It Was Just Two Months

It was just two months
But we went to the beach

It was just two months
But we went to a protest

It was just two months
But we texted through plane delays

It was just two months
But his mom followed me on twitter

It was just two months
But we met each other’s cats

It was just two months
But I let down my walls

It was just two months
But I thought it was all happening

It was just two months
But it was different

It was just two months
But he was different

It was just two months
But I was just me

It was just two months
But it was sunshine in the darkness

It was just two months
But I had hope

It was just two months
But now it’s over

“Ew. I don’t want to hold her hand.”

No.  I’m not talking about an awful date.  I’m talking about something I heard on the regular as a kid.

Deserve

[The below is a twitter stream of thought I had the other day.  And it probably reads like that. But it was such a revelation for myself that I felt the need to get it to something a bit more permanent.] 

“Why Is This Happening Again?”

The anxiety is crippling.  Like I’m being choked.  Disappointment is palpable. And it’s all I can do to not fall into a rabbit hole of my own making.  Of my sadness.  Even now, just the thought takes over my body.

It. Is. Exhausting.

Where did he go?  Where did I go?

One Year

A year ago…

It Still Exists

“My feelings for elected officials are a lot like my feelings in suitors. Frustrated, disappointed, unrealistic, but often excited & hopeful.” – Me. One time. On Twitter.

Dear Boston

I came to Boston as an 18yr old who thought she knew everything.

Like most college bound students.  But on that September day in 1998, as my parents drove away in their Subaru,  I stood in my dorm room on Hemenway Street and I had never felt more scared.  Because I didn’t know everything. And who would teach me now?

On Being Alone

Last night as I stood on my pretty great wood floors in my pretty great Cambridge apartment that I share with a pretty great woman, I started to prepare myself dinner. And then I thought about what a privilege that was.  To have the time.  To have the means.  To not have to consult with anyone about whether or not they wanted mushroom black bean quesadillas.  To not have to make enough for two.  Or three.  Or four. Or to make enough for two (or three or four) and then get to eat it all myself.  And that I could eat it while laying on the couch while watching Breaking Bad (yes I still haven’t finished Season 5) wearing leggings, some weird Jim Beam socks, and a tank top.

His hand, her back

as he led her through the bar.  It was a gentle touch of hand to her upper back, but the gesture was enough to signal to the crowd, to me, that he was protecting her, that they shared a history, and possibly a future.  I noticed him, her, the touch.  He did not notice me. 

Community – or my obligatory “Sex and the City”* post

I recently saw an article about the Sex and the City shows and what had become of the series and its legacy.  And this quote really hit me:  “What if it were the story of a woman who lost herself in her thirties, who was changed by a poisonous, powerful love affair, and who emerged, finally, surrounded by her friends?.”  And it had me thinking about what the show had meant for me in my life.  Ya know, just like every other single gal living in a city has wondered.  So add me to the list.