I just spent two hours attempting to write a blog and failed miserably. I was trying to write about the frustrations I've had to deal with while living surrounded with Andrew's stuff and the bugs that came with it, both of which were dumped off at our place by Andrew's father. I think my first mistake was attempting to write with Andrew around. He's a talker. He's also going through his cook books and magazines to pack them up, which should have been a big sign to begin with that I wouldn't get any quiet. He sees a recipe, his eyes bulge and he makes some excited noise and starts reading the description off to me, but over and over again, with weirder and weirder food. I think after the tenth recipe he interrupted me with, he saw the look in my eyes saying that he was stepping on my creativity's toes and that he'd ought to back off. But he just moved on to stomping on it with even more recipes, so I chucked the blog and told him I'm writing a different one, blaming him for the death of the former. But I didn't say it in a mean way, I just said "I love you, even though you ruined my blog."
See, that's the problem with having a boy who likes talking to you, and likes hearing what you have to say. When you try pouring what you have to say into a laptop, he sabotages you! Bastard. Anyway, I'm not hugely disappointed in losing that other blog. Who wants to read about clutter and roaches? I certainly want little to do with them, which was the point of writing about it, but I imagine it wouldn't have ended up being particularly cathartic. It probably would have just made me even more neurotic about things, and honestly, I wouldn't wish that on anyone. So what do I write about in its stead? I could tell you everything Andrew just told me about craw fish, but I'm not especially inspired by craw fish. I am, however inspired by him. Why? Because I wrote him into existence. And he gives me kisses. Let me explain...
When I was a teenager, I was far more awkward than I am today. I'd had little social interaction from being left at home most of my adolescence, instead of being put in school. By fourteen I'd read most of the dictionary and had written a novel or two. Writing helped me dream of different lives, and explore all the corners of my imagination. But then I decided to write a dream about my life, as fictional or non-fictional as I wanted it to be. It told essential parts of my story, with my emotional mother and selfish sister whose beauty I never felt I could match, and how it all followed me like a dark cloud. I made up a best friend for my character, who found my character in an abuse-induced dissociated state, and helped her out of it. He was tall and lanky, drove a red pick up and loved good oldies and indie music. He was uninhibited and honest, and saw through all her walls to who she was. He didn't care that my character was overweight, with deep-seated trauma, and cutting habit in tow. Ah! Perfection! But being the pessimist that I am, I had to turn their relationship even more dysfunctional. My character spun further into a web of extreme self-abuse and depression, and that perfect boy fell with her, exhausted by his attempts to save her. Yes, at fourteen, I believed that story to be romantic.
Months after I'd started the book, I turned fifteen, and had finally scraped together a social life. The booming popularity of Myspace and Xanga, etc. made socializing all the more easy, and being the computer geek I was, I dove right in. I started making friends all over the world with people as weird and nerdy and funny as me. I found Aaron in Australia, Konrack in England, Sara in Dubai, and Andrew in Arkansas. Andrew was a lanky seventeen year old with a beard, big sunglasses, a taste in music that blew my mind, and a cornucopia of random yet solid information that he shared so gladly, I wanted to punch him. I wasn't too sure about that Andrew Dodd, but my best friend who was over all the time liked him a lot more than I did. Her mom didn't approve of her crushing on some Arkansas boy who didn't love Jesus, nor did she approve of her being best friends with some crazy-haired Mexi-Jew that wore a cape. So to be vindictive and helpful, I called my friend and Andrew on three-way so they could talk in secret. This lasted maybe a month before my friend called me one night in tears, saying Andrew told her he kissed some other girl and that their little thing was over. I hated him for tossing her aside. I deleted him from all of my friends lists and didn't speak to him again for two years.
