Tiptoe Through the Tulips, Flollop Through the... Ficus?

The word flollop was first used in Douglas Adams' literary masterpiece Life, The Universe, and Everything. It was described as a sort of flailing motion(and, technically, only the mattresses of Squornshellus Zeta are truly able to do it). The mattress flollops in joy, and I always held on to that idea. Flolloping.

So now, when I get so excited I can't contain it and I have to kick my legs and move my arms and wriggle in my seat, I call it flolloping, and I did it for twenty minutes straight last night.

The muse, in his own roundabout way, had made it clear that he would be at our theatre's open mic night last night. And he didn't invite me, specifically, only mentioned it while we were at our department's summer picnic(we work hard here at B&G, and we deserve free crabs). I went back and forth about it in the days leading up, but I finally settled on "Why would he tell me he was going unless it was a sort of invitation and you go to that all the time anyway so just go and shut up and stop being a baby."

I took a sick day yesterday(for my mental health). Most of the day was spent cleaning and rearranging some furniture. There were admittedly some video games, but I swear the majority of my time was spent productively. I listened to music, took a shower, spent time picking out a decent outfit-I tried my best to prepare myself, so I wouldn't feel so nervous. Just before I left, I put on my red lipstick. There's something about a good red lip that makes you feel confident. My particular shade is called "I could kill you and get away with it". Not officially but, you know.

And then, I was there. And not much later, he was there. And we sat together, and talked, and cracked up, and made dumb jokes. I think I'm finally getting over the nervousness that comes with being physically near him(Because no amount of texting, and there has been a fair bit, can compare to actually being present). I smiled a lot.

He left early, so I walked him out and we talked more. It was just nice. I felt good. I was happy. I went inside, found my friend, and flolloped.


As happy as I am, there's still the voice inside that says "It won't last". It's sad to think so, but I can always hope.

Parallels and Parking

Cars are important to us as a people. They take us to work, home, wherever we want to go, but more than that, they become a member of the family. We give them names, we find personalities in them.

Once upon a time and long ago, I had an old silver station wagon and he had a little red truck. Before either of us could express our feelings, we would park side by side every day, like an unspoken date that neither of us stood up. Our first Valentine's Day, I left cookies hanging in a bag on his antenna. We slept in my car a few times. The truck took us to Rock Hall in a terrible snowstorm(and only slipped a little). Orion took us to Georgia, earning himself a new windshield in the process, and that trip marked the first time we slept next to each other without any barriers between us.

Then, Orion needed a new fuel pump. For the first few months of living in our apartment, the truck carried us both. Then, when my baby finally went away(but before it was, in fact, final) the truck carried us both again, if begrudgingly.

I remember sitting in our print shop, feeling utterly hopeless. It was like my car and my relationship were in tandem, spiraling downward as a pair.

Jupiter came into my life, thankfully, and I started feeling solid and real again. My spirit, incarnate, for less than $3 a gallon. I still have Orion, in a way, and if I truly wanted I could put the money into him and fix him up, but I'm starting to know when I'm not able to put forth the amount of effort it takes to fix something.

Last Friday, we junked the truck. It was old, you could barely turn it, and it had started speeding up of it's own accord(I know we've joked that Alex's truck was trying to kill him, but it was really putting in some effort near the end). I was the one that flat-towed it to the junkyard(flat-towing is when you tie a powerless car to a much bigger van or truck and drag it along. Neat fact: The speedometer still works in car #2, so you get to see how fast you're going with almost no brakes. Whoo!)

Friday, the muse and I are traveling down to potentially pick up his new car, and the parallels are too great to go unwritten about. Here I am, with a new car and a new spirit. Here I am, with a new person and a new heart. And really, the road ahead is still unclear, but I think this car is gonna bring me through it just fine.

The Dulling Effect

Anybody that has been paying attention knows that Alex and I are on rocky ground. You'd also know that I've done basically nothing about it but run to the ocean, text someone cute, and whine about it on the internet.

Well, I'd like to think it's because of something I've dubbed "the dulling effect". Which, to be fair, I only named for the title of this particular blog post, but the name stands.

