The Ballad of the Long Distance Lover

You would think I would be good at this by now.

And in some ways, I am good at this. I know the secret corners to plug in my laptop. I know where to get Chinese food at O’Hare when I’m craving even the most greasy of vegetables and how long of a stopover I need to be able to walk there. I know which airports have the kinder customs officials, the ones who don’t balk or excessively when I explain that my fiancé does live in another country and, yes, I am still returning to Canada in two days time. I know which airports have free wireless and which travel websites have the best deals. And I’ve stopped caring who notices me crying as my rolling suitcase echoes behind me.

So after seven times, you’d think I’d have figured out how to say goodbye.

I always tell myself I’m going to be more graceful, more contained. I’ll maybe let a well-intentioned tear or two trickle out, but I will not let out body shaking sobs and have mascara collecting in all the creases in my face. I will be able to walk through the revolving doors, only looking over my shoulder to wave, rather than always needing to turn around, dash back, and bury my face in his neck one more time. I will not loathe the couples sitting near me, contently holding each other’s hands, who don’t understand how effortless their relationship seems to me. I won’t always wake up the morning before he or I leave feeling as though I have been kicked in the stomach. I won’t keep on doing mental arithmetic, counting how many hours, minutes we have left until another goodbye.

But I always do.

I think the mind can’t handle this level of aching every day, this dullness behind the eyes. It covers it up quickly in details like what time to set the alarm, what to make for dinner, what shoes are best for the weather outside, when this report is due. The details, though tedious, are soothing, in that they take you away from the rawness of your own mind. It is as though the only way you can handle being away from the person you love is for you to forget how hard it is when they aren’t there. It is only when you see them again that you realize how barren these days full of details actually are.

It's the night you can roll over and touch him that you realize how empty your bed has been.

The one where I pretend I really want to bake muffins

Living in a new city is always a bit of a humbling experience.

You never think of it that way, of course, when you are leaving. That is the time where every spare moment is crammed full of the people you are expecting to miss. When you're leaving, it suddenly seems rational to invite people to assist in wrapping plates in newspaper while you are wearing sweatpants, when in any other month, the same request would be a little tactless. And people, because they expect to miss you, volunteer for such ridiculous tasks as fishing cardboard boxes out of the recycling bins behind a Pottery Barn. They pepper you with hugs and goodbye gifts. You leave the city with your head foggy from a dizzying mixture of gratitude, excitement and wistfulness.

The first few days in your new home are dizzying yet again, but this time from the sheer number of baking dishes and pyjamas you own, and how boxes seem to be exponentially multiplying every time you turn around. Finally, you pause.

And realize how you know absolutely no one.*

When you were leaving, you knew this fact. But you tell yourself things like "Yeah, it'll be kind of weird, but I'm independent, so I'll manage."

And you do manage.

And you go to parties and say hi to your neighbours.

But you still have those humbling nights, the ones where you convinced yourself that you really did want a Friday night alone because when was the last time you baked muffins.

And you aren't sure who to call when things feel a just little empty.

You also wonder when making friends got so systematic. In high school, you just somehow had friends. Suddenly, you're questioning yourself.

"Is it too soon for me to call them? Should I add them on Facebook? What does 'we should hang out sometime' mean?"**

But you expected this, in a way. What you didn't expect is how lonely you are by virtue of lack of contact from home. When you were leaving, everyone was waxing on about keeping in touch.

But for them, you are just one person, while for you, they are everyone. So it's easy for them to not respond to emails right away. Yet its easy for you to count the people who haven't responded to your emails, and feel that number weighing on you. As though you expected your absence would change everything for them, when really, it's only changing everything for you.***

***

*Okay, that line was a little over dramatic. To be fair, I do casually know a couple people here- oh, and that handsome dude I moved here with.

** I actually discussed this experience with a handful of people who were also new in town. We all laughed about being 'friend desperate'.

*** I feel as though this is all coming off a little more pessimistic than is genuine. This city has actually been remarkably friendly, and relationships are developing at about the speed one could really expect. However, I think what really stands out is the act of 'getting to know' a lot of people, but not really knowing anyone just yet, if that makes sense.

On keeping on breathing

I always have the best of intentions.

I really don't want to put anyone through the tedium that is complaining about being overwhelmed. Complaining about stress is so brutally cliched, like saying that you aren't good with names, procrastinate sometimes or don't always get enough sleep.

Everyone is stressed and nobody is actually good with names.

