Dancing Brave

Waking Dreams

"Kevin? What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to figure out where you put your brother."

"...Oh, you're asleep."

"What makes you think that?"

"It's me, Kevin. Check the baby monitor -- both the beans are there."

"WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?"

"Go back to sleep."

"WHATEVER YOU WANT. I GUESS."

The End and the Beginning

Monday, September 12, 2005

I opened the door, and there he was, sitting where my colleague should have been.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, taking in his dress pants, dress shirt, and shoes. "And why are you all dressed up?"

"Oh... I had a meeting near here, so I thought I'd... um... why don't you come in and sit down, and close the door."

Shrugging, I did, sitting down in a chair facing him. He stared expectantly into my eyes and then took my hand. It was then that I noticed his were shaking.

---

It's funny how you can walk around knowing something big is coming, something that will change your life, and still manage to be surprised by it when it happens.

When Kevin and I started dating, I wouldn't call him my boyfriend. Not until he said it first. That theme is a pervasive one: I don't like to go first. I don't like to say things first. I don't like to put myself on the line until the other person has done it and is standing there waiting for me to take his hand. I'm too scared to lead, emotionally speaking, because too many times people don't follow. After a while you learn to stay where you are and wait to be pulled.

Thank God for alcohol. I think all our conversational milestones came when we were a little tipsy. But it's a good thing -- sometimes I need courage wherever I can find it, and Kevin used to get so worried about saying the right thing in the right way that he'd wait for the perfect time, and then find himself drunk and standing next to me and he'd just blurt out what he was thinking. Yes, that's the stuff of a great romance.

It's not that we can't communicate; just that we both began to realize that maybe, just maybe, we'd found something here. And at first, rather than make us more bold, it made us more protective of it and by extension, more cautious about saying the wrong thing. We didn't want to disrupt the beautiful flow of this smooth, natural, passionate vibe we'd somehow stumbled into and cultivated.

As you go, though, it gets easier. The complexities that linger are the facinating ones, rather than the communication curiosities that keep you awake wondering how he interpreted this, and should you call, and did that tone of his voice mean anything. And before you know it, you're past the place where you worry about being goofy or dull or dense or having eye makeup running down your face in the morning. As I look back, I can't figure out when I got comfortable unleashing my incredibly dorky side around Kevin; all I know is that we got there, to the place where we're free and easy and nothing is embarrassing.

Of course, from there, you veer into, "I can't imagine my life without this person." That's when the fear creeps back in, because every day there are stories of loss and loneliness that make you look at that face, that smile, and wonder how in the world you'd pick up the pieces if the worst were to happen. That's when you realize just how much control you've given up, and how in the end, loving a person and seeing your future in that person's face is the biggest leap of faith you can make. The cliche is true -- and so is the one that hints at big risks equaling big rewards. I get scared sometimes imagining the split-second that could take Kevin from me, but man, is that fear worth it because of how much he brings to my life. I'm okay with investing myself and my life in him. He's worth it.

So it's a weird time, realizing I've found The One. It's the most beautiful kind of fear and the most intense love. It makes me think and say trite things, but somehow, they don't reek as much to me because I truly feel them. Doesn't mean the cynical pessimist in me is dead -- just that when I go home at night, I have a sense of enormous optimism as well.

---

When I closed the edit-bay door, Kevin took my hand and smiled. He radiated joy and gentle anxiety.

"I didn't want to do this in a crowded restaurant, in front of a bunch of people we don't know," he began. "And I didn't want to plan a big obvious night, because I knew you'd figure it out ahead of time. I wanted to do this someplace funny and meaningful and surprising. Somplace... us."

I blinked. My heart jumped. I'd known since May this was going to happen, but somehow I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Oh my God," I breathed. "Are you really doing this? Can I start crying or are you teasing me?"

He smiled. "I'm really doing this. Since we kind of met in an edit bay, you could say we fell in love in an edit bay."

Scooting closer to me so that our knees touched, he wrapped my hands in his and gazed into my eyes, which were spilling tears. He said some of the most beautiful things I could have imagined, with the most stunning sincerity, and in that second it finally hit me that when I closed that edit bay door, I left behind an entire phase of my life.

He pulled out a brown brocade box tied with a pink ribbon and got down on his knee. What was inside, he'd chosen himself, without my help.

"Wait," I sobbed. "Before you open the box, I just want you to know that I love it."

Glowing with pride, he blurted, "YEAH you do!" We both laughed, he rolled his eyes at his own confidence, and then looked up at me with moist eyes himself.

"Will you marry me?" he asked, opening the box.

I loved it. And I love him. And the answer was, of course, yes.

Mixmaster K

On the night of the 13th, the Kanye West Grammy party was thrown at a building a block away from where Kevin lives. When we took a turn about the block, we saw all the white-suit-clad guys, the bear from the album cover on the red carpet, and the giant metal detectors they'd set up on the street and through which all guests had to pass. We laughed at it, and then went inside to watch the awards on the TiVo.

The noise raged through our viewing. When we hit the sack exhausted at 1:30 a.m., the Brazilian drummers had just started playing. Kevin wandered out to see when the party was going to wind down, and got nice, nonspecific answers from people working the party. They suggested he call the police, probably knowing that if he did, the police would say, "Yeah, we were already there, and... whatever, sorry." And just to see what happened, Kevin did call, and that is what they said.

He ended up unable to fall asleep until the noise died down at 4 a.m. I conked out. But I did wake up once at 2:30 to the sound of indiscriminate yelling. I lay there studying the noise, and concluded that it sounded like either: a) Reveling, b) music, or c) fighting. And I could swear I heard Kevin's vocal cadence making an indignant point about the constant din. So when I rolled over and saw the empty spot in the bed next to me, I went, "Oh, God, did he go outside? Is he out there mixing it up with Kanye's peeps?"

