Something Old, Something New.

It all started with those red Starbucks cups.  They came out early this year.  Perhaps too early.  They found their way into my hand before the turkeys, and the frost; before the chaos of travel and family and the intricate balance the year’s end always seems to demand.  I remember those crisp fall days of me and my red latte, feeling positively on top of everything, like a pleasant dream. All the details are there.  The deep breaths, the early presents; the scarves and gloves and snow flurries that just felt so perfect.

I think everything went downhill from there.  Fall became Thanksgiving, flurries became storms, and suddenly it was Christmas.  I see those days like a merry-go-round; like the montages that flash across the screen when the movie character finally comes to (or blacks out).  Parties and friends and dinners out rush by in a whir of color, and I have to stop and remember the trips up and back to New York, the weekend we spent unfolding my little fake christmas tree and decorating my apartment, and the meetings with new family.  I mostly have to look at my planner to remember where I was; to recall what happened when.  (Like, oooh yeah.  That was the night we got absolutely obliterated by peppermint martinis, and your mom stopped by.  Whoops).

There’s one exception.  One night when we walked down to the water, the frozen crystals from our breath just hung there in the air, suspended, as if they didn’t want the moment to lose them. That was the night I went from girlfriend to fiancée; from know-it’s-real to see-it’s-real.  It’s here on my finger forever: I will be the PhD’s wife.

He proposed in the best possible way, down at the water, at the bench where we stayed up all night back on that first date in June.  Six months to the day. Who says romance is dead?

It was something I knew was coming all along, but the gravity and realness of it still steals my breath away.  And he managed to surprise me, too, throwing off all my little diamond-sniffing tactics with the best possible promises and glimmers of truths to come.  We both knew where we were heading, from that first date, really, but definitely after the toe rings.  Still, I was content to hold out—partly, I think, because I knew that with us, the timing has always just worked out brilliantly.  The coordinates of our love have been designed by something far greater than our own scheming minds, it has to have been; it’s just not possible any other way.  When I think back on the patterns of choices and tangles of decisions that brought us to where we were in June—and led us to where we are today—I get kind of anxious, honestly.  The connections seem so tenuous.  So chancey.  One misstep, and we could have missed each other completely.  Would we have ever truly known what we were missing? Would we have just sort of ached for each other without being able to lay down a cause? It’s all a bit alarming.

And yet, here we are, on the last day of the year.  I’m sitting by the fireplace up at the mountain house, on the exact couch where I opened this exact laptop to this exact page last year, and the year before that.  Thing is, though, nothing at all is that exact anymore.  Nothing is the same.

Next to me this year on the couch is the PhD, being all intelligent with his course prep for next semester.  On the hearth by the cracking fire sit my parents, chatting quietly.  No more am I alone.  Outside the snow is falling, and the footprints of this morning are filling silently.  They are becoming once again part of the untarnished terrain; a new blanket of white a canvas for the adventures of another day.

These past two years have been a maze of footprints and walks in the woods, perhaps paradoxically leading me right back here: a familiar location in a very changed world.

Reading back through these pages I see my path, but I wonder who I was.  The last six months have, in many ways, brought their own version of a gentle snowfall, filling in the pits and the pain.  Leveling things up to where they need to be.  Rising to the next occasion.  I’m where I am because of all that happened below, of course, but it no longer defines me.

As the year ends, this blog does, too.  It’s been an absolute riot being magda, and her adventures are stories I’ll tell for a long, long time.  The thing is, though, it’s time to just be me again.  Time to file these chapters away, and reread them with the eye of the future self—a virtual version of the diaries I’ve kept for years.  We don’t add new pages to those diaries, though, do we? We stick them on the shelf, and start something new; we keep them as volumes of the self in creation.  It’s time for some fresh ink.

To all of you who’ve read, who’ve listened, and who’ve been here: thank you. Magda was an experiment that became a delight, and while it’s time to close this book, my story isn’t over.  I will keep writing, and may end up online again before long.  It won’t be here, but I’ll keep in touch.

Looking out from this couch last December 31, I never could have imagined that in just a year’s time, I’d be planning a wedding, looking to imminently move north, and willingly abandoning this space I carved out as mine.  I’ve learned, though, that when you’re open to change, it can surpass even your wildest expectations.  I think this may be my happiest resolution of all: to keep looking for the adventure, and to keep a torch waving for truth; to embrace reality, but to never stop believing in the unknown.

Shaped Like Hearts, and the State of Alabama.

There’s something strangely comforting about jello.  Setting the kettle on to boil, and emptying that artificially-colored-and-flavored packet of dust into the bowl; carefully measuring the  water, and stirring till the power yields to liquid.  Pouring it into the pan and waiting for the refrigerated magic.

I bought a bunch of jello last week, right as I was recovering from a cold a la PhD: he was sick over Halloween but I, convinced of my infallibility and superhuman immune system, spent the weekend breathing him in regardless.  Karma, it seems, likes nothing more than a proud vitamin-toter.

