I spent my morning serving. In honor of food check-out day, we cooked and catered at the Ronald McDonald House in Columbia. With feet hurting, we left sometime after lunch and were on to our own adventures for the rest of the afternoon. Minds reeling. [As does this type of work tend to encourage.]
While on the phone with a friend, I made my way to an antique store across the river. My intention is never really spot on. Chandeliers? Furniture? Costume jewelry? Vintage clothing..
I want to take a sewing class. That’s where a got. I’ve known this for awhile. I have a new sewing machine. New as in I’ve had it for 2 years and there it sits, never used. But it would be really cool and I’d feel like maybe I’m doing something, saving money, that kind of thing. Once I can get past a-line skirts, I should be okay. Atleast, I think.
The past year or so I haven’t gotten time to do as many of these things I thought once finished with my undergrad I’d get done in a heartbeat. Learning to play the fiddle, losing that weight I’ve wanted off, hiking more often, camping out, roadtrips galore, sewing classes. If it’s not one thing, it’s another, weighing me down.
In a few minutes I’ll head to the gym. I’ll workout for about an hour and a half and then run home and shower to get to a 6 o’clock meeting. I’ll take my notes and come home, write my article and email it to my editor. Because even when the work day ends, it’s never ending.
And what about dating? When is there time for that?
When do we grow up and start doing things for our future? When do we start being sure of things? Because that’s really what it’s all about. When do we grow up and know?
All of these wants and desires and thoughts and needs make my mind about as foggy as it was on the way to work this morning. Clarity is not seeping through as the mortar is thick and well crafted. And there I am, inside, gasping for air. My arms, flailing around. I’m being pushed and tugged at and all I want to do is scream. Loud. So people can hear.
A couple of weeks ago we went shopping, Elizabeth and I. We’re as different as two people can be. We’re oil and vinegar. She shops, she says, by knowing what she wants, what she likes. I, however, sometimes make impulse buys and return them, sometimes I don’t purchase and have to come back because it hasn’t escaped my thoughts. She shops knowingly, following her instincts. I shop, carefully, thinking, deciding, never truly knowing. She says when you know you like something, you know. I’m never truly sure. With shoes, with candles, with men. I never know. I’ve never believed in knowing right away. In love at first sight? Like, even? No way. Is that, maybe, why I am who I am and where I am? If I judged on first impressions I might not ever get romance. My idea of romancing, of living, seems to reach so high, so high if achieved, it could climb over these walls. Atleast that’s what I like to believe.
The roommate says that the guy we envision and the guy that we end up with are so totally different that we need to stop trying to make ourselves fit these very specifications. She says what we all know, that movies give us high hopes, that what we draw never ends up looking like what we see. So what, exactly, am I seeing?
I don’t really know.
Even when I look, even when I look closely, I’m not quite sure what I’m seeing. I’m not quite sure whether or not that like is what I’m feeling.
I feel like lately I’ve been sitting back watching. For a sign, for a feeling, for a phone call. Something. I’m waiting and watching for something.
About a week ago I got a phone call from a friend who knows Cute Boy. In the call, she began echoing some of my own concerns (note: not thoughts) and adding some I didn’t have and don’t care about. And sometimes, you see, it’s difficult when listening to the opinions of others, to tune out certain things, certain thoughts, certain items of importance. My curiosity of his relaxation then intensified. Thoughts of his concerns of image increased. What I heard drove through me and I began to have more wonder about him. And with such wonder, found within myself more comfort. Imperfection. Mmm.. comforting.
And then when he didn’t call, my affection for him wavered. Because, yes, at some point I would have fancied myself affected by him. But then, slowly, it melted. First by words, then by silence.
“I feel like I just found out that my favorite love song was written about a sandwich.” jane, 27 dresses.
In the end, what it comes down to are fears. The fear of being wrong. The fear of being let down. The fear that my hem won’t become perfect and my dress will far apart. The fear that that love song, that sandwhich, is way too polished and put together for me, way too concerned about the outside, way too crisp and cool. For me, I’m a mishmash of wonders and I never seem to cease. I don’t quite fit any mold, myself. But him? We shall see. And maybe, we have been shown.