When I'm out and about in the world(from my beach trip to something as simple as doing laundry last night), I see with great clarity what I must do to move on and grow as a person. Like the world is laid out before me, I survey the topography and find the best route out of the wilderness. It's simple. Clean. Easy. Done in twelve steps or less.

And then, I go home.

There's an undeniable allure to having a cuddle buddy. Someone to curl up on the couch with, to sleep with, to sometimes not sleep with, to be able to reach out and touch; These are all things that I have grown accustomed to. And maybe we can't have an emotionally open conversation, but general conversations, the division of chores? We've got that down pat. It's nice. It's homey.

This, my friends, is the dulling effect.

It's when the sharp image of separation is dulled by the enjoyment of physical closeness and conversation. For example: "I should buy my own bed, but it's so fun to touch his butt." And though the good Lord did bless Alex in the booty department, should I sacrifice my own independence for it?

Of course, that then begs the question of "Is physically separating more healthy for me than staying put?" Though he's emotionally far, there are occasions where being physically near is just good enough. Not preferable, mind you, but good enough. When anxiety strikes, I can be held. If we separate, will that still ring true, or will I just have less anxiety to begin with?

All these questions occur to me, but only when I'm at home, or more accurately, in his proximity. Outside of that area of fallout, it's crystal clear. I've become the tragic heroine of my own story, being so convinced to leave a man behind until he comes prancing in and making me swoon(well, not swoon, but). The shame of it all.

(And of course there's the layer of "If we're more separate I can actually consider pursuing other gentlemen", but maybe let's leave that out of the equation for a second.)

What's a girl to do?

Right now, nothing. I'm just going to sit on this, consider my options and finances. I know that neither of us can afford to move(and really, I don't want to).  In a perfect world, the affections I do still have for him wouldn't get in the way of my everything else, but in a perfect world I'd also be hot and rich.

Ah, well. At least I can deliberate with an enjoyable booty around.

Me and Elle and Asshole Too

I love the people I find myself surrounded by. I truly do. The boy is still something to me, if not something definable(or, at this point, important), and Tony is the best friend I've ever had.

But the two of them have gotten into this irksome little habit of telling me they don't care about what I'm talking about.

At first, it was gentle, and I almost appreciated that level of honesty-That rather than waste my time and theirs, sitting and listening with a glazed look in their eyes, they chose to be upfront about their feelings. That's good, I thought. That's healthy.

Tony was in a bad spot, and didn't have the energy to focus on my problems as well as his own. That was fair, and I've been there before(though I'm far more discreet, and will just let the messages go unread).

But this boy... Let's finally give him a name, shall we? Alex is a good one. Yes. Alex. Alex has decided that he doesn't care, and will be open with telling me so if I'm talking about something.

Well, I fuckin' care!

Really, does he think I give any sorts of shits about his latest Skyrim character or how his dealer changed phone numbers and he was having such a hard time getting a hold of him, and listen to this zombie game he wants to make!

I don't care about those things. Not even a little. I used to care a little, because they were parts of him, but even when I didn't I wouldn't say so. My Momma didn't raise me to tell people I didn't care about what they were thinking.

When you care about someone, you listen to what they have to say(assuming, of course, that it's not harmful). You don't make them feel like talking to you is a waste of time. Last night, I was talking about something, and I cut myself off mid-sentence. I was talking, and the little voice in my brain just went "Hey, you know he doesn't care, right?"

When I stopped talking, he asked what was wrong, so I said that it was nothing and it didn't matter. He started with his "Awww, baby", but I quickly changed the topic. If he doesn't care, then I'm not going to pretend he does, and I'm not going to force him to pretend. I'll talk to people who do care, people who want to know how my days are going.

Besides, we were starting Legally Blonde and Elle Woods waits for no one.

Saltwater Heals

PHASE ONE

Life
Is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we're alive
Life
Is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we'll survive-"Life", Our Lady Peace


Isn't that the way? Life isn't simple, or easy, but it's part of being alive.

