"Are you really going to do this?"
"What else are boyfriends for?"
Sleep-faced and slow-talking, I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him cradle airlift me to bed.
I could wake up. And this could all be a dream.
~beatrix
Showing posts with label sleeping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sleeping. Show all posts
28.7.10
airlift
"Are you really going to do this?"
"What else are boyfriends for?"
Sleep-faced and slow-talking, I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him cradle airlift me to bed.
I could wake up. And this could all be a dream.
~beatrix
17.3.10
sob story
The thing is. . . I don’t mind so much when he turns away from me in his sleep. It’s a new sensation-- not feeling neglect or anger or why-doesn’t-anyone-ever-love-me when I wake up to face a back. But this. . . this feels. . . good.
I used to think maybe I’d never be able to make something like this work. The more I liked a boy, the crazier I’d act, and the faster it would blow up in my face. I just wanted to find a boy who made me a person I liked.
It turns out crazy-girl is sort of my natural state of being, but maybe that’s not the worst way to be.
I’m not a pretty crier. My skin gets even paler and contrasts my black eyebrows and soggy eyelashes; the white parts of my eyes turn red which makes the irises look sickly light; and this night my nose was pink and my eyelids were swelling closed because this had been going on for hours.
I was having a tough day/week/life, you know? But I was also just being a brat.
“You’ll have to try harder than this,” he said, all matter-of-fact, “if you want me to run away.”
~beatrix
I used to think maybe I’d never be able to make something like this work. The more I liked a boy, the crazier I’d act, and the faster it would blow up in my face. I just wanted to find a boy who made me a person I liked.
It turns out crazy-girl is sort of my natural state of being, but maybe that’s not the worst way to be.
I’m not a pretty crier. My skin gets even paler and contrasts my black eyebrows and soggy eyelashes; the white parts of my eyes turn red which makes the irises look sickly light; and this night my nose was pink and my eyelids were swelling closed because this had been going on for hours.
I was having a tough day/week/life, you know? But I was also just being a brat.
“You’ll have to try harder than this,” he said, all matter-of-fact, “if you want me to run away.”
~beatrix
6.3.10
scheduling conflicts
I might have spent a good part of the day doing math, and finally asked, before he fell asleep.
“That crazy thing you said today in the car. . . . Did you mean by the time you are thirty? Or while you are thirty?”
“If I said while I’m thirty, would you feel better?”
“Yes.”
When he said that thing in the car, my first thought was “Impossible”. “At least half joking,” he’d tempered it. He’ll have the birthday in three and a half years, almost to the day. He’s right. It’s not impossible.
“I’ve just always thought my parents were 30, and I turned out fine,” he told me in bed, “And, you know, your parents were younger, and you turned out fine. It just seems like 30 would be a good time to at least think about it.”
I am glad I was so sleepy. Sleepy enough to let go of the numbers, the adding and subtracting, enough to worry about it later, enough to fall asleep in that cozy spot between his bony shoulders and his rib cage, between excited and terrified.
~beatrix
“That crazy thing you said today in the car. . . . Did you mean by the time you are thirty? Or while you are thirty?”
“If I said while I’m thirty, would you feel better?”
“Yes.”
When he said that thing in the car, my first thought was “Impossible”. “At least half joking,” he’d tempered it. He’ll have the birthday in three and a half years, almost to the day. He’s right. It’s not impossible.
“I’ve just always thought my parents were 30, and I turned out fine,” he told me in bed, “And, you know, your parents were younger, and you turned out fine. It just seems like 30 would be a good time to at least think about it.”
I am glad I was so sleepy. Sleepy enough to let go of the numbers, the adding and subtracting, enough to worry about it later, enough to fall asleep in that cozy spot between his bony shoulders and his rib cage, between excited and terrified.
~beatrix
2.2.10
going somewhere
Do you know that I met him more than eleven months ago, in words if not in person? Eleven is almost twelve. And twelve is important, probably.
He wrote that haiku about the subway that I thought I understood. And I never even asked him what it was about.
It was cold the first time I saw him, even though I wasn’t wearing a coat. There was promise of spring, but it was winter. Like it is winter now. We’ve almost been around the seasons together. Almost.
Ten months almost. Ten is a lot, too.
