Getting there. February 28, 2007

It’s a scary thing when you sit down to watch a frothy episode of The Hills, expecting to roll your eyes at Heidi and covet something Whitney is wearing like you always do, and instead you find yourself able to…relate.Last night’s episode (for those of you above watching MTV’s teen-skewed primetime line up, to which I say BOY YOU ARE MISSING OUT) featured Lauren’s childhood best friend Jen hooking up with a guy Lauren had recently dated, a coupling egged on by Lauren’s other best friend, Heidi. Lauren was, understandably, pissed off. That situation has happened, in one form or another, to all women everywhere: the Girl Code (do not make out/date/marry/be impregnated by anyone whom one of your girlfriends has made out with/dated/married/been impregnated by), broken.My 18 year old self could certainly relate to the specifics, but my 25 year old self could much better relate to the bigger picture: the breakdown of a friendship, for one reason or another.

I guess I’ve always been overly optimistic about my friendships. I tend to choose my close friends carefully and thus just assume that the relationship is subsequently built for longevity. My mother still keeps in regular contact with the friends she played stickball with on the street in Brooklyn and I guess I always assumed my close friendships – collected in elementary school, junior high school, high school and college – would follow suit.

For the most part, that has been true. But, in addition to the fact that my closest friend from high school can’t get over being shut out of my life while I was depressed, some of my other friendships have morphed to the point that perhaps ‘friendship’ is no longer an accurate description. In addition to feeling saddened and nostalgic for the past, I’m also frustrated. I feel like a bit of a failure.

For example, I lived with Tia for three out of our four years in college. We had our ups (the whole ‘being there for each other’ thing) and downs (her boyfriend had a proclivity toward drinking much and then vomiting all over our dorm) and, yes, she would drive me crazy at times but I never thought we wouldn’t be friends.

Until, of course, we weren’t.

It happened slowly over time. We both moved to Manhattan, albeit opposite ends. She took a corporate job, complete with a six figure starting salary and a suit-based wardrobe while I started in TV, with a meager executive assistant’s paycheck and a uniform based around jeans. We kept in touch sporadically – mussels in her neighborhood, a film at the Angelicka. We were no longer living together so it was understood and accepted – mutually, unsaid - that we’d no longer be such a big part of each other’s lives.

At the time I was single and she was (and is) still with Vomit Boy. That meant a lot of fitting me in around when she wasn’t seeing him. It bothered me a bit, that I was only important enough to see when he was working late, but I’m not so naïve as to think that a significant other in a friend’s life doesn’t mean things will change.

Enter M. Suddenly, the tables turned a bit and I was no longer at her beck and call, ready to meet her for drinks at a moment’s notice if suddenly Vomit Boy was going out with ‘the boys’ (he is so one of those men who believes in his right to boys night out, complete with high end strippers and expensed meals). Suddenly I had a fledging relationship and therefore a different set of priorities.

All of a sudden, I got called out for being a different person. It was taken out not only on me but also on M – whenever they were in the same room, Tia would give M the cold shoulder, would respond with one word answers to his questions. I wrote about this (and the equally reprehensible behavior of her twin sister) back in August, but it still bothers me.

I try, I really do. Just last week she wrote me an email and noted the “pronounced lack of Clink” in her life as of late. I shot her back an email immediately, wanting to know if she wanted to grab dinner this week, set something in stone. I made sure to note that I had just started a new job and had been a bit busy, nothing intentional. No response. Just today I emailed her again and gently asked her to please not make me feel guilty if she wasn’t even going to respond when I made an effort. I still haven’t heard back, even though I know she’s probably at her computer in her big corporate office, fuming.

For the majority of college and after – as long as she’s known me – I’d been in rather casual relationships. Nothing even approaching the magnitude or intensity of what M and I have. She liked “single” me. I was always there for her, ready to support her, and as a bonus I could always keep her entertained by sharing my hilarious tales of casual dating. Now that I’m no longer – thank god – that person, she can’t handle it. She hides her true feelings under the guise of “I don’t think M is right for you,” (M treats me better than her own boyfriend treats her and he makes me unbelievably happy – what is ‘not right’ about that?), but I know the truth. I lived with her for three years. There’s not much she can get past me.

