A delayed good-bye

"Someday WE will laugh about this."

This was the motto of our friendship. We were two crazy people who had found a willing conspirator in each other. We got into messes. We got into trouble. We had adventures. Boy, did we have adventure!

I think it helped that while we were completely different people, we viewed the world as our playground. And we had the same idea of fun, though we had different strategies for going about it. You preferred a more regimented and scheduled adventure. I was great with spur-of-the-moment stuff. You needed a script. I enjoyed adlib.

We both loved pizza and beer. And ice cream and cake. And sitting at the beach whistling at all the cute boys.

When we had boyfriends from the same crowd, you imagined our life together. We'd live next door and we'd be godparents to each other's children. I had no plans of having children then but I said yes. Yes, I would be the cool godparent who will side with them when they got in trouble. Or give them advice on how to enjoy life without getting in trouble.


College came and went. We stayed at the same dorm. Dated guys from the same frat. Had a long-term relationship or two. Then graduation. And work, we're we finally separated. But we lived on different floors of the same building, because we were independent that way.

When my last boyfriend and I broke up, you were there to hold me as I cried. You made sure I ate and cleaned up my apartment. You got my mail and made sure my bills were paid. Was it your guilty conscience?

I recovered. But it hasn't been the same. I'm not as fun as I used to be. Or at least not as fun with you.

What did you expect? You think you've atoned for what happened. I've forgiven you. And him. Maybe I should have seen what was happening. But I never did because I never expected it from you. Or him.

The day I finally decided to move away, we both cried. Not because of what we will be missing but because of what we've lost. I had this speech prepared of us growing apart and maybe needing to live our lives separately. But I ended up saying everything raw. Adlib. I told you you didn't need to see me to the airport.

I got into my new apartment, on this beautiful island at the other end of the country. I got an SMS from you.

"Someday we will laugh about this. Wish you the best of luck!"

I never did reply. But some days it weighed on me.

Sometimes, I would go down to the beach and look at the tourists. No, I don't whistle at the cute boys or men anymore. But I remember that we did and I smile to myself.

I heard that you were no longer with him. That you'd gotten so far as to get engaged but for some reason the wedding didn't push through. I wondered if I should contact you. But I pushed the thought away. You didn't tell me you'd gotten engaged and un-engaged. I think since I moved away, we've realized that somewhere, we were no longer friends. And our lives have moved on without each other.

I miss who we were when we were young, but I don't feel the compulsion to seek you out now.

I'm not sure if this is the someday you were talking about or we've envisioned when we were young. But hey, I remember the things we did, and I laugh about it.

I get pissed

when you text me to ask if the guy has contacted me and said anything about you.

Oh yeah!

Source: flickr.com via Becky on Pinterest

When you really think about it

That’s all I want, I guess, someone who will tell me to stop, who will calm me down and give me structure.

See the full article here.

Books vs. real life

Have you ever noticed that a lot of contemporary romance novels start with the premise of one party needing the other party to pretend to be in love or something? Like for their career, as a screen, to please a member of the family? And they end up together?

I wonder if that works in real life.

Real life: No, of course not. That's stupid.

Great! I'll try it tomorrow.

H A !

There you go.

Love - a wildly misunderstood, although highly desirable, malfunction of the heart which weakens the brain.

Source: None via Yamila on Pinterest

W e h.

Something cheesy. I just don't like the ending, but still.

From What you Are to Me

What You Are To Me

To me, you are the buzz on the back of the neck and the Cheshire Cat-smile after two generous glasses of wine. You are the brush of fingers against each other, if only for a moment, as I’m handed the glass. You are the flutter of the heart when the soft, dewy skin touches skin for just a millisecond too long.

You are the swell of my chest when, at all of eight years old, I look across the playground and see the best swing–the one I’m sure will send me over the bar and turn me inside-out forever–completely open. You are the pebbles scattering under my tennis shoes as I race past the monkey bars and under the slide. You are that first big swing forward when my legs stretch out in front of me and I can see over the roof of the next house over.

You are the warm, happy din that settles over those perfect house parties–the ones where all the friends you haven’t seen in a while are all back together in one place. You are the clink of glasses against each other as we toast to something absurd and obscure. You are the arms around shoulders as inside jokes are laughed over, as people pass around nostalgia like a peace pipe in the kitchen of a friend’s house.