On the upshot, I actually took the plunge and called in sick, for the first time since my senior year of high school.  Two days I spent in bed watching Private Practice, Glee, and Grey’s online … finer days have never been spent, no siree.

Early this week at the store, somewhat post facto, I stocked up on all that I’d have loved.  Soups.  Juices.  NyQuil.  And then, somewhere on the fake foods aisle, Jello.  Old friend!  Cherry flavor, and lime!  Fantastic.  I could almost feel my nails improving just pushing the cart around.

Thing is, those little boxes—stockpiled with the intent of “till I next get sick”—had a ridiculously short shelf-life.  It wasn’t two hours those things rested in the cupboard till the PhD called, with news; his mom had had an emergency oral surgery, a root canal gone very wrong.  She was feeling pretty miserable.

Now, this woman and I have something of an awkward history.  She was not a natural fan of mine in the beginning, and though things have been improving in our relations, at the risk of sounding like the United Nations, tensions persist.

I seriously just started at my jello while he talked.  Perfect, I said in my head.  A good-will offering.

I called her up Wednesday, totally out of the blue.  I was home—DC seems a nice island oasis in the land of federal holidays—and aside from a conference call with some New York lawyers (where Veteran’s Day means merely less mail), it was me on my own.

“I was just calling to see how you’re holding up,” I said, then clumsily threw in “And I have some jello.  For you.  I’d like to bring it by.”

“Jello?” she asked, incredulous at first.  “You want to bring me jello?”

“Ummm … yeah.”  And I instantly felt like I was 12.  We arranged for me to stop by around 3 notwithstanding, and all seemed on-course. Well.  My call went long, followed by me, in an expert feat of me, getting totally turned around driving to the Whole Foods that is literally next door as part of my mission to bring pretty flowers, too: walking, I never realized that the lanes are all divided by a hideous concrete barrier that my non-hummer car is not prepared to jump.  Every light after that is unhelpfully paired with a garish no u-turn sign, meaning I was late indeed by the time I made it in, blocks backward and back-tracked, chose flowers, and got back on my merry way.  I literally tore through the neighborhood, being that girl everyone hates as she blasts past the “residential area” signs, cursing at every speed bump.  Screeching to a halt at her curb, I crawled through the rain, a cool twenty minutes late, to meet my reckoning.

She saw the flowers, my dripping hair, and my card-on-jello, and broke into a huge smile.  (She subsequently entered words of anguish—“I’m not allowed to smile in my state” among the more benign—but the thought was there.  Totally there).  She invited me in, let me sit, and we talked.  Just me and her.

In my head, this isn’t how it went, not at all.  In my head, she opened the door, stuck out her hand, received the offering, then closed me out.  In my head, it was a hostile “thanks, I’m very busy now, so goodbye” interchange.  In my head, she wasn’t warm.  Surprise, surprise.

We had a real conversation.  She asked me how I was, and told me what was up with her life, her work; her local children and her friends.  We just talked.  I think she was really truly lonely, and for a genuine moment, I was glad to be there.

Though we covered a lot of ground, I think our best conversation was about the jello.  It all started when she asked me how I’d shaped it as she was putting it in the fridge.

Now, I consider myself the mistress of a pretty well-appointed kitchen.  Sure as there are some things I don’t have—the kitchenaid mixer is waiting for a someday wedding registry, for instance—but on the whole, I have all the right tools.

When it comes to cookie cutters, however, I may be a bit deficient.  I have (a) a gingerbread man; (b) varying sizes of hearts, part of a valentine’s collection; (c) the state of Alabama.  That last one was a never-before-used gift from a beloved southern roommate, years ago now.  The jello seemed the perfect canvas to bust it out.

I sent his mom jello shaped like hearts and the state of Alabama.  She suppressed another laugh at the story, and then it strikes me.  Aha, I think.  This woman gets me.  My sense of humor is strange, and there’s something about confederate jello that I just find positively hilarious.  Like, shoot wine out my nose hilarious.  She took it all in stride, and if not for the stitches in her gums, I think she’d have been rolling all magda-style.

The best part, though, was yet to come. She soon tells me this story: The last and only ever other time anyone made jello for her was thirty-plus years ago, the day she went into labor with the PhD.  The neighbors made it for her to eat during the labor, she said, a happy accompaniment to the ice chips she was allotted.  (Shaped like squares, though.  I asked.  Bo-ring).

I totally cracked that memory, and I don’t think the parallel—the then and the now—was lost on her.  I brought her jello, and a little bit of the old her came back in a way that I never could have foreseen.

I left with a smile and a hug, and sure as that can’t have cured everything, it sure as heck made progress.

That little grocery store voice that said “buy me!” never anticipated this.  Then again, I think that’s part of the value of listening to those little voices, those urges and leanings that mayn’t have any grounding in logic.  So many of the twists of this life defy the rational, the sortable.  Making sense of everything can sometimes lose out on the chance for the unexpected.  The rare rainy day on doorsteps at real houses, and jello shaped like Alabama; stories of the past, and pathways to the future.