Our relationship as it stands – as you could probably deduce from the email exchange – is strained. Her making me feel guilty, me jumping to make her feel better and then me realizing that I really have nothing to feel guilty about. My life has change and therefore I have changed and why in the hell would I want to be friends with someone who wants to keep me continually boxed in the confines of who I was when she met me. Someone who is offended when I grow, instead of happy. It hurts – of course it does. And between Tia and my friend from high school, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s me. In fact, I’m constantly wondering if it’s me. Or even if it’s M.

Luckily, I have the good sense to know myself and know that I’m a good person and an even better friend. It’s not me. It’s not M. Maybe it’s not even Tia. Maybe it’s just life. This is life. Some friendships – whether made on the street corner in 1960’s Brooklyn or in college – endure. Some don’t. Everyone moves on.

I’m not so good at that moving on part. But I’m getting there.

Things on my mind: February 28, 2007

-The new job. I’m a self-questioner. “Am I doing this right?” “Do they hate me?” “Are they going to fire me?” “Should I be doing more?” “Did my boss see me reading a blog when she walked by?” I’m a Libra; decisions are hard. Whenever I make one, I have the uncanny ability to convince myself that it was the wrong one until it ultimately proves to be the right one. It is fucking exhausting.

-M’s book release. Recently moved up a month due to high demand because WHAT UP, ROCK STAR BOYFRIEND. He’s a bundle of anxiousness and excitement and I’m right there with him. He tends to be a bit pessimistic so the optimist in me has been working overtime, urging him to “think positive!” because I am not only a girlfriend but also a self-help motivator! Two for the price of one!

-The fact that she and I still haven’t spoken. I’m trying to let it go, I am, but I still catch myself feeling like a bad person. Our lives will be forever intertwined as we both have the same group of friends and, since I’m not willing to cut everyone out, it is impossible to drop just her. Just next month, we’ll both be at the same engagement party and just the thought of that has me coming up with believable excuses as to why I can’t attend, even though I’ve already RSVP’d. It shouldn’t be like this.

-Cadbury Crème Eggs.

-Weddings. Specifically: cost of. M casually mentioned the other day that a couple thousand from his book advance should cover it. I snorted my Diet Coke in exasperation and then promptly ran a google search for “average cost of weddings.” Answer? $30,000. That’s when M snorted his Diet Coke and playfully inquired as to whether or not the tradition of the bride’s family paying for the wedding still stands.

-This leads me to: saving money. I just don’t understand how people do it. When I was working at my father’s law firm one summer, he sent me to the bank to deposit a check into his personal account. The receipt I was given included the total amount of money in the account and I practically keeled over as the number was unfathomable to me. I remember walking into my father’s office afterwards and demanding a BMW. (He never sent me to the bank again). I was seventeen then and thought that, surely, by twenty-five I’d at least have some money stowed away. HA. I justify my meager saving’s account by the high price of rent and living in New York City. “If I were anywhere else…” But I know it’s not the truth. Even if I were residing and working in the country’s lowest cost of living town, I’d still buy shoes and jeans and $4 worth of Starbucks a day.

-Did I already mention Cadbury Crème Eggs? Because I could totally go for one right now.

Unfocused. February 27, 2007

I’ve started and stopped multiple posts. I’m blaming it on the grey – both in the sky and on the sidewalks, in slush form. I chide myself for being weak enough to let the weather affect me but there’s no getting around it. The grey out there sucks the inspiration and the motivation and the good cheer from in here. Perhaps I would be happier spending my winters in California.Here’s the beginning of a post that I will probably never finish because writing about my father and the surprise dinner thrown in honor of his 21 year political career this past weekend is too large of an undertaking. If you knew my father, you would understand that the English language (and my rather mediocre mastery of it) is too limited, too full of trite clichés, to capture the man I will always try to live up to:

I built my outfit around a red and white pin from his first election, back in 1985. It took me a half an hour to find, eventually located in the nether regions of my “junk box,” which has accompanied me from home to college to both of my Manhattan apartments, becoming more and more bloated along the way. It was buried underneath some of the silver rings I was so fond of in eighth grade and mountains of Dave Matthews Band tickets, from back when going to one of their concerts was considered a life-altering event. I was four years old in 1985, and I wore the pin as a badge of honor as my father and I canvassed the neighborhood, finding out what was important to the people in the town and asking for their support come Election Day. There were a few doors slammed in our faces – it was and still remains a die-hard Republican town – but mostly it was fun. Even if I did spend the majority of the time hiding behind my father’s leg overcome by situational shyness.

