Oct 31, 2009

It’s Halloween. An unusually sunny fall day in Minneapolis. The kind of day that deceives you into thinking you should put on that cute tank top to squeeze the last enjoyable bits of nice weather out of the year, only to feel the sting of the 48 degree wind across your frozen nips when you step outside. I furrow my brow into the now automatic crease that has become a fixture on my 32 year old face, and demand my inner self to answer the same question for the thousandth time, “Why the fuck do I live here?” I hurl myself into the front seat of my Jetta and turn on the seat warmers (God, I love this new car). I point her begrudgingly toward the gym with the intention of doing what needs to be done. And by that I mean, waging some small resistance against the hints of sag and chub that have begun to settle in over my once very petite frame. Given the volume of beer that I have taken to processing lately, it all seems a bit futile, but for now I will dutifully give it a whirl anyway.

On my way home from the gym my muscles are already complaining and aching, further accentuating the fact that I have not used them in a while. As I drive past lake that is nearest my house, more suckers have gotten too excited about the sunshine and are wrapping their sleeveless arms around themselves as they make their way around the walking path.  A few are even getting a jump on the evening’s festivities and are already sporting cat ears and witches hats.  Calm down people, it’s not even noon.  I will say there are a good number of Minnesotans who are just really go getters.  They are a hearty stock, with annoyingly positive attitudes and don’t let any kind of weather stop them from schlepping themselves outside to enjoy what nature has to offer. I would unfortunately not put myself in this category, hence my visit to the gym instead of hitting the lake trail. I’m kind of a puss about the weather, but I usually blame it on the fact that I was not born here and I waited until college to make my debut in the Great White North. That kind of all weather gumption can only be genetically passed down to those who are born and bred in this cruel tundra.  I have named this lake number 83. I don’t know why, but since MN has over 10,000 lakes, I liked the idea of knowing where my lake stood in the line up. I decide to pull into the parking lot of #83 and take in the scenery for a minute. It is here, as I watch the stream of speed walkers and stroller pushers parade past my windshield, that I begin to try to puzzle out what has been bothering me. I glaze over and slip deeply into my inner thoughts. I’m close to something good.

I’m not sure if I figured anything out except that I have decided that today is Day 1.  Day 1 of trying to make some shit happen.  Until now, I didn’t have a whole lot of motivation to address whatever was creating the bubbling undercurrent of my quiet discontent. I think I was spurred into action by the slow smoldering fear that my insanely cute boyfriend was beginning to perceive me as a lazy fuck. OK, so that is really just pure vanity. I mean laziness is not exactly sexy. But that was just the initial jolt, and one that I needed. After a few days of pondering his proposal (no, not the big proposal – we seem to have a blockage there folks, more on that later) I am starting to gather up and put into place some of the pieces of what I needed to try to do, but there is still more to figure out. Perhaps I need a few more nights of solitary heavy drinking to puzzle those out. I’m telling you, drinking alone is good for the soul every now and then. I once nearly unlocked the keys to the universe while sitting at Gluek’s bar alone on a Thursday night. It was a rare clarity brought on by Jim Beam and water that I have been striving to replicate ever since.

So what’s the big doings? First, a little background. I live with a boy (OK, he is 35 and very manly) who is a go getter in every sense of the word. A “doer” if you will. He owns a successful business, is a creative genius, a fantastic musician, drives a motorcycle, and among the many other wondrous things about him, the man can make me laugh like no other. He has that perfect kind of wit that is both biting and intelligent, yet never overtried.  I would describe him as a perfect marry of the boy who grew up on a farm, then found his real talent in the city. He is mechanical and stylish at the same time.  He is in a word - “impressive.”  We have been dating for  3 years and he is quite honestly one of the greatest things that I have had the pleasure to stumble across in this thing called life. I think he is drawn to the fact that I can make him laugh his ass off and I am as a rule, pretty easy going with all things related to his manhood and his independence in general. Other than that, I would just say that I was hit by the luck truck, and for now mine is not to question God’s plan.

And the girl? Well she is cute, but not as cute as she used to be. I’ve endured a fair amount of what I like to call mello-trauma, which has taken a slight toll on the buoyancy of my youth. I’ve been noticing that the hints of lines on my face betray my jaded inner psyche with increasing frequency.  I’m 32 and I fall into the sweetly sickening category of divorcee. Ha! The word seems ridiculous and hardly does the situation justice. I should be referred to as a girl who at 23, stupidly (very stupidly) married the boy who was the life of the party and then escaped by the seat of her pants, with a mountain of debt and regret, after said boy obligingly turned into a full blown drug addict.  I will decidedly not waste this pretty font or any more time on this mess of a human being, who I suppose, since I was raised Catholic, I must still refer to as one of God’s creatures. Let’s suffice it to say that I was 9 weeks pregnant when I discovered for the first time the little darling hoovering cocaine through a rolled dollar bill in the garage of our delightfully suburban townhome.  I ended up having a miscarriage a few weeks later, which was a very sad but blissful blessing. I then, after a litany of codependence speak and various sham like attempts at rehab, started the long haggard road to divorce and finally sealed the deal right after I turned 29. The lovely dear’s last words to me were, and I quote: “go fuck yourself you fucking cunt.” Sent via text message thank you very much. I only mention all of this to help justify the slightly biting, jaded and cynical tone that may or may not tend to permeate the pages to follow.

Let me be clear. Despite a bit of a rough go in my 20’s, I really don’t have a God damn thing to complain about. I am healthy, aside from an unfortunate incident with a Q-tip this summer that resulted in a giant rupture in my ear drum, and some measure of residual deafness (you can’t make this shit up). I am educated and have the degree to prove it. I have great friends and as I mentioned, a great guy who loves me like crazy. I often laugh until my face hurts.  By all accounts, life is good, real good. In fact, so good that my sister has become less and less shy about letting me know how good I have it, and that she wouldn’t mind if I would just shut the fuck up about my life in general. Noted.

But still, I feel compelled to say more and to write more. A kind of therapeutic throwing up on the page. Feel free to skim, or not to tune in at all - this is mostly about me making friends with my demons, and embracing the dark passenger that still visits me, more often than I would like, in my deepest sleep. Oh, and it’s about me becoming a writer. See you soon.