let's go for a swim

I became a freelancer.

*****************

I have a cousin, Lillian, who is my opposite, not just because she has fair, straight hair and brown eyes and freckles, but because of. . . everything. She perms her bangs. She was practically born wearing sensible shoes. When she was 14, her dream car was a minivan. While the boy cousins and I spent our summer nights catching milk jugs full of tree frogs and playing sardines in the dark, she was probably watching The Sound of Music again. She played with dolls until. . . . Actually I’m not sure she ever stopped.

Lillian is a teacher for 4-year-olds. She’s slightly overweight and is married to a very overweight man and they have two obscenely overweight dogs and they all sit around and watch NASCAR. She eats fast food and posts inappropriately personal things on Facebook. She lives in the same small town she always has, in her husband’s house where she moved from her parent’s house when she got married.

I loved to dive when I was little: stretched out full and eyes wide open, even off the high diving board at swimming lessons. Lillian, though, with her goggles on tight and her nose held and her little toothpick jumps, still got nosebleeds in the pool about once a week.

And once, when she thought I was still under water, I heard her say, “I wish we could all be as brave as Beatrix.”

****************

I became a freelancer, which is to say that I quit my job.

It was a brave thing to do, I think, but it’s a fine line. What if we take a dive off the highest cliff, not because we aren’t afraid of the water below, but because we are terrified of what might be up there with us?


~beatrix

the chorus

I keep wishing the blossoms back on the trees.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long.

That Beach Boys’ song came on today at work. I don’t think Brian Wilson* ever sang about the excitement of maybe starting a savings account together. Or apprehension at the possibility of your boyfriend getting a really amazing job in Philadelphia. Or worrying that you’ll never get your place on 6th street or 9th street and that everyone in Philadelphia will hate you and that all the jobs will be in cubicles.

. . . Maybe we could liiiiiiiive together. . . Oh, wouldn’t it beee niiiiice. . .


Sam says it’s the ultimate goal.
“What is?”
“Two people, one bedroom.”

They don’t even mention the part where you have to clear out some of your stuff so your boyfriend’s stuff will have a spot . Or how nice it will be to have both of your wardrobes in a central location. Or how all the logistics will be easier and whoever gets home first can start dinner. . . .

The Beach Boys are old now-- like Beach Grandpas****. In the late autumns of their lives, they probably aren’t wishing to be older, but instead wishing friends back into lives, lovers back into beds, babies back into play-pens, hair back onto heads, blossoms back onto trees.

I just want to be here for a while.



*not to be confused with my lover, and anchor of the NBC Nightly News, Brian Williams**

**not to be confused with my boyfriend, and MSNBC personality, Carl Quintanina***

***I have a thing for newsmen

****Wouldn’t it be nice if they were older and could live together in the same assisted living community?


~beatrix

consequence

Crying in the shower at 6:10 a.m. did not bode well for the rest of my day.

I warned you, before you bought me dinner, that if it happened again it wouldn’t be your fault.

I held it in for so long. Work was hard, and then I paced around your neighborhood until you got there. Maybe I should have just gone home, but you were all I wanted. It’s unfair sometimes, how the people you care about the most are the same ones who free you to be your worst possible self.

We went to bed early. “Take off your jeans,” you told me, “Lie down.”

I needed instructions. I was exhausted. My face hurt. Hormones were running through my body, and too many thoughts through my head.

“Let it go if you have to,” you gave me permission. You held me.

And, hands over my face, I sobbed for no reason, for twelve million reasons:

Because everyone else seems to know what they’re doing, but I can’t seem to be happy and above the poverty line at the same time. Because I’m going to have to ask my parents for help, again, and because I know they’ll give it to me. Because I want you to like me, and I don’t want you to see me like this. Because I can’t help it.

And maybe I should have never moved here and I shouldn’t have spent so much money I didn’t have going to school and I should at least find an apartment I can afford. And I should get a real job because I’m too smart to be this poor. And I don’t want to disappoint anyone. If I let myself, I could start to regret everything.

“I’m sorry. I’m really really sorry.”
“Hey. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

You remind me. I could have done everything differently, but then maybe I wouldn’t have met you. And maybe that’s inconsequential.

The tears are over, I think. And you hold me against you while my breathing calms down.

But maybe it’s not inconsequential at all.

~beatrix