It kind of felt like learning to walk again when I left. I felt exhilarated by my new-found separation from such a shaping relationship and simultaneously a little lost. The good kind of lost. The kind of lost that makes you feel like you are teaching yourself something new. Sure, I had pangs of homesickness, because he was what I considered home for as long as I could remember. But missing familiarity eventually turned into embracing change.
I met new people. I dabbled in new relationships. At first, it felt right. Like making an A on a test makes you feel right. Which felt good. New relationships were accomplishments in moving on, but not much more than that. After all, GPAs don’t matter much in the scheme of life. Nonetheless, the new relationships were fun and easy. I could feign attachment without skipping a beat of my own agenda. I almost fooled myself into thinking I was anything but detached. I liked it that way.
I strategically and forcefully changed all of my radio stations; a subconscious attempt at moving on. It was working splendidly until DJ Heavy Metal decided to throw in a little Tim McGraw for shits and giggles. My new guy quickly reached out at the exact moment as me… only he was reaching out to turn the station, and I was reaching out to turn up the volume. “I never liked country,” he said.
As I looked around, it was as if everything suspended for a brief moment, and in that moment, nothing looked right. Something shattered in me, and I immediately thought of him.
After that, I began to shell up even more. I would steam up the bathroom to mimic the humidity we used to bask in. I would pour a little too much on the rocks. I started cooking those savory meals again, and found myself seeking solace in my headphones, blasting nothing but country. I tried to transfer all of the things I loved about him, into my new relationships.
I’ll never forget the moment we reunited. The radio must have been on our side, because the perfect songs trickled in as we sat on the tailgate together in the damp air. I didn’t say anything, I just breathed him in. I never believed in the saying, “you never know what you have until its gone,” just as I never liked Country. But sometimes you just have to admit you were wrong. And that’s why I went back.
I missed you, Louisiana.
This two part post was inspired by A New Orleans Love Story by Joey Albanese about New Orleans.
The one that got away. Do we all experience it? That one ex that you didn’t know completed you until you left?
The longest relationship I have ever had took years to build and only two to demolish. All of the memories, the places, and the laughs. Our relationship was fickle and tumultuous, but extremely passionate. We would bitch endlessly over the thermostat one minute and then bask in the balmy humidity the next. We loved to savor our food together and never shamed each other for drinking a little too much. Occasionally, I would grow tired of lazy ways and become jealous of friends that were driven away, but then the radio would come on. Everything was butter. I never liked Country. The songs never sounded good with anyone else.
You see he wasn’t like anyone. He was one of a kind. And not in the cliché kind of way that people might describe a cheap pendant on QVC. He owned the phrase one of a kind, and he knew it despite the fact that I sometimes didn’t.
He loved the water, and even looked great covered in moss. When I was in his presence I felt I belonged to something special. We were our own little secret club. It’s weird though, because we never really had a honeymoon phase. As long as I could remember we had always just been together. There was no one before him.
Regardless, I knew ultimately something would happen to our smooth cruising. We eventually began to take each other for granted. This would be the beginning of the end. The more possessive and predictable he became, the more indifferent and unimpressed I was. I convinced myself that his simple ways were holding me back.
Eventually, I started refusing to go out on the water. The special meals we cooked tasted bland, as if my taste buds had become tired of the repetition. We didn’t drink together anymore, but I drank alone. I had built up so much resentment, though he really hadn’t done anything wrong. Then my eyes began to wander. I would leave town for weeks and see other people. I didn’t even try to hide it. Funny thing is, he must have known but didn’t seem to care. Maybe he secretly knew I was too far gone. He was intuitive like that. And one day, sure enough, I was gone. For good.
Blogger Interactive is next weekend! I can’t wait to meet everyone who is coming. You can keep up with all the festivities by following us on Twitter, Facebook, and now Instagram (@bloggerinteractive)! Be sure to use the hashtag #BI2013 for posting!
