gravestones and the blues

2013 has already started out to be a great year for me.

My Bachelor’s Degree is rapidly coming to a completion, my MBA program is on deck and ready to go.  New car, new job, more money, and an overall balance has somehow been achieved.

Ironically, my love life in general has been on the back burner since I dumped the blog and focused on life.  It seems the more I’ve invested in myself, my life, and the life of my family in general, the less romance has played a role (other than a random gentleman here or there who I beta test via text or a few nights out, only to find myself uninspired).

This lack of lovey stuff has left my creative energy bank in overdraft.

I have seated myself in my new plush, supple, eggshell-colored leather office chair before my giant monitor of my new top-of-the-line computer and felt like I had nothing to dump into the pages of the blog.  I start something, then delete it…I find a song, then realize it’s just not the right one.

If this returning to writing thing is supposed to be like riding a bike, I’m the asshole in the bike lane wobbling in and out of the white painted lines and making all the cars swerve and slam on their brakes, punching hard into their steering wheel to sound their horns and tell me to get out of the fucking way already.

That said, the last two weeks have been host to an interesting lahar of inspiration.  I bumped into an old crush at a bar, bumped into an old flame I wish I could forget at another bar, and deleted an email before even reading it from a third.

Just as the vacancy sign in my heart started flashing enough to annoy me and make me long for a connection like I used to have with some great (and other not-so-worthy) dudes, the trickle turned into a flash flood.

I had a long phone conversation with someone I adore and wish wasn’t literally on the opposite corner of the country, I had a text-turned conversation into someone who permanently has a stake in my heart (although I’ve allowed enough ivy and weeds to grow over the stake, it won’t ever be a full, legit claim), and an ignored friend request from someone who got evicted and would only be allowed in if I had a wrecking ball scheduled for the next day.

The flame on the candle, jammed into the black buttercream icing smothered on the cake, however, was the guy whose heart I absolutely was unabashedly and ignorantly careless with sending me an email.

In a romantic comedy, my main supporting character would convince me to let it all go and be fearless…to “let myself” fall for him. His best friend/neighbor/less-attractive co-worker or B-List co-star would provide him for the set-up for the cinematic ending. We’d reunite and realize we were perfect for each other.

But you’re a reader of my blog, so you know shit doesn’t go down like that on my watch.

A bittersweet yet still amicable email rose out of my email like a phoenix.  The sting he felt was still palpable, but he had moved on forgiven and I could tell he was happy.  He’s got an adorably perfectly planned baby on the way, and just got married on an exquisitely beautiful beach in Oahu a few months ago.

If you would have asked me how I would feel about this news prior to reading the email, I would’ve said how happy I would be to hear this news, and how glad I would be he was able to have such an amazingly phenomenal life.

But I’ll be honest about it.  There was a tiny piece of me that wanted to punch her and squat down and pee on his wedding announcement.  I would have loved to rant about how his obsessive need to hover over and protect me, or pay all the bills and turn me into a Stepford Wife, pissed me off with the burning fury of the center of the earth.

That piece, of course, dissolved over an hour or two, and I ventured into a state of resolution.

I should be more like him.  I should follow in whatever path he took–Bikram Yoga, eight-hundred gallons of whiskey aged in oak barrels, a two-year bender, or a series of months burying myself in books written by the Dalai Lama.

Whatever gets you past the point of comparison, reminiscing, contrasting, losing yourself in nostalgia, and pre-judgment of what’s to come from love.

This guy–who used to refer to me as a feral cat he just couldn’t domesticate, had repeatedly subjected himself to a long wait by my side, watching me dump him, pick another guy, watch a trainwreck ensue, and still be there to sit beside me at the Laundromat, sipping out of a flask and telling me that what I really needed was a legitimate, somewhat flawed, spontaneous, and open-hearted relationship–was right the whole time.

I didn’t reply to the email.  It’s his version of walking into a cemetery, standing before a grave, and telling the person everything they’re missing in life and how they wish you could be part of it.  At the same time, he knows it wouldn’t be as precisely perfect as it is if that person was there–it would somehow be different.

And instead of being the girl who somehow makes it crazy, hilarious, out of control, or historically bloggable, I’m going to do the best thing I could ever do for him, and let it be perfectly perfect and completely his.

My friend Amber always tells me how much this Ryan Adams song reminds her of me.  And I find it fitting that this morning, I can’t help but listen to it a few times.  Because I’m on the other side of the metaphorical grave, looking down from the clouds, happy he’s found his path.

And I’m ready to turn around, go my way, and take the lessons he taught me, and do what I’ve neglected to do for almost seven years–listen to his advice.  Who knew, thoughts about gravestones and the blues would make me get up out of my chair, smile, and feel my heart beat again?

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