I'm fully intending to act as though I am 100% content, to practice what I preach, per se, by not letting the stress determine my actions. I'm acting happy to try to convince my body that I really am happy.

I'm drawing smiley faces on foggy windows. I'm humming made up songs. I secretly tap my toes in my shoes when riding the bus. I randomly buy butternut squashes on sale for extraordinary cooking plans. I'm overusing exclamation points in my text messages.

These things help, in their own little way. Any of these beat moping around. I can't handle being lazy for that long, anyhow. Unproductivity doesn't suit me. Another cliche has proven true- yoga has been a life saver. It turns off my thoughts pretty thoroughly, which, trust me, is a miraculous feat.

It's not even that I'm at all depressed. It's just that my brain can't keep up with everything that is going on. A lot of it, in fact, is kick-up-your-heels good news-- internship interviews, weddings-- there's just so damn much of it. Looking at my summer, I just wanted to hyperventilate. What do you mean I'm a bridesmaid twice and I have to move myself and my boyfriend to separate locations across the continent all in the period of a month and a half? Even my mom, the queen of acceptance, in an email yesterday told me "You are such a busy girl, it is just the way of your life at this time, but I am sure you sometimes want to pull your hair out."

Yes, it may be tempting to grab the roots and yank sometimes, but instead, I will drink tea and watch too much Food Network.

Oh yeah, and breathe.

Time out

I've been waffling around this decision for a few months now, which is probably pretty telling.

I think it is time to take a bit of a break.

Too many things are making writing feel unfamiliar right now. It feels like my fingers and thoughts are slower, my words emptier, my mind more blank. I feel disconnected, less confident about my words. I have little time to write, which makes what used to be a joy feel like a burden. I feel like I'm only participating in the blogging community half-heartedly due to my overflowing schedule.

It just doesn't fit right now.

It's hard to post this, though. It feels a little like giving up. Still, I hope by giving myself the needed space away, things will start flowing again. If they don't, well, I'll deal with that when the time comes.

I'm still around, though. You can always reach me by email, and I'm hoping to keep on posting on my weekly spot at Umm... Now What. However, I am looking for a few (or more) good guest posters for that site as well, so please be in touch if you are interested!

See you around :)

The burden of reality

Reality can be a mighty bitch somedays, what with her regulations, to do lists, and the like.

Her latest trick? Crushing my intentions to scurry over the border to Portland for a year to do my internship. Despite the fact that our internship programs are supposed to be a North American wide system, apparently all the VA hospitals in the U.S. are closed to Canadian students. 

*Princess pouts and stomps her feet*

Granted, there are a few other internships available in the area, but they aren't good fits for me, and I promised myself I would make this experience more about the program than using it as a crutch to live a glamourous life in my city of choice. 

Next thing, they are going to tell me that my pet unicorn has been delayed at customs. Daydream crushing bastards.

What cruel thing has reality thrown at you lately?

From the worst blogger Valentine of all time

Yes, I know, I'm a bad, bad bloggie Princess. 

Will a ridiculously costumed doggie Cupid help in the forgiveness process?

Perhaps, if you are looking for a little karma for my lack of love pointed your way, it may help you feel better to know that I am very far from the world's sexiest Valentine right now. Unless cough drop breath and red crusty noses are your thing. You could woe me with Neocitron and noodle soup, if you were so inclined.

Yes, the world, in all her mighty cruelty, again decided that after already taking a week off for a conference, I deserve to be cursed with a blasted cold. Unfortunately, this means that my guilt is far outweighing my sense of self-preservation, and I have been suffering through work with a very raspy voice.

My boyfriend also thought it was comical to give me a hickey, as though the constant honking of my nose isn't already detracting from my professionalism.

Anyways, I just wanted to take the time to spread a little love and a few half-hearted promises your way, before I curl up on the couch for a day of passionate hockey watching and take-out. Swoon!

(And if you want to read something slightly more profound about my thoughts on this day in particular, you can find them here and here.)

Guilt

It's a damn weighty feeling to know you have let someone down.

I tend to be hypervigilent at the best of times (and downright neurotic at the worst of times) about the way my actions with be perceived by others. So the notion that, despite the noblest of intentions, and theoretically the most precise of attention, I have still slipped up, is like a swift kick to the stomach.

I'm starting to think there is merit to patenting the term "psychologist's guilt". For me, I fall into despair when I unintentionally do something to offend or sting someone. I chastise myself in a heavyhanded manner-- how can I be a professional if I screw up every day interpersonal interactions?

