Thursday, January 30, 2014

The Summer's Gone

"You gave away the things you loved, and one of them was me" -Carly Simon

It's not that I mind getting older. Truly. I'm not one of those crazy people who's afraid of aging


I do have to say that

the birthday blog I planned to write two weeks ago never happened on account of my crying uncontrollably in my dark bedroom for a good portion of the night.

The day went something like this:

1. Woke up at 5:50 for work.
2. Worked.
3. Stayed after work to be present while COTA officers watched auditions for the Valentine's Day show. Several students showed up. No COTA officers did.
4. Skipped Friday coffee with the kids since birthday cake was forthcoming.
5. Got headphones from Glenn, which I'd been saying I needed for weeks. Wanted to cry. (Honestly, he could have given me Tom DeLonge, and I'd still have felt the urge to burst into tears.)
6. Kind of lost it when Griffin asked me 47 times when we were going for dinner so he'd know when he could go to band practice.
7. Lost it.
8. Pizza at John the Baker
9. Left John the Baker immediately after ordering because I was in a bitchy mood (or maybe I'm just a bitch) and my beer came in a hot plastic mug. Plus, they didn't have cheesy garlic rolls.
10. Pizza at Luv'N Oven. Peroni in a glass. Garlic rolls with cheese. Lots of it.
11. Dropped Griffin off at band practice.
12. Got a locket from Heather, which I picked out. Wanted to cry. (See #5)
13. Cake
14. Put the lemon cake with whipped cream frosting back in the box that was supposed to contain white cake with buttercream.
15. Willed the day to just fucking end.
16. Bed.

It looks bad, I know, and it was--but it didn't have to be. Despite taking precautions to not be--running 3 miles the night before, listening to happy music, thinking of the good things--I felt depressed for days, if not weeks, leading up to January 17. And like I said in the beginning, it's not the getting old that I mind (except that's not true, not at all, not one little bit, I look at the dark spot on my hand and the thin purplish purple veins on my anklescalvesthigh and the trenches that run horizontal in my forehead and the skin that looks like crumpled up paper under my eyes and the gray hairs on the left side of my head that stand erect like they've just been struck by lighting and the stomach that suddenly sticks out like I'm seven months pregnant and the thighs that have the consistency of a rubber band that's been stretched snapped stretched snapped stretched snapped until it's lost any semblance of tautness it ever had and I want to cry and I want to scream and I want to yell to the world that this isn't me, I don't look like this, this shape this face this skin these hands aren't mine, they're a mistake and if I just try a little harder and run a little farther and read a few more magazines and eat a few less meals, I'll be me one day again I swear I swear I swear that after thirty-nine years, this isn't what I've turned out to be), it's the changes in my life that have come along with it.


A couple years ago, in the blog post And Then Your Mom Goes Around the Corner and She Licks It Up, I wrote about the very close friends I've had throughout my life; friends who were more family than family; friends who witnessed the birth of my children; who I spent every holiday with; who I celebrated, and mourned, milestones with; who I shared my life with; who shaped my life the way it is.


If it weren't for Glenn, Griffin, and Keifer, I would've stormed out of John the Baker and drank Peroni out of a cold, frosty glass at Luv'N Oven alone.

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