Thursday, January 28, 2010

1,2,3,4 Guitars

I'm blogging to avoid drunk-texting. I'm not saying it's the best approach anyone's ever taken, but it's better than awkwardly saying all those things to all those people who aren't ready to hear them. Not to mention you, the fateful reader, probably knows the allure of a good glass or two (or bottle--just one-- in this case) of merlot. Plus, this will have the drunken sincerity that I know I love and you probably do, too. I get honest when I'm drinking, so beware. 

In this case, it hails from so-and-so's cellar. I don't know a ton of people with wine cellars and the ones I do know are almost always someone's parents or boss or the older guy hanging out with the kids. You know the one....the guy who brings the crazy drugs to the party...and since don't have many dealings with people's parents, their bosses, or those creepers so I don't often get my hands on wine someone saved for something, but today...

Today is my little sister's 22nd birthday. She's the baby and she's 22. She and I spent the whole day together getting in to any number of things we had no business getting into (lurking on cute boys, smiling at cute boys, listening to music made by cute boys). Geez...22. I wonder what that must feel like for my parents. They're still so young and good-looking. I imagine it's very odd to have children in their early 20s, seeing as they're not even quite 50, themselves. Still young enough for pretty much everything. Nevertheless, my dad brought home a bottle of wine from Mr. So-and-so that is an inappropiate gift for my sister, because she has cerebral palsy and does not drink but a great gift for me, because I don't and I do.

Which brings us to now.

Lately, I've been working some things out. It's too soon to say if it's working or if this has been a great thing, a good thing, or a disaster. From where I'm standing, we're clear of disaster. I know what real disaster looks like and this is not it, but this is something. It makes me nervous that I still can't tell what.

Ever since I got back, my reactions to things have been a little out of proportion. My excuse for a relationship is ending. I can only presume it's my fault. He's a great guy and I love him a lot, but I feel like he's expecting someone else and she pretty much left the building the minute I saw all those human bodies piled in the streets. More than anything or anyone in the world, I wish he could understand, but that's too much to ask someone and even I know that. Nothing is calm anymore. Nothing can ever be calm again. It wasn't even calm before, so expecting things to have slowed down since all the excitement began is really just crazy. If I don't have anything else going for me, I'm not crazy. Not in traditional sense, anyway.

You know what I learned about love, though? I learned it's not a virus that infects you. It's a choice you make-- just like you  choose the things love makes you do. You have options and they are always there. You can let love make you crazy and sick and miserable, or you can let it make you good. I'm lucky that even when it's hard and one-sided and it hurts, I still feel like love makes me good.

I want to be good. I'm trying to be good now.

Beware, you'll probably still get drunk-texted later.

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