So, yes, I hurt someone I care about.

Nothing irreparable, nothing unforgivable, nothing intentional.

But I still hurt them.

At first, excuses poured out of my mouth like a waterfall, like rapids.

I needed it to be understood that there were miscommunications, misunderstandings, distractions, that malevolence was never a part of the plan.

That, quite simply, I never meant to.

But sometimes you just need to admit that you made a mistake. 

That moment I admitted it, I felt myself crumple, the wall hard against my back.

I guess we all deserve to feel guilty sometimes.

One more day

My red mittens are too big for me. I feel childlike with them hanging loose around my wrists.

Winter has come to Canada with a bang. In an instant, my skin has been sapped off all moisture. Chilled air is seeping through my single panes windows, needing me to wipe the hazy film from them to be able to see the world outside. I swim in the fog of others breaths waiting for the bus.

A transit worker in a Santa hat sees me frantically hugging myself at the train station. He laughs and tells me to try being outside for ten hours, then hands me a candy cane, ostensibly to get my blood sugar flowing. The crook of the cane fits perfectly around the edge of my tongue.

Last day, I tell myself.
One more day. One more day.

One more day of tacky soft rock seeping into my dreams and unceremoniously shaking me out of them.
One more day of coffee for breakfast.
One more day of one bus to the next.
One more day of chores and shopping squeezed into fifteen minute breaks in my schedule.
One more day of shoulders weighed down a bag filled with the day's necessary odds and ends.
One more day of a steady flow of emails.

Tomorrow I'm in a car, driving through the mountains.

The day after that, I wake up on my birthday to a home warmed by a fireplace. I will be wrapping my neck in a scarf not in preparation for the trek to work, but to walk the dog, cut down a Christmas tree, even to trod to the local bar.

And, so, here I am in my office, drinking lukewarm coffee and huddling next to my little heater, which is only allowed to be on low for fear of blowing a circuit, playing countdown.
Five hours and thirty eight minutes until work is done for the holidays.
Thirteen hours and thirty eight minutes until today is through.

One.
more.
day.

Clouds on my shoulders

I sometimes wonder if the first few bouts of winter rain have a direct connections to my brain, like an invisible but study fishing line dangling from the sky. I've mistaken this in the past as less my mood being puppeted by the weather, and more of the clouds being able to read my mind a little, as a way to explain the heavyness I feel when the clouds are so low they almost graze my shoulders.

I know I am not depressed, as in the Depression-with-a-capital-D whose symptoms I can list off like counting to ten, as the first set of criteria any budding clinician will memorize. It is more that the sudden shift from red leaves against a blue sky to a permeating damp grey that shocks my system. I will adapt within a matter of weeks, with my umbrella in hand, hopping around puddles. But in the first few days, the fog just emphasizes my natural pessimisms and less desirable quirks. I think too much to begin with, but put me in a chilly bus, my eyes peering out through a hole in the condensation to the world outside, and I start reflecting on the past, present, future, small-scale, large-scale, whatever. I become downright broody. Lyrics that normally fly by on a sunny day are suddenly absorbed and personalized. I'm sensitive on the best of days, but the first week of heavy rain, I find myself wondering about unreturned phone calls and emails, about my ability to pull off the hat I am wearing, about the essay I just handed in, about whether I've lost my ability to connect with people through writing.

If I do have a skill, though, it is to keep my feet moving at the same pace as my brain. I've learned that pausing is the quickest way to start sinking, drowning in these little whirlpools. When I do step in a puddle, I don't stop to contemplate the misery of the wet socks between my toes, but rather keep the rhythm of the next step. I've actually found there to be a lot of truth to that 12-step adage of "Fake it 'til you make it", that by pretending that this gloomy day is just another day, I can slip under the radar of others, and eventually convince myself.

Another aphorism that holds more truth than cliche in moments like this is "This too shall pass." Even if the rain keeps plummeting through to March, the rain in my head will dry up quickly enough.

Running is fun and other lies

I'm going to go out on a limb and say that I think the notion that running is a fun activity is a myth.

A conspiracy, even, propagated by Nike and Gatorade.

I'm not saying I don't believe that running is good for you, that it doesn't burn calories and tone muscles. That's why I do it. But I certainly do not believe that it is fun.

I'm not sure what this runner's high people speak of is. There might be a slight tinge of accomplishment when I've finished, but during, there is no high-- just sweat and gasping for air.