You are the wind blowing gently over the beach, that thin layer of traveling sand that brushes against me as I fall asleep to the sound of the waves. You are the ice cubes in the lemonade, the condensation, the little breath I take in when I press the cold glass against my neck to fight the heat. You are the suntan lines I wake up with, the freckles that show up on my shoulders as I go to sleep. You are summer vacation.

You are the heady rush I get when, lying on the floor surrounded by torn-apart wrapping paper on my 10th Christmas morning, my parents tell me there’s one more present behind the couch. You are the delirious, happy coma I fall into as I agonize over which toy to play with first. You are the shiny, light brown glaze on the ham as my father carves the first slice. You are A Christmas Story on a 24-hour loop.

You are the first day of school, when all of my pens and notebooks are perfectly organized and even the little dividers are labeled with the little pieces of paper in their colored slots. You are the promise of a pencil case filled with fresh ink and unused erasers. You are the satisfying snap of a three-ring binder as you place your first papers neatly inside.

You are laughing, laughing so hard I can’t see through my tears, laughing so hard I need to sit down for a moment. You are the happy ache in my side from laughter that comes in gales and waves and only gets worse as you try to stop it. You are that moment when I’m being held down and tickled and legitimately wondering if anyone has ever died from being tickled too hard. You are the cries of “Stop it!” that can barely be understood through the squeals of open laughter.

You are all of these things, you see. But I’ll be polite; I’ll resist the urge to grab you and shake you until you see yourself the way I do. I want to show you the Polaroids and postcards of images you embody, the snapshots of our lives we want to save in a shoebox and pass down to our grandchildren–but I won’t. I won’t. I’ll let you go on thinking you’re just some ordinary human, if you want to. I understand, it must be easier that way.

Masked Murder-er

So, apparently, there's a statistical study about this. Mind you, I don't always crawl on the ground. Sometimes I hurry from one column to the next, always hugging the wall. I make sure that I look through the window at an angle (usually just through a gap in the curtain), the way you see them do it in movies. That way you can see outside, but they can't see you.

Source: featherweightt.tumblr.com via Elizabeth on Pinterest

Sometimes, I pretend I'm not home. Or sometimes, I shout:

"We don't live here anymore!"

The private investigator (sounds like a trashy)

The man stood atop the dunes and looked down the beach. His quarry was sitting 20 yards away from him. Close to the ocean. Crying. Even from this distance, he could see the shuddering sobs wracking the woman's body. She held herself in as if afraid a gust of wind would blow the pieces of herself away, with no hope of ever finding herself.

With a sigh, Jared started to walk toward the woman. He looked around the otherwise empty beach and appreciated the beauty of vista before him. He's spent the past six months trying to find this woman. He wasn't surprised that he would find her here, it had been a last resort. A slim hope. But his instincts had paid off. Clouds were rolling in, painting a beautiful sunset of orange, pinks and violets.

He stopped a few steps behind the woman.

"So you found me," she said, without looking at him.

Jared moved the couple of steps to stand beside the woman. He looked down at the top of her head and said, "Mrs. Fielding, it's time for you to go home."

A derisive laugh. "Don't you read the papers? I've been divorced. I am no longer Mrs. Fielding." She looked up and stared straight into Jared's eyes.

Jared should have been prepared for the impact of her eyes on him. He'd studied her pictures throughout this assignment. He knew her habits, her favorite food, how she takes her coffee. He caught his breath and took in the face before him. Eyes so clear and guileless. Lashes still spiky and wet from crying. Pink generous mouth. She was not a striking beauty but she had the open, welcoming face of the girl next door.

Married more for her money and connections than her beauty, Rosalie Beth Perez-Fielding had been an unwilling pawn in her father's and husband's quest for more money. The press had loved her innocence and naivete. And when her husband's affairs had become public, the press and the public had loved her for her poise and grace. As the scandal had grown, she had withdrawn from public appearances and let her lawyers and PR staff handle her affairs. Six months ago, she disappeared. Until now.

I wish

To my dear girlfriends,

I wish that someday, when we're old, we'll still have our lunches and get-togethers.

We'll bring our grandchildren along. They'll say:

"Be careful Grandma. Don't drop your Coors."

LOL!

is this a sign?

C & D holds a special  place in my heart. See why here.

http://www.etsy.com/listing/66239204/true-love-ring-sterling-silver-and

Anyway, the answer is a resounding NO. But I still want this. It's sweet and cute.


So what if I don't want to wake up to reality yet?

Equity in love

Looks pretty fair to me.

Source: justbesplendid.tumblr.com via Katherine on Pinterest