Thursday afternoon marked the beginning of my second annual beach weekend. I took this trip last year, and it had provided some much-needed clarity. So I thought, hey! Things are weird! Let's go do that again!

I arranged to have off that Friday(being part-time I don't really "get" time off, but when I need to move my hours, they're more than happy to oblige. Mostly because I've only done it maybe three times in two years.) This was with some trepidation because everything was quite likely to be all sorts of fucked up when I came back Monday, but that was a problem for future Sarah.

Since the conception of this plan, I had counted on leaving straight from work Thursday. A risky venture, since it included a high potential for forgetting some of my things in the morning, but I did it anyway. (For the record, I did forget things, but at least they weren't terribly important.) That afternoon saw a torrential downpour over my town. My coworkers and I stood around the door, staring at the wall of water. And then, without a glance back, my boy departed.

Didn't tell me goodbye for the weekend, didn't tell me to drive safe, nada. What a dick.

Fearing for my muse's health, I asked if he'd like a ride home, as his car is dead as hell. He accepted graciously, and we had a lovely chat about books and such, and he asked me all about my trip. It was interesting, to have someone care about things I was doing, and asking questions about it. It was charmingly genuine.

After he made it safely inside, I turned toward the south, and went to spend some time with Tony. Really, if part of your vacation isn't spent with your best friend, what are you doing with your life? Afterwards I stopped by my father's house. He had a friend over that traveled the country in his van(the way I'd like to do some day). I can only hope that when I do travel continuously, I'm not half the asshole this dude was. I caught a power nap until 3a.m., and then the real trip began.

PHASE TWOIf you speak the truth, the monster whispered in his ear, you will be able to face whatever comes.
-"A Monster Calls", Patrick Ness
I've always traveled at night. It cuts down on the traffic, and I avoid the heat of the day. An added bonus, there are less commercials on the radio. And so it was that Friday morning.

Once I was fully on the road, I felt free. The moon was full and beautiful, and the road was clear. I was so alive with the thrill of it that I started howling at the moon. Yes, really. It was joyful; I let the sound rise out of my throat and bleed into the night through my open windows. I doubt anyone could hear me, but then I didn't care, either.

I drove from the middle of Delaware to Chincoteague, arriving just shy of 5:30. I decided that this was an excellent time to get breakfast(A.) I needed WiFi, and B.) it was still dark out). And I would like to take this opportunity to thank McDonald's for structuring their prices in such a way that I can get oatmeal, a hash brown, and lots of coffee for $4.40, because that was a blessed thing.

Traditionally, I sneak onto Assateague around 6a.m. The gates are open for the rangers, but there's no one at the toll booth yet, and it's the perfect time to catch the sunrise. 

Can't beat the view.

When I arrived, I found a perfect spot. The sun was just starting to poke through the clouds, the air was just a touch chilly(but in a nice way), the view was incredible, and there wasn't a single soul to be found.

This was when most of my contemplation set in. I thought about all the things I'd been putting off in my mind. My relationship, should one choose to call it that, is dwindling. And, frankly, I don't know anymore if it can be salvaged. I don't know if I want it to be salvaged. If I wanted it, and it could be, I don't know how I would go about it. There's a lack of passion, a lack of emotional exchange and openness between us that leaves a hole in my heart.

Which brought me to another point-Whether I like it or not, that hole in my heart feels a little fuller every time I speak to my muse. This is something unexpected entirely. I've had crushes on boys in the past, acknowledging that humans are varied creatures and that small attractions weren't anything to be afraid of. It happens in the best relationships. But now I find myself feeling real and legitimate feelings for someone, and it's... scary. Exciting. Odd.

There was something in that sunrise that allowed me to be honest with myself without fear or regret. It was healthy. It was good.

