Monday, February 8, 2010

nine days away

Saw the Gentleman in Question Saturday night, which was both lovely and restorative. The gory details spared to protect the innocent, I would just like to say that I have come to a place. And in that place I am increasingly capable of being myself around him—quirks and all—because, well, shit, life is too short. If he doesn't like me as is, why waste time trying to impress him with artificial aloofness and put-on cool? I'm a red hot mess. I operate at a deficit between perpetual panic and brute melancholy. I laugh too loud, I love too fast, I whimper in my sleep and I speak in screwy metaphors. Take me or leave me.

Perfect illustration: I explain the hope I glean every year at about this time from one particular phrase whose issue reminds me that the long, cold, lonely winter is nearing conclusion—quite possibly the most beautiful string of words in the English language—and he says:

"By which you mean . . . "Happy Valentine's Day?"

And I respond: "Hell no. Pitchers and catchers report."