22 April 2015
I noticed something very strange about myself. My nail polish determines the state of my love-life. When I start something new, it's a bright and bold color. I find myself switching my colors more often, opting for something louder than the previous. Reds, blues, and even some pinks make their way to my hands. When I feel the end is near, the nude selection suddenly has more range than I first encountered. The colors become less and less noticeable, because you are falling back. That nude still sits on my nails, chipping away. I let it chip; I no longer care. The thought of some ridiculously named bright color being there makes me feel like I'm lying somehow. Pretending to be someone I'm not. It's like smiling when I'm forced into the same room as you; I hate the feeling more than anything, but I continue to do it. I will not remove it; I don't have the heart to. This color was the last color to touch your skin and pull your hair. Is it weird that I'm oddly jealous that this color gets to disappear and forget what it felt? Right now there is only one finger without any polish remaining, the others have very little time left by the looks of it. I wonder how much longer they have. I know when it's officially all gone, so will be those fake feelings for you. I call them fake because I wanted something you weren't. You told me you weren't. I didn't believe you. I think I'm starting to.
21 April 2015
I remember the first time I exchanged an 'I love you'.
I was fifteen, sitting on my bed in my over-sized attic bedroom. I had a notebook in my hand, covered with doodles and nonsense; I was fifteen after all. I held that thing that doesn't exist anymore up to my ear, a cordless home phone. Attached to it was my boyfriend's pubescent voice. I had just articulated something I wish I hadn't, the fact that I kept a journal. A journal that contained my early feelings for my boyfriend, and even worse, my then current ones. There it lay, purposefully opened to a page with one massive heart that had a face. I knew what this page said without looking at the words, but he didn't. His voice began to plead for me to at least read two sentences. I told him that if I were to read this ridiculous amount of embarrassment out loud, I would have to set down the phone after reading it in order to collect myself afterwards. He laughs at this statement, but promises I can do just that. So there I stare at that mocking smiling heart and read the mush. The second I finished I threw my phone on my bed and buried my face in my hands. Breathing heavily, I took another second to collect myself before I picked up the phone...
"That was nice."
He didn't make it awkward, and even took the time to talk me out of my embarrassment. Which, if you knew me, know is almost an impossible task because I live and breathe red faced. Our conversation continued until he did the unthinkable, he asked me to read another. This little number I had written next had one of the scariest words I've even seen hidden in the atrocious cursive, 'love'. I told him this one would be bad; he laughed and told me to do what I did before. The process was the same. Except when I picked up the phone a second time, I heard this...
"I love you, too."
I remember having an uncontrollable grin and feeling like I would never need to speak again. I felt warm and safe, like staying at my grandma's house overnight with my cousins while my papa made us malts. I felt giddy, like the first time someone told me I had a pretty singing voice. I felt noticed, like the time I got my tee-ball certificate that famously named me "Erin Dangerous Elizabeth". Time stopped, yet it wasn't due to any supernatural events, it was because of a boy called Austin.
I think about how happy I was in that moment, and how he is the only boy to this day who has received that sort of gift from me, in a genuine way of course. Being twenty-two puts a new spin on 'I love you'. I recall the last time I voiced such a phrase.
I was at a bar getting ready to take a fireball shot when the girl standing next to me started this riveting conversation...
"Awe, so are you!"
"Oh my god, you're my best-friend and I love you!" (I remember receiving a hug here.)
"I love you, too!"
I can honestly say that in the moment I truly felt like a WOO girl (How I Met Your Mother reference). It got me thinking about how that little tit-for-tat was no where near the impact of a boy called Austin. No, this was the impact of drunk nameless girl, who I'm sure if I were to see her today, the picture of her in my head is much different than her person. Thank you alcohol, I now know how the male folk feel.
I guess this just makes me wonder what on Earth is wrong with me that fifteen year old Erin got the sentiment correctly, while college educated Erin throws it out like a crock of shit. The wonders of aging with continue to be unfathomable to me. I hope I get it right again someday.
In the meantime, I'll take another fireball.
It's a strange phenomenon, being forced to see someone you're trying to avoid. But as we all know, you tried to avoid me first; I'm just returning the favor. You claimed to be so good at this sort of thing. Being awkward is not something that you and you ex's are. But I guess that's not what you call me, so that's what we are. I told you I didn't like liars. That a million others had failed my test of loyalty. You'd be different. You promised.
It's a strange phenomenon, being forced to see someone you're trying to avoid. As I say your name, you look to the wall, the brick wall. It's white and bumpy. I call out again, you find the window more tantalizing. The sky is blue and the grass is green. One more time I try, your eyes finally reach the back of my computer screen. I have one minute. You handed me headphones and told me to listen. I obeyed. I trusted.
It's a strange phenomenon, being forced to see someone you're trying to avoid. Would it be terrible if I admitted the truth? I miss you. I miss you all the time. You're everywhere, how is that possible? I barely knew you, we were opposites. I don't like that you don't even consider me an ex, a sharp pain draws through me at the thought. Do you even complain about me?
It's a strange phenomenon, being forced to see someone you're trying to avoid. The what if's kill me every time. What if I didn't push you that day? What if you didn't kill our game? What if I didn't show to your birthday? What if you told me the truth? What if I had a terrible time, and didn't want to admit it to you? What if you didn't kiss me goodbye?
It's a strange phenomenon, being forced to see someone you're trying to avoid. You're better at this game than I am. But you always knew I would be the loser in this situation, didn't you?