It took about fifteen minutes of this groggy thought before I realized that an easy way to answer my question was to get up and check the living room. As I started to pad in there, I heard him tapping away on his computer. The sound outside was an illusion, mercifully. But I heard the panic in his voice when he said, trying to sound calm, "I'm out here just getting some work done, it's okay, you can go back to sleep."

Turns out that his inability to drift off led to him finishing his Valentine's Day present to me, which was a mix CD. He'd spent part of the weekend on the cover art, which is a photo of him in a nice shirt and tie, kneeling in front of his stash of records while pretending to play his trombone. The CD is called Soothing Sounds for Heather, and it's basically some mushy stuff mixed in with inside jokes. I couldn't love it more, particularly because the photo of him is so funny.

For the curious, here's the playlist.

1. Love You -- Sondre Lerche
This one's a short instrumental track.

2. For Lovers -- Wolfman
This is a lovely song that hit in April 2004 -- a collaboration between the so-called Wolfman Peter Wolfe and his troubled friend, musician Pete Doherty, formerly of the Libertines and a raging drug addict once linked with Kate Moss and who has been something of a tragic and terrible figure in the UK tabloids. The two linked articles are really interesting.

3. DUI -- Har Mar Superstar
This guy has also been linked with Kate Moss at times, but the song's on the album because here, "DUI" stands for "Dialing Under the Influence." And, well, I'm a pro at that.

4. I'll Be Around -- Bobby Bare, Jr.
My friend Amy turned me onto this guy a few years ago. Good stuff.

5. Love Lovely Love -- Jonny Polonsky
This guy apparently hit it in 1996 with his debut album, which I think Frank Black either helped produce or at the very least championed. But he then dropped off the face of the Earth when his label lost distribution rights; I feel like there might be more to the story, like some big heads and assholery, but I can't find anything to confirm that -- just a vague memory of a story Kevin once told me. Anyway, it took him eight years to mellow out and get another record company on board with him, but he came out with a new album in 2004. This one, though, is off the debut album.

6. She's White -- Electric Six
This one speaks for itself.

7. Love Cliche -- Bran Van 3000
So does this one. It's almost Belle & Sebastian-esque -- peppy and bright and with clever lyrics that do justice to the title.

8. Bitch, I'm Broke -- Cody Chesnutt
This one has a story: The first night Kevin and I hooked up, we had been out at a bar and then went to his place to keep drinking (translation: to see what happened). When I walked in, I saw a massive CD display rack with all his music on it, and my mind went straight to, "Oh my God, I am so dumb about music." So I scanned his titles and came upon an Old 97s CD; relieved to find a semi-obscure band with which I was familiar, I remarked on that CD as a way of starting conversation about Kevin (I was nervous; this seemed like a good approach). So he put on the Old 97s CD while we talked. Then, talking turned to making out, but the CD kept playing, and eventually we got all the way through it, so the shuffler changed it out and went to the next disc -- a Cody Chestnutt CD.

So there we were, making out for the first time, when all of a sudden, this guy yells, "BITCH, I'm BROKE."

I laughed so hard. Since then we've joked that this is our song.

9. Slow Jamz -- Jamie Foxx, Kanye West, Twista
This one's on the list because of our attachment to the lyrics: "I'm-a play this Vandross, you're gon' take your pants off."

10. Making Love (At The Dark End Of The Street) -- Clarence Carter
This one's just funny. I can't find the lyrics online yet, but it feels like a deliberately winking soap-opera treatment of "making love," and I'm told the "At the Dark End Of The Street" part comes from a sample of a James Carr song.

11. Tupelo Honey -- Van Morrison
A gentle, languid classic.

12. Waterloo Sunset -- The Kinks
He put this one on there just because he likes it, I think. And it's a romantic idea ("As long as I gaze on Waterloo sunset I am in paradise").

13. Trouble -- The Crash
The lead singer of this Nordic band sounds a tad like Macy Gray with testes, minus her annoying qualities. Kevin discovered The Crash shortly after we started dating, and this song was the first one he got addicted to; it's good, and has the added bonus of funny backup vocals. I adore backup vocals.

14. We Have All The Time In The World -- Louis Armstrong
Aw. This one's just schmoopy: "We have all the time in the world -- time enough for life to unfold." He is cute.

15. Born For Me -- Paul Westerberg
Another kind of mushy one that's also hauntingly pretty: "When the loneliest eyes and the emptiest arms finally decide to meet... With a head in a lap and a tongue tied in knots, then the loneliest eyes try and speak... I can’t bear it // I can’t share it with anybody in my little world // I can’t hide it // I’ll never find it with another girl // When we kiss// When we breathe//You were born for me."

16. Robot -- The Futureheads
This one comes off a discussion Kevin I had about a sexbot. We admitted recently that this particular inside joke's origins somehow got left behind in all the time we spent laughing at the stupid places we took it. We still quote it at each other and make references to it, but we don't completely know what started it all.

17. I Got You -- Wilco
We're going to see them at Coachella in May, which will be fun, but he also picked this -- I think -- as a peppier ending to a generally gentle CD.

He's cute.

Exhale...

So, yeah, my complete freakout of earlier today? Unwarranted.

I'm delighted to find that out, and also incredibly amused at the level of my own insecurity. Sure, it doesn't mean they don't think I'm a freak, but it at least means they weren't laughing at me where I could hear them. And that's a small victory.

Part of what made me leap to the depressing conclusion is that I'm generally very antsy. Kevin, originally slated to return Sunday night and then possibly tomorrow night, is now coming home Wednesday at 8:25 p.m.

When you're the one left with your daily routine and not the one off galavanting, you start to -- as ever -- find things to look forward to that break the monotony. Kevin's return is that thing, especially since I love him and all that, so I fixated on that and it helped the time fly, and got me psyched, and now I have all that nervous energy that should've been blown off yesterday and is now bubbling around my brain seeking a target.