I Think I Need a Frequent Flyer Program for My Life.

Looking back at the past month, my days have been stretched between southern Virginia, middle Virginia, Greater New York, British Columbia, and a dinner somewhere in there in Seattle. I’ll be back in New York next week, then off to Charlottesville after that; possibly on a jury in mid-November, then back home for a west-coast style Thanksgiving.

Good grief.

I love the adventure of the “now” season of me.  The travels and the new discoveries; the first times and grand introductions.  It’s a whirlwind, and it’s intoxicating.

At the same time, though, a part of me is really looking forward to settling down.  I’ve always kind of delighted in the idea of a slower routine, a life of being first a wife (not a lawyer), a mate (not merely a cocktail friend).  A life of comfortable chores and errands and dates to the grocery store.

Don’t get me wrong, there will always be excitement in my life—I’m not looking to go all down-home and boring or anything, no siree.  I think maybe I’m just finally seeing the bridge to that grown-up life I always imagined, off there in the distance, and I’m seriously considering crossing it.

About this time last week, mid-day on a Thursday, found me in a teeny tiny Laundromat on a quaint little main street somewhere north of New York City.  A little old man jumped up to help me with the (okay, kind of intimidating) grey beasts, while housewives and household help taunted and teased Jerry Springer’s guests in the background.  It was one of those perfect early fall days: a little bit drizzly, and cool enough for a scarf.  Quiet as you cross the wet pavement, the sidewalks dotted with those little yellow leaves—the leaves that so boldly stick to your shoes, your windshield, your doormat, each doing its part to liven up the landscape.  Little signs of coming change.

I’d never been to a Laundromat before (oh wonders of always living with facilities on-site!), so it excited me, perhaps, more than most.  Seriously, though, I just loved it.  Such a new thing!  So outrageous!  Laundromats had always been TV things for me; something you’d see on Friends or similar.  Parts and pieces of that ethereal make-believe world that everyone knows isn’t really real life, but seems just entirely romantic just the same.

My fellow launders, however, were quite real, and quite charming.  I really jumbled what I presume was a regular gathering—none of them hid their curiosity about me and my presence—but they made no mistake that they wanted to include me in their circle.  Little old ladies, woman folding sheets, elderly gentleman flirting softly with all of them … then me, in my cutie little shoes and tied up mad hair, crashing through the door with the PhD’s over-stuffed basket of young-person laundry.  Invasion!  And yet, somehow, I fit.

They all eventually left—kudos to them for getting an early start, but I’ll sleep in, thanks—and then it was just me, the fluorescent lights, and the distant whir and hum as things got clean.

It was then that I realized, I liked that life.  I could do that life.  Start to finish, chaos to folded perfection, there was something calming there.  A natural progression.  Things come in and things go out; strangers come and old hats leave.

There’s a rhythm to everything, I’m learning.  I’ve just got to find my next beat.

Big Oops, Little Oops.

Coming home from work tonight, I was somewhat distressed to learn, at the currency exchange desk at Reagan National, that the U.S. dollar is worth less than its Canadian counterpart these days.  When did that happen?

I wasn’t looking to exchange much; just $60 for cabs and the like when the PhD and I head up to Victoria next week.  That bought me? $56 Canadian.  Bummer. I upped it, paid, and went on my merry way.

On the train home, I was looking over the receipt, still trying to rationalize it.  I mean, wasn’t Canada always cheaper?  It was.  That’s why we’d go there in high school; same JCrew, better exchange rate!  Wooo!  Those days, it seems, have passed.

Tucking that slip back into my purse, though, I saw it.  Right up on the top of the receipt—“Travelex—CASH ADV.”  You see, unthinking, I ignored all the cash I had on hand the minute I saw the little visa sticker in their window.  “Points!” I thought.  “How brilliant.  Canadian dollars and points.”  It didn’t even occur to me that those dollars were, in fact, the purchase, and that purchasing cash is subject to hefty, hefty interest rates.  Rates that start right away.  As in, that $56 is probably costing me $62 now, and probably $65 by the end of this post; all I see in my head right now is a little meter just spinning on and on at an alarming speed going “cha-ching!” each time it passes the dollar mark.

I tried to call the bank right away to explain.  I was put on hold for the next available representative, which was all fine and good …  until they told me that my estimated wait time was 66 minutes.  Over an hour? Are you kidding me, Nordstrom? What, have they got but one sad little person in there answering phones?  LAME.  I put it on speaker for a bit and started doing other things, till it’d been 20 minutes, I was still in the 50s in terms of time left to wait, and it’s not after 7pm so those minutes count, calling as I was from the cell.  So I hung up.  I’ll call again later, and hope they’ll realize that I’m such a good customer and they really want to waive that interest fee, and this was all such an innocent, if stupid, mistake … right?

