Remember when I Thought you were Blonde?

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I can not believe how the months have flown by, and how talking to you now comes almost as naturally as breathing. Almost. I never want to get to a point where I take you for granted in that way. But do you remember when we first started chatting? It’s hard to imagine a time when I didn’t know you so well, when I had questions, and found you an utter mystery.

“What part of the Bay Area?” Berkeley — one of the places I lived growing up. A place I had visited only a few months before, alone, specifically to see a local Bay Area band I’d been hearing about. And lucky I did — it was one of their last shows. How odd that I was plodding around the flats, checking out my old neighborhood, while at the same time you were probably cooking up an amazing meal, or possibly grouting your new bathroom. You were probably curled up in bed with a good book around the time the show started. Maybe asleep by the time I stumbled back to the hotel at 1:00 in the morning. A homeless guy bummed a smoke off me on Telegraph. I hadn’t given it up yet, having just taken up rowing again the week before. Intoxicated college students swarming around the campus were a pain to navigate through, and the sheer volume of garbage they left on the street surprised me (though it should not have) when I got up early that morning.

But five months later we met, at least online. It all seemed incongruous when you confessed you came from the South. I knew you had a story. Guarding our early conversations, you made me tease it out of you in little pieces. And why not? Isn’t that part of the fun? The navigation in unfamiliar territory, the rewards of discovery? Slowly painting a picture in my head of the person I thought you were. My imagination had to fill in a few blanks. I really hadn’t ever internalized height before. As far as I was concerned there are three heights – my height, shorter, and taller. So I really couldn’t picture what your height meant. I had to get out a tape measure and mark it on a wall, and it was still meaningless. No, in fact, my imagination was utterly incapable of aligning itself with reality.

I mean, for some strange reason I pictured you as blonde. And when I confided this guess to you, you were utterly appalled! I don’t know you well enough to know if you have a real problem with blondes, but I can understand now, based on the popular association, why you reacted the way you did. And based on the popular association, I can not understand how I would have guessed you were blonde. My besttheory has me believing you were far too perfect, so my brain filled in some imperfections, one of which imagined your hair a well coifed honey blonde with tasteful highlights. And yeah, we had a good laugh (I hope you were laughing) about the whole thing, but you know I was floored when I saw your picture that first time. I realized, far from a the imperfection manufactured by my cynical mind, you had my dream girl hair.

Did I mention I thought you might be a dogperson?

I’ll not try to write a paean about your perfection. That would be silly, because you’re not perfect. Neither of us is. But so many little favorable discoveries, surprises, each brightens my day. I know this will taper off – it’s already happening – but these sparks have already ignited a fire. Something we can cozy up with together when the nights are cold.

Stupid People

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I love listening to you vent about stupid people, even though you don’t give me the details. I’m not sure where that comes from. I certainly don’t like the idea of you having to suffer fools. I certainly don’t like the idea of you having a bad day. I could say that, if I had my way, I’d evaporate all the imbeciles and clowns that drag you down, but without some struggle life would fail to be interesting and we would be dull people. If we were dull people there’s no possibility we’d be together, so clearly I can’t wish for that chain of events. At best I wish I could replace these particular challenges with something less tiresome and engaging for you. Of course, I can do neither, so we soldier on, surrounded by the average, oblivious people that cover the landscape.

Maybe I love listening to you vent, because it reminds me why we connect so well. We’ve had the conversation before that we both converse on a different level, the negative spaces between our words communicating as much as the actual words we speak or type. We have a shorthand that lets us keep up with each other, and expresses deeper thoughts and feelings. And because we’re accustomed to, and enjoy, conversing in such a manner, communicating with the Hoi Polloi only becomes more frustrating and tiresome. So perhaps, when you’re venting about a particularly slow witted colleague, it reminds me of how well we connect, and happiness floods over me.

