Hi hey hi it's me I'M ALIVE

I'm alive! I don't write as often as I used to, but when I do, it's on my private Instagram account (that you're welcome to follow if you don't already—@clkdelight). 

I can't even remember the last time I blogged? July, was it? Oh, how much has changed since then. I fell out of like with a man who ticks all the boxes on my checklist and back into love with another who does not, but who kisses my neck and leaves long voicemails when he gets overwhelmed.

And anyway I hate my new job. But life is good. I am in the city with the sunsets and the skyscrapers and life is still so good.

Your brain on men. *Your brain on men with salary jobs and law school dreams.*

"I think you're sort of comically great. And I thought it seemed so promising, so, I bungled it. Because that's what I do. I bungle things."

http://youtu.be/_RYBglsS0tg

On egg shells about you.

     "We need to have a serious talk," he says. We're in the back corner of a Sports Authority in a wealthy New Jersey suburb. It's Friday afternoon. I've had him for three hours and I'm looking for ways to prolong our time. I'm organizing boxes and he's following close behind.

     "Okay, what about?" I slam a box of race bibs down on the registration table.

     "When you're moving out to D.C."

I roll my eyes, audibly laugh in a nonsensical way, like it's impossible to even consider. In my mind, I tell him what our mutual friends have suggested I boldly say: if I do, are you going to take me on a real date?

     "What makes you think I'm going to make that move?" I say.

     "Lots of things," he twirls a pen between his fingertips, "first of all, we've talked about this--it's your city." 

     "Why are you pushing so hard?" I ask, hands on my hips. Hard to look authoritative and in control in yoga pants and a neon tank muscle tee. He leans against the table I'm working to clear.

     "Oh, come on! There's so much we haven't done yet! So much left to do! Now that I've been there long enough, I've developed some favorite spots and I can't wait to show you."

     "I want to. I really want to move there, but--"

     "No, sorry, no excuses," he says, waving his hands around. "I'm starting to believe you don't want it at all."

My mind shifts into mayday mode. What if he really believes I don't want it? What if I've played it too cool? Will he stop begging? I like it when he begs!

     "Oh, I want it. I promise I want it." 

     "Then prove it," he says, a devious smile across his face. "Tell you what: you come visit me again this summer, and I'll change your mind. Again." He folds his arms across his chest. "And, hey! If you end up moving out there, might just be a surprise waiting for you." 

     "Well, tell me what it is and maybe I'll decide right now." 

     "Oh... Sorry. No can do! Move to D.C. I'll have it waiting." 

He grocery shops for M&Ms. Bags and bags of them. Says he's only going to buy one this time, but always returns with more. He plays the piano. Has curly hair that springs just so when he's neglected a haircut. Likes mediocre Chicken Tikka Marsala and when I make biting remarks on his behalf. He's reverent about the American flag and hates the idea of a family dog, something I find strangely intriguing and, uncharacteristically, endearing.

Give me the time and remove my pride, I think I could, very easily, become an east coaster soon.

     

For Jude.

Where's that line I used to know?

With love, 

the one who slipped on you.

March 26, 2015

     I lay my head on his chest and pull an arm up to fuss with his shirt buttons. We each wait for the other to speak.

     "So, we're just not going to talk about this?" he asks. 

     I shake my head. "There is nothing I need to say."  

     "Really? Nothing. At all?" 

     I look up at him, seeing only the outline of his chin through the dark. "What were you expecting?" 

     "I don't know," he runs a solitary finger in a straight line across my back. Pins together the wings of my shoulder blades and it feels like a metaphor. "I just got into so much trouble last time we did this--" 

     "Yeah, well, last time was different," I say, "you're not in trouble."

     "What do you mean last time was different? I remember last time being remarkably similar to this time." 

     "Except, no Jimmy Kimmel," I remind him. 

     "No, you're right. No late night television. This time, we sort of just pulled ourselves together in the dark and silence, didn't we?" 

     "And last time, you kissed me goodnight." 

     "What does that have to do with anything?" 

     "Never mind what it has to do with anything. You're not going to do it again."

     "Okay, fair enough," he laughs, "how are you feeling?" 