Hence, a big ingredient of my overreaction. [Not that I wouldn't have overreacted anyway, but it was quicker and more severe, or at least that's what I'm telling myself.]

I can't wait to see him. I spent the entire trek to Subway this afternoon imagining what I will do when I see him again. Will I run up to him and hug him in the airport? Will I wait for him to walk to me? Will I plant one on him in public? Will I cry a little? Will I jump up and down like a dorky little kid?

You'd think that, being as I am trying to predict my own actions, I would have a handle on what exactly I might do. But I can't tell. I know what the movie version of this scene would look like, and I know what a realistic version might be, and then there's the very toned-down one that could very well come to pass if I'm gripped with any timidity in the moment.

We'll just see. In two days.

Wow, yes, in almost exactly 48 hours.

Mush

It happened over something simple. I cracked a stupid joke, the kind you only utter in front of people who make you feel safe, and he giggled, and it just washed over me: that comfortable, warm realization that you don't remember what your life looked like when this person wasn't in it.

In the early going with Kevin, there were moments when I'd see him smile and marvel that it was for me. Because we'd known each other professionally, there was a sense of, "I can't believe that we're suddenly here." This face that existed for me in a completely different context was suddenly next to mine on a pillow, and the luck of it all commingled with the disbelief and the initial disconnect: "Four months ago we were addressing network notes on a cut, and now I'm meeting his family?"

But it felt fantastic; it was what I'd wanted. And yet there were those moments of wondering what he'd think if he saw my really goofy side. Would I feel safe with him? Could I be stupid around him? Could I do that which gives me the most trouble: Truly be me, without thought or stress or self-censorship for fear of ridicule? Could I trust him to love me because of all those quirks and not in spite of them?

That cliched sentiment exists for a reason. I struggle with that sense of security with people, and I grapple in particular with letting go of the idea that a relationship is constantly on trial. Or that it's comprised of a massive "pro" and "con" list in somebody's head, onto which my every action is categorized and logged. "I sounded weird in the phone, I think. Did I sound weird? Did that annoy him?" "Does he think I'm a total loser now because I can't make a decision about where to go to dinner tonight?" All those stupid little quirks or moments of weakness are the things on which I've felt judged before, and I found it hard to stop thinking as though my every move had some larger consequence -- the power to shift the balance.

And then one day, all of a sudden, I turned around and realized I wasn't doing that any more. Suddenly we were nine and a half months old, Kevin and I, and the self-consciousness didn't exist. Along the way, without overthinking it or even focusing on it at all, I'd crossed through that blurry place where the mystery becomes familiar and the new becomes comfortable. He'd gone from a luxury to a mainstay. He hadn't gotten sick of me and he hadn't stopped loving me because of one moment of insecurity, and what's more, he routinely treated -- and still treats -- me like he couldn't have asked for anything better.

I miss him. He's away again for work, back on the 8th or thereabouts, and the week he's been gone has felt like three. He started out as a stroke of luck, and now he's a blessing. A gift. I love this person so much, and the love he gives back to me isn't conditional. It's the first time I've felt that from somebody. When he looks at me, what he wants to see and what I am are one and the same. And it's so hard for me to accept that, or to say it or write it without feeling arrogant, because there are times I can't believe that I would ever get that from a person. Why me? What is it about me that I get to have somebody hold me in that kind of esteem?

Yet I also think that I deserve to be that lucky. Everyone does, and everyone is, and it's just a matter of how long it takes. And I'm not putting this to virtual paper because I want to elevate myself in any way; I say it as a compliment to Kevin, because the fact that he can give this feeling to me and make it simple for me to believe in him so completely -- well, that's purely a testament to the person he is.

He makes me happy. Really happy. That's the heart of it. And I'd so much rather say it out loud, and bask in what shines through his eyes when I'm staring into them, than bottle it up and fret about jinxes and refuse to give voice to my emotions because I'm scared of having to read this someday through crying eyes.

I hope it stays like this. But if it doesn't, at least Kevin's given me a benchmark, a standard. I can demand something better from guys. I can expect to be loved not for what I could be, but for what I am.

The Affair Of The Necklace

KEVIN:
When you get a chance, check out the necklace Anonymous Colleague is wearing today.

ME:
Really? That bad?

KEVIN:
Just remember to look, and then remember to not react.

ME:
Done. I am the master of subtlety.

An hour later...

ANONYMOUS COLLEAGUE:
Hey Heather!

ME:
Hey, Anonymous! How are you?

ANONYMOUS COLLEAGUE:
I'm fine, things are... very -- um, do I have food on my face, or something?

ME:
No! Why?

ANONYMOUS COLLEAGUE:
Oh, sorry, it just seemed like you were studying me or something and I wondered if it was because there was stuff on my face.

ME:
Staring? No! Oh, no food, I was just... I was admiring your outfit. You look so cute today.

ANONYMOUS COLLEAGUE:
Thanks!

NECKLACE:
Glint!

ME:
I... OH, I see!... I mean, I've seen... your shoes before, in a store... God, I'm thirsty, I think I need a Diet Coke, excuse me real quick.

Five minutes later...

ME:
So I saw her necklace...

KEVIN:
Yes?

ME:
Was it... a dick?

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
Made of silver?

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
Circumcized?

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
And was there... a second piece behind it?

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
Shaped like the scrotum?

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
And it fit behind the dick to create a complete unit?

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
The complete unit being, an anatomically accurate silver wang necklace?

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
She's wearing a wang?

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
Is that... weird?

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
It's a WANG. She's wearing a WANG. A dangling wang.

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
I somehow can't get over this. I could walk up to her and say, "Hey, nice cock."

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
"Hey, Anonymous, I like you. You've got balls. You're a ballsy chick."