Don’t you hate it when people pronounce Valentine’s as Valentime’s? Don’t you hate it when you have to wait in line forever at the grocery store, because everyone is in front of you with last-minute flowers? Don’t you hate it when people talk about things they hate about Valentine’s Day?
Well me too, and you wont have to experience any of those things today. Or at least for the next four minutes and thirty-two seconds because…
IT’S TIME TO WITNESS THE V-DAY COLLABORATION OF TWO DESTINED BLOGGERS!
Who: Adam of My Right to Bitch (also known as: dashing) and me, Becca (also known as: many other nicknames involving the faux color of my hair)!
What: A virtual date!
Where: Right here on this blog, a diamond in the rough sands of this wasteland we call the internet!
When: Right when you click play!
How: Divine intervention!
I used approximately five exclamation marks just now. That is how you know I am beyond stoked about this. So, without further ado or anymore annoying punctuation, here is our vlog baby.
Don’t you love a good conversation with your family on the Holidays? My family sure does…
Brother (from a room on the other side of the house): “Come help me, I don’t know how to wrap.”
Brother: “Come help me.”
Mom: “She said no.”
On shopping last minute…
Brother: “What can I get for Dad?”
Me: “He likes to be outdoors. You should get him a tent so he can camp out in the back yard.”
Brother: “He would probably love that.”
Me: “Or, a pillow for when he sleeps on the floor. I was joking about the tent.”
Brother: “I am going to get him slippers. If he doesn’t like them I will take them.”
Me: “I don’t think that is how it is supposed to work.”
Brother: “Do you have any money?”
Merry Christmas everyone. May all of your conversations be this deep.
[Let’s pretend that this is an appropriate photo for this post, and you can just call me whatever the female Vito would be called. Or, just let me pretend I look this cool. Alright, I am a horrible phony. I haven’t even seen The Godfather. ]
You know what I have seen though? A bunch of ultra-sounds and baby bump pictures. Yes, the infamous Booger is growing a tiny human these days. While I never expected we’d planning her reveal party for the sex of the baby this weekend, I also never expected to get so amped about baby stuff in general. And probably the least expected, but most incredibly exciting part of it all… she offered me the position of godmother.
Here in the south, godmothers are generally called the nanny and the godfather is the paran (I don’t think I can give an accurate phonetic spelling, so just pronounce that with your best French accent). When Booger called me to ask what I would prefer to be called (Godmother, Nanny, Aunt Becca), the whole life changing event became more real in my eyes. I can only imagine how she feels.
All of my friends know me as the one who was never overly concerned with settling down or marriage and definitely not procreating. The slightest thought of child-birth always triggers the “NOPE!” section of my brain. Even as a child, I never fantasized about my wedding or was much for playing with baby dolls that were promised to realistically defecate on me. I was more in to putting Ballet Barbie in her convertible and playing make-believe as a restaurant owner. No lie, I had boxes of faux meal receipts that I organized to keep tabs on my imaginary diner’s success. We had the best hot dogs. All the regulars said so. Read the rest of this entry
[When you meet the right store, you just know. It means never having to ask, “Where is the Bounty?”.]
One of the main reasons I moved in to the apartment I currently live in, was because of the central location to my favorite grocery store, gas stations, and the blessing that is CVS. CVS always has treated me kindly. It has my favorite wines at a decent price. They have not only one but two actually functioning Redbox machines. You’ve got to love movie vending machines. Add a slot for dispensing popcorn and M&M’s and it’s on (but only if mixed together). Also, it is much more convenient than weaving through the grocery store when all I need is a little lion food and tiger litter. I will dodge the grocery store every time if possible, unless I have a guided list and more than ten items for which to hunt.
The first few trips to my new haven were just as delightful as I imagined. As things were going so well already, I quickly found myself envisioning a lifelong future developing for CVS and I. The perfect consumer-retailer union. That’s when, as it usually plays out in relationships (mine at least), the true identity of my beloved store began to slip through the cracks of its sleek ruby exterior. We had a problem. My CVS had been concealing a Mr. Hyde. The cashier. Read the rest of this entry