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8:39 p.m. - 2013-03-04
weekend of nothing
Spent the day -- weekend, more or less -- in bed, with A., talking ... more than anything else.

I don't think all the best times of eight years with Matt compare to a weekend in bed with A.

We do average everyday normal people things. Eat bagels and drink coffee in the mornings. Send the dogs out for potty. On Saturday we changed her flat tire on the side of the highway, two petite women with a jack and a silver station wagon with our hair blowing in our eyes. Two separate men stopped and one seemed particularly impressed that we didn't need his help:"Well, I've never seen two girls that could change a tire before!"

"Well, thank you for stopping," I said (I'm the taller, skinny one with long blonde hair the high-heeled Mary Janes, and I was the one just balancing on one foot on the lug nut wrench and bouncing to loosen the lug nuts.) A., who's the one with chin-lenghth brown hair and much better boobs and the one operating the jack, is as efficient and competent on the side of the highway as everywhere else. After the man is out of earshot, I tell her, "I was going to say, 'That's because we're dykes,' but I decided not to," and we both crack up.

To the vet's to get her cremated ferret (she manages not to cry), to the tire place, to the supermarket, to the house, to bed. That is my favorite place to be, bed. I loved being there with Kate when we were 14, 15, 16, 17. I love being there with A now.

In between I never felt real or whole. I had an arsenal of unhealthy fortifications, booze and starving and bulimia and cutting, to get me through my days and nights with other people -- but they never really worked, not really. I kept trying to come up with the right balance, the right cocktail, that would take away the unbearableness of living without killing me in the process -- I kept searching for the right balance with the conviction of an alchemist trying to turn worthless metal into gold.

Of course I never found it. Living with other people shouldn't be unbearable, but it is after you have lived with, or at least stolen moments with, someone who shares your soul.

Maybe I should have tried harder to find someone to share my soul again, instead of trying to forget what it feels like.

I thought you only got one in a lifetime -- one other half. Now I know that's not true.

I love second chances. I love weekends doing nothing but losing my secrets and feeling whole again.



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