it wasn't about the haircut.

A while back I was talking with my girlfriends at a stoplight. It was cloudy, and I was gathering pieces, distracting myself while on the mend. We laughed at one of our friend’s latest escapades, and Mel’s eyes suddenly widened. I whipped my head around to see her target and my eyes locked on my favorite sweater.  White, with a thick, gray stripe across the shoulders.  And –

– and OHHHH. 

I couldn’t breathe.

I tried to wave off the nausea with a laugh and weak smile.

It took him less than 48 hours to cut his hair.

(I know the significance of this is lost on almost all but me.  Trust my experience; taking scissors to that perfect coif is not a decision of marginal magnitude.)

My professor once said, We look for evidence, not information. We search out the data with innuendos and attachment and meaning. We find patterns.

Empirical evidence, not just information. That’s what it was to me.

Proof that he was now different, and the different clearly wasn’t mine to claim.

New. New me, and you’re not welcome in.

How foolish and trivial it was.  A haircut.

But really, it wasn’t just a haircut.

…….…………………

A month later, I turned into the parking lot of an apartment complex.  It’s funny how time skews perception.  I miscounted the speed bumps.  In my passenger seat sat a returning good-luck token, with a note to dull the ache.  

Loose ends.

His parked car caught my eye. Right there on the front line, almost insultingly conspicuous. Catcalling.  Hey, hottie babe. He’s here, you know.  He’s been here.  Where’ve you been?

I remembered wisecracking at Courtneyweeks ago, telling her what I miss most is the rides.  In Courtney fashion, she said, That would make a great essay. 

I shot the car a crusty as I walked up the first set of concrete steps.

A hollow wooden door.  Regret on one side, bitterness on the other.  Three inches.  A chasm of pride, ambition, selfishness. Most of it mine.

I knew the layout of the room behind that front door.  I remembered sitting on that black couch at the beginning of it as we quietly took down walls, brick by brick.

He asked, Scars.  Do you have many?

Everybody has scars, I murmured.  It’s the open wounds that really matter.

So much in those three inches. I clenched my hand, raised my fist.

I caught my reflection in the window.  My untamable hair was thrown up on my head, and I was wearing no makeup except a vivid coral lip. My skin was browned from a recent weekend getaway.  I looked young and vibrant. I looked like one of my favorite versions of me.

A passing thought of, If he opened this door right now, he would treat me like a stranger.  The warmth of familiarity, the unvoiced admission of even-though-it’s-different-now-we-used-to-dance-in-the-kitchen-don’t-you-remember?….that was not going to be there. I’d seen it go before. It would be gone.

I didn’t knock.

And that’s all that needs to be said on that, really.  That says enough.

Headed back to my car, I did what very well may be the creepiest thing I’ve ever done (and ever hope to do).  I walked over to that damn car and shamelessly peered in the windows.  A desire to exert control? Morbid curiosity?

It was messier than usual. An empty Mountain Dew bottle, hiking boots, and his favorite black-and-white checked scarf were littered across the backseat.

I knew nothing about why those items were there. Had he gone hiking? He never wears those boots. Why had he needed a scarf?  

I remembered the day I saw his haircut. And just like that, I came to terms with my ignorance.

I.  didn’t.  know.  And I wasn’t going to know.  He was still the same man I’d known for so long, but he was changing day by day, hour by hour, choice by choice.  Time and decisions I was not a part of.

I slid into my car. Flipped down the mirror and stared.

Here I am. Barefaced.

Ready to screw prudence.

The Hormonal Exorcism: Walgreens Edition

Confession: all my hormonal exorcisms include Walgreens.  I have this weird compulsive affection for Walgreens, like a needy preteen who just wants her crush to notice her. I'm serious. I have a points card. For Walgreens. The eccentricity of this is not lost on me.

Walgreens is there 24/7.  Need a prescription refilled? No problem! Any hour of the day, Walgreens has your back. Need somewhere to go at 3 a.m. because your hair looked great today and you can't go home quite yet? Fear not; zoom over to Walgreens and show off your locks!

So, anyway. I'm terribly fond of Walgreens.

A few weeks ago when I was "riding the crimson wave," as Cher Horowitz would so eloquently articulate, I was being a real piece of work.  So I did what a girl should never do and called a man. A handsome one, with perfect cheekbones.

"I need you and I need a dirty Diet Coke like yesterday. Also, Walgreens."
"I'll pick you up in 10."

Dirty DC in hand, to Walgreens we dashed!

He followed me around like an obedient little boy as I haphazardly snatched  (Essie-approved) items from cosmetics... chocolate....maybe something for my dog?.....a Christmas ornament or two?.....and some super tampons, throwing them at him to carry.  He held my box of tampons. Unphased.

There was a moment when I froze in the medication isle and looked at him amidst all the glory of this corner drugstore -- fluorescent lighting, peeling linoleum -- I froze.  Cocked my head to the side.  He looked oddly content.  I'm serious, it was weird. Almost....serene? Is that the right word? Untroubled and relaxed, as if he were watching Storage Wars instead of witnessing the unrefined unleashing of my ability to arbitrarily spend an obscene amount of money at Walgreens in order to assuage the hormone demons (deep breath).


So I guess what I'm trying to say is, well, maybe fluorescent lighting is good for something.





here.
here.

am I numb.

