apartment of our whole entire life together.   As I drove away, I saw it drop behind the horizon.  It sunk down past the cut-out-cardboard silhouette of the mountains, where you can never get anything back once it's gone.

These are the things I do to myself, in my brain.  It's torture.  Because obviously that wasn't the last sunset I'll ever see, and it isn't as if we're moving out of the country or anything.  We live ten minutes away if you take the freeway, and will most likely end up back in American Fork by Fall.  But moving has always been significant for me.

You take down all of your carefully-placed pictures, all of the magnets that held little notes to the fridge.  You take down that card someone wrote you or that potted plant your mom gave you which almost died that one time you went on vacation and forgot about it.  You take it all down, you pack it all up.  You literally move on.

It's the ending of one chapter, the beginning of another.  And it makes me so nostalgic and sentimental I practically drown in the feeling of it all.  Such ridiculous emotional indulgence.  Who knows how I function on a regular basis.

I enter the freeway, end the phone call with Drew about what food he should pick up on the way because we're both just starving.  I'm singing to Radiohead, I think, because the local high school station is on a kick lately, which is fine with me.  One song ends, another begins.  The cat and I are meowing back and forth because she hates car rides and being in her traveling cage and she tries to bite her way out.  I laugh, but admire her determination.

And the kids at that radio station must have been pretty in-tune with the universe last night, because then they played "Home."

Home.  Let me come home.
Home is wherever I'm with you.
Oh, home.  Yes, I am home.
Home is where I'm alone with you.

And, for some reason, that about made up for the whole sunset thing.

My body had long since given up on convincing my mind to sleep.  Cheeks burning with tears, throat aching from failed efforts to hold them in.  I told you that I was tired.  That I couldn't spend another day trying to outrun this weight that had settled in my head and heart.

You said that I had work to do, and things to let go of.  I had habits to abandon; I'd never make it with them present.

I protested.  I said I had grown too attached, that they had become apart of me by now.  I told you that I was afraid I wouldn't recognize myself without them.  And I heard your answer before it was even said.

"What makes you think that would be such a bad thing?"

I used to be so proud of my maturity.  When anyone mentioned that I seemed older than I was, or that I had grown up fast, I was flattered.  There was nothing I liked more at 16 than to be mistaken for a 20-year-old.  

And it's true, I did grow up fast.  Emotionally, anyway. I didn't have much of a choice in the matter. 

The thing is, I think I'm trying to make up for that now.  It's pretty bad timing.

I had Thrice in my head this morning.  Sometimes that happens.  I wake up with a song in my head and have no idea where it came from.

I like to think that my dreams invite all of my favorite musicians to come play for me in my sleep.  And I wake up with only a sleepy recollection.

Getting out of bed this week has been nearly impossible.  I feel this unshakable urge to hide.

But that isn't an option because I'm a grown up.  Not sure exactly when that happened, but how do I make it stop?