I can’t finish it. I’ve tried, but I get distracted by things like my boss’ voice or an email or my steaming caramel macchiato or ooh, look! Keys! Shiny!

I just can’t stay focused.

I’m opening the floor to topic suggestions or personal questions. People do that, right? The “email me a question and I will answer it” thing. It’s like a meme, only more interesting. Tailored. So, email me a question and I will answer it in a future post. Just please don’t ask “why are you so retarded that you can’t even finish a tribute to your father, whom you adore above all others?” because then I will curl up under my desk and cry.

Thoughts, Loosely Related February 23, 2007

I was too lazy to check the weather this morning (yes, as in, I was too lazy to press a single button on my remote control) so I dressed in a skirt and knee high boots. No tights, obviously, because eww. Little did I know that the weather is no longer resting comfortably in the mild upper 40’s. No, today – coupled with the wind chill – it’s about 17 degrees out there. Which means that on the walk to work, I got quite a few “is she serious?” looks. It’s 6pm and my legs are still a bit red. Further proof that my debilitating laziness gets me absolutely nowhere.

The reason I’m wearing a skirt is because M and I are going to Fancy Schmancy Steakhouse this evening. Normally we have no problem shelling out the cash in order to eat at a steakhouse because we are all about making ourselves sick by gorging on large hunks of meat accompanied by large hunks of mashed potatoes. Tonight, however, is free. M appeared on CBS recently and, in return for him giving his expert advice, they gave him a gift certificate to the steakhouse. I’m weird in that I don’t like using gift certificates - there’s an element of embarrassment for me, as if I want to say to the server yo, we could afford to eat here if we wanted to. But, whatever. The certificate is for $200, which means a good portion of it will be dedicated to wine, sweet wine.

Why so much wine? Well, it’s been one of those days so far. I lost a bit of my footing at work (Universe: Thought you were getting a little too cocky little lady. Me: Go shove it) and I now have a slightly unsettled feeling, which is a huge contrast to how I’ve felt overall about this gig – supremely confident and very capable. It’s annoying. I do cocky well; unsettled has me craving a cheeseburger and my parents.

Speaking of the people who conceived me, I’m going home for a bit this weekend. They’re throwing a dinner in honor of my father. It’s a surprise. He hates both a) surprises and b) being the center of attention. Of course he’ll handle it all with humor and grace because, even if he’s no longer an active politician, he can still whip out the “so nice to see you! You ever sell that house?” Tangent: It was my father who taught me never, ever to say “nice to meet you.” Since he and I share an equally abysmal memory (my mother or sister or brother will bring up something – say, a childhood vacation – and my father and I will have no recollection that it actually happened), he always told me to say “nice to see you” because nothing is more embarrassing than saying “nice to meet you” to someone you’ve already met. It’s all about covering your ass.

And, while we’re on the topic of asses, I still haven’t heard from my friend, the one who ambushed me on Tuesday. I’m slowly numbing myself to the situation, which is the first step for me in cutting someone out of my life. So it has begun.

To the Boy February 22, 2007

You’ll be happy to know I’ve been using my Powers of Sneakiness for good.

Instead of snooping through his computer or his phone or his desk (seriously, how many business cards from females does he really need? MY GOD I don’t even want to imagine his dating life before me), I’ve been snooping on the internet for his friends’ email addresses. (Note to the internet: I fucking love you so much. Love, Clink.)

