Carnival

Last night I dreamt that I was at a carnival. I am there with Kevin. You had broken up with me via a phone call. You had rang and said "I need some space." And that was it, you and I hadn't spoken in a week. Kevin and I are wandering around the fair together. I am being social and chatting with friends. I am eating carnival food, riding rides, trying to enjoy nature, and distract myself. After finishing up a ride, I run into a guy friend who buys me a very pretty dress. I walk into the dressing room and try it on. When I see myself in the mirror, I am hit with a wave of devastation. You are the one who is supposed to be admiring me in dresses. I realize I am not OK. I can't fake happiness. The carnival is no longer a distraction. I start panicking to Kevin. I tell him, "I must call him! He can't just break up with me over nothing by the phone! It doesn't make any sense? I need to know why. I need to talk to him." I headed off to call you and then I woke up before hearing your voice or your reason.

The dream is a thinly veiled metaphor for my reality. Last night, Kevin and I went to a casino with a bunch of old friends in my hometown. While no one bought me a dress, I did win some money. I strapped on a smile and I kept my chin up. But when I got home, washed off my makeup, and climbed in bed – the truth was still spread on thick. I can't get away from it, no matter how much stimulation I layer on.

I've found that I've been drawn to certain people who remind me of you. When I interact with someone, I'll find solace in their gentleness, their sensitivity, their kind smile, their humor, or maybe their generosity. It's nice to see glimmers of you in friends. It feels familiar and nurturing. I'll feel a bit of warmth in my being, then a wave of sadness. I realize that even when there's tidbits of you in others, it magnifies a glaring reminder of the parts that aren't like you. I love all of you. Wholly and fully. It's the larger aspects of your personality that create the shell of who you are, but it's the little quirks that give you texture that makes you stand apart. Today, I've been thinking about the little things about you that I love so much.

I love how you remembered everything. In my experience, so many men (some women too) can be idiots when it comes to memory. But not you. You had the memory of an elephant. You would remember to call me when you said you'd call me. You'd remember my schedule. If I said I had a class or a deadline, you would consider it in our planning or communication, and later, you'd ask about how it went. You'd remember tickets to the show. You'd remember your keys. You'd remember to pack a corkscrew in the cooler just in case we had a bottle of wine. You'd remember where you'd stuck our boarding passes after going through security. You'd remember to take out the recycling. You'd remember to bring a fresh water bottle in the car. You'd remember where you put the bottle of Aleve the last time we used it. You'd remember what we needed from the grocery store: how many kombuchas were left, if we were low on hemp seeds, if we ran out of a supplement, or if we needed avocados because the ones we had weren't ripe. You'd remember to come and check on me if I went to bed early and you stayed up later. You remembered birthdays. You remembered to get your oil changed. You'd remember to tell me you loved me, nearly hourly, every day. I love your memory, your awareness, and how much you care.

I love your transparency. You never played games. When it came to communication, you were direct and to-the-point from day one. There was never a guessing game: Does he like me? Will he call? What is he thinking right now? Is he upset? I never had to wonder, because you simply told me. Your honesty was beautiful. I remember one time when I still lived in Austin, I went out to a show and then came back to a friend's house around 1 a.m.. My phone had died. I plugged it in at her place, but then fell asleep on her couch before it turned back on. When I woke up, I had multiple missed called and messages from you. When I called you after waking, you were nearly in tears. You told me, "I was so nervous you had gotten in a wreck or someone had assaulted you! I've been awake all night assuming the worst!" Understandably, you were concerned and a bit upset. In fact, it was probably the most upset you ever were at me. You weren't mad, you were scared. But the way you handled the situation was so transparent. You told me you were upset, you explained your fears, then you were happy I was safe, and you let it go right there. We never had to talk about it again. It was in the past. There was no passive-aggressive 'I'll show her what it's like not to call me' payback, there was never a rub-it-in-my-face comment made again about making sure I call you, nothing – you explained your perspective, we both understood, and we grew from it. We communicated like consenting adults who respected and loved one another, every day.

I love that you weren't a big drinker or a bad drunk. I don't know if it's just my relationship history, but nearly all of my serious partners have been heavy drinkers and pretty terrible drunks. After rocky roads, I've learned it's not a habit that works for me. I am down to have a drink of wine with dinner a few nights a week and knock back a few cocktails at a show or a party, but when there's a need to drink in order to have fun – it doesn't jive with me. You chose to drink alcohol cautiously which was incredibly attractive. In addition to that, when you did get drunk – you were adorable. You weren't mean, you weren't aggressive, you weren't spacey, you weren't curt, you weren't obnoxious, you weren't blacked out, you weren't stumbling, you were just more silly than usual.