He knows what foods to bring over when I’m sick, even though he doesn’t know if I like pulp in my orange juice. He knows I’d almost always rather walk a few blocks than have to transfer trains. And he knows how to make me laugh and what’s my normal morning bagel and how I like to fall asleep.
I’m the one who hears the funny things he calls out in his sleep. “Lonely float.” “Adidas.”
I know that the graphite-dot-tattoo on his palm is from being stabbed by a boy named Christopher in kindergarten. I know that there’s an oddly-appropriate freckle constellation of a grocery cart on the back of one of his calves. I can predict the order he’ll eat the things on his plate, and I know when it’s time to stop the movie by the weight of his arm.
I realized when I was falling asleep that I don’t know his shoe size. Or his favorite color. And I never know which side of the bed he’s going to want.
He’ll stop himself from asking me if we can try all the city’s beergardens this summer because it’s too much future, then he’ll ask me if we can send our kids to French immersion school, then he’ll ask me if we can go for bubble tea even though I hate both tea and anything that feels like a tadpole in my mouth. I’m almost always down for the walk to Chinatown, though.
I know there were girls before me, and I hate them. But not too much. I was no saint either. (It’s a funny thing to say, because I’m pretty sure there were some slutty saints.)
I hate that he had a life before me, but I’m glad we didn’t know each other sooner, ’cause we both know we would’ve screwed it up.
And all those other girls I’ll never want to count, I’m glad they broke him in. Broke him in without breaking him.
~beatrix
the blog has not only been around, but has been around with stuff on it for a whole year. thanks guys.
~b
He wrote that haiku about the subway that I thought I understood. And I never even asked him what it was about.
It was cold the first time I saw him, even though I wasn’t wearing a coat. There was promise of spring, but it was winter. Like it is winter now. We’ve almost been around the seasons together. Almost.
Ten months almost. Ten is a lot, too.
He knows what foods to bring over when I’m sick, even though he doesn’t know if I like pulp in my orange juice. He knows I’d almost always rather walk a few blocks than have to transfer trains. And he knows how to make me laugh and what’s my normal morning bagel and how I like to fall asleep.
I’m the one who hears the funny things he calls out in his sleep. “Lonely float.” “Adidas.”
I know that the graphite-dot-tattoo on his palm is from being stabbed by a boy named Christopher in kindergarten. I know that there’s an oddly-appropriate freckle constellation of a grocery cart on the back of one of his calves. I can predict the order he’ll eat the things on his plate, and I know when it’s time to stop the movie by the weight of his arm.
I realized when I was falling asleep that I don’t know his shoe size. Or his favorite color. And I never know which side of the bed he’s going to want.
He’ll stop himself from asking me if we can try all the city’s beergardens this summer because it’s too much future, then he’ll ask me if we can send our kids to French immersion school, then he’ll ask me if we can go for bubble tea even though I hate both tea and anything that feels like a tadpole in my mouth. I’m almost always down for the walk to Chinatown, though.
I know there were girls before me, and I hate them. But not too much. I was no saint either. (It’s a funny thing to say, because I’m pretty sure there were some slutty saints.)
I hate that he had a life before me, but I’m glad we didn’t know each other sooner, ’cause we both know we would’ve screwed it up.
And all those other girls I’ll never want to count, I’m glad they broke him in. Broke him in without breaking him.
~beatrix
the blog has not only been around, but has been around with stuff on it for a whole year. thanks guys.
~b
26.1.10
sleep over. please
I want to go to the movies with a guy friend, and I want you to do whatever it is you do with your boys until 4:30 am*. But, in the end, I want you to wind up in my bed.
love
beatrix
*Excluding falling asleep on the subway. Or falling asleep sitting up in people’s chairs. Yes, I have seen those photos on facebook.
love
beatrix
*Excluding falling asleep on the subway. Or falling asleep sitting up in people’s chairs. Yes, I have seen those photos on facebook.
15.1.10
conflict resolution
The first time I met Pete in person, we went for a walk, had a snack, and he fell asleep on a sofa in Urban Outfitters while I read a book about Banksey.
I would consider that a fitting start to our friendship.
