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Through the Looking Glass – Page 9 – Life as an Extreme Sport
Life as an Extreme Sport

Meatballs

Before sleeping last night, I decided to read a few more pages in my book of Useless Sexual Trivia. This lead to the following conversation:

“The average weight of a Chinese man’s testicles, in grams: nineteen.” I paused for a moment for effect. “The average weight of a Dane’s: forty-two.” This, of course, got the desired effect – a lot of laughter. Trying to second guess him, I said “It’s the sausage?”

He blinked and looked at me solemnly for a moment. “No, it’s Viking heritage.”

Pretty Purple Post-Its

Simple things have the ability to make me so happy. Take my post-it notes, for example. I just unwrapped these nearly-purple post-it notes, and just the sight of them sitting there, waiting and ready to be written on, makes me bubble. I also have a new pad of legal paper, perfect for note taking, and smaller perfectly purple post-it notes for small note taking on top of it. (I can hear Jenna now. Shush!)

I’ve been tight. I know this because I’m starting to unwind, and oh my god does it hurt like you just wouldn’t believe. Add to that the rather common (but still unpleasent) monthly cramps, and my back and neck are just misery. The worst of it is in my neck and shoulders; on top of that I can feel a nice mouse-knot that formed out of no where yesterday. It’s like a little tennis ball of agony! It actually hurt to type this morning, a feeling I’ve not had for years.

Still, today for the first time since Monday, I’m starting to breathe. To isolate where the problems that have tensed and stressed me are, and to work on untangling them and resolving them.

A few identified areas:
* I feel like I’m in a Reno-situation.
* I don’t do enough outside the house.
* I need to remember to smile.
* I’m torn by conflicting desires.
* I miss Mars.

I’ll write more about each of the five things later, but not right now. Right now I’m back to feeling doubled over, like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. Only this time, it’s accompanied by quiet, wet tears.

Can’t Be Friends

Mars, dear Mars,

I told the truth the other night, when I said that talking to you was not as bad as I thought it would be. Not nearly as unpleasent, and tho it hurt, it was bearable. I’m glad to hear your life is going how you have always dreamed it would; I’m sad that those dreams never included me.

In some respects it was comical to talk with you. So many things you said you would never do or be that you are embracing firmly; so many things I told you that you discounted, that you now treat as truth.

I found myself only fleetingly drawn to you. You’ve changed so much, stylistically, and it just wasn’t appealing. Only occasionally did I feel a familiar twinge, as you tilted your head or smiled sadly.

It was bearable. The aftermath was not. I’ve spent the last few days back in a hell of twisted thought and emotion. I’ve struggled with fear, doubt, regret, and mourned. I’ve realized things about you, about myself. I’ve realized that I don’t believe you ever loved me – certainly, you cared. But loved? I don’t know, not anymore. I’ve realized that I still passionately love the person I got to know over successive nights on a greyhound bus four years ago. And I’ve realized that, altho traces of that person still come out when talking to you, you’ve killed him.

You want to be friends. You pleaded for that, again. You want to meet up occasionally over coffee, trade stories, and glow with the knowledge that you did the right thing. I can’t give that to you. I can’t tell you that you did the right thing, I can’t regale you with cheery stories of my life that reassure you that I’m over you, and lift the burdon of the pain you caused me from your shoulders. I am not over you, I will never be over you. I will always love the person I met those dark nights so long ago, and I will always hurt from the pain you caused me.

You cannot toss me aside, no longer love me, and still expect to be friends. You can’t always have what you want – you had to make a choice, me or other, and you chose other. You could have chosen to rebuild things with me, to have me in your life. We could have worked on things, and figured out how to make it all blend, mesh, work. You chose to destroy that, and in doing so you destroyed any bridges we could build between ourselves.

Perhaps I’m being selfish. Maybe I’m trying to hurt you, and deny you something you want. But I cannot be your friend.

Waves

The waves chop and surge, break and froth in a frenzy of activity tonight, gusting and bursting onto the road, misting the windows as I fight to keep the car in my lane. I chop and surge, break and froth myself, gusting and bursting first into tears, then into laughter and solemness and a range of emotions as I fight to keep control long enough to get safely home.

It was hard tonight. Had you told me at 10:30 this morning that I would be sitting in the Sit & Spin, talking with Mars for a few hours, I would have laughed at you. I would have told you to stop making such tasteless jokes.

We talked for a few hours. Maybe I’ll write about it someday, most likely I won’t. But, so you know – it was mostly good, it was closure. It answered those nagging what ifs and maybes, and left me with a stronger sense of what I’ve done and where I’m going.

I’m sure the wind is still whipping the waves on the surface of the lake. Sometimes, it’s nice to have misty windows.

Lately, It’s Been Like This

Had you been sitting behind us in the theatre last night, you might have overheard this conversation…

“What are these?”
“Huh?” (I glance down at the armrests, which he’s tugging on.) “Oh. Armrests?”
“They don’t move?”
“No, not in this theatre.”
“Bah. Fences.”

The rest of the movie, you would occasionally hear, muttered, “bah, fences.”

________________

I had a Karen-moment today… We were eating out, (for those who are keeping track of such things, at The Outback), and talking about the “fucking Danes.” Had you overheard this conversation, it would have gone something like this:

“You know the Danes use butter to make ice cream?” (I apparently look properly horrified.) “Well, you know, ice cream requires fat. But we Swedes are normal, we use cream. The Danes are just weird. They dye their sausages! They eat these blood red sausages!” He gets quite for a moment, then serious and contemplative. “It’s probably why their flag is red.”

The conversation continued for a bit, during which time he began sneaking furtive looks at the single, solitary leftover crouton in my salad plate. Finally, “Are you going to eat that?”

“Uhm, no…? Do you want it?”

He glances around, behind his shoulder and at the other tables before pulling the plate over and quickly sweeping the crouton onto his salad plate. “No? We Smalanders don’t waste food!”

________________

I think Karen was right – Swedish imports certainly seem to be the way to go.