repeats

The first time my bathtub broke, I wrote this:

The first springtime thunderstorm and a broken bathtub: can anything make you want a boyfriend more?

Maybe that anxiety attack that’s lurking just below your ribcage.

It was before I ever saw his face. Or heard his voice. Or fell asleep, cheek to forehead and hand to bicep and toes tucked under calf.

And he told me he liked the image of anxiety lurking, but he’d take the “that’s” out of the second part. He was right, of course, and I should have known we’d fall in love.

The second time my bathtub broke was yesterday, and getting it fixed is looking to be another debacle. The second time my bathtub broke, I had a great place to shower. The next morning, someone even drove me to work.

~beatrix

fates

“For breakfast I had French toast and some pineapple and some grapes. . . and a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. . . and a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. . . and that’s all. . . . Oh, and coffee.”
“Sometimes you say something like that, and I think there’s a reason we’re together.”

Ted told me all about his weekend away before the topic shifted. He spent a semester of college in Berlin, and he told me about it over sandwiches-- Cuban this time, with plantain chips. Since I was in maybe fifth grade, I’d thought I’d do a year in France. I even had the paperwork, that winter break when I turned twenty. I just didn’t sign it and I didn’t return it and I didn’t go.

“I don’t regret it, though. I try not to regret anything, but I’m glad I stayed that year. I wouldn’t have Hugo. And I’d be a different person, and I never would have lived with Harper. . . .”
“. . . and you wouldn’t have started the blog. . .”
“. . . and I wouldn’t have met you.”

And looking across the table at each other, we suddenly see all the paths we might have taken and could have taken, drawn all over the world like yellow arrows on a football replay. But the only two that matter, right now, today, are the ones that led us to this table in this restaurant full of music that makes you want to dance, here on a sweaty August Sunday night in Alphabet City.

~beatrix

recognition

Wendy from Wendy’s Adventures in LaLaLand chose me for one of these things where you answer a bunch of questions about yourself. Wendy’s great-- charming and interesting and rather clever. If you don’t know her already, I’m happy to introduce you.

But even though I am physically unable to climb the fence at Union Square Park to lounge on the grass four days before it opens officially (even though quite a number of other people have done it), we all know I am, at heart, a rule breaker. And even though my seventh grade geography/world history teacher praised my brilliant succinctness, I’m sure you’ve all noticed that I can write sort of a lot about nothing. So, I’ve elected to answer only one question from the list, though I encourage you to answer all the questions. There. Tag, or whatever.


I have some really great jewelry: Some diamonds from special occasions like my 21st birthday and college graduation. The usual pearls. A circle pin of my great-grandmother’s that looks good in my hair. A charm bracelet with about 25 interesting charms. An enormous cocktail ring, swiped from my mom’s jewelry box, with a stone the color of Windex. A small collection of carved cinnabar bracelets.

But there’s one piece I truly love.

I was out for a walk in my new neighborhood. I’d just moved to New York. I don’t know when it was, but I’d moved in the summer, and it was still hot. Very hot. And I was still basking in the freedom of anonymity and. . . aloneness. I was happy. It had been a while.

I don’t remember what street it was on, but there was this sort-of sidewalk fair. It was more flea market than anything else, with a whole table full of huge, vintage clip-on earrings. They are just so fabulous. And shiny. They make me feel glamorous, even though I never know where or when I can wear them, and if I ever do, I wonder why I’m so crabby and have such a dull headache before I remember I have something like 500 pounds of pressure per square inch on each of my earlobes*. So I mostly end up wearing them around my house when I need to feel pretty.

I bought some. It was a four-dollar splurge: one ridiculous pair of green rhinestone flowers. But then I saw it.

It was sweet, etched with some flourishes and flowers. A locket, gold, a little bigger than a nickel. I saw it and I loved it and it was mine. I recognized it like the baby Dalai Lama must recognize his stuff.

When I picked it up for a closer look, I saw that it had originally been colored. The green of the flourishes had mostly rubbed off, and the flowers had been pink. But I knew it really was mine. The monogram in the center? It was my letter.

The lady on the other side of the table apologized that it cost more than everything else. It was older, she said. I had just moved and started school and spent all of my savings. I should have used the money for food, but I didn’t.

It cost twelve dollars or sixteen dollars, and felt altogether irresponsible. But it was mine. This locket is a time, a place, and a philosophy.

You chose the life you live mostly, but sometimes your life just chooses you. Luck and fate and chance and destiny-- I don’t know what to believe, but I have to believe something. People wander through, but sometimes someone shows up, and you know that they’re meant to stay. I have to believe that I can recognize my people. That some day I’ll recognize my place. My person.

I have to believe that life will give me the things I need and that all I’ll have to do is recognize them when they show up.


*I made this up. But it does hurt.

~beatrix