Of course, after quiet time, it was time to actually enjoy the beach part of the beach. I lay in the sun, read for a bit, then headed for the waves. There was something about them that made me want to run headfirst into them, like a siren's song. After a few hours, a family showed up. At first, I was irritated. C'mon, there's miles of beach. Why do you need to be twenty feet from me?And then, something miraculous happened. I put the brakes on myself and examined why I was pissed. Did it really matter that they were taking up my valuable beach space? No, not really. It was because the girls were in bikinis, and I felt bad in comparison, when I just wanted to enjoy my beach day and feel secure. Having come to that realization, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that these girls are not here to make me feel bad or judge me. They are here to enjoy the restorative effects of salt water on the soul. They are not paying attention to me. And that was the second miracle-I stopped feeling self conscious(mostly) and enjoyed the remainder of my time.

After a few hours of being slapped around by the waves and getting sand into my everything, I called it quits. I changed and headed over to the visitor's center, another Assateague tradition.

Did you know that your car can also
double as a handy-dandy drying rack?

I did all the usual bits. Looking at the displays, touching things in the touch tank. I held up a horseshoe crab so a little girl could see the monstrosity underneath(the same way I remember people doing when I was a little girl-The cycle of learning goes on). I bought a few things from the gift shop(I don't pay to get in, because I have some deep anti-capitalist notion that paying to be in nature isn't quite right, but I do like to contribute money to park upkeep).

I pulled my now-dry items from my car and headed out. I thought about stopping at the lighthouse. Last year and a few times before, I'd climbed all the way to the top. It was a great view, but holy crap did I get winded. It's like nine flights up. What the fuck. I wasn't feeling it this year, though, so I skipped it and went to feed the McDonald's ponies instead. It was a little liberating, actually, to toss off my own traditions and go where my heart took me.

Moony and Luna.

After feeding them 25¢ handfuls of corn(and petting them because let's face it I am a child), I ran over to Pony Tails for more shopping. I kept in the tradition of buying a box of Pony Tails taffy(for my mother, to be given next time I actually go see her). At that point, the lack of sleep was starting to hit me, and I really wanted to lay on my hotel bed and read. So I skipped the very-packed restaurants and Wallop's Island Space museum thing and head towards the reasonably-priced Econo Lodge I'd booked for the night.

It wasn't long before I came to the Tunnel. I had crossed this tunnel a hundred times, so going through was a little like visiting an old friend. I screamed "Tuuuunn-elll!" the same way my parents had every time I was little when we first went through. It was fun and simple, but comforting.

And this is where the story takes a turn. I arrive at my hotel, only to find that they don't have any non-smoking rooms. I graciously accept a smoking room(because I know the hotel business is hard, and the lady behind the counter was very nice, and I needed a shower). She gives me my hotel key card("If you put the card next to your phone, it will deactivate it." I spent most of the next ten minutes wondering which one would deactivate the other.) When I got to the room, there was a giant smeared handprint of blood on the outside of the doorframe. Wow.

Stepping inside, a wave of nicotine hit me, and I immediately regretted several decisions. It wasn't until I saw the large, dark stain on the carpet that it occurred to me that this room very well may have been a murder scene in the not-too-distant past. I slipped off my flip flops, put my foot on the carpet, and then instantly slipped my flip flops back on because oh God the carpet was so grody when they even last clean this thing. Never again in my life will I go there. Everything was dirty and their toilet paper sucked. I was under a room of children. Everything was awful.

But, having already paid, I bore it with all the class I could muster. Which, granted, wasn't a huge amount. I finished my first book, then read another that the muse had mentioned(Fun Fact: If you mention a piece of media to me, I will endeavor to find it and experience it.) It was A Monster Calls, by Patrick Ness.

Toledo and Trigger, chilling on the bed.

The universe has a funny way of working. A Monster Calls was a beautiful tale about Conor, a fourteen year old boy whose mother has cancer. One night, a monster visits him, saying it will tell him three stories. The fourth, he says, Conor will tell him. It was interesting because this book so strongly held the theme of acknowledging that sometimes, you know the end is coming. You don't want it to, and you don't want to let go(even when it would bring some relief). But facing that truth is what helps you deal with it; Running won't change it, but it will make it worse. It struck a chord. It was also a very good story in general.

The next morning, I drug myself out of bed and to the free breakfast. The coffee was sub-par(the Monster I had stashed in my fridge made a nice replacement), but the food was good.

As I was trying(and failing) to make my coffee worth the effort, I felt a gentle tap on my arm. It was a little boy, presumably one of the two that had been shaking my roof. "Miss, you've got a spider on you." And there he was, just working his way across my sleeve. My first instinct was to flail and knock said spider off, but there was a child's face in that general direction, and I needed to set an example. I grabbed a coffee lid(at least they were good for something) and scraped him off. I removed him from the building, mumbling "Good morning to me", raising chuckles from a table of fellows.


Not long after that, I got ready and left. Gladly left. Triumphantly left. And moved on to Eileen's house.

PHASE THREE“That my complicated life could be made so simple was astounding.” -"Wild", by Cheryl Strayed

There's not much I'll say about my stay at Eileen's house. Suffice it to say we talked all day(which was a nice change of pace, actually-normally we go do things, but it was nice to just sit and talk about things all day). And when we talked, I felt like I could pour my heart out, really release the things that I hadn't dared say out loud to another person. There was pizza and Golden Girls and texts from the muse that I was happy to mutually squeal over(and there might very well be an entire blog post about him soon, when I find myself able to wrap my head around it). It made me wish that I had moved down to Virginia Beach when I had the chance. Tony is my best friend in the whole wide world, but him not being a girl does change the dynamic quite a bit. By the time I left the next morning, I felt good about nearly everything.

HOMECOMING
“It was all unknown to me then, as I sat on that white bench on the day I finished my hike. Everything except the fact that I didn't have to know. That is was enough to trust that what I'd done was true. To understand its meaning without yet being able to say precisely what it was, like all those lines from The Dream of a Common Language that had run through my nights and days. To believe that I didn't need to reach with my bare hands anymore. To know that seeing the fish beneath the surface of the water was enough. That it was everything. It was my life - like all lives, mysterious and irrevocable and sacred. So very close, so very present, so very belonging to me.
How wild it was, to let it be.”
-"Wild", by Cheryl Strayed

The ride home was as much an event as the whole weekend. I played Virginia Beach's premier twenties station on the radio, enjoying the gentle heat of the day and how clean I felt inside. In one panic, I called my dad(a native of the city) to find out whether I was supposed to head east or west on this road. After telling me(west), he texted me saying "Follow the Seagull." I thought this was some boy scout shit, which in all fairness was quite likely to come out of my father. As I got closer to the tunnel, I realized that he was being literal-all the signs for the tunnel had giant seagulls on them. Well, I'll be damned.

Driving through Salisbury, a man on a motorcycle shouted at me(nicely, but still without provocation).
 "Hey, baby!"
"Hi!"
"Where you headed?"
"Home!"
"Where's that?"
"Wilmington!" He didn't need to know.
"Can I come with you?"

I laughed him off. At this point, the light changed, and I made my escape. I did what I could to stay in the same lane, but him being on a motorcycle, he had a good deal more maneuverability than I did. We pulled up to another stoplight.

"Hey, I'm gonna stop for gas. Stop in too and let me get your name and number."
"Sorry, I've got someone!" A lie and not a lie, but I would've said so no matter what percentage of truth it was.
"Well, you change your mind, you follow me."

And then I watched as he turned into the Wawa. And I kept driving. I don't date boys on crotch rockets, anyway.

Just outside of my town, I finally found a pretty good car for the muse. I'm waiting to see how he likes it, but I think he will. It's a Buick, and those have always treated me well.

When I finally came home, I was greeted warmly by the fucker that barely texted me and didn't do the on thing I asked(laundry). He wanted to hug me, he wanted to cuddle with me, he wanted several things that I just didn't. But, it was okay. I put on pajamas and curled up with tumblr, enjoying my own couch in my own house.

All weekend, I hadn't taken my sleeping pills. I hadn't needed to. And I think I'd like to keep not taking them, even if it takes me a little longer to fall asleep. I think I'm ready to fly solo emotionally, if not physically or financially. I'm ready to be honest with myself. I'm ready to consider other possible futures that I hadn't previously thought about. All in all, I think I'm going to be okay.

And all I needed was a little beach time.