That was the little oops.

The big oops is (for once!) not mine, but I expect I’ll spend most of the rest of tonight dealing with it.

A friend of mine was engaged last spring, over Easter weekend.  A week later, she called it off.  Sad, but good, it seemed at the time; we worked through that, grew close, and she started dating again.

I met her most recent boyfriend, a really sweet guy she seemed totally serious about.  Then, last week, out of the blue—over.  Done. He was out.  She realized, she said, in something like an almighty flash of brilliance that she was still in love with the ex-fiance, was never going to be able to move on, and oh, good gracious, breaking off that engagement was the stupidest, worst thing ever, and she just had to make it right!  Right away!

Oops.  Big oops.

She’s dropping everything and moving to him ASAP, and I’m presuming (though she hasn’t said as much) in with him.  She quit her job this week, and we’ll be packing up her apartment tonight.  (her new apartment, mind, with a one-year lease that started Sept. 1).

As if this wasn’t all problematic enough, add this twist: ex-fiance lives in England.  As in, the country.  As in, “cannot work in without a visa.”  As in, “leave to enter 60 days, employment prohibited.”

Nice work, sweetheart.  Really nice work.

She’ll get it corrected, and it’ll all be sorted out in time.  For better or worse, she’ll know, which sometimes, I know from a bit too much experience, you just need.  I still find the suddenness of it irrational, and the “oh okay, I’ll just emigrate” mentality a bit rushed at this point, but there’s always so much to every story that we just don’t see.   Sometimes the most outrageous circumstances will suddenly make sense, will suddenly fall into place, with just a bit more information, a new perspective.

It’s difficult to explain, but I think this is the right call for her.  I think she has to do it.  Finance charges and legal alien status, hours on hold and embracing the wild unknown head-first: sometimes these are just the costs of doing business in this life filled with the potholes of our own missed judgments.  Great thing is, though, that—one way or another—the status quo is always restored.  Progress and growth never quite stop, and shopping is always cheaper somewhere.

Of Timelines and Priorities and Growth, and Something About Sex on the Beach.

More and more, I find myself seduced by the idea of more time.  That time lasts longer than the sixty measly seconds to the minute; that the hour between here and there can be stretched to contain this ambitious list of desired outcomes.  Once dependably punctual, I’m horrified to be consistently five, ten minutes late, cursing each traffic light as the clock ticks ever-onwards: since when does the day slip past so fast?

I hate that I’ve been so absent from this space (Hi, September, where did you go?).  The thing is, my life has just been deliciously full.  Weekends away and weddings.  Introductions, first meetings, and favorable impressions; coveted approval, knowing smiles, and promises spanning the gap from today to always (though no, I’m not engaged).  Hotel beds and crashing waves; Virginia, from top to bottom.

Material, it’s fair to say, I have plenty.  Like the time I drove up and back to New York, eleven hours straight one Sunday night, because the PhD and I had a slight misunderstanding about the departure time of his train (and we were a bit carried away saying goodbye besides).  I slid back into my parking space at exactly 3.59am, exuberant from a trip that worked out beautifully, in the end.  So long as you overlook the zombie I was at work on account of my massive sleep-debt which, I’m sorry to say, is only mounting.

Or my parents’ visit, over Constitution Day (which apparently is a big deal?); the minibreak we took, the history we learned, and the absolutely over-the-top, “I’m a princess”-style measures the PhD took to ensure that my birthday week was adequately celebrated there in his absence. A fifth birthday card sent overnight express with red roses to the room, specifically, and a call-in to the restaurant where we ate Friday so that “happy birthday, magda!” was written on the menu, we were met with champagne on the table, and all the waitstaff took particular care of us.  (If this was not real love, this could be scary behavior.  But it is, and it isn’t, and I felt so loved).

Then, how they adored the PhD when we met up at the weekend and how, in the course of a big Greek dinner, mom just casually assumed that he was staying with me—and how she didn’t seem at all bothered by it.  (Who are you, and where is my mother? Lies I had prepared to tell you!  Big lies about how he was staying with his sister!  Seriously.  We had it all planned out.  We’d wake early, plant him outside, and make it all seem real—that sounds insane, but these are my parents.  They are puritans.  My sisters and I are, as a result, insanely skilled in tactical deception). It’s totally in mom’s arsenal to be all obnoxious and ask him directly where he’ll be staying, probably right after he’s said something about how much he loves me.  (Thanks mom.  Love you, too).  That she just talked as if she knew he’d be with me totally registered as “DOES NOT COMPUTE.”  Dad called in the morning, and asked whether “we” were awake; then asked for the PhD’s coffee request.  “We’re headed to Starbucks,” he said.  “We’ll bring yours by.” Welcome to adulthood, magda?  You’ve finally made a choice we’re prepared to call sound and responsible?  Is this the point here?