I’ve compiled a comprehensive list of his nearest and dearest and am in the process of constructing a witty - but not too witty lest I seem as though I’m trying too hard - email about a surprise dinner I’m throwing M in honor of his book release next month. I’m hoping to lure him to our favorite restaurant under the guise of a craving for gnocchi, only to have him surprised to find a table of his friends from far and wide already there, ready to celebrate his official rockstar author-ness.

I’m so proud of him, I truly truly am. I was there at the conception of the book – the exact moment; he claims it was in fact my idea originally – and to see it come to fruition in the form of a hardback to be sold at bookstores nationwide…it just takes my breath away. I never knew I could be so happy about someone else’s successes (I’ve always been somewhat of a selfish bitch, if you must know) until I fell madly, deeply in love.

There’s a new development, on the book front. Another proposal, another advance, something larger than the large sum he’s already received. It could push us into a whole other stratosphere in terms of the type of apartment and wedding (he said it, not me!) we can afford. It’s so deserved, because he rocks at what he does and what he covers, and I just can’t stop smiling from ear to ear whenever I think about it.

We’re at a good place right now. Just in general, in life.

I can hardly wait for April, can hardly wait to pull one over on him and toast him, with the help of some of the closest people in his life. That boy deserves to be toasted, that’s for damn sure, and I’m going to be the first one to raise my glass.

Ambushed. February 21, 2007

Did I call or DID I CALL IT? (See the parenthesized digression in the post below where I surmise that the Universe loves to fuck with lil ol’ me and that by claiming that everything was sunshine and sausages, I was just tempting the gods to put me back in my place.)It was an ambush, of sorts. She asked if I wanted to go for drinks and, never being one to pass up red wine and the chance to catch up with an old friend, I met her downtown.

She was my best friend in high school. Our friendship has evolved into something much more sisterly as we’ve gotten older. We speak and see each other only sporadically but there’s a bond there, the result of a shared history, which acts as a security blanket. I’m there for her; she’s there for me. Before last night, there was never any question that she’d be one of my bridesmaids, that I would be an honorary aunt to her children.

The backstory is such that, a few months ago, she was upset with me. For good reason. I was depressed – miserable in my job and subsequently inclined to close myself off from everyone and everything except for M and food. It’s a time in my life that I never want to repeat. I felt like I was screaming, but no one could hear me. I’ve bounced back – I am myself again, I am happy again – and most of my friendships have rebounded too. It’s not as if I was intentionally hurting my friends or lashing out. I just wasn’t my usual bubbly, friendly, hey-let’s-go-out! self. I closed myself off, wallowed in my own misery.

It seems this particular friend is having a hard time forgiving me. While she said multiple times last night that she understands and accepts that I had to go through what I did, that nothing was intentional, that she realizes I’m back to my old self, she’s still angry. Resentful. She said it takes her hours to respond to an email of mine because she knows whatever she writes will be insincere. She said she can’t sleep some nights, thinking about how hurt she was and then feeling guilty because she can’t forgive me. She said that when she hears about new developments in my life – most recently that M has “a plan” for proposing – she isn’t truly happy. She thinks we’re too different, that she’s on the same wavelength as the rest of her friends and that I’m on another and that maybe we’ve just grown too far apart.

It felt surreal, hearing this from someone I’ve known since the fifth grade. I had no idea that while I was going through a hellish time within myself, that she was so hurt and offended and – let’s face it – unsupportive. Not once during that time did she take a moment to ask what was wrong, if I was okay. She just assumed – wrongly – that since I wasn’t spending time with anyone else, I was holed up with M. That my friendships had been replaced by my boyfriend. And yet now that she knows the truth, that it was depression that replaced everything in my life, she still can’t get past how angry she felt.

To be honest, it’s all a bit selfish on her part. But that’s how she’s always been and it’s one of the things I’ve overlooked in favor of her numerous wonderful traits. But all last night, as I nursed a glass of shiraz and listened to her rant, I just wanted to scream “IT WAS NEVER ABOUT YOU. IT WAS ABOUT ME HATING MYSELF AND MY LIFE. STOP MAKING IT ABOUT YOU.”

Of course I didn’t. Of course I listened and shared some tears and tried – again – to gently make her understand my point of view. Still, at the end of the night, as we left the bar laughing about something on How I Met Your Mother, there was no resolution.

