prove it

I’m sure my kindergarten teacher wouldn’t be surprised. I would spend the entire morning copying our handwriting assignment until each letter was perfectly formed and there were near-holes from all the erasing. Most adults can’t draw the way I could when I was nine, but the only evidence comes in snippets, usually about four square inches, of still lifes that were much larger.

I’m an anxious person.

I’m getting better at buying produce. A bruise, a spot, and funny color-- I have to fight a strong inclination to put it back and keep looking (and looking and looking and looking). I’ve given up completely at buying greeting cards.

With so many options and so little time, how do you ever know you’ve chosen the best one?

And I’m staring at the ceiling. Wishing wishing wishing you’d just prove to me that I can stop looking.

~beatrix

wealth management

Sometimes I panic, not because it doesn’t feel right, just because it doesn’t feel real.

**********

He was driving down the West Side, and we were stopped at a light.

“People don’t understand sometimes. Being single is just. . . .”

“Exhausting,” we said it together.

Sometimes having a blog puts one in an interesting position to reflect. A quick scan reveals that I have written about relationships, however distant, brief, or insignificant, with no fewer than 41 boys. Stories from a kindergarten proposal to everyday adventures with the boy I woke up with this morning.

No wonder I was tired.

For a while I thought I was lucky, and maybe I am. But maybe I just deserve this.

I’ve worked hard.

There’s a Bright Eyes song that says

With these things there’s no telling, you just have to wait and see.
But I’d rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery.

I think it’s a love song.

I always thought I’d just keep pressing my luck, but it turns out that even if you hit the jackpot, you still have to manage your investments.

~beatrix

i'm afraid i'm moving backwards

I am, like, the effing Benjamin Button of dating.

I haven’t seen the movie, so please excuse the terrible pop culture analogy. What I mean to say is that sometimes I feel like I’m getting worse at dating instead of better. . . you know, moving backwards.

I had my first marriage proposal when I was in kindergarten. My mom found it in a box of my old school stuff when she and my dad were moving. It’s on three-lined paper and says, “Dear Beatrix, You are prety. Will you mery me? I love you. Love, Gary.” I was six.

My second grade boyfriend and I had an easy-going, symbiotic relationship of people who’ve been together forever. We’d swing in opposite directions during recess so we could look at each other. We’d always sit next to each other at lunch, and he’d open my yogurt for me.

My high school boyfriend and I had a relationship that fluctuated between giddiness and jealousy. We talked futures and baby names.

College was a string of short, but meaningful relationships, none lasting longer than 4 months. These often ended suddenly and dramatically.

I’ve spent the past year casually dating and juggling multiple, fleeting crushes.

And now I am 27 and fighting the strong and persistent urge to send an email (the grownup, 2009 equivalent of passing a folded-up note) that says “I like you. Do you like me? __yes __no __maybe” (I’d take the maybe if I could get it, but I’m saving up my courage to make an actual phone call instead.)

At this rate, I’ll be plastering my walls with boy band posters when I’m 45 and afraid to touch the boys at the nursing home for fear of catching cooties.


~beatrix