     "Nothing." I say. He laughs again. "No, honest. I feel nothing. Hollow."
     "Wow," he says. "Never heard that one before."
     "You've never kissed a girl who felt nothing?" I ask, pulling my face up near his.
     "I have to say--this is a first."
     "What, you've never kissed your best friend before?"
     "Not like this, no." My forehead rests against his cheek and I feel the creases, laugh-lines I've always caged a fondness for, melt into me. "Well, so, what's protocol? I mean, what do we do now?"
     "This. Exactly this," I say. He shakes me.
     "What? No."
     "No, I mean it! I'm leaving as soon as I can get out of here. We've already broken the rules and we both enjoyed it. Might as well break them again." I reach a hand up against the light scruff I know takes him weeks to grow and I pull him toward me because I know it works. He doesn't resist, but lightly lines my collarbone with his lips. A minute passes and he wriggles away from me.
     "We can't--I can't do that... this! To you. I can't do it."
     "Yes, you can. I'm practically gone already. This is a free pass. I'm giving you permission."
     "No. I refuse to let us get to that point. You are too important to me," I pull him toward me again, and let him keep talking. Talking, kissing. Collar bone, resisting. "I respect you too much. You mean too much and I don't want you to bolt again."

     Minutes later, we are still beside one another in that bed. That tiny bed inside the little brick house with the big, blue door. I can smell the sheets--cedar wood and mint julep. We're laced together, tastefully disheveled like Venus and Mars in that Botecelli, and I can't make sense of the words I hear him say. Some kind of backwards love ballad.

I can't kiss you, can't touch you again. Because I love you too much.

     And it hurts. Good hell, it hurts.

Help. I'm feeling.

It's a weird thing to be at a point in your life where you can do anything you want, but you're stuck in squares one and two until the fairy godmother shows up and grants you five wishes. (In my fantasy, it's a godmother, not a genie. And there are five wishes--not three. Because in my own fantasy, I'm the boss and I deserve my bonus wishes, honestly.)

When I am sad, I buy dainty underwear.

When I am really sad, I walk around my apartment in it and try not to bake more chocolate cake. 

I have a few big decisions to make in the next months. Having everything to do with where I'm going to end up and what I'm going to do when I get there. Each decision, I'm learning, will take a lot of heart, but heart's hard when you're ruled by your brain. 

Can't sleep again, so I scrolled old text messages and tried to convince myself that moving across the country wasn't the answer. No small feat, I'm afraid, because I stumbled across this and fell back in like with the city. And its people.

I once wrote this: 

"Thinking about The Jefferson at sunset, Arlington in the pouring rain, the handsome man who collected me at the Pentagon City metro stop, and how in the world I ever got here."

Hard to argue with it, right? 

Help.

May 11, 2014

There was the gravel road, the big, white mansion, your mom in the garden, and there was me.

I didn't want to come inside because I knew it would make me feel things. Things for you, things for the white mansion. For your mother in her gardening gloves and a beige linen dress. I knew I couldn't get away empty if I came inside, which is always a thing I'm trying to get away on, isn't it? I often run on only enough to carry me through. To the next gas station, the next meal. The next time I see you.

That's it with you. I want empty because it's less work. And work is something you're a lot of. And if you're work, then I want empty because it means there's less of you. 

***

I wrote this last year after my first visit to the big, white mansion on the outskirts of Brigham City. The first time I met Jude's mother, she was gardening and warm. A month or two before she'd been diagnosed. She invited me inside, but I declined her invitation. Because I was just too scared.

Last Friday, I went back to the big, white mansion and this time, I went inside. Started writing about the experience tonight and couldn't even get through the thing without choking up. 

Jay.

You know the girlfriend foil in all of those rom-coms you grew up watching? The one who slaps the heroine, forces her to pull it together and take back what's hers? 

I have one of those. It has taken me years, but I finally nailed one down. And you can't have her! 

Do you have a girlfriend who wants to pause the day on M Street in order to demand answers from a shady psychic in a dicey, dark parlor? And in the same day, that girlfriend also wants to spend thirty minutes dissecting a Degas on a cold gallery wall. Do you have that friend?! That's Paige! I am in love with her!

We spend hours in the upper loft of a pizza shop with Diet Coke, talking family ties near an open window on an early spring evening. Watch the world buzz below us on the busy street because it's Saturday. We talk lipstick and metaphor. Ambitious men in fitted suits. Cheap dates and cheese plates. 

I can't explain it--I wish I could--but our friendship arrived just when we both needed it. I am very grateful for her.

