I Count Myself as Lucky

I have this great and terrible fear. It hits me when I least expect it—at work, or while I’m cleaning, when I’m baking, when I’m reading. Nothing is amiss, yet in one fell swoop I’m overtaken by a moment of clairvoyant vision. I look forward on the years ahead, knowing that someday, I will meet someone. He’ll be important, and beautiful, and in the ways that matter to everyone else, he’ll be perfect. So I’ll smile, and count myself lucky, and let him love me. The world will fall into a subtle harmony. I shall not want for comfort, or affection, or respect, or attention. I will count myself lucky.

And the best laid plans will go according to plan. Nothing out of place, nothing scary, nothing unexpected. I’ll be fine, he’ll be fine, we’ll be fine.

I’ll know, with every sinew and bone in my exhausted body, that I've found the one I’ll be with forever, if only because I know it’s what he wants. But I’ll be happy! I’ll be happy enough to sleep at night, most nights, but not every night. At times, I’ll wake up with a nightmare clawing at my brain, taking hold, making noise and digging in. I’ll reach out my hand, palm stretched, fingers open—but he won’t be there. He’ll be there, but not him. Never him. And that’s okay, I’ll tell myself through the night visions, the tossy-turnies, the midnight wake-ups. He wasn't great at comfort anyway.

But in the waking hours, when the night is gone, I’ll count myself lucky. Surrounded by my love, and my kids, and the life we've built together. I’ll remind myself that I am the winner—I have a family, and a world that is not just mine. I won. He’ll never be the victor, because I’m the one who came out on top. He hasn't found a person to hold him at night, and if he has it was for one night. Does he have sticky hands and sweet baby cheeks to sing to, to love on, to remind him that he’s done it right? Because I will. All the countless hours spent holding them close and smiling at him, and staying up to keep them safe and to make the nightmares they inherited from their mother dissipate with kisses and stories.  Those will be my trophies, my proof of the battle being won, of besting him with my dreams come true. I’ll be all aglow with marital bliss and plastered on smiles, and genuine joy because my little ones are climbing up and up onto the tippy top of my heart.

Everything will come tumbling down one day—in the minutest of ways. I’ll find out, casually because no one will mean to hurt me, that he is happy. He found a girl, a girl with blonde hair, a girl with big happy eyes and a hint of mystery in her smile, a girl with long legs and a soft smart mouth. He finally chose, finally found a reason to stay still. A reason to stop running. A reason to let the castle walls fall with a vengeance, and a reason to change. A ton of bricks will fall right on me, crushing me and pinning me. The bricks catch my breath as it runs away from my body. I’ll just lay on the floor, the chaos turning to dust around me, spiraling back to the way I once felt. All the thoughts, all the feelings. It’s time for dinner, so I go through the motions. Smile at him, smile at them, load the dishwasher, brush my teeth. Do it all over again. Over and over and over, where it stops, no one knows.

Then and then only, I’ll realize why I’m not the winner.  I had it first, I found a new home before he did, I built myself back up. He’s practically old! This wizened, withered, weathered human who finally wound up happy, is the winner.

At the end of the day, I may have more, and I had it first. But at the end of the day, he’ll look into her eyes and see her and only her. I’ll look into his eyes and see a blank slate for a life I did not have. He doesn’t think of me, and I think of him relentlessly. I’m still sad, and he’s just fine. Now what does that say about me? Winners don’t dwell, and winners forget. It’s only the unluckiest of the bunch who still want to win, who still feel at a loss when they find out he is finally happy.

I can recall with perfect clarity, and I’m sure I always will, the time when I set myself on the floor next to him. I felt shy, all of a sudden, so I kept my distance. You pouted, and beckoned me closer. I hastily obliged. I had so rarely felt like this. One could even say, I’d never felt cherished that way, and that I’d never had such a case of butterflies in my life. O the butterflies! They wouldn't stop their dizzying circles, racing around and around my body, reminding me that you were special. And I listened to the butterflies, those damn, unyielding butterflies. I believed every word they spoke. I looked at you that night with stars in my eyes, and stars on the ceiling. Enchanting, was the word of the evening. An entire world had been painted in my eyes that night.