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
This is kind of hilarious. And kind of... it's a PENIS. Hanging under her chin. It's very close to teabagging her.

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
Is it normal that I find this so extremely bizarre? And yet fascinating?

KEVIN:
Yes.

ME:
Do you think I can ask her about it?

KEVIN:
No.

ME:
Damn. Dang that wang.

Oh my GOD. Talk about getting comfirmation that the people you work with actually hate you. Check out this excerpt from a story posted on the Web site of a Cincinnati TV station:

Investigators are not sure if Powell died where her body was found or if she was killed elsewhere, WLWT Eyewitness News 5's most-overrated, obnoxious, annoying, stick-like, ho-bag, sperm-receptacle staff member Raegan Butler reported.

Oh, pish, they say all that like those are bad things.

The story was quickly pulled from the Web site, but it got picked up elsewhere; if that gets pulled down, you can read a small excerpt on this blog. The station manager has, according to a friend of mine, fired the author and spent all the subsequent hours apologizing to anyone who's ever owned a TV set.

That is some crude, ballsy, brilliant editorializing there. Oh, to have seen the faces in the newsroom when people realized that got printed. I wonder if Ms. Butler screamed, "I am NOT overrated!"

Someone got here by searching for: "sudden penis erection," appropriately enough Reading: The Mezzanine Watching: Tonight I'm going to try out the second hour of Amish in the City. I missed the first hour and heard from Lauren that it was interesting, but from my coworkers that it was dead boring and almost unwatchable. Curious to see which I think it is. [Edited to add: Three more coworkers just weighed in that they thought it was really interesting and they enjoyed watching it, but they think it runs the risk of being a one-trick pony. Now I'm even more curious.]

The Wait

All day long I've been hopelessly twitchy, antsy, unfocused. I start to read something online, then I zone out and bite my nails or stare out the window, or surf idly through my tape notes in search of something I don't really need to find.

The clock's ticking forward, yet at once it's counting down -- the more seconds that pile on, the more likely it is that he's coming home tomorrow, and that means I'm staring at less and less time left until I get to walk up to his front door and, rather than letting myself in, knock lightly and wait for it to open from inside.

He thought about staying an extra day overseas, and I lightly asked him to let me know what he decided so I'd have an idea when he'd be returning; he said he'd try to get a phone card and call. For days I've waited, counting ahead to the time in his location, mentally calculating how much time he had left to make the decision, and how much longer I'd realistically be waiting for some notice -- while secretly hoping he wouldn't call. He hasn't, which I take to mean he isn't extending his trip [although even now I'm staring at the clock, adding up the time difference, and wondering if there's an eleventh-hour I'm not considering] and will be back in Los Angeles tomorrow morning.

And God, I hope he does come home. For one thing, I've expended so much energy looking forward to his return that I'm just about spent. I miss him. He's been gone for eight weeks and it's been thirty days since I last saw him, which might be considered a pittance -- and, looking back through my own history, it shouldn't seem like a monumental separation. But he's been gone, and contact has necessarily been irregular, so beyond just wanting to hear his voice, I'm ready to hear it in person. I'm ready for Los Angeles not to feel quite so empty to me. I'm ready to hear him padding around his apartment, to walk in and hear music from his iPod blaring through the stereo. I'm ready to curl up on the couch and have him take up half of that space; ready to hop into his car as he picks me up for a movie date and spend a minute kissing him hello. I'm ready to go out and grab a beer and goof off, and basically, I'm just ready to move forward. Whatever that means. We'd actively maximized the time we had leading up to his departure, and once he comes back, we get to move at our own pace, and figure out exactly what that is. I'm not in a hurry, but rather excited to walk this road without the specter of another separation looming overhead.

Us being apart came at an interesting time: The five-month mark, more or less, of our relationship. We'd grown very close, and we'd expressed our rapture at the unexpected perfection of the time we'd spent together. We'd marveled at it a little, and taken ginger steps toward occupying that nifty little indispensable spot in each others' lives, where all you really know is that you don't know what you'd do if the other person suddenly disappeared.

But we were still pretty young as a pairing, too. We couldn't call ourselves new, but we couldn't afford complacency, either; there was a lot we didn't know, a lot we hadn't said or talked about, and a lot of ground to cover -- a lot of leaps of faith yet to be made. But one of them, which we seemed about to make, was that we would be covering that ground together.

Our New York visit only seemed to affirm that we were right in step with each other, moving neither too slowly nor too fast, but in perfect unison. It's not something I've really ever felt before, and I wanted to keep it to myself. I don't know how to admit to myself that I've found harmony, and I don't know how to claim it without expecting it to slip through my fingers. I don't even know how to state it as fact without being afraid that it's false, fraudulent, or worse, total fiction. But we spent our six-month mark cuddled up together in a hotel room that was warm from the glow of our eyes, and that carried me home, through the long plane ride, through the dozen roses he sent as a thank-you, and through the final phone calls as he left the East Coast for a foreign location that would limit our chances to talk.

And, of course, silence is never truly quiet. The absence of conversations, of communiqués, unearthed every insecurity I could have conceived about how he felt. Questions mounted in number and volume, a roiling internal madness I was inept at containing. A few conversational mishaps suddenly had greater meaning, to the point that they dominated my brain and kept me panicked and paranoid. Because I can't relax into myself, can't relax into anything, unless I'm sure it's not going to hurt me. And that's a promise no one, or nothing, can make.

So for a time, I tortured myself. I missed him hard and I flogged myself firmly for participating into the mind games geography can play. Through nothing he did whatsoever, I suddenly wondered if he still missed me. If he was as toe-tappingly excited to see me as I have been to see his face on the other side of that threshold. I grew terrified that I'd set another emotional trap for myself and carelessly slipped into it. The instincts I needed to have faith in the most were those I couldn't trust, because all I could remember were the times they'd failed me -- the times I'd believed in myself and my gut, only to find myself standing alone in the puff of smoke that whipped it all away.