These and about a billion others are the stories rattling around in the drawers of my memory, waiting patiently to come out into the world of words.  I think of them often; on the train, during my increasingly hectic days at work, in the car as I shuttle from here to there, I draft them out in my head.  But then when I get home and have the time, I’d so much rather sleep.  Or clean up last night’s dishes.  Or talk to the PhD, or an old friend; send an e-mail, or write a real letter.

I’m sitting here at the table now, looking out at the night sky and trying to figure out where this all is going.  I want to be writing about another amazing series of days, and another wedding we’re just back from; how being there only made me love him more, and how putting him on the train tonight nearly broke me.

The wedding was gorgeous; an intimate affair against the backdrop of sand and sky (a seacoast wedding … so romantic).  We took a walk along the shore during the reception, the PhD and I did; absolutely amazing.  Great conversation, great kisses, great feeling of sinking into the sand, holding such a strong and steady hand.  Weddings do things to people.  Like, say, the couple having actual, literal, pounding sex on the boardwalk.  At someone’s wedding!  Seriously!?  Call me old-fashioned, but oh my.  We snuck silently away, snickering to ourselves.

I could write it all out, these stories, weave together a narrative of my thoughts, and our experiences, and the details that made it all so lovely.  I want to.  I just don’t know where the time is anymore.

It could be that my life is just too full, that I have too many competing interests.  Priorities shift, and as much as I want to write here like I used to, I have other things trumping the triage.

That’s part of it.  A bigger part, I think, is that this space just isn’t what it used to be … and really, that’s a very good thing.  I started this all when I was in a very different place in my life.  I was sad, and fractured; I was confused, and very, very alone.  I was in a new city, in a relationship that was going nowhere (though I didn’t see that at the time).  I had no real, true, everyday-level friends.  I needed somewhere to feel; I needed somewhere to be more than just a passing face on a train, a casual glance before bed.

I’m not in that place anymore.  I have grown in a million ways, all for the very best, and magda, frankly, just isn’t who she used to be.

It tears me up a little bit, because I’ve come to really love and cherish this space, and the people I’ve met here.  I’m not ready to give all of this up, but it would be foolish not to acknowledge that the landscape has changed.  I don’t have the crises I used to. I have more real-world outlets now.  I’m in a relationship that I don’t really want to share, or analyze, or turn out onto the pages of the internet for a vent or a laugh.  I’m content.

I’m a writer and I’ll always have words for the world, and I hope to keep using this space to realize that; all this to say, though, that it may be more sporadic, more distanced from this point. I’m not on hiatus, and I’m not shutting down.  I just think that maybe, maybe I want to be more like that couple on the beach.  Have a life that’s private and outrageous and full of mad adventures and bold risks in the shadows; then, on the dance floor, be fashionable, have fun, and fit in, leaving no more than the hint of a few stray hairs.

Practically Legal.

By far the best birthday present I ever received was my Molly doll.  It was the summer I discovered the American Girl books in the library, and I devoured their entire shelf; for hours, I’d sit out in the grass, finding myself in other worlds entirely.

I feel like I knew about the dolls, but I definitely didn’t ask for one; they were expensive, and honestly, I don’t think it even occurred to me to want one.  Of all the books, though, Molly’s were my favorite; I checked them all out at least twice.  My mom, every tricky, totally noticed.

She came the day I turned eight, the mystery in the big box amongst the standard birthday fare of markers and clothes and books.  It was magical. She came to life; she was my imagination made tangible.  She had a room in my room, and outfits all her own; when mom would make me a dress, Molly got one to match.  She came to church, and to grandma’s.  She was everywhere.

Soon thereafter, my sisters, in turn, received Samantha and Kirsten, and we had positive worlds set up for those girls.  Occasionally I still get letters addressed to Mrs. McIntire; ever-formal, that’s how we’d refer to each other when dolls were afoot.

Tomorrow I turn 28.  Which means Molly is … 20.  Twenty!  That can’t be right!  Gosh and golly, olly molly, you’re making me feel ancient.  And next year I’m totally buying you a beer.

Brad Who? Wait, What?

Though I can’t really say why, I’ve been wearing my high school class ring more and more often.  It sat dormant in my jewelry box for years, really, until I pulled it back out, over the summer sometime.  It’s yellow gold, which I don’t much wear anymore; it’s really quite pretty, though, in a very non-class-ringish way.  It’s all symbols and signs, very old-school Catholic.

I don’t think back much to high school, if I’m honest.  I’m friends still with exactly one girl from that time; we’re close, but not all-the-world-and-everything close.  I’ll invite her to my wedding no doubt, but she won’t be in it.  Like that.

I have some hilarious memories from high school, but most of what I had then I’d just as soon forget. Some of it was that I just wasn’t grown up, wasn’t myself yet.  I think I was more awkward than most people; I was incredibly sheltered, hopelessly naïve, and ardently disinterested in all of those high school things one’s meant to take up.