So today we were hanging out in Saks. There’s a black and white sofa in the Carolina Herrera section on the extra fancy floor. It’s really comfortable if you don’t mind being stared down by a saleslady in a pantsuit.
We eventually moved to St. Patrick’s Cathedral where the chairs are harder but they are more tolerant of loiterers.
Pete and his girlfriend Pamela are having some. . . issues.
“. . . and we didn’t really reach a conclusion. It’s important to know how someone resolves conflict, and I don’t think we are very good at it. How is it with you and Ted?”
Despite his habit of public napping, Pete is a lawyer at heart.
“Well, we don’t really fight. I mean there was that one time.”
The story about our one-time “fight” seems less dramatic and more ridiculous with each retelling.
But Pete does have a point: we should know how it’s going to be when it, inevitably, happens. So maybe we should test it.
“I guess I could pick a fight with him. . . .”
Pete, along with the three saint statues behind him, gives me a Look.
“I guess that is a bad idea. . . .”
~beatrix
I would consider that a fitting start to our friendship.
So today we were hanging out in Saks. There’s a black and white sofa in the Carolina Herrera section on the extra fancy floor. It’s really comfortable if you don’t mind being stared down by a saleslady in a pantsuit.
We eventually moved to St. Patrick’s Cathedral where the chairs are harder but they are more tolerant of loiterers.
Pete and his girlfriend Pamela are having some. . . issues.
“. . . and we didn’t really reach a conclusion. It’s important to know how someone resolves conflict, and I don’t think we are very good at it. How is it with you and Ted?”
Despite his habit of public napping, Pete is a lawyer at heart.
“Well, we don’t really fight. I mean there was that one time.”
The story about our one-time “fight” seems less dramatic and more ridiculous with each retelling.
But Pete does have a point: we should know how it’s going to be when it, inevitably, happens. So maybe we should test it.
“I guess I could pick a fight with him. . . .”
Pete, along with the three saint statues behind him, gives me a Look.
“I guess that is a bad idea. . . .”
~beatrix
28.12.09
trauma or i . . . ah. . . um. . . fell down the stairs
My first thought, after the initial shock, was that I was going to have two black eyes and that was going to be hard to explain. And my second thought was that we’d definitely have to have separate interviews at the emergency room.
He doesn’t just do jazz hands when he tells a story about an crisis, he really does it when he’s panicking.
He got me ice, which was thoughtful, considering he’d just woken me with a full-force headbutt. There was no blood, and I wasn’t so worried that I had a concussion that I couldn’t go back to sleep.
~beatrix
He doesn’t just do jazz hands when he tells a story about an crisis, he really does it when he’s panicking.
He got me ice, which was thoughtful, considering he’d just woken me with a full-force headbutt. There was no blood, and I wasn’t so worried that I had a concussion that I couldn’t go back to sleep.
~beatrix
4.12.09
apologies and math and a sappy thought on snacks
i have so many things to tell you, but just not enough time. i'll get on with the story soon, but for now, just math:
if you work 13 hours, and since you worked 13 hours, want to sleep 7 hours, and need an hour to get ready for work and get there and another hour to get home, that's 22 hours of your day spent, leaving only two for things like showering and updating the internet on your personal life.
it's days like this one that make me wish i just lived with this boy, if only because he always keeps ice cream in the freezer.
~trix
if you work 13 hours, and since you worked 13 hours, want to sleep 7 hours, and need an hour to get ready for work and get there and another hour to get home, that's 22 hours of your day spent, leaving only two for things like showering and updating the internet on your personal life.
it's days like this one that make me wish i just lived with this boy, if only because he always keeps ice cream in the freezer.
~trix
18.10.09
i can sleep alone, but it doesn't mean i like it
Unlocking the door of my apartment, I realize that it’s Tuesday and that I haven’t slept in my bed since Tuesday. It just worked out. And we were busy. And I’ve been here to visit and get clothes and blog and even just hang out. And I really didn’t mean to leave my phone at Ted’s, but once I was back there, it made sense just to sleep in his bed.
And I’m not annoyed at having to take the train to see him or of always having underpants in my bag or even of finding an elbow where I might want to roll over.
What if we fell asleep together every night?
I don’t want to shove with both hands. No get-out-of-my-bed get-out-of my-space get-out-of-my-life. That’s a feeling so familiar, I think I’d recognize it creeping up.