None of that is allowed to matter tomorrow. It's exhausted me in the days and weeks leading up to his return; my fingernails are gnawed down to stumps and my lips practically sport teeth-marks. I'm sick of being stupid. I'm weary of berating myself for overthinking even as I desperately reinterpret every conversation to prevent a surprise attack. I hate thinking that it's inevitable that he'll get sick of me, that his time away was probably blissful sanctuary and that he'll come home a few steps removed from where I'm timidly standing. I'm vulnerable, and I know it, and I need to know if he's vulnerable too.

I'll only need one look at his face. If I see what I hope I see, what I know in my heart still must be there even if my head warns me not to expect anything, then I'll be awash in that familiar palpitating calm -- the sensation of being lost and found in the same split second, where your hand is wrapped in the palm of another and you know the next steps you take are both uncharted and exhilaratingly safe.

Seventeen hours until he lands. Twenty-five until I'm free to see him. The seconds tick away with rude languor, and for now, peace of mind remains stubbornly outside my grasp.

Someone got here by searching for: "trip the fuck out" and "lapdance erection" Wishing: That I could decide on a font already. My GOD, people. I'm impossible. Reading: I finished Myra Breckinridge, which was quite fascinating. I think I now need to see the movie. Writing: A Drunky But Funky entry about the Beer Hall of Fame, and some more treatises on the fugly -- lately, Val Kilmer -- in Go Fug Yourself.

Low Tide, High Tide

I'm having one of those days.

I don't want to write anything. No, scratch that, I want desperately to write something, but I feel like I have nothing to say. I'm bored. I'm restless. I feel useless. I tried taking a nap today for an hour because it seemed like a good way to burn the time. I set up the computer on my bed, on the couch, on the chair, on the ottoman, and finally at our tiny dining table, in the hope that a change of venue might make the words come easier or the ideas flow in a way they never have before.

The blank Word document drove me away. I deleted files from my hard drive, played a few hands of blackjack, updated my address book, and rearranged the icons on my desktop, all to avoid the penetrating, harsh glare of white -- a mocking expanse of nothingness. It dared me and I balked.

I hate days like this. People I love can give me a pep talk, tell me they believe in me, tell me it's as simple as sitting down and writing what I know, but it never helps. Or it does, but it's temporary -- a fleeting smile, a momentary boost, an instant in which I almost, almost, believe what they're saying and can sell it right back to them.

You can't call yourself a writer if you don't write. And as great as it is to have the support of people who think you can, it's the fucking loneliest feeling in the world. They can't get inside your head. They don't know how you think. They don't know how hard it is sometimes to pipe anything but nonsense from your brain. They don't know the self-pity you feel, and the loathing that comes after it when you realize you're wasting your time frowning and furrowing your brow at the tragic waste that is your mind. They don't know what it's like to be inside your skin, feeling empty and spent and fraudulent. They might know those feelings but they don't know the way you personally experience them, and there's no way to convey the utter futility you feel cloaking your life. And if you did, there'd be a nod, a sympathetic smile, kind words of support and belief, and a shrug of the shoulders. "Just write something funny, like an observation about something." "Just write an essay." "Just write about yourself." Good advice, all. The right things to say, to suggest. But for me none of it clicks. None of it makes any sense or sparks any wit. I don't have anything to say. I don't feel funny. I can't put two words together that interest or amuse me, and whenever something does meander onto the page it's always followed by the harsh click of my right ring finger frantically smacking the delete key.

"Just start writing, like, an entry, or something, and see where it goes."

If it were that easy... It isn't. I'll be the first to admit that I've been blessed. I've had a lot of things in my life come simply to me, be they tiny things or large, broad strokes of luck. Not everything, certainly, but on the whole the fates have been more in my corner than not, and I'd be a bigger fool than I already feel I am if I couldn't recognize that for the marvel it is. But it's typical, isn't it, that there's always going to be a void that prior luck can't fill. There's always something else. And I feel selfish saying it, pleading for it, begging myself to snap out of it and make it work and make my own luck -- flinging clichés left and right in the hope that one of them will key my creative renaissance. I don't deserve to ask for anything more. But that little piece of something -- be it direction or an idea or just a nugget on which to gnaw -- is the thing I miss the most.

Sometimes I feel like I'm suffocating. Sometimes I feel buoyed. Most of the time I just feel like I'm putting on a happy face so that people will think I have a plan, that I'm not really that worried, not really that lost, not really terrified that any faith in me is based on something that doesn't exist.

Everyone else has a story to tell. Everyone else has a way to tell it. That's how I see the world -- that's the skewed view from my bleary eyes. Wine and roses everywhere, but weeds and Pabst for me. And I can't stop myself from throwing up my hands, or clenching my fists, or smacking the keyboard in frustration when the words that should come -- that I know are there -- can't come out in any kind of compelling order. And I start to wonder how I got here. Who the hell I thought I was, or who in God's name I think I am, that I can call myself a writer and keep a straight face. Why did I think this was my calling? But if it's not, what is?

Not long ago, I hated my skin color, my thighs, my stomach, the way my left eye squints and scrunches up when I smile, the way the camera lens distorts my face. The way I look in that pink shirt. My ankles. My hair -- it was too straight and boring, then it was too curly, then the wrong thickness, a banal color. I always felt like the plain one. The booby prize.

I don't think that ever goes away, not completely. I just learn to talk myself out of it, to shout down the nagging voices and hope they learn keep it to a whisper. I can't throw it out because that's not how I operate. I'm a packrat, and this is no different, so I tuck it away and try to tidy up everything around it so that there's an appearance of order and neatness and calm. And someday, maybe, I'll unearth it again and laugh, and realize I've outgrown its usefulness and chuck it out with the trash. But that day's a long way away.

