You'd think, given the tingly excitement I felt when I jumped into this affair, I wouldn't neglect or forget you (although, I suppose I didn't think a date, a number, all that significant). June 4th came and went like the front yard's magnolia, a quiet salvo of pale color that tottered off so quickly I barely noticed its blooms. I slept in. I got caught up with Puccini while poaching eggs. I sipped thick tomato juice to quell the reverberating oscillation of June 3rd's mojitos. There was the sun, who had me potting cilantro and lavender. And the breeze, who forced me to take a long walk. The day—the bruit—instigated me with its business.
Lately, each day's been the same—demands keeping me from sailing on an even keel. In truth, there is no keel. It's been yanked from it's hull, sending me spinning against the wind. The sails can't catch their breath. The boom's gone crazy, nearly knocking me off the sloop. It's a vertigo inducing course that's neither rational nor apparent.
To be honest, looking back at those early days with you is a bit embarrassing. I was intimidated. I had no idea what to do with you, which quiet place to rendezvous, where we might be going (had we a future?), or why I was tacking the waters with you. Yet you were a compulsion—an urgent need to fill and to get over XYZ. (Though I couldn't shut up about XYZ—constant blubbering.) Like XYZ ever cared about me! You were the rebound affair—a rescue fantasy—you threw the orange lifesaver at me and I grabbed hold of it, naively believing it would save me from the usual conflict and emotional crises of love affairs. Still, I was aware of the odds: only one-fourth of relationships that begin as affairs succeed. And I was nervous.
But to reduce our liaison to simply a rescue is to dilute the truth. I'd always wanted you. I would have swum across the ocean for you.
Somewhere along the stretch of our evolving relationship I began to feel less jittery, less uncertain, became comfortable with you, slowed things down to a more thoughtful pace, and began to trust you. Trust me. Hey, this might work out after all. It turns out, the affair proved to be more than a fling. But comfort breeds complacency, and I fear I've missed the buoy this time.
So please forgive me, dear blog, and kindly accept this post—my 128th —as my belated Happy 1st Anniversary wish to you. And it comes with a present from sweet Cheryl, of The Art of Being Conflicted, who writes of the many matters that keep us at odds. I think, however, that she is funnier than she is conflicted.
Thank you, Cheryl, for this award—perfect timing, don't you think?—and for helping us celebrate the one year anniversary of Suburban Soliloquy. Phew. You know the year's been fortunate when you can happily carry on the dalliance despite the bug smear across the screen. (Don't worry, I'll clean it later.)
They say the first year is the hardest, right?
(Now, if only the waters calmed and I could find my damn keel.)