on why we do this over and over

It’s hard not to think how things can go wrong-- When you’re wearing a shirt from an Ivy League school you didn’t attend. You uncover that necklace in the bottom of your jewelry box. And you use that Pyrex dish with the nice lid that you somehow ended up with. When you’re looking for your number-six, double-pointed knitting needles and can’t find them or need that little sewing kit you never returned.

Promises break more often than hearts, and you forget why jokes were ever funny. You’ve left a tell-tale trail of toothbrushes.

You change, he changes; maybe it was this way always. And there’s a Christmas gift, purchased for you, but never delivered. Or a birthday travel easel you never collected, perhaps lingering, in the corner of a closet, reminding someone else how wrong he can be.

When it’s over you can never quite remember how you ended up all alone again. You can’t remember what you said or what he said, only that you can be amazingly accurate in your meanness. You can’t remember why you ever liked him in the first place, only that annoying thing he did every time you yawned or the time he stood you up on Valentine’s Day or when he would wear that pink shirt with that red tie or the idiotic thing he said that makes you think he probably still thinks about you. And when you walk down 5th street three times one day, you realize you can’t even remember which building was his.

Sometimes you remember the way he’d answer the phone when he knew it was you. Or the way it felt to fall asleep on his chest. Or that night you were both pretending you knew how to salsa. But not usually.

And you still wear the tee shirt, but you have better necklaces. You never learned to salsa, but that’s never stopped you before. And you’ve found someone new.

You quite like him, but your official stance is “cautiously optimistic”.

Because it’s hard not to think of how things can go wrong. You’ve been here so many times before. Maybe not here exactly, but in the general neighborhood, the suburbs, maybe. You made him dinner in that Pyrex with the nice lid.

Remember this. Remember. Remember. Remember.

Don’t forget to remember the good parts.

And you raise your glass or bow your head. ’Cause here’s to hoping.

~beatrix

i can't believe i actually had this conversation

We were on one of the trains with the orange seats. Ted smiled an embarrassed sort of smile and looked out the window at nothing.

“What?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking of something even scarier than what you said yesterday.”*
“What was it?”
“I was just thinking that if we had munchkins, there’s a good chance they’d have blue eyes. My dad has blue eyes, and my brother. And yours. . . .”
“That’d be good.”
“Yeah. Blue eyes and black hair. . . killer combination.”
“Yeah. And we’d hope for curls. . . . That’s even scarier than that dream I had.”
“The one about the dresses?”
“No. Last night. About the ugliest ring ever.”
“Well, you are just lucky I have good taste.”
“Oh, right.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll ask for a female opinion before I buy a ring.”


*I didn’t know which scary thing he was referencing, then or now.

~beatrix

decisions, decisions

The band became two in the front, diverged, left a space for a square of metal with an inset diamond. It was, in short, the ugliest ring ever. And it was at least three sizes too big.

The moral dilemma: I like this boy. A lot. I want to say yes. But I’ve spent years not only believing but preaching that an ugly ring means that a boy doesn’t know you well enough to marry you.

I was only too happy to wake up from this nightmare. It was early, and I told Ted about it, because these days I tell him everything. I told him about it before we broke the futon again and before we fell back asleep perpendicularly so as not to have to lie in the ditch of the collapsed frame.

~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