I remember the one time I got a bit irritated with you when alcohol was involved. It was at an Umphrey's show at Red Rocks on a Saturday night. I was the designated driver and was trying to round up our crew after the show. Trying to rally five people post concert can be a chore to a sober person. I had accumulated everyone, but strangely, you were the one who we just couldn't coerce to head to the car. The reason you wanted to stay was so you could give your friends more good-bye hugs. You were running back and forth from one side of the Red Rocks Amphitheater to the other shouting farewells, 'I love you's', and giving hugs to Chris, Cassie, Frenchy, Rey, Jelly, and more. Red Rocks is wide, but back and forth you ran, one side to the other, spreading love. Now that's a cute drunk.

I love how affectionate you were. You understood the power of touch. If I needed a hug, you would notice from across the room. You would hold me for seconds longer than I expected you to. You'd pull me tight, and press your whole chest into mine. You'd stop what you were thinking to give a embrace, all plans aside. I loved your kisses. We kissed as often on the last day of your life, than we had at the beginning of our relationship. We never had a lull in kisses. Whether it was a kiss of passion, friendship, salutation, sympathy, custom, love, or just because – there was always a kiss. Even if a hug or kiss wasn't involved, you still showed affection in many other ways – a brush of the arm, a slap of the butt, a gentle pinch, a tickle (even though I hated it!), a game of footsie under the covers, a hold of my hand, fingers through my hair, a wink across the room, or simply eye contact – you always stayed connected to me. I am searching for that connection now, I know it's here somehow. I can't see it, I can't feel it, and I can't hear it – but I know it's here.

I love how open you were with bodily functions. When we started dating, it took about six months before you farted in front of me... which I was fine with, trust me. But once you crossed that threshold you let it rip. In addition to your own flatulence, you had an open mind about women's stuff too. It's a relief when a man understand that the same stuff, minus a couple things and plus a couple more, come of out both men and women's bodies. It's surprising how many thirty-year-plus men I know that don't want to accept that. Women can have tummy aches too. They get cramps. They fart. They purchase tampons, put them in the garbage, and carry them around in their purse. Women pee and they poop too. They fart occassionally, and maybe after Indian or Mexican just like you. Women can get stinky after a run just like a man. They can even have diarrhea. The ignorance of women's bodily functions can be ridiculous. But not with you, you made it easy and a non-issue to talk about how we were feeling – whether it was emotional or physical. While we may have still peed with the powder-room door closed and given one other personal space with our hygiene, we still respected what was going on behind closed doors.

I loved your dirty mind. I have the mind of a fourteen-year-old boy with a thirty-year collection of sexual innuendos and vocabulary. You had met your match when you met me. If we heard, saw, or read something that could be played off as a dirty joke, it was on. Between us, there were probably as many "That's what she said's", "Dzzzzts!", and "Giggity's" as there were kisses, which is a lot! Now, as I'm moving through my days like I am made of wet cement, when I hear a funny innuendo or see something slightly sexual my stomach drops instead of my eyes lighting up. My joker is no longer here to joke with. It's creepy to make dirty jokes with yourself all of the time.


I miss the whole you. I miss the physical you. I miss the spiritual you. I miss the friend in you. I miss the lover in you. I miss the things that carved out the large facets of your personality. And I miss the little things, like some of what I've mentioned here: the texture, the quirks and curves that made you so special. There's no hiding from your absence. There's no carnival fun enough to distract me. There's no friends that fill the gap. There's just my love, waiting in space, to give back to you someday, somehow.

Hangover Days

Even hangovers were fun with you.

I haven't had much to drink since you left us. For one, drinking is celebratory. I feel as though I have very little to celebrate these days. The love of my life is no longer in this world, and there's nothing to celebrate in that. Secondly, drinking can be numbing, which I'm trying to avoid.

I never knew pain before you died, Ted. I've been under the knife for two back surgeries, I've lost ailing grandparents, I've had dogs run get hit in traffic, and I've had my heart squashed a few times – but those pains don't even approach the tail winds of this pain. I feel like I need an entirely different word than 'pain' to distinguish this from anything else.

It's been my course of action to feel everything, without numbing – and maybe eventually heal through actually feeling every drop of this wretched pain. Because the pain will be so intense that there's no deeper wound possible, and healing is the only option. Perhaps that's slightly self-harming, but perhaps I feel like I need to harm myself a bit. I mean, I was right there as you took your last breaths and I did not succeed at bringing you back. I did not save your life. I know I did everything I could, but it was not enough. You died, on my watch. So yes, maybe I feel like I need a big, bloody slab of self inflicted pain on top of this heart shattering devastation to remind myself of the most grievous failure any human could ever participate in.

So self-deprecating and preaching aside, yesterday I got drunk.

After attending the Warren Miller ski movie premiere with some members of my support squad, one beer turned into four and the liquid numbing agent dulled the pain for a few hours. I still ached the entire time without much relief, but I do remember at one point I actually laughed at a joke. A real laugh. The sound of my own laughter gave me chills and a dagger-like pain in the chest. But there was a laugh.

I woke up this morning, my body reeling from the depressant I'd poisoned it with. I couldn't get out of bed for two hours. It wasn't a bad hangover, in fact, if you were here I probably wouldn't even notice its presence. But alone, things are much harder.

