I needed a whole weekend home, in the burbs no less, sans car, plans, money, or internet to figure out where I am.
This was the official business agenda:
-wrap up loose ends in Philadelphia
-party like emo-scenester years
-figure out where your head is
Where am I?
Around 2am on Saturday I was skinny dipping, in the rain, unabashedly floating on one of those plastic raft thingies. And I went through the extra effort of lighting the torches around the pool. I was feeling primal. I was tasting the tail end of a pot-opium cocktail and a Riesen chocolate- which reminds me a lot of my great grandmother who invariably lived on cookies, bacon fat and Pabst Blue Ribbon, bought at a discount because the cans were dented.
Chicks love candlelight, or in this case, torchlight because it makes them look less flawed. Couple that with being wet, and naked, and I thought this was the best state to be in to evaluate the state of my unions. This evaluation, on past several occasions, involved my best “There Will Be Blood” rendition- I’ve lost my boy!! (nix handlebar moustache)
Not tonight though.
The theme of the night is quiet introspection. I spent a lot of time looking at my feet. I enjoyed seeing the light bounce off the water pooled in my belly button. Cold air teased my tits into standing a-ten-shun! Fingertips got pruny quick.
Where am I?
Pretty discombobulated, I concluded. I certainly wasn’t in my own skin. I can compare this month to when you slipped down a few stairs as a kid: more frightened and surprised than actually hurt. Ego bruise.
My feet that I had been ignoring- they could use a fresh painting. Pink, I think.
My legs were particularly sore, as my bike has been a conveniently cheap getaway vehicle. You go fast enough that you can’t really drift off, but slow enough that you can breathe. Besides I don’t feel like I’m running away, per se. It’s on the same level as ‘Oh, I’m going for a walk,’ which is a-okay. I’ve covered the three corners of Ardmore, Front Street, Manyunk. South Philly tomorrow if the weather holds out.
My stomach. My core has caused me more stress that I care to admit this month. I’m sitting here now reveling in the dull ache of cramps because it’s at least better than the vicious cycle of being too stressed to get your period and then stressing that you didn’t get it yet. Two weeks of watching home births on YouTube, making sure I was eating, and praying to a God that I haven’t talked to in forever. I’ve never been so happy to see a panty Rorschach inkblot. Know what I see? No more YouTube videos and babysitting for a while.
Fingertips still pruny. Nailpolish chipped, but eh.
Stupid lopsided boobs. What sucks is having these stupid lopsided boobs. I want to feel someone, and not those unwelcomed, unsolicited pity-party hugs that are handed out to the newly single. Hugs are fantastic, but I miss hands, not arms.
Shoulders, browned and used to carrying boulders like Sisyphus.
I obv can’t see my own face but I guarantee my waterproof eyeliner wasn’t holding up. So lying on this cold plastic float. I put my hand on my stomach and feel that it is mine. I can feel my hair swirl in the pockets of now-warmer water. The rain had stopped by this point.
I look at my hand on my stomach. I give myself the car crash test.
Conclusion, Where am I?: Jamie, my love, it is time to get your shit together. You have said all that you needed to say. You are clean and you are whole, singular. What will be, will be. You are human- no tougher, no softer. No apologies are needed. Buy yourself flowers, but only daisies- this isn’t a funeral. Ride your bike to somewhere, not from somewhere. Sleep. Eat. Breathe, or even sigh if necessary. Touch your own belly.
I went to bed with a wet head, but not a heavy one.