In New York last weekend, we were looking through some of the PhD’s high school photos.  Beach weeks and beer; old flames and total unbridled adolescence.  I don’t really have anything comparable.  For me, high school was homework and frizzy hair, conspicuously un-flared khakis (with a line pressed neatly down the leg).  It was all I knew, but it still embarrasses me.  It embarrasses me how little I really was.

My family is amazing and tight and well-structured, but in some ways this is the price I’ve paid for it.  I played dolls with my sisters through ninth grade.  I made it to college unable to recognize the scent of pot. I was a quintessential “good girl,” but not because I was all high and mighty: rather, because I really didn’t know any better.

Such a shielded youth can be envious, but it can also be humiliating.  It’s a tough balance between protecting kids and letting them fit in.  In a world that’s broken, the straight and narrow is often the loneliest, most desolate road.  It’s worked out just fine for me and I have no complaints … I’m just glad things were different for my sisters.

They, for instance, had at least some grounding in pop-culture.  In one of my French classes, sophomore year, we—as a quiz—had to describe a pre-selected photo to the class such that they could recognize it from a pool of options pinned up on the board.

“It’s a man,” I said, in French that likely was top of the class.  “He’s wearing jeans and a grey sweater.”  Several, sadly, met this description.  “What does he do?” a classmate asked.  I was stumped.  Do? “He’s a model?” I said, more a question than anything.  “He’s attractive, and, ummm, he’s dressed like it’s maybe a casual Saturday morning?”  I was out.

What I should have said: “He’s an actor.  He’s married to Jennifer Aniston.  He’s in that movie Seven.”

I would have said these things if I’d had ANY idea they were true.  For all I knew, those Brad Pitt eyes were looking at me from a Sears catalogue clipping.  It was absolutely humiliating, and I still remember the ridicule in even my teacher’s voice.  That was one in a loooong list of high school popularity gaffes, from musicians to movies and positively everything a normal 16-year-old should know.  (Anyone ever play that game where you have a name stuck on your back and have to guess who it is? ALWAYS the last one standing on that one.  Hated it).

I was sharing snippets of this epic series in uncool last night in a small group; as an ice-breaker, we were telling embarrassing stories.

Someone pulled me aside afterwards, though, and challenged me for being real enough. “That’s it? That’s your embarrassing moment?” she said, really critically.  She, I suppose, wanted me to have illuminated something searing and very sinful (of which, oh yes, I do have plenty); something that, as she put it, “would let the others know that this is a safe space for sharing.”  Maybe.  Maybe.

Perhaps I didn’t express it right, or she may have just had no basis on which to relate—but that story, those moments, really affected me growing up.  They were more lastingly embarrassing than a lot of the faux pas I’ve made, the errors I’ve aided.  (And I challenged her right back—this was an icebreaker.  It was light.  It was “an embarrassing moment,” not “bare the depths of your blackest humiliation.”  There’s a time and place for that, and last night was NOT IT).

It’s surprising me how much that trivial French class story is affecting me today, though.  I woke up this morning like it was 10 years ago, feeling that shroud of inadequacy all over again: I remembered so clearly feeling positively ignorant at life.  Of course it wasn’t a huge deal, but those are the kinds of experiences, the emotional outlayings and scarings, that shape people.  Everyone has them, though they manifest differently; that sheltered and girlish naiveté I carried well into college was mine.

I look at the paper this morning and recognize Jon Gosselin, Elijah Wood, and Kim Kardashian, without even reading the captions.  I send back my regrets to my 10 year reunion not because those feelings still linger—I’m pleased with the ways I’ve changed—but because that’s a world that I never really called mine.  It also doesn’t help that it’s in Seattle, on a weekend I’m not in town; I’ll be back as it is once already in October, at Thanksgiving, and for Christmas. Another trip? Eh, not feeling it.  I’d go if I was home, or if it was closer.  But really, right now? Those people I knew then are as foreign as Brad Pitt to me.  And that’s okay.

Six Months (a story of uncertain endings).

Walking back from the train tonight, it finally feels like fall is on the way. The air is just that much less humid; the sun doesn’t hit quite so hard. There’s a chill in the breeze that makes me wish I’d tucked in my jacket, that long-forgotten companion.

My mail, of course, has been telling me this for weeks. Car tag renewals. Tax assessments due. Insurance statements. Dear Magda, you have lived in the commonwealth coming up three years. Congratulations! Please pay. I’ve mostly pushed them to the side; “October’s in forever!” I’d say, panting, reaching out to crank up the air.

Here on my desk, however, is the penultimate: the lease. Due back tomorrow.

I have renewed it for a six-month term.  I will be here, guaranteed, through April 30, 2010.  Past that point? Uncertain.

Preceding this signature was a would-be argument, a “when will we be together”-fueled feistiness; a “do you or do you not see us together?,” triggered by hormones (in the least degree), raw love (in the highest degree), and the emotion of uncertainty (most of all).  When it all settled out, we said six months.