By seventeen I'd been ditched by that friend of mine, and had long-since forgotten any hostility I'd had towards Andrew. Eventually, we picked back up about where we'd left off. He wasn't as much of an asshole as my friend made it seem, and he was far less full of himself than I remembered. My insecurities had diminished enough that I could pull my weight in a conversation with him without feeling like an idiot, and found that he actually listened and considered what I had to say. We started talking more often, online and on the phone. We talked about everything. He showed me his new photography, and his food photography of the food he made. I told him about the stupid guys I'd date, and he'd make snide remarks about them that I resented, but he was always right. And it turned out that Andrew treated me better as a friend than a lot of the guys that liked me did. Realizing that helped me to raise the bar, and stop settling. By then I was nineteen, and we finally made plans for me to come stay the weekend with him and his girlfriend. I was stoked. I'd be taking my first road trip alone, and I'd finally get to hang out with Andrew.
I was in store for a handful of surprises. A couple of them came before I hit the road.
The First Surprise: A week or two before my trip, I was facebook stalking Andrew with my best friend Lori, when she exclaimed "That's Andrew?! He's hot!" I said, "No he's not. He's Andrew." But then I looked at his picture again, like I'd never seen him before, and gasped. He was beautiful! He was everything I'd ever dreamed of rubbing against! I was horrified! How was I supposed to handle myself around him and his girlfriend with that knowledge?
The Second Surprise: The day before my trip, he told me (supposedly not for the first time) that his girlfriend had left him the week before. I guess I'd somehow managed to miss that detail. That's right, instead of going to spend the weekend with a fun, platonic and most importantly taken guy-friend, I was suddenly off to spend the weekend in Arkansas with a sexy single guy with a really attractive face. Surprise!
But I didn't chicken out! No, no! I went there and I arrived exhausted and mortified at how nice-looking he was. Even scarier, was how comfortable I was with him. Our hug wasn't awkward, our conversation was just as effortless and politically incorrect as usual, and I realized as I was sitting, laughing in the chair next to him that it was special. I didn't worry constantly about what he thought about how I looked or what I said, because I trusted him without realizing it. Normally, I tensed up and got nauseous when guys touched me, or saw too much of my skin, or looked at me in the eyes. But Andrew and I spent the whole weekend lounging on his bed, watching movies and drinking Sailor Jerry. He rubbed my skin when it was cold, and I didn't feel like vomiting from it at all.
He had to go to work early on my last day there, so we said our goodbyes before I went back to bed to recoop from our night with Sailor. We had a perfectly friendly hug, with a sad wave, then I closed his apartment door behind him. I ripped a good chunk of his music off of his computer to take home with me, and I was about to take my hangover nap when he called me to say he was coming back from work because he felt sick to his stomach. Thanks, Sailor Jerry! When he got back we laid down together to rest, and we laid with our faces so close together for so long I thought he'd never kiss me. But he did. For four hours straight. I left at 8pm instead of arriving home at 8pm as I'd planned, but it was cool, because he was a really good kisser. Before I left, he kissed me one more time, and scratched the top of my head to make my hair go all wonky and he smiled the nicest smile I had ever seen. Then I left, and I didn't see him again for over three months, and not because I got lost in the woods. Well, I did, but not for three months.
But I'll leave our story at that for now. There's so much more to tell, so many more surprises and twists. But I don't want to give it to you all at once. It's my favorite story in the world, after all, and it must stay paced. The best part is that our finding each other was so unexpected. Part of my growing up and learning about life is that it's always better not knowing what is going to happen next. I spent all of my creativity and energy on making a story for myself, that had all my sadness and all the happiness I could imagine for myself. But what life brought was so much more clever and intricate, and personal. And better. The turns our lives take can be dangerous and frightening, and not knowing what's going to happen next is part of the thrill, and it keeps us from wimping out. The blindness we have in this life is a blessing. It helps us to remain innocent and courageous, and see the beauty in the unexpected.
There's something special about the way my life with Andrew has unfolded, the fluidity in the timing and details, that helped me to see that perfection exists. I mean, if perfection doesn't exist, then Andrew never would have gotten sick and had to come home before I left to feel me up for hours. It proves to me that there is some beauty to have faith in, and that beauty is all I need to know is real.
-Abbi
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment