Thirty3=666

 

At last I sit down to write.  Not about the terrible two’s, but about the terrible thirties.  Oh yes.  Thirty-three to be exact.  The overall trepidation with which this year approached me was much like that other number that inhabits the realm of Superstitious:  666.  Thirty-three just feels wrong to me.   Alien.  A harbinger of foreboding.  In December I accepted a new job gleefully, but a few days after my birthday on the 16 was told by the object of my affection that she wasn’t looking for commitment ( my hope for such was one reason I accepted the job….to move closer and set the wheels in motion for something beyond the nightly phone calls and occasional weekend ).  It’s the hugest cliché in the book, but my heart broke into a million pieces.  And then….oh no:  the new job.  A new life to build.  On my own.  How fucking overwhelming.   To say I was scared isn’t accurate.  More like insanely despondent.  Yet somehow I managed to find an apartment ( thanks to my mom ) and move my things ( The sum total of my worldly possessions amounts to little more than a reading chair, TV, 2 computers, clothes, an assortment of books/movies/cd’s, cookware and some food, some bedding, and a bistro set that sits in the bay window.  My mom let me borrow her air mattress until I fork up the dough for a bed of my own. )  I’ve settled in relatively quickly and successfully at the college I think.  But lately I do hear this Nag inside me that insists I grow down some roots instead of living like a gypsy.

My way of living—this sleeping on the floor, rooting around in cardboard boxes for my socks and underwear, roaming Lonely Planet for other places to Be—I haven’t really thought about it much.  That is, until I created a Facebook account.  Now, every time I log on, I’m greeted by smiling cherubs born to former classmates and all those “love shots”—couples happily pretzel-ing in the sunshine, wedding kisses.  Mostly I just want to puke.  Other times I mumble unintelligible snipes while making faces at the computer screen.  I’m not exactly proud of my behavior during such moments, and hate to admit it for all to see.  But when it comes to the heart of the matter, I don’t really mean my meanness.  Is it jealousy?  Envy?  No.  I’m happy for everyone I see on Facebook who’s found their other half, has built a family.  What I’m really filled with when I look at such happiness is longing.   

I love children.  Adore them.  The work I did with children during my time in human services brought me so much joy.  But I’ve always known that having children of my own just isn’t part of the reason why I am Here.  I have too much of an urge to travel the world.  Too much of a commitment to my own inner life and need to create art and write.  So this longing I feel and write about doesn’t have anything to do with not being a mom.  It has everything to do with being  33 and still single.  By society’s clock I should have been “settled” years ago.  For awhile I didn’t want that, but now?  Now I’d like to come home at the end of my day knowing that I would be greeted by something other than silence.

So to further explain that screaming woman bursting through a torn heart which I wrote of a few posts ago ( and which caused such a ruckus ):  yes, I am her.  Not in a suicidal capacity as was unfortunately presumed.  I am screaming out of the realization that I moved to the middle of nowhere with seemingly zero prospect of locating a life partner.  Let’s face it:  there aren’t exactly any lesbian hotspots in Wilmot, NH nor in New London.  No gay and lesbian center that hosts dances and movie nights.  Oh,  I’m pretty sure there are some Sapphic sisters inhabiting this here countryside, but I think that mostly we’re in hiding.  And even if I did pass by another One in the local Hannaford’s on my way from the produce to the salami I’m not sure I’d know it.  That’s the curious thing about The Sticks:  my gaydar just doesn’t transmit.  So there’s just no way to tell if it’s safe to do that silent dance of “Hey, I’m one.  Are you one too???”, with a flash of my pearly whites.  And what’s worse, flashing these whites would probably result in reeling in a fish that’s more interested in a chase around the tank instead of staking a claim to some nice water plant or sunken ship.  And that’s not me.  So I scream.  And scream.  And scream.  And sometimes cry. 

At this point I know I’ve reached the point of borderline whining, which is not my intention.  I mean, I know that this story is not unique to me.  This struggling to find the Other.  But I guess this whining, in some small way, makes me feel better.  Less foolish perhaps.  Less duped by my own foolish hopes for what I thought L.’s beautiful face and warm touch promised.  Out of anyone who’s been in my life thus far, I felt myself to be the most authentic when I was with her.  Granted,  there were still some experiences and parts of myself that I hadn’t quite worked up to sharing, but sharing always takes time.  It takes a lifetime for those who are truly interested and want to make that journey. 

But instead of curling up with L. tonight, listening to her breathe as I run my fingers through her hair, I’m writing this instead.  I’m looking at all these boxes and piles of books still unorganized even though I’ve been moved for two months .  I’m meditating on my chances of finding that kind of closeness again when I live amidst such Spartan geography;  this place where meeting another woman to share my life with seems more like it must be conjured by some potion that I’ve chanted over as it bubbles on the Bunsen burner.  I’m wondering how/if my life will change with the arrival of my new sofa tomorrow.  But mostly I’m remembering that day back in August when L. and I began our short interlude together and I ignorantly thought it would last much longer.  I miss her.  I miss that day.  She was Butterfly and I was Ladybug, and we flew up the side of Mt. Cardigan in the sun.