(To be fair, I may be missing the gene for natural highs. I also get absolutely no rush from gambling. I just stare at the slot machine when I'm done and think "Damn, I just wasted two dollars.")

However, even worse than the exhaustion is the boredom. This is why I have a mix on my iPod entitled the "Make-Running-Not-Boring Mix". Because cardio is really, really boring. I try to overstimulate the hell out of myself while on a treadmill or elliptical trainer. I listen to upbeat music, I watch the televisions in front of me (which are, cruelly, always on the Food Network-- visions of cheesecake and pasta floating before me), I flip through magazines, I challenge myself to random games in my head... but I still can't help but watch my time tick by, second by second, wondering when this sweaty boredom will elapse.

Despite all these complaints, at three plus months, I have beat my personal record for regular gym attendance. The results are nice, I must admit. I am more inclined to check myself out when emerging from the shower, and perhaps even pose a little. Lines are beginning to trace themselves onto my stomach, indicating an emerging two-pack six-pack. Biceps are beginning to pop onto my arms. My boyfriend is making sweet little comments. 

But that doesn't mean I don't sulk and pout on weekend mornings, drawing out the syllables of "soooo boooorrrrriiing" as he remains wrapped up in delicious blankets, and I lace up my running shoes.

Chasing the butterfly

Yesterday, I saw a lone feather, fluttering against the sidewalk, and I felt a little jealous. 

Some days, things feel heavier than others.

***

Lately, certain thoughts have been rotating in my mind, like a tireless hamster in a wheel.

Money, liars, mistakes, the future...

And while these ruminations usually are just like hailstones, brief in their impact before they bounce off me, lately, they have felt like a coat of armour.

One of these worries I can't seem to peel off is the sense that my words have lost their sparkle. Lately, my writings feel so lusterless compared to what seemed graceful and effortless months prior. Lines used to just pop up, like the proverbial lightbulb over the head, with paragraphs following closely behind, like a train of bright images and phrases. Now, when the lines emerge, they feel more like a butterfly, as though I'm chasing them frantically around with a net, begging them to pause for one moment, just long enough for me to fish out a pen.

It is not that the drive to write is gone. My fingers still feel fluent across the keys. I still find my senses feeding me a miscellany of ideas. I just feel as though they are not translating onto paper as smoothly as before. I have never seen my screen so filled with half-written posts, with concepts in point, rather than paragraph, form. I have never had my inner editor chastise me so about "Not another attempt to make your weekend a series of anecdotes" or "Why are you trying to be funny?"

And I am aware that the solution to my parodied version of writer's block is not force. Images do not emerge under duress. The butterfly will not land on my foot if I am flailing about frantically. It will touch down when I toss away the net and lie in the grass instead.

The Island Diaries- Part 2

With a whopping google reader of over 500 (argh!! *insert convulsions here*), I am officially back in Internets-ville and all that other fun day-to-day life stuff that the end of a holiday entails. The snippets below are just a few random thoughts that came about during my week away when my laptop and I had some quiet moments. More coherent narratives (including photos and bachelorette party escapades!) soon to come. 

***

I have a certain affinity for small town newspapers. I think there is something about the unique combination of kitschy advertisements, local news bits, and blatant opinion pieces that remind me of home.

Take the actual title of the paper, which always includes some sort of semi-witty pun. Small town papers and puns go together like pancakes and maple syrup. Or the front page headline. While the big city paper box will be emblazoned with tales of multiple murders or drug busts, here, the month of July is accompanied by the announcement of the Annual Church Fair. Obituaries are not a generic few square inches of text, but rather half pages with large, smiling photos and anecdotes. There is even an elegy for Lucky, Doreen and Dan’s beloved dog. Letters to the editor tell of the latest controversy over the Island Improvement Committee’s recent meeting. A half page ad, accompanied by a photo of a laughing woman in horn-rimmed glasses and a lei, declares “When U are 21,915 days old, should U be having this much fun!?!? YES…. If you are Lois!”, and proceeds to invite the entire island to Lois’s 60th birthday party at the community hall.

My favourite, however, has to be the RCMP report, written by the island’s apparent sole RCMP constable. It informs residents of the newest speed limit signs and warns them to “please stop when you see me jump out from behind the bushes with my handheld radar gun”. It also details a case in which a man selling $20,000 worth of Snap-On Tools passed away, and his family is unsure of whether they were stolen or sold prior to his passing. The highlight, however, is a personal plea for information regarding the islander supposedly cooking Ecstasy in their home.

