Obama just won and it's making me nostalgic for bald men who love Motown. This is a form of nostalgia with which I am all too familiar. Joel wasn't my first, he won't be my last, but I'm guessing he'll always be my favorite. My love for him hasn't gone anywhere. In fact, it may be oddly stronger than ever. On Friday night I had a first date who liked me very, very much, and don't get me wrong, I liked him, too, but I didn't necessarily feel that insatiable hnnnnnng. I ended up crashing at Joel's place after midnight because he was only three blocks away and I'd had too much wine to drive the 100 blocks back to the farm.
You know, MY house. Not ours.
He answered the door (presumably) not all that much more sober than I was and I'm not sure why, but the moment I felt his chest against my back as we curled up on an air mattress on the floor of his empty apartment, I began to cry. I didn't really MEAN to. I just couldn't stop it...
He asked me what happened and if I was okay and the only explanation I could give was that I loved him. Period. Part of me wants to make it more complicated than that, but it probably is just that simple. As if love is ever simple...
I've had plenty of intimacy with both men and women alike in the weeks since Joel moved out, but I don't LOVE any of them. I still fiercely love Joel, though, and that makes for some interestingly complicated mind-fuckery.
Don't worry, I can agree wholeheartedly with what you're thinking right this minute: this is, indeed, the strangest break-up EVER. All I can tell you is what I told my (our former) therapist this morning: it's going to take some time for me to process all of it.
As if that wasn't enough, my sister contacted me this week and we ended up reconciling after a year-long standoff. It was a strange experience (through absolutely no fault of her own) to arrive at her home and see the baby grand piano at which I learned to read music before she was even born. That Steinway was just sitting there in her living room calling me a traitor in B flat, but it all made some kind of weird, labyrinth-like sense to me. Not that my brain has had time to catch up. I'm still deeply mourning the loss of my childhood home, even if I can't bring myself to miss my parent's affection (judgment) as much as I should. Though it was nice to see my sister doing so well.
Then, to further complicate the mental work my poor vodka-riddled brain has to endure, Dave contacted me last week.
[Edited to add that by "reconcile" I mean speak to eachother, which we haven't done in almost two years.]
We're having coffee tomorrow and in spite of everything I have to hold against him, I'm feeling weak and forgiving and tragically optimistic that being friends with him again can only be good for our two magnificent children.
Like all courtships, it'll start with a beverage, but SWEET JEEBUS ON A PICNIC TABLE, I hope it leads to more than that, like hopefully some kind of civility toward one another instead of our current "state of cold war." (His words). I can't imagine a life in which the past isn't chomping at my ass every second, but it would be such a relief if that were possible.
Wish me (us!) luck.
Or a big fat Xanax refill. Either one.