Still, the fact remains, I've moved away from those being the first things I pick on about myself. I've graduated. But as I've grown into my body, I've grown out of my mind. I never feel quick enough, interesting enough, funny enough. I go on the assumption that I'm the boring one in the room. I hate that I don't know more than I do. I feel unclever, plodding, and totally paralyzed. Inert. And so I begin every fresh day hoping it'll pass without anyone asking what I'm doing, what I want to do, when I'll start writing. Because they don't know how that cuts me. They can't see my other scars. And yet here I am, asking those questions of myself, ripping open every gash before it has a chance to heal.

For a day, I'd like to live in my skin without wishing I could be in someone else's.

This morning, I flipped the coin.

Actually, I did it last night, and I had some help. Trying to wipe off the dust of a bad day, I called Kevin; as much as I tried to hide the fact that I had the blues, he knew.

It's scary, laying bare your emotions and insecurities for the first time in front of someone whose opinion is of ever-increasing value -- a person who you're pretty sure you can trust, but you haven't had to yet, and there's a fleeting fear of seeming a fool. I didn't want to get into it, preferred to brush it aside as no big deal, but he saw through me, and encouraged me to let some of it go. So for the first time with him, I did.

He understood. He related. And, yeah, he's not inside my skin -- he doesn't know exactly how I flog myself, he won't know the extent of my frustration, and he's not going to be able to stop me from beating up on myself when I'm having a weak moment. Nobody can. Nor should they have to, and that's not what I expect. But that's stuff everybody goes through by him or herself, and the key is, I think, letting yourself feel it but promising yourself that you'll step back from it after you've let it out -- identify it so that you know your demon, but teach yourself ways to fight it. It's the reason I don't delete things like the above, which I wrote during a moment of total grief; I don't relish the self-pity I see in those lines, but I can't wipe it off the screen and pretend it didn't ever exist, because it's good for me to face up to it.

Kevin did what I don't like asking anyone to do, which was talk me off a ledge. My friends are all wonderful about doing that, but what made this conversation special to me was that he hasn't been in a position to do it before. I didn't know how he'd react, or what he'd say; he handled it by surprising me with a lot of his own insecurities. He gave me a little bit of himself so that I felt less alone. It turned into the most incredible conversation. We traded self-analysis and figured out we have opposite problems: He's got a stream of ideas he isn't sure he can take further than a few steps, and I feel barren of originality but relatively confident that with a head start, I could deliver -- or at least have a shot at trying.

We might end up collaborating on a project, if for no other reason than to see if what we perceive as our weaknesses really are, and if what we cling to as our strengths are real or illusory. We've both been nervous to fail or flop in front of one another, so we're thinking of just jumping into it with the promise of no judgment. No expectations. Just an experiment. He's leaving soon for New York, so who knows when we'll be able to get going, but at least it's a start. It's something to look to, something to inspire hope. I'm grateful that he was there last night to offer it. Everyone offers support in different ways, and yesterday I didn't know what it was I needed until I talked to him and he unknowingly said the right things. It was a good moment in our relationship, and it came exactly when I needed it most.

In a way, it helped me accept how I felt earlier that day without also accepting it as my fate. Certainly, the worst will happen again -- one day, possibly soon, I'll be sitting at my laptop eviscerating myself and my brain and my hands for not collaborating to churn out a work of genius, or even a work of bunk. By talking it out and writing it down, I can give myself something to come back to when it does recur -- a reminder of where I've been and how I came out of it. Publicizing the feeling is, however slowly, helping me stop fearing it. I have to stop being unwilling to give voice to what's bothering me, because that's the only way to demystify it.

I hung up the phone feeling less wounded than I did hours earlier, less adrift, and monumentally less hopeless. The low ebb normalized.

For now.

• • • • •

Someone got here by searching for: breadless burger images Watching: School of Rock Joining: A gym -- well, I already joined, and it's good to have it there because the days of the free treadmill are over and I need to still be able to fit into my pants.

Meet The Parent

The other day, my once-and-future boss referred to Kevin and me as "the office scandal." He's taken to poking his head into Kevin's bay every day and saying, "You're dating Heather?" Or in the case of yesterday, yelping, "What if you two get married?"

He'll get us a great big fucking present, then, I'll tell you what.

This is, unfortunately, foreshadowing what it will be like if we're still dating in about July, which would be our first simultaneous stint in the office since we started seeing each other. I'm incredibly amused at this, and yet desperately hoping that a few other people in the office begin to get it on with sweaty urgency so that the novelty of "Heather and Kevin" will wear off like cheap nail polish. How do people figure out this stuff? I didn't tell any of them. Kevin didn't tell any of them. I'm amazed at the way news travels. I'm not used to being fodder for the office grapevine. It's kind of fun and funny, on one hand, but on the other I'm desperately hoping it stops before we get sick of the sound of each other's names.

Meanwhile, Kevin is at the airport right now picking up mother; his sister and her fiancé will follow tomorrow.

The visit has nothing to do with me, obviously, but I can't help being a little bit atwitter about it. I'm slated to go out with them at least twice, this cluster of three-fifths of his family, and I'm hoping fervently that I don't turn inward as I so frequently do when I get nervous, or when it matters most that I be myself. Though I recognize that this kind of meet-and-greet doesn't quite carry the significance that it did in the days of yore, when it was some kind of deliberate, sweaty-palmed premarital pageant, there's still something really nerve-wracking about the prospect of facing the family.

Naturally, my first thought was, "Oh, God, what if they loved his ex-girlfriend?" What if I never say anything amusing, and they think I have no personality? What if Kevin said nice things about me to them, and then they get here and are like, "Wow, we don't see ANY of that in her at all, Kevin. Are you fucking smoking crack? You are, aren't you? Only a drug habit could explain why you like a pasty white troll with idiotic hair and a habit of picking at her eyelashes. So either quit the goddamn rock, or fork some the fuck over here, so that we can endure her company the way you can: through a thick drug haze and the promise of imminent release through death"?

Mostly, I think my nervousness stems from how I know I'd feel if the roles were reversed. Were my parents in town, I'd want Kevin to meet them, because I'm a piece of them and they're a piece of me. I'd be desperately praying that he liked them, and they enjoyed him. I think you just always want your parents to see you making smart choices, and surrounding yourself with good people, and you want your boyfriend or girlfriend to like the people who made you what you are. And because I'm close with my family, I understand how much a family's opinion can matter, so I want his mother and sister to at least deem me worth his trouble. There's no way to escape the sense of impending evaluation, even if it's not coming from him, or from them. Everyone forms opinions. They'll have one of me. What if my every instinct is wrong, my every response air-headed and in error?

KEVIN:
Mom, this is Heather.

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Hi, Heather, it's really nice to meet you.

ME:
(leaning in for a hug)
Oh, it's so nice to meet you, too!

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Get out of my personal space, you intrusive little slob wench.

ME:
Oh, shit, I'm sorry...

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Watch your mouth, you illiterate fucksmack!

ME:
I... just... Can we try this again? (Shakes hand) Sorry, my hands are a little cold.

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
And sweaty. I had hoped my son would have chosen someone with the kind of exemplary personal hygiene we've come to expect from his graceful, attractive, successful former girlfriends.

ME:
But... it's... I showered, that's why my hair's wet...

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
I thought that was grease. Nice to know you took such pains to prepare your hair in advance of this meeting, you horrific crime against nature.

MEL:
So. Do you like... stuff?

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Oh, that's just dandy -- who the hell is this "Mel"? Do you have split personalities?

ME:
No, that was a typo. I'm a little jittery.

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Heather, level with me, please, before I slap you like a lazy mule. What is it that you want to do, besides sicken me to the point of vomiting in the toilet my son so meticulously cleaned last night?

ME:
Well, I'm pretty hungry. And sometime this weekend I really want to go shoe-shopping.

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Oh, that's... quaint... I meant, hosebeast, what do you want to do professionally?

ME:
I... Yes!

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Good God. Are you... "special"?

ME:
I want to be a writer.

KEVIN:
I haven't been given many lines in this conversation.

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Heather! Bitchwank spankfuck! Why haven't you given Kevin any lines in this conversation? Do you think so little of him?

ME:
No, I just kind of want to keep him out of this dark little corner of my psyche.

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Miscreant. You have thirty seconds to give me one good reason to accept that you're dating my son.

ME:
Well, um... He's hot, and stuff. And kick-ass in the sa... edit bay.

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Floozy.

ME:
I'm going to lose it.

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Shallow, bumbling temptress!

ME:
Find a happy place... find a happy place... think of pants...

KEVIN'S MOTHER:
Out, out, damn spot on my son's heretofore unblemished dating life!

Okay, I don't expect his mother to be evil. In fact, she sounds like she's really nice, and I'd have no reason to expect otherwise, based on the fact that he was obviously brought up right and he likes his family. I'm more thinking that I'm going to make a series of verbal or intellectual missteps that will thwart my effort to come off as cool, calm, collected, composed, and self-confident.

I'm so flattered that he even wants me to meet them, although as Lauren and I discussed, I think it would be a real sign of general disinterest if his mother and sister came to town and he didn't want us in the same room even once -- not even long enough to be like, "Here's today's flavor, but remember, Baskin-Robbins taught me that there are at least thirty-one out there." Sure, it would be his prerogative to feel that way, but I like him and am enjoying his company too much to want a signal that he considers me a mere pit stop on the way to something better. So I'm thrilled to be meeting them, and frankly, he's so cool that I can't imagine his family is anything other than wonderful and welcoming.

And despite the nerves, I'm excited about it; I get to put faces to names and stories, and I'm going to learn a lot about Kevin from watching the way he interacts with his mom and sister. That might be the best part -- the tiny window into what he's like with the people who mean the most to him. I can tell I really like him because I have an intense curiosity about everything Kevin, and I'm genuinely interested in learning more about him so I can newly contextualize his life, his personality, his facets. I'm ready for those layers, because I've been gripped by the ones I've already seen.

So in a way, then, meeting his family is actually like meeting Kevin all over again, and that couldn't possibly be a bad thing.

• • • • •

Someone got here by searching for: myths of premarital sex Awaiting: Tonight's Apprentice, to which I'm addicted Chatting: With the Honky Slut Warrior about her upcoming trip to New Zealand and Europe. I can't believe it's been so long since my trip, and already I'm ready to go again. Wish I could. I'll live vicariously through her instead.

Fighting The Jinx

Every so often I skim old entries, mostly the ones involving Doug or Alan and the things I wrote trying to justify those relationships, or explain them, or put a shine on them that I hoped would make me believe things could work.

The written word is surprisingly powerful, and more than a few times I've used it -- knowingly or otherwise -- to sell myself on something that I didn't, in my heart, believe. I wrote about feeling hurt and lost, and pretended it didn't have anything to do with Alan. I tried to tell myself that Doug and I worked, or would work, or could work, even when both then and now I already knew that not to be the case.

It's not that I think I'm a liar; just that words have a special power of persuasion, and I knew that, and I used it on myself. I wanted certain things to be true, and so I wrote them into being.

Okay, that's an overstatement: It sounds like I've fictionalized stuff on here, and I haven't. Never would. My sin, rather, is one of omission. And while I recognize that it's my right to protect certain feelings or events from public consumption, it's also unfair to myself. The journal isn't therapy if I'm afraid of who's reading, and if I feel restricted from full disclosure.

I cringe a little, for instance, when I read about how I never honestly admitted that I'd been having doubts about Doug long before we broke up the first time. I never explained -- in part out of misplaced deference to him -- all the other drama in my involvement with Alan. Like the girl from Iceland who predated me, and whom he didn't break up with officially until halfway through our nebulous association. And the wavering. The irritating tug-of-war: "I want you/I can't have you/I must have you/I'm not ready." Mostly, I didn't want anyone to know, because I didn't want to have to justify why I kept him in my life. Because I didn't know why. I thought I had a feeling. I thought he had a feeling; actually, I think he did, but my error was believing he was mature enough to handle it. My mistake was thinking I might be the one who inspired him to take a risk. Grow up. Let go.

And so Doug came around again, and irrespective of his obvious merits as a person and a friend, I looked fondly on the idea of a reconciliation because I knew I could trust it. Beyond a shadow of doubt, I believed in everything he put before me. And it seemed unfathomable to me to reject -- or fail to reciprocate -- something that pure, that sure. They were the right feelings, the right words, coming out of the wrong mouth. Not that Alan's was the right one; it clearly wasn't. But somehow Doug's wasn't, either.

I tried to make myself believe things could change, and that time would fix it and spark things that had lain dormant for far, far longer than I care to remember or admit. I wrote about giving it a fair chance, even though in the back of my mind I suspect I already knew it wasn't going to end happily. But here, I could put the words to paper, and maybe they would spring to life. Maybe I'd prophesize something that would self-fulfill. Not because I was or am desperate to pair off, but because there was a simple beauty in what Doug was telling me and feeling, and I would have been a lucky girl indeed if I'd been able to make that work for me. And I knew that. So I clung to him longer than I should have, unable to believe I'd be that lucky ever again -- and, toxically, wondering if I should settle for luck instead of real love.

And so my romantic history contains one guy I could trust but couldn't be with, and a guy I could be with but couldn't trust. The net effect of this is that I've become paranoid about relationships.

That's one reason I haven't written anything about Kevin yet: that idiotic fear of jinxing things that seem to be going so well.

I'm not sure when I became that person -- the one who's ready with a cringe, constantly anticipating the need to deploy it. Partly, I'm gun-shy, assuming that everything that starts off making me happy will end in some kind of problem. Not to lay it at Alan's feet, but that relationship definitely made me a little skittish about trusting my instincts. That, coupled with the fact that I admitted pretty often in this space that I was giddily happy with him, make me nervous about writing those things about anybody else. Those words have a nasty bite when they come back around and open their chopping maws.

Kevin isn't Alan, though, and he's not Doug. He doesn't come with drama, he doesn't incite it, and he doesn't have enough baggage to fill a flight out of town. He doesn't judge who I am or what I do. He's the guy I'm dating, and he's great, and I wouldn't change a thing about him or how we are together.

It's been about three months. I'm not looking forward and I'm not looking back -- I'm just happily in the moment, hoping for more moments, and it feels good. Until I spend too much time alone with my thoughts, that is, at which point my ridiculous paranoid mind makes me wonder from which direction the catastrophe will come that will doubtless shatter my illusion that everything's going fine.

Truly, I think it stinks that I can't sit back and say that a guy I like really likes me, without having to immediately add qualifiers like, "At least for now," or "At least, I think he does," or other destructive little tags. What I want to do is just continue to feel what I do when I'm with him, which is nothing but good things. And so I'm going to start by eradicating my fear that putting something in print tempts fate to jinx me.

I like the way he smiles at me. I like how he makes me feel -- pretty, special, fun. Worthwhile. I like that there's no drama. I like that I always want to hang out with him because just being in his company lifts me. And while I can't speak for him on this matter, I do know that he doesn't give me cause to question myself. The way he acts around me, the way he treats me, doesn't make me wish I were something more, something else, or someone else. He's brilliant at what he does, and he'll be brilliant at the other things he wants to attempt. He's uncomplicated company in the very best sense -- I'm always laughing, always grinning, always full. He doesn't stress me out or make me nervous, and he doesn't make me sad. I don't hang up the phone feeling lost.

So isn't it an ugly rub that all the things that seem to be going smoothly have me paranoid that the other shoe will drop?

And I love shoes, too; I don't want one to be used for evil. Hopefully putting stuff to paper will be a step in teaching myself not to worry about what's coming in the future. If something does happen to muck this up, I'll be awfully irritated at myself for not enjoying it while it lasted. And I shouldn't, in life, expect that happiness and contentment are fleeting simply because they have been in the past.

So, I give you my boyfriend, Kevin. I like him. I'm going to Vegas with him this weekend. And I'm not going to wait any longer for the sky to fall.

• • • • •

In yesterday's entry, I recounted an anecdote from Saturday's race in which a woman next to me sported a shirt that read, "I'm Running To End Stroke," whereas mine simply said, "College: It's Not Just For Binge Drinking Anymore."

This led to some spirited, and in some parts highly inappropriate, conversation between Jessica, Carrie, Lauren and me about the t-shirt that would most aptly share with the world our charitable cause.

That being, running to downsize our beer guts.

So with the help of the folks at the ubiquitous Café Press, we've come up with the first in what might end up being a series of shirts based on the theory Jessica and I coined today: "Sometimes vanity and philanthropy are one and the same."

Head on over to our new store, branded for the moment by our other online venture, Drunky But Funky. We've started with really simple running-related parody shirts, and if the demand is there we might play around with expanding that concept while also offering some stuff emblazoned with just the DbF logo. A beer stein, for instance, is forthcoming.

We're just having fun, and we wanted to give a laugh to all the budding runners, gymrats, and boozehounds among you. Enjoy.

• • • • •

Someone got here by searching for: silhouette of couple tap dancing Reading: Piles and piles of old Heat magazines that my sister brought back from the U.K. in January. Listening to: The compilation CDs she brought back. Thanks, Julie! You are brilliant.