***

Some days love feels like more of a tragedy than others. Today, I sit on a ferry bobbing away from him. Normally, I make a particular point of covering up that heart on my sleeve, but today, it feels a little inflamed and exposed. My practical mind tells me it is only a matter of weeks at most, yet the sunlight sparkling on the water still seems a little phony. Perhaps it is the dramatic goodbye, rife with movie-perfect embraces and spectacularly blown kisses. Perhaps goodbyes, even the little ones, are meant to always sting a little.

***

Staying in a house with parents always has a bit of a regressive effect. The Duke’s parents are fairly liberal folk, and thus are accepting of him and I sharing a bedroom, given the fact that we do so in our day-to-day life. However, given the close quarters, we’ve taken what feels like a step back into Grade 12 in our tricks to get a little “private time”. Living together involves a certain neglected freedom, meaning that shutting the blinds is the biggest concern when the urge strikes. When staying with one’s parents, it involves a careful planning, that of whispers and excuses (“I think we are feeling a little tuckered out, so we’re thinking of going to bed early.”), of murmurs and bitten tongues, and of creative locations (“We’re just going for a short hike!”). I’m suddenly reminded again of being ten years younger and in the back of a cramped station wagon due to sheer lack of other options.

The one in which Chicago spited me

I adore Chicago. The architecture, the lake, the neighbourhoods, the people.

Apparently, however, the feeling is not mutual.

I don't know if I perhaps came on too strong, but she is certainly doing a serious job of rebuking my advances.

I arrived in Chicago late Monday afternoon. Being the eternal transit queen (not to mention the afore discussed fact that the bulk of this trip is now out of pocket), I hopped on the train to my hostel downtown with no difficulties.

Apparently the universe decided that a smooth flight and transit experience was enough good luck for me. As such, when I stood up to get off the train, my laptop bag slipped around my waist, leaving me to pretty much drag my luggage hurriedly onto the platform. I made a subway attendant smirk by my inability to figure out how to exit the station. I emerged, bags in hand, directly in front of the Chicago Stock Exchange, which is always a little overwhelming when the last daylight you saw was still in a residential neighbourhood.
And I proceeded to get lost.
Nothing too dramatic, really. Just a few blocks off course. However, a few blocks feels epic when one has numerous bags in hand and has been in transit the entire day.
The funny thing is that I have one of these moments every single time I travel alone, when I curse myself for both my independence and my thrifyness, and swoon thinking about having a taxi and my strong man to carry my bags. 

***

So, yes, I did make it to my hostel. However, Chicago was only just breaking me in.

Later that night, I made my way to the bedroom. Half of the room were already asleep, so I had to navigate my nightly routine via the light of my cell phone. 

Full pyjamafied, I went to hop into my top bunk. Until I discovered that it definitely was not within hopping distance.

There was no ladder. Normally, this is only a minor inconvenience. However, when one side of the bed is pushed up against the wall, the other against a bunk, there is a person sleeping in the bottom bunk, and you are a short and generally uncoordinated person, this is a downright disaster.

After multiple attempts to raise my leg way higher than it is meant to go, I managed to maneuver into my bed... pulling an oblique muscle on the way up. I squirm silently on my bunk.

The next morning, in my half asleep haze, it takes me nearly five minutes to contemplate how to get down off the bunk bed cliff. 

By two days in, my thighs were covered in huge bruises, and I managed to give my arm some massive bunk-burn, which has now morphed to a four inch bruise. 

Deciding I had enough of looking like a neighbourhood brawler slash meth head after two nights, I asked to be moved to a bottom bunk. The front desk staff happily obliged, and I moved my pyjamas to the bottom bunk.

However, when I returned that evening, my pyjamas were missing.

And, to give away the story, were never seen again. 

I literally spoke to about five different people trying to track down my PJs. It turns out that the cleaning staff thought the bottom bunk was empty and the PJs were abandoned. They specifically remembered what they looked like, but not where they were delivered to.

Normally, not a big deal. T-shirts are multifunctional, and I have a few other pairs of flannel pants waiting for me at home. However, they have gone missing the day before I am set to share a room with two male labmates, which leaves me the choice of a) going pantless, b) sleeping in dress pants or c) buying new pyjamas for my remaining three days. I chose c, and spend almost the cost of one night at the hostel on my new pink flannel pants and tank top.

All this due to a missing ladder.