Our mutual friends feel her anger is displaced. They feel that she resents me for having a strong relationship, as hers is so weak. Her boyfriend of six years is a pot-smoking loser who, at 28, still lives at home with his parents, only recently got his first job and barely acknowledges her existence. All she does is defend him, even on Valentine’s Day when he showed up with nothing but a card that one of his students had given him, having crossed out the “To [his name]” and penciled in “To [her name].” I don’t know how much weight the “displaced anger” argument carries because if she’s truly taking her relationship frustrations out on me in this manner, then she’s a bigger head case than I ever could’ve imagined.

I just feel like a small part of my world has been turned upside down. However, there’s nothing more I can do. I have apologized. I have explained. I have vowed to do everything possible to prove to her that those few months in my life were an aberration, and I shouldn’t be judged based solely on that instead of being judged on the whole of our 14 year relationship during which I’ve been a pretty damn fucking good friend.

I came home last night sopping wet – having been caught in a downpour on the walk home – and curled, shoes and all - into bed, which is how I awoke this morning at 7:45. All day I’ve felt as though I’ve been beaten with a stick – I’m achy inside. I want to reach out, to put my thoughts into words because that’s how they’re best expressed, but I just keep envisioning my email in her inbox and her reading it, still resenting me for something I – essentially – had no control over.

Forget it. I’m no saint but what kind of friend can’t forgive another for shutting them out during a depressed period? The ball is in her court now. I have plenty of lovely, supportive friends. It will hurt to lose her for good but perhaps it’s for the best.

Six month delay. February 20, 2007

Last night, I played hostess: I baked cookies, I placed blocks of cheese near accompanying grapes, I washed wine glasses in order to get off the dishwasher spots, I fanned out napkins.A few former co-workers, from a job that seems so long ago when in truth it has only been a few weeks, stopped by. It was great to see them, these people I saw every day for twelve hours. I hope our friendships are able to withstand no longer working in such close quarters for so many hours a week.

However, as I was preparing for their arrival at 8pm – having been out of work since 5pm – I sat down in front of Access Hollywood with a glass of wine and thought to myself, “I’m back.”

I don’t know what to do with this happiness. I certainly don’t know how to spin it into a relatively interesting blog post. (Of course, the minute I hit “publish,” my world is inevitably going to come crashing down because the Universe is all about letting me reach a certain level of complacency in my job, in my relationship, in my life and then fucking it up because apparently the Universe likes to be entertained.)

But, for the moment, I’m a happy girl.

I’m even eating better. Whereas at Miserable Unnamed Evil Job I would reach for anything to fill the void left by the large chunks of soul sucked up by the mindless and endless work – pasta, pizza, burgers, some place called Chipotle – here, well, things are different. It’s salad for lunch, followed by fruit or yogurt. And that’s it. I - me, Clink, QUEEN OF SNACKING HEAR YE HEAR YE – don’t even know where the vending machines are. And, much like I’ve spent most of today trying to avoid hearing what happened on ‘24’ last night, I will do everything in my power to remain blissfully ignorant.

Lesson learned: the minute a job starts to eat away at your soul is the exact minute you should look for something else. Your mental and physical health is way too important not to.

I, unfortunately, was apparently on a six month delay.

Tagged February 19, 2007

I was thrilled to be tagged by the luscious (no seriously, check her out) Meta as this is not only Monday but a HOLIDAY Monday and I’m still in a little bit of denial about the fact that right now I’m at work and not in bed, snuggling up next to a certain dark, handsome, rugged man.

Being tagged = good because being tagged = Clink doesn’t have to come up with an idea all on her own and therefore being tagged = you don’t have to read some more drivel about me freaking out about growing up. Yay!

I’ve actually done this before, the “Six Weird Things About Me.” (Except last time, it was five.) However, seeing as I am a very strange person, another six ain’t no thing. In fact, I could probably do this every day for the next five years and still not run out of weird things about me.

Anyway:

1. I can’t wear tights or stockings. Not won’t. Not don’t want to. CAN NOT. There’s something about the feeling against my skin and the slight sag at the crotch and the icky control top that makes me shudder (including right this moment) whenever I think about it. It dates back to when I was younger, before my parents decided that they’d much rather play tennis or go to brunch on Sundays, when they forced us to go to church. There was nothing worse than sitting in Sunday School, holding in a primal scream because OMIGOD TIGHTS ARE SOME MEDIEVAL FORM OF TORTURE AND AM I REALLY EXPECTED TO LEARN ABOUT THAT BURNING BUSH UNDER THESE CIRCUMSTANCES? I have a horrible memory, but one thing I do vividly recall from my childhood is racing back to my father’s car with his keys, ahead of my entire family, so that I could jump into the backseat, rip off the tights, curl them into a ball and breathe a huge sigh of relief. To this day, I will go bare legged in sub zero temperatures and risk frostbite and subsequent amputation rather than put on stockings or tights.

2. I watch a plethora of shows that I am way too old to be so invested in (see: Hills, The and Fever, Maui) but the ones I am most embarrassed about are DeGrassi and Insant Star on The N. I only recently revealed my obsession to M and he thought it a bit odd that I am so obsessed with the goings on of Canadian teenagers but seriously people? There’s some great television being made up north (in addition to some amazing snack cakes – I still dream about May Wests, which no one outside of Montreal has ever heard of but OMIGOD IF YOU LIVE IN MONTREAL AND CAN GET THEM, EMAIL ME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD).

3. I sometimes have dreams that include other bloggers, including ones I’ve never met and some who I have no idea what they look like.

4. I am psychotically superstitious when it comes to my alma mater’s basketball team (note to them: You are playing tonight and, for the sake of my sanity, you MUST WIN because the loss on Saturday? It hurt my heart and even though everyone is saying you’re in the tournament already, I am not so certain so let’s get another check in the win column, ok?). If I’m watching a game and they’re winning, I won’t move a muscle and I CERTAINLY will not change the channel during a commercial. If they’re losing, I will shift positions, put on different clothes, change channels, turn the TV off and on and possibly even switch rooms because CLEARLY I am in control of the ebb and flow of the game. Also, I watch the game on mute because otherwise I tend to yell at the announcers, in response to their idiotic or biased commentary, more than is considered socially acceptable.

5. We all know that I’m afraid to fly. That’s nothing new. However, I have a ritual whenever I board a plane: I kiss my hand and then touch the outside of the plane before stepping inside. Once I’m situated, I put on M’s noise-canceling headphones, hold the Pink Dog, do my cross and then, in my head, I talk to my dead grandfather and dead uncle up until take off. During take off, I count 30 seconds because my sister once told me that the first 30 seconds after take off are the most dangerous. After that, I’m able to calm down for a bit until, of course, we hit some turbulence and I inevitably start to cry and declare impending doom.

6. Speaking of flying, whenever a family member or close friend is flying, I track their flight online for the entire duration. I’m essentially on the edge of my seat until the computer tells me: landed, taxiing to gate.

I, uh, probably shouldn’t do any more of these things because reading over the above seems to just reiterate my secret fear that I am TOTALLY FUCKING INSANE.

Happy Monday, y’all.

Stuff that’s in my head that probably isn’t particularly sensical. February 16, 2007

I haven’t been proposed to yet (clearly, as there has been no OMIGOD OMIGOD I AM ENGAGED, PEOPLE WHO READ MY BLOG OMIGOD OMIGOD post, accompanied by a flashing animated siren), but still, I’m trying to let the idea of being proposed to sink in, so that I can be prepared for when it happens.

I’m trying to envision it – not the actual it, because my imagination is quite active and I don’t think M’s plan for popping the question could quite measure up, but the aftermath. Aftermath meaning both the immediate (phone calls which, naturally, will include much shrieking) and the long term (uh, so, how exactly does one both plan and pay for a wedding?). Aftermath meaning actually being engaged.

I still feel like I’m 17 in some ways (though, note to self: you may feel 17, but your metabolism is certainly not what it was at 17 so, please, put down that cupcake). All of this – the job in the fancy building, where I not only attend meetings but am the person to call and conduct them, the lovely apartment in a building where I have people to sign for my packages, the expensive “pieces” that make up my wardrobe, the drinking red wine and stopping at only 2, the going to bed at a reasonable hour in order to be productive the next day – it all feels like pretend. Dress-up.