I called my mom over the weekend.  “I’m thinking six months,” I said.  Saieth she: “That sounds about right.”  MOM. HELLO. This is your oldest daughter, your first-born child; you’re going to agree to this whole “screw my career, and my roots; this is real love” campaign?  And wait, what’s that, you’re a donor, too?  Well.  Okay then.   Way to throw me for a loop. (seriously, there I was ready to defend myself when … wait.  You support this?  You think this is a good idea? mmmmm-kay…)

Do I want to be with him? Yes.  Do I want that to be soon? Absolutely, especially on days like today,  days where I’m easily reminded of precisely why the second-most popular search term leading to this blog–after those savvy travelers googling “quart-sized ziploc”–is “my job makes me want to kill myself,” else a close variant thereof.  Indeed! Can’t offer much more than commiseration, I’m afraid; alas, though, YES.

The idea of being a New Yorker come the spring is outrageously romantic.  That’s where I am with it, though; it’s still an idea.  I’m living a fairy tale in so many ways, but something about my inked signature on this paper is hauntingly permanent.  April.  I could well change plans, renew again, or go month-to-month, as extortionist as those rates are. Then again, I could be headed north, singing a “suck it” tune in the direction of my boss’ office, and moving on to brand new things all our own.  (It all just seems so fast, though; even four months ago, I’d never have considered giving up this place, not to mention packing my life into boxes and moving it across state lines).

I feel a bit like Cinderella, half way through, the third or fourth time you read it; you know she’s got a happy ending coming if she can just scrub enough floors to get from page to page.  There’s something deeply satisfying about that promise, but just knowing it isn’t enough: Prince or no price, her hands are still in that bucket for at least this page and probably the next, and she’s likely breathing in lye; she’ll get there, but that’s not to say it’s not a struggle.  It’s coming, and soon.  I can see it, and planning for it’s good; I feel like I know this ending, but it’s not mine yet.

So I have this lease here. This apartment never was going to be forever, this life here never was forever, and six  months is just a signature at this point.  It doesn’t mean anything permanent.  It represents something, though; something tangible.  It’s good, but I’m a bit scared as well.  (!HA.  Okay, a lot scared, when I really sit down and think about it.  Me? Moving in the spring? Come again?).

I’m going to eye it over one more time, kiss it goodbye, and trot it on downstairs; then celebrate, with a little glass of porto.  To new opportunities, taking chances, and new possibilities: to risks and love and trust and faith.  cheers cheers.

Farewell, Favored Status.

It’s not like she actively despises me.  It’s more like she just wishes I wasn’t around; like I remind her of something she’d rather keep locked away.  Something she doesn’t want to remember.

I generally consider myself a pretty likable person. I’m friendly, I’m fun, I’m spunky and I’m smart; I’m ambitious but not too ambitious. Young, but not too young. To put it bluntly, I have been many a boyfriend’s mother’s favorite, but I feel like I’m staring down the telescope at those days anymore.  Waving them fondly goodbye.  Somehow, at every meeting with the PhD’s mom, I leave feeling defeated, wishing I could just sit down and cry for a little bit.

We didn’t start out on the right foot, and things have not turned around from that point. We met in silence, with her just staring at me.  “I’m Magda,” I said, smiling.  She did not reciprocate the introduction.  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, with a poker face. I tried to initiate conversation; she’d answer, but was clearly disinterested from that point.  Okey-doke. I asked the PhD for her name later (and had looked it up myself as well … because yeah, I’m like that).  Her name is simple and straight-forward; for our purposes today, let’s call her “Susan.”

“It was so nice to see you again, Susan,” I said on parting at our second meeting. Then a snap.  “My name is SUZY,” she barked.  “The PhD should have clued you in on that.”  And she turned around and left.

The PhD apologized, and I turned red. (And COME ON. Your name is not Suzy.  That’s just what you’d like to be called, and there are nicer ways of telling me that).  Nonetheless, I wrote her a note later that week, with her preferred name, telling her how glad I was to be getting to know her; how much I thought of her son.  (Hi, I’m Magda, and I’m not a monster).

I won’t get into it here, but the PhD and his mom have a complicated relationship.  The older I’ve gotten and the more people I’ve met, the more I’ve come to realize that my family, wholly functional, totally loving, and absolutely amazing, is completely bizarre.

I can’t wait to see my family, and I hate that I live so far away.  I’d use all my vacation days to be back with them (and often, I do). For that reason, I can’t really relate to the PhD’s coming back here, to Virginia, and not seeing his family—not even letting them know he’s in town—but that’s how it is, and that’s how they work.  I haven’t met his dad and his stepmom, nor have I gotten to know his sisters.  I default to him, though, when he says this is their normal; it breaks my heart a little bit, but if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is.

This weekend the annals of my non-understanding got a bit thicker.  As if the PhD wasn’t amazing enough, he’s also something of a gardener; last spring, he planted a little vineyard in his mom’s backyard. (Brilliant, good with his hands, AND a fan of wine.  We have here a winner, people). We go to check on the vines periodically when he’s in town; the yard abuts a public street, and we’re no strangers to standing at the edge and looking at the progress.

