It’s not that I don’t want to write, but so much of my time, my thinking, is entangled with him these days. I no longer feel comfortable telling you about our interactions. It’s become a bit more serious and it’s not fair to him to share without his knowledge. But, without this sharing, I have nothing left to say.
Strip away our conversations, our dates, our exchange of ideas, and my musings on him and I am a ghostly, diaphanous creature these days. That’s frightening. Can I really lose myself so easily – and only after a few months? He called me a “pleaser” last week. I bristle at that moniker. To me, a “pleaser” subjugates their wants and needs for another. On the contrary – I want to share my delight in the world’s pleasures equally, not one-sidedly. I want to please him – and be pleased in return.
Saturday night found me alone – and feeling LONELY. What new horror is this? I’ve spent hundreds of Saturdays alone without a second thought – and now the silence is deafening. I finally retreated to P’s house for some company.
Fear is creeping in again. How can he continue to like me if “I” no longer exist? I’m trying to find myself – especially the part of me who writes here. I spent yesterday in the back garden, cleaning up the mess the winter has left behind – raking leaves, pulling weeds, cutting back dead plants. Four and a half hours of this moving meditation. Tonight, yoga – the greatest tool I know for reconnecting with myself, grounding myself – and hopefully once again finding my substance.
Last evening, as I got ready for bed, I looked in the mirror and laughed at what I saw. My bangs, which I pulled back with a black headband, were sticking straight up. My ensemble consisted of a tan long-sleeved tee shirt covered by a bright blue horizontal striped short-sleeved V-neck shirt, paired with my red and white vertical stripped pajama bottoms and black socks. Classic!
I realized at that moment that I am past the point of being cohabitationally desirable. I’ve lived alone with myself too long. Could I really start coming home, after a ten hour day at work, only to slip into a pair of skinny jeans and Anthropologie blouse every night, open a bottle of wine and whip up dinner? Could I relearn to pee with the bathroom door shut? Would it be possible to sleep in a bed that didn’t have the pillows and duvet artfully arranged for my maximum sleeping pleasure? Could I give up my occasional weekend without a shower?
Yes, I am too far gone. I am but one cat shy of becoming the crazy, bitter, cat lady.
This morning’s downpour washed away my plans to stroll the stalls of the farmer’s market. I’m ready to sample the tastes of pre-spring. It’s time for winter to be over. This morning, the herd of grey clouds moved slowly across the prairie of sky. Brief respites of pale sun and blue gave me hope that I could wander outside. I watched my waking garden from the windows. The nectarine is flowering again – a bittersweet remembrance. The pink jasmine is in bloom – months earlier than last year. I braved the rain, snipping small sprays to scent the house. My baby pomegranate is beginning to sprout green as well. Is this the year I see fruit? The tender twigs would never hold the swollen orbs.
I found a recipe for shrimp etouffee today. I think perhaps tomorrow for dinner it will be on the menu. Tonight, I made a dessert etouffee, of sorts – an amalgamation of brunoise apples sautéed in butter with apple juice, lemon zest, raisins and brown sugar. I spiced it with Chinese five spice, cinnamon and allspice and finished it with a flambé of brandy. I served it over a creamy bed of warm rice pudding – arborio rice slowly cooked with whole milk, sugar and a bit of butter, salt and vanilla. I seasoned the creamy pudding with a bit more cinnamon and allspice.
It was the perfect antidote for another rainy day – warm unctuous vanilla-cinnamon goodness nestled under a spicy apple compote. Today was a lazy day. Tomorrow, no work. I hope I see the sun.