“It would be fun. . . lots of weekend activities and delicious things to eat. . . .”
“There would be a lot of boring parts, too, like making dinner and stuff.”
There’d be all the paying bills and cleaning the bathtub and don’t-forget-to-take-the-trash-when-you-go-out. Just life. There’d be all the life in-between.
~beatrix
And I’m not annoyed at having to take the train to see him or of always having underpants in my bag or even of finding an elbow where I might want to roll over.
What if we fell asleep together every night?
I don’t want to shove with both hands. No get-out-of-my-bed get-out-of my-space get-out-of-my-life. That’s a feeling so familiar, I think I’d recognize it creeping up.
“It would be fun. . . lots of weekend activities and delicious things to eat. . . .”
“There would be a lot of boring parts, too, like making dinner and stuff.”
There’d be all the paying bills and cleaning the bathtub and don’t-forget-to-take-the-trash-when-you-go-out. Just life. There’d be all the life in-between.
~beatrix
29.6.09
falling asleep
I heard you talking in your sleep. Word salad. It was funny; I wanted to remember it so I could tell you. But I was sleepy, too, and I forgot. It was nonsense, but it made it all feel real.
The next time, I remember. “At least they’ll be pretty.” A conclusion without the argument; a punchline without the joke. I want to know you, to know what you’re thinking in that honest place between awake and asleep.
~beatrix
11.2.09
simon
Once I dated this runner who was in incredible shape-- he must have had a body fat percentage of 2% and his heart beat about 40 times a minute. So of course, he made me feel self-conscious about my own weight. And after we broke up, I declared to the universe, “I just want to date a fat guy.” Frustrated after several dateless months (this was before my move to the big city), I also vowed to go out with the next boy who asked. Hearing my declared challenge, the universe tested me by almost immediately sending exactly what I’d requested. I guess the moral is to be careful what you wish for.
So on Thursday night, almost as soon as I’d told Harper how my sucky week was making me want to rescind the moratorium on making out and as soon as I had written “Now who’s going to make out with me. . ?” I got a text.
“In the city at a meeting. Running late. What are you up to later?”
It was 10:30. What I was up to later was sleeping.
I knew what he wanted, what he was going to want. I was supposed to be angry at him for being flakey at plans, for bailing on my birthday dinner. I was supposed to not hook up with him until I made myself at least talk to him about what we’ve been doing for the last six years or so. I wasn’t supposed to be kissing anyone at all. But I was pretty sure that I wanted exactly what he wanted.
He massaged the knots out of my back. He was warm in my bed. And everything else was. . . amazing. I’ll spare you the details, but you should believe me.
And the sleeping-- the actual sleeping-- is perfect. He holds me. He for-real holds me all night, which is only annoying when my leg is itchy and I wake him up untangling myself to scratch it. He holds me until 5 when he cuddles me awake, and. . . well. . . nevermind.
And he casts the usual spell. Thursday I got in bed lonely and sad, but Friday. . . . Well, Friday I’m in love.
~beatrix
So on Thursday night, almost as soon as I’d told Harper how my sucky week was making me want to rescind the moratorium on making out and as soon as I had written “Now who’s going to make out with me. . ?” I got a text.
“In the city at a meeting. Running late. What are you up to later?”
It was 10:30. What I was up to later was sleeping.
I knew what he wanted, what he was going to want. I was supposed to be angry at him for being flakey at plans, for bailing on my birthday dinner. I was supposed to not hook up with him until I made myself at least talk to him about what we’ve been doing for the last six years or so. I wasn’t supposed to be kissing anyone at all. But I was pretty sure that I wanted exactly what he wanted.
He massaged the knots out of my back. He was warm in my bed. And everything else was. . . amazing. I’ll spare you the details, but you should believe me.
And the sleeping-- the actual sleeping-- is perfect. He holds me. He for-real holds me all night, which is only annoying when my leg is itchy and I wake him up untangling myself to scratch it. He holds me until 5 when he cuddles me awake, and. . . well. . . nevermind.
And he casts the usual spell. Thursday I got in bed lonely and sad, but Friday. . . . Well, Friday I’m in love.
~beatrix
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