Yesterday, lo and behold, his mom was actually in the yard.  She spied us, and we said we’d come in. We drove around, knocked on the door, and waited.  And waited.  And finally came in.

Rather than being happy to see her only son, however, she had for him a list of tasks, and a laundry list of woe-is-me complaints.  It was entirely awkward, sitting in that kitchen; I really had no place, and though the PhD kept dragging me into the conversation, I just didn’t stick.  Invisible.

As we left, however, I came into range.  She pulled me aside, and issued an icy reprimand for not calling ahead.  “You know, I really need a phone call before you two just drop by,” she said.  “I’d appreciate some warning before you just come to my house.”

What I wanted to say: “sorry you saw us visiting the vines, but we really had no intention of talking to you today.” Or, “if you make this place more welcoming, maybe we’ll give that a shot.” Perhaps, “cut me some slack, lady, don’t you see how happy your son is with me?”

Instead, I just apologized.  I just stood there and said I was sorry, over and over, until the PhD came back downstairs.  I hate being called on the carpet like that.  Being smacked by someone whose respect I desperately want.  Leaving with my tail between my legs, and grinding my teeth all the way home to choke back the futile tears of frustration.

Straight from the book of sharp contrasts, my parents are coming in about a month for a week-long visit.  We’ll travel around and I’ll take a few days off; the PhD will come down, and he’ll get to know them. Last night, though, mom set it out there.  They want to meet this woman; they want us all to go to dinner.

I told her I didn’t think it would work, that I just can’t seem to get on this Suzy’s A-list.  “It’ll never work, mom,” I said.  “She really doesn’t like me.”  Mom, ever-wise, told me I didn’t really have a choice.  “You don’t just get to love him, you have to love his whole family,” she said, and she’s right, of course.  But it’s still hard to swallow.

Hard to visualize, too.  I’ve spent a bit of time today wondering how they’ll integrate, my idyll with Suzy’s wreckage. My happy home life with something they had once, but lost; my parents’ success with her failure.  I wonder if she’ll even come if I invite her, or what she’ll find to be unhappy with there.  It’ll be interesting.  But, as it seems it is my future, it’s an adventure I (suppose) I’m willing to take.

Takeoffs and Landings, of Sorts.

I got off at the airport tonight.  I don’t know what it was, really, but the conductor said “Reagan National,” and that was me; in that moment, right then, that was my stop.

I sat on the black wanting-to-be-leather chairs outside of security, just me and my ipod; just me and my thoughts, watching the planes against the glistening backdrop of the Potomac.  A half-hour diversion.  Another world.

Here are some of the inanities, the missing ends, of my week thus far: I very nearly ran out of gas in ghettosville, Maryland, on what worked out to be Monday morning, circa 12.30am. (no joke.  I think my tank holds 16 gallons; I pumped 16.2 when I finally slid into an open station.  I know. Horrifying responsibility fail).  I have surrendered the helm of office operations back to my idiot boss, who is (at long last) back from his vacation.  As something of a consequence, I have on my desk at work an enormous knife, with an intricate wooden handle with a big moose on it that says ALASKA.  A “thank you” present, it seems?  (Does this disturb anyone else? My boss left for seven weeks and brought me back what could well be construed as a murder weapon? With a MOOSE on it?). (I’ve left it on my desk, rather than bringing it to my kitchen where it clearly belongs, because it’s just too hilarious).  Then, just yesterday, I ran into one of my very first DC friends in the elevator.

For probably the first two, three months of my DC existence, this girl was it.  She was my “her,” my construed lifeline in a world of a new career, a new city, a new relationship.  We really thought we were going to be best friends … until we weren’t.  I can’t pin exactly how it faded, how it all just returned to the ether, but it did.  It was like we realized we were there in each others’ lives for a purpose, and that purpose had passed.  It was an understanding sans drama. We drifted, and though it wasn’t intentional, our paths just stopped crossing.

We went out for drinks tonight.  A sky threatening rain forced our sangria plans indoors, but three beers, a bad businessman flirt, and a lot of laughs later, we were back.

She’s never going to be a real friend of mine, but the difference is, I have real friends now.  There was a serious gravity in looking back on what brought me from her to here, and she’ll always hold a place in my history.  Probably a place in my happy-hour calendar from here, too, which—indeed—is pretty happy.

I’m so far from where I was in 2007, the last time we really sat down.  In more ways than I can coherently set out, I am so glad.  It’s strange to be in a place long enough as an adult to actually have a history; to be able to look back and chart out milestones and lessons, errors and victories.  To come back and say, here’s who I am now, and here’s what I’m about.  Here’s what’s new, and here’s what I’ve learned.

To see the planes take off, not knowing quite where they’re going; but, to see the promise of a safe landing just one runway over.  To trust, and know, and live.