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I was talking to my mother on the phone this evening, about logistics. Tomorrow is Canada Day, you see, and since it’s a Tuesday rather than attached to a weekend, and Doug and I haven’t made solid plans, Ma pounced on the opportunity and invited us to a dinner.
“We miss him! We want to see Doug!”
This dinner will take place at friends of my parents’ house. It is likely that there will be several Egyptians.
“He needs to be introduced to the Egyptian Community.”
It will be the first affair involving many Egyptians and my boyfriend. They’re sort of like family.
It’s also a true testament to my family, my mother in particular, accepting Doug into my life, and into the family. He’s wonderful, and now it’s time that I show him off to family friends.
Besides. I am very much looking forward to watching how they all interact.
“OW, OW, OW. MY FEMALE PARTS, THEY HURT.”
A sympathetic smile was all I wanted. OK, and drugs. I wanted drugs, too. It was early morning and my chipper parents were puttering around. I couldn’t fall asleep again amid the noise. I felt like someone had mowed the inside of my uterus. Literally, mowed. Like, with a lawnmower. And blades.
She just chuckled at my insistent yelling and replied calmly. She is a patient woman.
“This is your body preparing you for children, chérie. What are you going to do when you have to give birth?”
Well, I didn’t take that too well.
“Mama? I am going to have an absolute maximum of, say, five children. I WILL NOT HAVE TO GIVE BIRTH ONCE A MONTH UNTIL THE SWEET RELEASE OF MENOPAUSE!”
She only laughed at me.
Doug has an excellent memory. I don’t. This means that he typically remembers things like what stories I have already told him, when our last trip was, my current food obsession, and what we were doing on August 23rd of last year.
Unsurprisingly, he remembers the song that played as we danced together for the first time. He remembers the approximate date, he remembers its placement in our relationship, he remembers that it was playing on his computer. Doug is the sort of man who pays attention when I least expect him to, even when it isn’t crucial that he pay attention. It has a rather specific effect: it makes a girl feel important and special.
I could not have told you what that song was if my life had depended on it until he reminded me a few weeks ago. I forget many things that might seem important. But don’t go reading anything into that; I remember some very specific things.
I remember that very dance, actually. I just remember different things about it.
I remember thinking how special it was that we were dancing, because he typically has to be dragged by his hair to a dance floor (pretty difficult since the man shaves his head), and even then he will not dance. I remember holding on really tight, and dancing for several songs that melted into one another. I remember thinking that we have the same approximate taste in music, and how it felt to be in his arms.
I remember faltering, and time slowing down to a crawl as I realized that I was terrified in my fragile new relationship.
Panicked tears burned my eyes, and I choked. My throat felt thick as I pressed my glass face into his solid shoulder. It has always been too easy, particularly for him, to read my thoughts. I didn’t want him to see that I was struggling on a see-saw of fear and happiness.
You see, it was in that moment that I actually tipped over and completely fell in love with him.
Can you blame me for not paying attention to anything else? Who can remember a song title when dealing with that sort of balance-shattering truth? I had been with him for such a short time… it was impossible! What I was feeling was impossible. But there it was anyway.
I remember taking a deep breath, deciding to stop trying to control things, and exhaling carefully, as though in contradiction. I resolved not to tell him until he told me, for two important and specific reasons, and managed to hold out for one solid week. (By the way, it’s terrible, living with that sort of secret. You live in fear of blurting it out at any moment, which is more likely than you would think.)
And not to get too schmoopy or anything, but I also remember deciding to let go, as this dance continued. So I dove in headfirst, opened my heart and welcomed love, not knowing if he would feel the same way I did, or as strongly as I did. I decided to risk it.
It’s been nearly two years since that moment. I haven’t regretted one second since then.
I’m going to my parents’ house today, because tomorrow morning at 7 am (ohgod), my parents, sister and I are piling up in the family’s Toyota Matrix and shlepping off to visit some family in Quebec.
We’re really going for a christening on Saturday, but Dad has generously agreed to have us stop for the night at my aunt’s place on the way, he says, to relax. I say, to recover. Then there’s this mad plan that we’re going to go to a christening, then piling into the car to get all the way back to my parents’ place by early Sunday.