When you and I had a hangover we would lay in bed until ten a.m. or so. Whichever one of us slept later would be awoken by a grumbly nuzzle from whomever awoke first. We would snuggle. We were fantastic at snuggling. If there were a gold medal for snuggling, we would be on the podium, hand-in-hand, gold medals shimmering around our necks. I would imagine intertwining every limb of my body in yours, like a double knot. We'd stay there, in our twist-tie of limbs, love, and morning breath. We'd chat about the fun we'd had the night before. Because we always had fun and we always fell asleep happy. Therefore, even with the cloud of a hangover, we still woke up happy. Foggy, but genuinely happy.

We would stay in our pajamas all day on hangover day. You would make us breakfast while I dramatically allowed you to wait on me. I would sprawl across the wood floor and moan about being in a hurt box. You would pop vitamins, make us fresh juice, fry bacon, and tell me about the most recent nutritional hangover cure you'd read about. I'd moan for coffee. You would make it, pour in the perfect amount of almond milk, and bring it to me in my favorite over-sized mug, setting it next to my face on the floor. You would bend down and give me a kiss and I would say, "Oh! That made my headache a bit better. Can I have another one?" You would kiss me again, "Gladly," you'd say.

We'd retire to the couch, where we would intend to stay all day. Hangover days were permission to put the real world aside. We'd switch on the Netflix or stolen HBO Go and catch up on the shows we liked, but rarely watched – The New Girl, The Mindy Project, Modern Family, Trophy Wife, or Hung. You'd man the remote, because I never really got a grasp on how it worked. "Just press all the buttons until you get the desired results," you'd joke about my remote-control tactics. I'd fall asleep a couple episodes in, my head in your lap. When I would wake up an hour or so later, I would hear The Simpsons or American Dad on in the background. You would watch cartoons when I slept because you knew they weren't my favorite. We'd watch the rest of the animated episode and you'd be stoked when you heard me laugh. "See! Cartoons are good," you'd convince me.

After a couple hours of guilty pleasures, we'd each take some time to accomplish something. You would bring your gear in from your last show and set up your drums. I would attend to emails and get ahead on the upcoming week's designs for the magazine. Within an hour or so, though, we would be back in the den on the couch, tying our bodies into a pretzel, once again. You'd switch on the Wii and we'd play Super Mario. Your Mario would race through world after world while my Luigi stumbled along behind you, falling in holes twenty times per level. You would take my controller and go win me a few dozen lives and then hand it back over for me to lose them all again within ten minutes. Our Nintendo games were immortal.

I would get frustrated and my thumbs would start to hurt from my exaggerated button pressing so we would stop playing. You would be hungry and we would pull up the menu for sushi delivery. There was no question about food. It was always sushi. Friends have questioned our love for sushi during a hangover, but sushi it was, every time. We had a system: you choose the sushi, I called to place the order, you would pay, I would answer the door, and you would hold the dog back. We would always order too much food and have sushi for breakfast the next day. You would plate dinner while I made us whiskey sours with organic maple syrup and lemons from our tree. We would feast.

We would watch some more TV during dinner. We didn't watch much TV in general, so hangover days (along with airplane rides) were a special treat. We generally chose comedies because we both preferred laughing to crying. But neither of us were afraid to cry. In fact, most likely at some point throughout our hangover day, we would both cry over a bittersweet video on social media. We'd kiss and our tears would merge as our faces touched.

Fat, happy, and minds abuzz with media overload, we would put our dishes in the sink and leave them for the next day. We'd head back to the den and boot the Wii back up. We'd play a few rounds of post-dinner Just Dance 3. We'd laugh and say it counted as a workout. You would win every time. I would scoff and say, "How is that possible? We both know I'm a fantastic dancer!" Then, I'd blame it on my controller. We'd swap controllers and you would win again. A not-very-sore-loser, I'd grin and decide I was over it. We'd strip down and get in the hot tub for a pre-bedtime soak. We'd finish our martinis as the bubbles surrounded us and the water massaged our lazy bodies. You'd turn off the jets, knowing that we both preferred the silence and stillness. We'd sit next to each other and laugh at jokes and replay stories. We'd chat about our upcoming week and we'd plan our beautiful lives together.

Fresh out of the hot tub, we'd head up to bed. I would splash water on my face and brush my teeth quicker than my electric toothbrush recommended. Still soaked in chlorine and too tired to care, I'd slide into a negligee and prance into bed, excited for you to join me. Most likely, I would usually be asleep by the time you finished your diligent hygiene routine: shower, towel-off, 2-minute toothbrushing session, floss, mouth rinse, fold clothes you'd worn, pee, drink water, and put on fresh pjs. You'd arrive in the bedroom and close the blinds, but when you got to the last one you'd gently wake me up and say, "Babe, what are you grateful for?" I'd half open my eyes and mumble "Your love. You?" "That's a good one, I'm grateful for your love too. And also for lazy days," you'd say. You'd climb in bed beside me, I would snuggle close to you, and murmur "mmhmm" from my slumber. We'd fade off together, happy.