March 26, 2015.

     I lay my head on his chest and pull an arm up to fuss with his shirt buttons. We each wait for the other to speak.

     "So, we're just not going to talk about this?" he asks. 

     I shake my head. "There is nothing I need to say."  

     "Really? Nothing. At all?" 

     I look up at him, seeing only the outline of his chin through the dark. "What were you expecting?" 

     "I don't know," he runs a solitary finger in a straight line across my back. Pins together the wings of my shoulder blades and it feels like a metaphor. "I just got into so much trouble last time we did this--" 

     "Yeah, well, last time was different," I say, "you're not in trouble."

     "What do you mean last time was different? I remember last time being remarkably similar to this time." 

     "Except, no Jimmy Kimmel," I remind him. 

     "No, you're right. No late night television. This time, we sort of just pulled ourselves together in the dark and silence, didn't we?" 

     "And last time, you kissed me goodnight." 

     "What does that have to do with anything?" 

     "Never mind what it has to do with anything. You're not going to do it again."

     "Okay, fair enough," he laughs, "how are you feeling?" 

     "Nothing." I say. He laughs again. "No, honest. I feel nothing. Hollow."
     "Wow," he says. "Never heard that one before."
     "You've never kissed a girl who felt nothing?" I ask, pulling my face up near his.
     "I have to say--this is a first."
     "What, you've never kissed your best friend before?"
     "Not like this, no." My forehead rests against his cheek and I feel the creases, laugh-lines I've always caged a fondness for, melt into me. "Well, so, what's protocol? I mean, what do we do now?"
     "This. Exactly this," I say. He shakes me.
     "What? No."
     "No, I mean it! I'm leaving as soon as I can get out of here. We've already broken the rules and we both enjoyed it. Might as well break them again." I reach a hand up against the light scruff I know takes him weeks to grow and I pull him toward me because I know it works. He doesn't resist, but lightly lines my collarbone with his lips. A minute passes and he wriggles away from me.
     "We can't--I can't do that... this! To you. I can't do it."
     "Yes, you can. I'm practically gone already. This is a free pass. I'm giving you permission."
     "No. I refuse to let us get to that point. You are too important to me," I pull him toward me again, and let him keep talking. Talking, kissing. Collar bone, resisting. "I respect you too much. You mean too much and I don't want you to bolt again."

     Minutes later, we are still beside one another in that bed. That tiny bed inside the little brick house with the big, blue door. I can smell the sheets--cedar wood and mint julep. We're laced together, tastefully disheveled like Venus and Mars in the Botticelli, and I can't make sense of the words I hear him say. Some kind of backwards love ballad.

I can't kiss you, can't touch you again. Because I love you too much.

     And it hurts. Good hell, it hurts.

Something cool.

You've missed a lot because I haven't been writing. Well, I have, but my actions are the opposite of well-thought-out and I have no excuse for them. Decided I shouldn't paste them to the interwebs until they've been tweaked and beautified a bit. Right now they're all just messy thoughts and scenes that replay in my head. Every night, dammit.

But here's a condensed breakdown of things that've been happening:

Mostly, spring allergies have kicked in, I've ordered my cap & gown (-$70), I've been avoiding the dishes in my kitchen sink and I've been watching that new show on TV Land with Hilary Duff. Also accidentally but very much on purpose, I've been coaxing Jude into poetry readings and very casual late-night necking and idk what I'm doing with my life right now but I'm definitely saying a lot of yes to it and it's sort of fun.

(This entire blog post was unstable and probably something I should warn my mother not to read. Cheers!)

Scrumptulescent.

"Please pray for me as I attempt to conquer the world and graduate college." 

"Hurry up. Finish your degree and get back here."

"Only if you promise me more rainy Arlington Saturdays and Georgetown wanderings."

"I promise."

Answers the phone and greets me by name. Every time. Tells me to call after I watch the last episode of that show, but I get too scared that conversation will go too deep too fast, so I never do. Hates the word cogniscent because "does that word even have an actual definition?" (It does.) Appreciates the sunset from The Jefferson most.

I was so in love with my life last week.

DeeCee.

Hi! 