The drive to my aunt’s is 8 hours, and the drive further on, to the christening, is an additional 3.
I’m packing books, sock yarn, pens and paper and… yeesh.
I’d skip the whole thing, but every time I’ve called to say that I’ve changed my mind and would rather not go, I get this kind of answer once I’ve identified myself: “Hello? Therese?!? I’m SO VERY HAPPY that you’re COMING!”
Only as asshole could face that kind of joy in her mother and sister and father, separately, and crush it brutally for no particular reason. An unfeeling asshole, at that.
So I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m going to hop on the bus today, sit in a hopefully non-smelly environment for 2 hours, drive tomorrow, drive the next day, and drive even more the day after that. And I’m going to do my best to enjoy myself.
My mother seems to think there will be pockets of time to go running. We’ll see.
PS. Looking for a few minutes of entertainment and distraction? Check these two things out: Larry Oce, and Larry & Whitney. Lately, I have had a lot of time on my hands.
On Monday night, after my run (ha ha! I ran! I can call it mine! Ha!) I felt amazing. Full of energy, filled with renewed purpose, active. I know I was only out there for an hour, and most of it involved walking, but dammit, I felt like a gadzillion bucks. That’s the thing about exercise. It really gets the blood moving. I don’t even really mind the collapsing on the floor in a heap of sweaty soreness. It makes me feel like I did something.
Well, here we are, two sleeps later, and my legs are still very, very sore. You know, like, the sore you get when you don’t stretch properly, and go from doing no exercise to diving right into exercise, and then you suffer every time you move those nineteen muscles you pulled, which is every time you bend your leg, even ever so slightly. I WILL NEVER LEARN.
It’s frustrating me, because I know I need to get out at least 5 times this week in order to be able to keep up next week, and although my brain was all “YES! Let’s GO! We feel awesome about this plan!” yesterday, my legs trumped it with a “HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA no.”
So I’m worried about it, and wondering how to ease the pain of sore calves. I’m not upset that I actually have sore calves, you understand, I realize that whenever you exercise, you are actually ripping apart your muscles and that can be painful, particularly when you’re not used to it. Plus, no pain, no gain and all that. But I do want to do something about it so that I can keep going, and not be walking so gingerly.
Trusting the Internet as much as I do, I looked around for a good set of stretches to do before and after the actual running. I like what these people have to say, and I have decided that the best thing for me to do, now that I’ve spend one day on my butt, is to get right back in. So I’m going to pop some ibuprofen, drink as much water as I can, and then I’m going to go for a long walk tonight. If I’m still sore when I get home, I’ll also ice where it hurts. Tomrrow, I plan to resume with the running. I’ll push myself slightly less hard than I did that first time, but I’ll try to go twice. We’ll see how that works out for me.
I really want to do this, and I refuse to let an insignificant thing like excrutiating pain stop me.
Yeah, about that.
I just got back from my first run.
It was one minute run, two minutes walk. Six times. And I mostly walked, when I couldn’t breathe easy. And I did that to avoid the puking that they don’t tell you about (if you are out of shape and you start an exercise program, you may puke, depending on how far gone you are), because I have an 8 year no puking streak that exists because I loathe throwing up with more enthusiasm than that chirpy bird who likes to twitter outside my bedroom window every morning.
To keep up with the group, which consists of some lovely people with friendly smiles, I have to go through this another three times, minimum, before next week.
I am a giant, sticky mass of sweaty Thérèse. It is pleasant in exactly no ways. None.
Oh, also, I may die.
Doug, when you get home, do make sure you don’t step on me where I’ll have collapsed, and do remember to peel me off the floor when it’s time to go to sleep, ‘kay?
Lately, I’ve noticed something. I’ve noticed that I’ve gotten a little… okay, there’s no nice way of saying it. Fat. I’ve gotten fat. I’ve gained too much weight. My wardrobe is shrinking, and my prettiest clothes no longer fit me.
It’s funny how you just wake up one morning and realize very suddenly that you’ve gone too far. I realize that it’s gradual, but it’s really, really easy not to notice.