When I glimpse at the future, I know to count myself as lucky. 

Diary Excerpts Series: Part One

I wonder what will happen if we do this. Will he wake up and roll away from me in the morning, and make it obvious that I am intruding on his perfect morning world, where he always eats Lucky Charms, and now feels obligated to share those Lucky Charms with me? Or will he sleep and sleep until I’m finally already showered and dressed, and he rolls over in confusion, and then falls back quickly to sleep before I can say a word?

What if he wakes up before me and kisses me awake? What if we both stay awake all night, pretending to sleep, but wanting to be a half inch closer, and being too frightened to move?

Or maybe, we’ll wake up slowly, calmly? He’ll smile lazily at my blinking eyes whilst yawning. I’ll giggle nervously before burrowing deeper under the covers, and he’ll roll onto me, pinning me beneath as he reaches across the bed for his phone to check the time. Then he’ll nibble my ear and mess with my hair on his journey back to his side of the bed.

O Nymphet

O fighting Nymphet!

Your passion is still burning

And on your knees I fell.

I’m glancing into broken mirrors

Where nymphets cast their spell.

O lovely Nymphet!

Lights of twisted solitude

Are the background to my gain,

And all you see is my stone face

Because you’ll just ignore the pain.

O angry Nymphet!

Be scared! Be sad! Be your old-fashioned

Dreams! Be the fear of being right!

Sweet girl onstage, take a bow and stay,

For he is running from your sight.

O broken Nymphet!

Not enough, and not too far,

You’re falling short of him.

She mesmerized his wandering gaze,

And now she dances on his whim.

O drunken Nymphet!

O the web is real and the bond is tight,

And you’ve surveyed all you thought you could.

The race is won, and you’ve waved the flag,

Just like everyone knew you would.

O precocious Nymphet—

You’re the fire and light of nobody’s world,

So lean your chest towards me.

The heart of this, is your saddest gasp—

There is nothing left to see.

O graceful Nymphet.

I look at you with your eyes here

But I’m drowning in the rush.

Good luck, sweet girl, for it’s all a blur—

And sometimes, the world is too much.

A Study in Character

I had to write about myself as though I was a character in my new writing group. It was... revealing.

The door of the café opened with the delicate ringing of a bell and a girl bustled through. She was small, but not in a child-like way—merely diminutive. She made her way through the crowded room, her dark hair glinting under the overhead lighting, her feet taking small but deliberate steps towards a table full of familiar faces. Her eyes disappeared when she smiled at all of her friends—her cheeks were round enough to obscure all other features. She took her seat and immediately fretted over her decision—should she order the turkey on rye? Or the BLT—the sandwich the shop was famous for. And although she was parched, and wanted a cool glass of coke, she resigned herself to water with lemons, as was the acceptable order. The pressure of ordering overcame her for a moment and her hands fluttered about, flipping pages while she asked around her what everyone else was eating.

The waiter was her constrict, and when he arrived she made a snap decision—chicken Caesar salad it would be. The conversation picked up after he left, and the woman found herself involved in several different debates and tangents, turning quickly from one face to another, trying to hear everyone at once, but of course, being in a seat at the far end of the table she was excluded from many a story, and she found her tales falling on deaf, far away ears.

As the night wore on, the water in her glass was refilled many times. Lack of alcohol did not stop her behavior from descending into loudness and exhibitionist tendencies. The effect of social gatherings on her mannerisms was detrimental. Determined to be noticed, she resorted to behaviors more akin to drunken women seeking the attention of the man at the bar. Her coat was shed in the ever-warming room and her skin glowed bright and soft in the light. Her voice rose above the din, while everyone else had settled into the calm of the evening. Although they were tired, her friends smiled at her antics and allowed her to enjoy her night; they slowly tuned her out and gave way to the distractions in their pockets. She left the café on the arm of a man she had met that night, peering into his eyes with hope and optimism.