Brb, headed to D.C. in the morning to tour by day and rule by night. Gonna take over the world with my best friend, Paige, and charm the hell out of a handsome man I once described as "sort of, I don't know, dad-ish." You know. Make him remember how brilliant/hilarious/adorable I am (he will). Don't you know that's what you do when you fly across the country for a person? (I'm learning to) make everything casual like "Oh, sure I'll come visit, but I don't know when I'll see you. But remember how hard I make you laugh? Remember Boston? Look at me! Talk to me! WORSHIP ME!" 

But anyway. Can't believe I'll be at the Washington Monument tomorrow night with good company and INSPO TO BOOT (Paige Anderson).

There are two goals: don't get lost on the Metro, and do whatever Olivia Pope would do (WWOPD).

ATTN: 2015 BEING MY YEAR, BACK ON.

Me last week. Drinking an enormous soda. Just before the stomach flu destroyed all of my hopes and dreams.

Turns out (aside from a major stomach flu that I haven't had since the third grade) 

2015 IS STILL VERY MUCH MY YEAR. 

I'll stand my ground this time with that statement or you'll never believe anything I say ever again.

Remember when I posted that really depressing collage of pictures at the end of last summer and said something like "LIFE'S NOT FAIR" and "I HATE EVERYTHING"? Me, too. Life was like that for a hot minute and I was scared of something I felt really strongly about slipping through my fingers. Some(thing/one) that/who made me happy to sit in an office for eight hours a day. 

(You know, he used to leave Post-It notes on my computer screen when I took my lunch break. They always said insignificant things like "Hi, how are you?" and I miss them.)

And guess what. Instead of destruction and Schindler's list-y stuff, for five months, there was cell communication, talk of a baby daddy bringing home the bacon, a few I'm-so-lonely-here-I-can-barely-stand-its from both parties, and by mid-December, there was a plan. 

Beginning of January, that plan branched off into two really lovely days:

-New Year's Eve, where I left my family in Texas mid-holiday to catch a party. I wore a sparkly blouse and a tutu skirt. I can't remember what he wore, but he told me he missed talking to me and wished we could do more of that.

-The second plan was an afternoon lunch. I sat across the table from a him at a cafe. He wanted to talk big ideas, tailored work suits, and Gillian Flynn. Had to pinch myself after how well that one turned out. Because he is UN. REAL.

And then, late last week, he invited me, so I gave myself the OK to make another plan. 

To jet-set across the country for a Lincoln Memorial moment.

Because I'm 23 and saying yes to life this year! Why?

BECAUSE DAMMIT IF 2015 ISN'T MINE. (It is, btw.)

Should I make another Office reference? KAY!

This is right after Jim gets back from New York where he has just spent a few days with Karen.

One of my favorite Office moments ever. In the next episode, he's back from Stamford.

Life is weird, y'all. 

But, like, good weird probably. 

2015 might be my year, revisited.

Gonna continue Office references about Jim moving to Stamford until I feel better about my own stupid life. Dare you to name one person who was even Team Karen anyway.

(P.S. Haha about 2015 being my year.)

2015 might be my year.

     In a train that led us out of Boston, we sat together on a sloping bench near the sliding door.
     "So, what made you decide to leave?" I asked.
     He scratched the back of his head and raised both eyebrows the way my dad does when he's about to give me financial advice. "Uh," he breathed, "I don't, uh. I don't really know, actually," he shrugged,  "Sorry, that's not really an answer. I just--I don't have anything tying me down at home, and I got this job offer that would've been too hard to refuse. So, I took it," he paused for a moment, stroked his third day scruff. "And, uh. I guess I'm going." My forehead creased. "I think I just started realizing that I'm not going to be in this spot forever, you know? Like, I'm twenty-four. And I love the city, so I'm going for a while. To get it out of my system, before, you know," he motioned with his hands, "a wife. Kids. Mortgage."
     "Right," I nodded, "sounds like you know what you want."
     "I love it back home, but--"

***

Oh, nothing, just wanted to ask you if you remember that episode of The Office where Jim comes back from Stamford. 

I had lunch with an old friend yesterday, and that episode repeated in my mind.

***

The train door slid open, jolting us both. My curls, fallen from humidity, stuck to my lipstick. I looked up at him without regrouping.
     "But you want to go," I finished. He nodded.
     "I do. I just want to try leaving," breaking our contact, his eyes moved to the ground, "and see if I come back."

     We stood up in unison and exited, leaving the conversation in the car, but I'll never forget it.