***

The next day, I checked into the conference hotel (well, tried. My rather unique female first name has yet again been transcribed as a rather common male name by virtue of a switched letter, meaning I have to jump through further hoops to get my keycard).

Both my labmates have already checked in. When I inquire as to which bed is mine, there is a pause.

Turns out that both the guys have refused to sleep in a bed with each other.

Apparently, despite the fact that there are only TWO beds, and THREE of us, and that it is a well known lab rule that members of the same sex bunk together, these two have taken the "I'm-so-not-gay" thing a little too far.

Not to mention that the non-creepy one was making a big deal about how much he kicked in his sleep. And the creepy one has been known for making inappropriate sexual advances after a couple of drinks. Plus he's, well, creepy.

After trying to negotiate with them, and telling them that their childish behaviour was something they should have resolved before asking me to share a room with them to save money, I end up being the one spending fifteen minutes obtaining a cot to avoid sharing a double bed with creepy.

***

Oh yeah, and our keycards didn't work half the time, only one of three elevators was working to service an eleven floor hotel, the front desk guy was the rudest bastard I've ever encountered in my life, etc, etc, etc. There was also the convention snafu that led me to presenting my poster in the back of some random room apart from the rest of the presenters (and geeks like me get sad when their research gets neglected!).

Still, I was a little heartbroken to be leaving behind my new favourite city this afternoon.

Apparently it is only now that she decides she wants me to stay.

After making it back onto the train with my many bags, I arrived at the airport. To a departures sign telling me that my flight has been inexplicably canceled. Oh yeah, and there are no other flights today.

As I am waiting in a massive United line-up, I get the official call from the airline that my flight has been canceled. Gee, thanks for the heads up, United.

As I'm waiting, it emerges that I am surrounded by people who are as big of fans of United as I am at this moment. I hear tales of missed cruises due to missed connecting flights and so forth.

I finally make it to the counter. It turns out I have been rebooked for very early morning (though not early enough for me to make it to any of my scheduled Monday meetings). However, my hotel information has not made it to the computer yet.

So I wait.

The worker, after holding onto my Canadian passport for ten minutes, asks me if I live in the US.

I wait some more.

The worker directs me to wait at the side of the desk. I set up a make shift bench out of luggage and stare at the wall.

After nearly half an hour of sitting beside the United counter, and being told that there still is no information available about my flight, the frustration starts to get the better of me. I briefly contemplate setting up a bed to try to make a point, but decide that crying is a far better statement. (I am such a girl.) The fact that I am fighting back tears in front of a line up of other irate people is made even more surreal by the fact that there is an Italian family that doesn't understand personal bubbles standing directly beside me, and their two seven year old daughter dressed in matching outfits are staring at me from less than a foot away.

I somehow manage to hold onto my cool, and it is the worker who eventually starts yelling at others about how long I have been made to wait. Eventually I am provided with a voucher for a hotel in glamourous Rosemont, Illnois, and a food voucher that turns out to barely cover the cost of an appetizer. 

To add to the slap in the face... I now see a Target out my hotel window... but rain stands between me and its sweet, sweet deals. Le sigh.

Don't worry. Chicago was still deliciously fantastic, and I have lots of photos and tales (including of not one, but three bloggie meet-ups!) to share. But right now my feelings are a little hurt by Chicago's behaviour, and I plan to sulk instead.

Rain in June

It's grey out today. Not the fierce grey that indicates a storm, but rather a dull grey that just washes everything else away. The vibrant greens of the city are dulled by the muddied sky. A fierce button of blue peeks out at the intersection of two clouds, but it seems more like a mistake, an accidental gap in the weaving of these rainclouds, than an optimistic sign of light to come.

I think I pile expectations too high onto summer's shoulders. In the winter, I expect the sodden pants bottoms, the dreary horizon, and the fatigue of overwork. "Just wait for the summer," becomes a mantra of sorts, on spin cycle in my head, along with with memories of my limbs, weightless in the waves and the taste of sweat on my lips.

But the sprawling windows that drew us to this apartment aren't sparkling. They are sprinkled with rain drops and smeared with dust. I've no longer been able to delude myself into thinking bare feet are reasonable, especially with artificial warmth seeping out of the slotted heater. 

So I check the weather website compulsively. When the seven day forecast doesn't look promising, I click over to the long-term forecast, hoping that the graph will provide me with a smidgen of sunny optimism.

And I wonder why rain is so much more upsetting in June than it is in January.