it was always me that did the dumping, and I knew that wasn't right. I feel like a traveler, freshly arrived at the place where everyone lives. Awhile back I was at a bachelorette party and learned how open relationships are scandalous; no one seemed to think of them as that-thing-you-do-when-you're-afraid-of-commitment. That thing I do. It hurts, but in my head I know this means I've broken my mold, and I remember this is a good thing. At least in my head.
I was so happy; I thought you were in. I thought we really we had a shot. I thought I had permission to speak freely. I thought I had not been lying to you.
I hope you don't hate me for being so hungry. I don't know how to make it go away.
* * *
I've been reading the Tao of Pooh. It has such good ideas, but the anti-intellectualism gets to me. . . especially since one of the great lessons of the original Winnie-the-pooh books was kindness towards those characters who are self-important and full of silly mistakes. Hoff makes it very clear that they are Doing Things Wrong, but I relate to all of them so much that I want to stick my tongue out at him, though the changes he suggests are things I want.
* * *
Lately I feel like a writer. I've produced two essays, on demand and deadline, that I think are good--start to finish. It has never happened before. I am learning that I work slowly, and that it is tired, painful, satisfying work. Of course, my kitchen looks like I've been a writer. Maybe someday I'll find balance; maybe not.
The application is in, and I am waiting. They said I would know in days. If I get in, I decide whether I want to upend my entire life to go--a lot of work. I think yes.