This heartbreak has been different.

I knew it was likely to come (here)

After the event,

I sobbed for an hour. My friends held me and told me it was okay to cry. I let my body shake and cleanse.

Then.

Stared at the mirror.

Washed my face.

Put makeup on.

And went to a birthday party.

The next morning I Lysol-wiped the kitchen floor for three hours in my underwear, Christmas music blaring.  (weird similarity here)

By 4p.m. I needed to….I needed to….I don’t know what I needed to do. But I went to Sonic and ordered a dirty DC (just like me) and a double bacon cheeseburger (not like me.) I sat in the Macey’s parking lot and waited for the inevitable wave of regret. 

It never came.

So I walked into the supermarket and bought myself flowers.

Sometimes that’s okay.

And I don’t know if I’m running to or running from

but I need to keep running.

an unabridged woman.

I had a man recently allude-- not so directly, but in a way clearly understood – that I’m afraid. And the assertion ended there. I didn’t ask more because I didn’t want to hear more.

Afraid.

Of what?

Of love? Or of falling in love?

Of commitment?

Well…I am. Of all the above. No kidding, Sherlock.

Regardless of how accurate the statement is, it felt less like an observation and more like a blaming. A branding, even. Branding me as “one of those girls” -- too scared to make commitments, or too frivolous to be loyal. Foolish and thoughtless in the game of hearts.

I resent that.

My least favorite passive-aggressive compliment is, You really know how to play the game, don’t you. That doesn’t fly with me. It works me up into quite the tizzy, actually.

For clarification, I suppose there are two genres of game-playing.  There’s the knowing when to call, being just busy enough, well-placed tight jeans kind of game.  It’s lighthearted and fun. No expectations have been set. This is the game of breezy flattery and ego-boosts and once-a-week lunch dates. This is the game in which I’m alright with considering myself….well, we’ll say “versed.”

Then there’s the heavy game, dealing with deep-rooted affections.  Approaching that with a sense of flippancy is wrong. Playing this game for self-serving reasons or the sake of competition is wrong.

Accusing me of playing the latter game irresponsibly is, frankly, insulting. It’s insulting not because I’m unwilling to own up to how I am, but because it belittles everything most important to me. Because anybody who knows me half-well will tell you the number one focus in my life is building relationships.

And I’m just trying to unearth this life of mine the best I know how.

Isn’t everybody afraid, at their core? If they aren’t, maybe they should be.  It's terrifying to think of soul-rocking, life-changing, honey-we’re-out-of-milk-I’ll-go-to-the-store forever kind of love.  It should be terrifying because it pushes the limits of our natural man, forcing us to expand past our own selfish humanity.

And yes, some of us have more walls than others. Some of us are lonely and some of us are jaded and some of us are insecure. Usually we’re a little of all of it.  But regardless of how we “play the game,” so to speak – everybody is a little. bit. scared.  

I have so much love to give. It’s my finest and worst attribute, really.  It gets me into trouble too often. But when the right time and the right man line up, it’s going to serve me well.

I’m going to love wholly and unreservedly.

It’ll be easy. So easy. I’ll settle into the curves of our life and exhale, exclaiming, all those years! all those years and I didn’t know how to breathe.

One day, there will be a man who will turn me into an unabridged woman.

And I’ll run to him.

some people's kids, man.

I’m worried about your running a half marathon. You’ve barely trained at all—what if you hurt yourself?

Paige, I’m not going to hurt myself.  What size shake should we get?

Medium.  It’s all downhill. That’s hard on knees.

>> Welcome to Malt Shoppe. May I take your order?

YEAH, WE’D LIKE A MEDIUM PUMPKIN SHAKE.  (He always yells at the drive-thru.)

 Jake’s been talking smack. I have to run it. Do you want anything else?

No, I’m fine. Well how many miles have you been running lately?

Threes, mostly. Sometimes fives. I’m starving; I think I’ll get a burger too. You sure you don’t want anything?

No, I’m not hungry. I’ll just have a bite of yours.  But fives—

--OK, SO WE'LL HAVE TWO BURGERS PLEASE.

I really don’t want one.

You know your "bites" always end up being at least half of mine, and I’m starving, so I’m getting you your own.

Fine. I’ll just have the dollar one.

But you’ll just take off the bottom bun and then all it’ll be is a patty and half a bun, and then you’ll eat all my tater tots.

It’s fine. Look, I know you can do it. That’s not the point.

WE’LL HAVE A NUMBER 2 AND A NUMBER 8. THANKS. 

This is the point -- I’m sure you’d get first in your age group just like last time. But you have to train or you’ll get wrecked, especially with mono.

(He pulls up, pays, and hands me the food.)

I LOVE THIS SONG. This is a JAM.

(We jam.)

I haven’t been very mono-ish this week. I think I’m over it. Besides,  I've run an entire marathon before. This'll be cake.

I don’t think it works like that.  You don’t need to run anything to prove you’d beat Jake. Everyone knows you would; you’re like a freaking Kenyan. 

Like a what?

You know, like that lightning guy. Anyway, I’ll support you, but I think it’s going to be an unnecessary tragedy. There. I’ve said my piece.

Paige, it’s going to be fine. You worry way too much. About everything. Hand me the tater tots?

……Sorry. They’re gone.