Maybe I love listening to you vent, because I know, or at least believe, you guard yourself from emotional outbursts. You always strike me as coldly organized, competent, level headed, and professional. Maintaining that standard surely takes its toll, and you have a well cultivated habit of not breaking it. It’s flattering to know that you trust me enough to let go, to let me see what’s racing through your thoughts. I know you can’t and wouldn’t do that with just anyone. You remind me that I must be something special, and very lucky to have you in my life.

Maybe I love listening to you vent, because our circumstances give me so little opportunity to take care of you. You’re accustomed to being the caretaker, in so many more dimensions than most people should be expected to be. It breaks my heart to imagine you without someone to share that burden, to help prop things up on those shitty days when you just need a God damned break. Helping in such a small way is empowering, even just listening to you rail about a client.

I know you’ll be working while you’re gone, and will inevitably have one of those days. I’m saddened you won’t be free to pick up the phone and unload. But you can imagine it. Imagine me on the phone with you listening to you decompress. Imagine me on the phone reminding you you’re not being whiny. Imagine me on the phone saying “nah nah nah don’t worry about it” when you apologize for it.  Because, baby, you’re the best.

And that other guy is a fucktard.

 

Commuting Just isn’t Fun Anymore

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It’s funny where I notice missing you the most. The commute home last night hit me hard and unexpectedly. My commute takes me through four major choke points, and for each of these I have a strategy. I hit my first choke point at the intersection of WA520 and I-405, through which a huge portion of the Microsoft population struggles from Redmond to their bedroom communities in Kirkland and Bothell. This always results in a back-up of all lanes as commuters with varying desires to not be seen as assholes jockey to let each other cut in line, while those not heading north desperately pile into the left lane to get around the mayhem. I’ve read a good line through the seemingly random scatter of cars, and can navigate myself ahead of the pack by alternating lanes nonintuitively.

My third choke point happens at the intersection of WA520 and I-5, where I turn north on the single lane exit to the four lane freeway that moves the bulk of Seattle’s traffic. This exit occurs right before on onramp from the University, which without fail piles traffic backwards to the middle of Lake Washington. Like the choke points before it, one can ratchet themselves ahead of the pack with well-timed lane jumping.

This is all just a long-winded way of saying I am a chronic lane jumper. I read an article a few weeks ago on a study about lane jumping, and how for the average commuter it provides little to no tangible value in overall trip time. I deeply suspect this is true, and yet I chronically switch lanes in traffic. Most people would conclude that the behavior is stupid, but they fail to understand that lane jumping is less about getting there faster, but about the appearance of control in a chaotic and helpless situation.

And so for decades, I’ve merrily jumped lanes on the highway, all in some vain attempt to feel in control, and get home maybe three minutes faster.

Somehow we got in the habit of talking on the phone, and out of convenience we started talking regularly during my commute. When we were talking, I didn’t care that the traffic was bad. I didn’t care that I was stuck at the light. And I especially didn’t care what lane I was in. I actually wanted traffic to be bad. The commute wasn’t something I dreaded. It was my chance to talk to you, and be the closest I could be given our circumstances. Even when we had nothing to say I felt calm. I was happy. When I’d get home, I’d circle the block, or drive a mile past my street and double back through a different neighborhood. Just so I could be with you.

Now you are absent. I hope temporarily, but absent still. Today I sat, stopped, in the lane with merging traffic, thinking, why am I here? Why am I not in the left lane, passing this nonsense? But I didn’t change lanes. I didn’t want to change lanes. I just wanted to be with you.

 

Nope. Nothing to see here.

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I have a small storm through which I need to navigate over the next four to six weeks. I don’t have a great strategy yet, as the character of these troubled skies is considerably different than skies I’ve seen before. The storm is unavoidable. It could spell catastrophe. It could leave things damaged. But overall journey, despite the difficult straits, should prove far more rewarding than the ultimate destination, be that a ship wreck on a deserted atoll or Xanadu, even far more rewarding than the normal cruise line my life has been taking for several years.

This blog is part of that journey. I don’t know if I’ll ever contribute to it, if it will prove useful, if my traveling companion will ever see it. This may be the last post. This may be the first of many self indulgent vents. I simply don’t know yet.