after all this time this is what little comes out

There’s a time in the season when it’s time to switch from my sweater boots to what i call my duck boots.  They’re more water resistant, and as the earth struggles to remain a frozen winter, the sigh of spring breathes ever so slightly in the vapid February air.

This week has been one of adventures, which is really all i ever have to deal with.  Adventures among the mundane ritual of everyday responsibility.  Quirky trespasses amidst a routine that has become distastefully familiar.

The roads had collected ice.  A sheet of it at least an inch thick.  We were out cruising, because neither of us had our own place.  He, a 20 year old trying to put his life into some order, and me, a 30 year old, still essentially doing the same thing, only having avoided certain obstacles in place of others.  He was enjoying my company, and i fed off of the fact that he only wished to extend the night a little longer.  Talk a little more.  I don’t know, maybe from the start he was just looking to feel new lips, new skin, but it felt genuine.  Yeah—there was an element of sincerity in his voice and in his actions.

We were waiting on the side of the road, stuck on an icy hill where gravity and balding tires worked against our progress.  I had resigned to waiting, hoping, for some ice trucks to go by.  What do you do when you’re stuck on the side of a road, in an ice storm, with an attractive person who’s presented nothing but pleasantness?  You eventually give in, move over to his lap to snuggle, to keep warm, and though he claims to be a gentleman, you hope he’s only slightly not.  And two hours after you’ve been sitting there, talking, sharing stories, you finally give in and curl up against him, despite the weight of your body and your hesitation, and after breathing for minutes upon minutes against his neck, brown and smooth in the blur of moonlight coming through the foggied windshield, he kisses you.  And falling into it is the best feeling you’ve felt in a while.  He asks you how long?  Six months.  It’s almost cruel, I say, not that I’ve done much about it.

My Kinsey scale tips back toward men.  I missed this feeling.  Of feeling safe.  Even though he was more worried about crashing or being crashed into than I was.  Of feeling those man arms wrapping tightly around me.  Those giant hands grazing so sweetly against the small of my hip.  It was difficult not to completely let go, and had another woman been in that situation, she very well might have.  He was that tempting.  But I held on as well as I could, and just when I didn’t know if I could restrain myself any longer, i realized the salt trucks had been by, and the ice had probably melted to a more rough frozen slush.  Rocking out of the small hole I’d created on the side of the road, I crawled slowly and surely up, over the crest of the hill.  Found our way to the main road, crept quietly to his bed.

And that’s where the story stops.  Because beyond that, the tone totally changes.  It becomes something more adolescent.  Something unexpected and awkward.  Something inexperienced and unsure.  After some fantastic initiation into a new friendship, there is a halting noise that will forever alter the tone of the original flavor.

I suppose some would say it was the kick in the ass necessary to confront the reality of the situation.  But all i could think was how much better the night could have gone after its most magical moment if i had my own place.

I ran out of money.  I expected a paycheck at the end of January, and found out too late that i was not due for a check until the end of February.  How nice that the people who have less money coming in get paid less frequently—because that makes sense.  And my friend rescued me with his financial aid refund.  Had it not been for his pursuit of a higher degree, I would have been screwed.  And he is probably the last person I will know who is in that position—a giving position.  A “i’ve got more than two thousand dollars in my account that i don’t need right now” state.  It would be sweet to earn four grand a month.  I could live completely comfortably on that.  It’s got to be a matter of supplemental income.

And I contacted Blue and he was married to a woman

Though he was gay ten years ago when i thought i knew him.

And I contacted Christine because I couldn’t believe it.

And she didn’t write back but she’s been under the weather, at least

I hope that’s why.

And I thought about the boy with the rose for a name.

And the way his back glistened in the light of the fire

Burning next to the creek where a group of old and new friends skinny dipped.

Toward the end of a summer i managed the skinny dip three times at different locations on different occasions, all of them blissfully happy and fun and safe.

I sent a message to the boy who sat with me in my car

On a hill on a night when the streets froze over with ice

And behind layers of winter fog, blurring the lights of the town

I let my guard down.

I just don’t want to regret.  I am not ashamed of being who i am,

But don’t appreciate me in one moment, and then

Ignore what transpired.

Be in it or step away from it.  Don’t let bravery be part of a rare moment.

I canceled class on Tuesday because the winter storm warning in effect made me feel like i needed to just stay home, just stay home and clean up the pile of clothes growing in the corner, just stay home and think about some of the thoughts i hadn’t given my mind time to ponder.  To reflect on the happenings of the past however long since i’d last reflected. 

It’s superbowl weekend.  Which doesn’t mean much to me except a lot of my friends are happy to have an excuse to hang out together and drink and be merry.

It’s strange knowing that the body is a temple, and deciding who’s worth to share it with on those terms.  Because the animalistic part of me just wants to tear our clothes off and feel him inside me, but the rational side of me recognizes that there are steps toward that that the proper disciple should take.

Why is the recycling truck coming by this night?  Because typically the pick up night is Sunday, and this Sunday is the Superbowl.  And those of us who don’t think in those terms miss recycling until the next pick up.  So the bottles and dishes and cups and lids will accumulate until the next date.  Until they roll by again on their regularly scheduled Sunday night.  Wtf?

I’m wearing my polka dot pajama pants, an old t-shirt my mother gave me that has a disclaimer about ruining one’s education because of a DUI.  It’s worn with tiny holes, the fabric worn thin enough to almost be see-through, but its elasticity still strong enough to hug the curves of my torso, breasts, love handles and all.  Tonight I dug through a suit case that held sweaters i’d not yet brought out of hibernation.  I put on one that i bought in a target in Fredericksburg when i went to visit madie, an old roommate and friend, who’d moved to a new place to continue the same unexpected adventures into different parts of herself.

Sometimes it is very hard for me to understand inebriation.  Only because there is no part of me that isn’t me that comes out.  I never feel any remorse for my behavior, only a little embarrassment over the fact that i wanted to be lubricated for the expression of what was already in there.

Tomorrow my little sister is taking her driving test.  When I dropped her off at school today, I waited to make sure she got into the building.  And as I sat there, looking at her little figure, waiting patiently at the door to be let in, I thought of how much she’s grown from such a small thing into this completely new person.  This completely conscious being that was starting to really filter what happened to fill her surroundings, her past, her future, her dreams, her perception.  I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again, part of the reason i don’t’ feel the need to be a parent is because i’m already privy to the miracle of watching an innocent child develop into a beautiful young adult.  I’m a witness.  I don’t want to responsible for that.  Not because i don’t think i could handle the responsibility, but because i feel like providing enough support to the people in my life already will take up a healthy amount of my energy.  I can’t imagine giving more, from the start, to a whole new life.  That i am primarily responsible.  I like being part of the village that helps to raise the child.