The only thing that doesn’t, however, is my relationship. I feel a full 25 in my relationship because, before this age, I’ve never had the capacity to love and grow and forgive and trust anyone else. My relationship is the one thing in my life that makes me feel my age, makes me feel like an adult. Because the supporting each other and loving each other and being able to talk openly about sex and openly about problems…it all adds up to an adult relationship. Frankly, my 17 year old self wouldn’t have been able to handle it. She would’ve run away long ago, when the going got tough for the first time. She would’ve been off to find something less intense (all the while EATING CUPCAKES AND NOT GAINING A POUND, WHAT A BITCH).

Forgive me if this is hard to follow or doesn’t make much sense. I’m just trying to work out what’s in my head with what’s my reality. Because my reality is that my boyfriend already has a plan for proposing marriage. And my head? My head is a mess.

It’ll all fall into place, I know this. Though, right now – as I sit here, ring-less – I can’t imagine ever discussing “color schemes” and deciding on bridesmaids, I know that when I officially – with a ring, with words – transition into being an engaged woman, I’ll be able to successfully take on the role.

Just like last Sunday, when I was convinced that there was no way I could step into this position at this new place and do well. I just couldn’t envision myself doing it, let alone succeeding at doing it. But the first day came and I put on my clothes and I walked 10 blocks to the office and I sat at my desk and I became the person that, just the night before, I was convinced I could never be.

Besides, taking on the role of engaged woman and M’s fiancée shouldn’t be that hard when – and here’s one thing I am certainly convinced of – it is a role I am fated to play.

Valentine’s Day, Redux February 15, 2007

I was pouty all day. It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself on Valentine’s Day, even if you have a man, even if the two of you have decided to keep it low key. There’s still that pang of feeling not as special or loved as yet another girl shrieks and races down to reception to pick up a bouquet of flowers. Still the hint of “hmmph” when he doesn’t even acknowledge the holiday until casually, in an email sent at 2:32pm.

The truth about M – and the thing that I seem to forget all too often – is that he always comes through. Always. It may not be in the way I envision it, but it’s in his way and that, ultimately, makes it even better.

I saw dozens upon dozens of men carrying bodega-bought roses during my walk home. But none of them, I imagine, were carrying the galley of a novel by my all-time favorite writer ever, a novel that will not be released until late spring.

It wasn’t as easy as a phone call to his illustrious editor. I know he jumped through many, many hoops, even if he was all modest and “for you? Anything” about it.

He pulled it out of a pink gift bag last night, after sushi, after cupcakes. It was wrapped – haphazardly – in ribbon. I don’t think I spoke for a full five minutes. I just looked from the bound galley to M back to the galley back to M. The gift may have been free but no one – absolutely no one – has ever done anything as thoughtful and amazing as that for me.

Ladies and gentleman, we have a keeper.

However, it wasn’t all sunshine and sausages (I can’t imagine anyone could possibly get that reference but if you do, omigod, can we be BFF?) yesterday. I got a bit sad during the ride from the restaurant back to my building, pre-galley. I said things like “I know we promised to keep it low key but…” and then I would trail off because but what? But I’m a fickle brat and I like to be romanced? I may very well be, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to say it outloud.

After he parked, he turned the car off and looked at me and he could tell that I was disappointed.

“This is going to sound so stupid but…I kept thinking, why make such a big deal out of this man-made holiday when we’re going to be celebrating something else, something really important very soon? A day that we don’t have to share with the rest of the world.”

We were facing south, towards Times Square. I remember the lights becoming blurry, as the weight of what he was conveying hit me; a physical reaction to his words.

Let’s just put it this way: sometimes, when I’m riding the subway or drifting off at my desk, I feel a weight on my left hand ring finger. A phantom engagement ring. And I feel so stupid because why am I so fucking crazy? But something (something being…well…M, really) tells me that the ring…well, it won’t be phantom for very long.