I see no point in bemoaning my state. I do, however, blame no longer being in my early twenties and my changing metabolism (damn you, metabolism!) for a lot of this. Still, I definitely see the point in facing the problem and doing something about it. Things cannot go on like this indefinitely, or I will expand to the point that I will be unable to wear heels, will have to wear spandex or muumuus, can no longer walk and will have to waddle to get everywhere. No one wants to see that.
I got an events flier from my new town the other day, and it listed some of the summer programs and activities in my community. Among those, running.
I’ve signed up, and tonight is the first class. I realize that running is not something that you necessarily need to be taught (put one foot in front of the other, see, like walking, only faster), but I think the group encouragement and accountability will help me get off my feet. Or rather, on them.
The hardest part of starting an exercise program is the beginning. It’s Newton’s first law: an object (or ass) at rest will tend to stay at rest (on couch) unless acted on by an external force (running group). This same law states that an object (ass) in motion will continue at constant velocity (imagine that, running constantly) unless acted on by an external force (back off, external force!).
I knew that physics class would come in handy one day.
As for telling you guys? Well, it’s all about accountability.
I’ve always secretly believed that I was a runner, deep down. I felt the same about guitar, and taught myself and found I was right. I thought the same about writing, and was right. This may be on a different scale, but I have that same feeling of rightness. Bad knees or no bad knees.
I’m actually pretty excited.
These days, I set my alarm and invariably ignore its command to wake up. When I drift off that second time, my brain concocts the wildest dreams.
This morning involved a high school reunion wherein everyone was a subject in one person’s kingdom, and there were obstacles throughout the land to be fought and overcome. It was great fun, and not unlike being in a place of magic. The normal rules didn’t apply. It was kind of like being in a video game, only it was quite a workout.
Whenever I have one of these morning dreams, which is more often than I expect, I always wish I could quickly run a camcorder in my brain and suck the details out of there before they become too hazy, as is inevitable with increased awareness.
Still, it makes for entertaining mornings in bed.
Sita the cat: Meow.
Doug: What?
Sita the cat: Meow, meow, meow.
Doug: You think so, do you?
Sita the cat: Meow! Meow! Meow?
Therese: Maybe she wants you to pick her up.
Doug: I just did.
Sita the cat: Meow.
Doug: See?
Sita the cat: Meow!
Doug: She’s so demanding.
Sita the cat: Meow, meow, meow, meow…
Therese: I’m pretty sure she just likes to complain.
Sita the cat: … meow, meow, meow…
Therese: Or, she objects when we ignore her.
Sita the cat: MEOW!
Doug: That’s probably it.
The thing about being out of work is that time is on a dial: it either crawls, seconds ticking audibly, or it zips on by, barely giving me time to collect my thoughts. Either way, it’s rather like a fever.
I’ve been job hunting for about a year now. I have spent countless hours looking for work, polishing my presentation, reading about how to improve my chances, and considering other careers. I have felt so productive that before I know it, it’s 5:30pm and Doug’s home. I have also felt hope, disappointment, and countless rejections (I have a PFO file, but not everyone acknowledges your application).
It’s an exercise in patience, waking up to figure out what the day will bring.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve thought of everything, done everything, and am stuck waiting. Either I’m waiting to hear back from someone, for better or worse, or I’m waiting for the application deadline to pass, so I can then begin waiting to hear back, or I’m just stumped over what to try next.
On the slow days, there’s a lot of room for panic. If you’ve ever been out of work for a significant stretch, you know what I mean. That’s when all the crappy horrible thoughts come in. I have a degree. What am I doing? Why am I being so picky? I should just settle. I should have a job by now! Why is this so hard? I am running out of money, crap. Etc, etc. Those days are pretty crappy. And nothing much makes me feel better.
On the quick days, there isn’t much time to think. They’re mostly good days. Distractions come in many shapes and forms, after all. Still, the quick days are fewer and further between, these days. After all, when you’re job hunting, once you’ve walked down every avenue, you’re just looking for updates.
Today is neither a slow, nor a quick day. It is one of those odd days in between. One of those days where I’ve done some productive things, and am still left with time. So I take pleasure in the little things in life, like the view from my home office window, and the green smell that drifts in. The purring of Sita the cat.
And today, I am making cupcakes.
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