I miss the way we move together.
When we first started seeing each other, you would come to see me in Austin. It was early in the relationship and we were still figuring out each others' patterns. I remember during your first visit, you arrived with your own Ziplock-bag full of teas. Even though I am a yoga teacher and lived with another one, you were still (correctly) concerned that these coffee-addicted yogi girls may not have your proper types of tea: Everyday Detox, Green (but not Jasmine!), Smooth Move (just in case), Peppermint, and Ginger Peach. You had made the right call. We had plenty of tea, but most were caffeinated and tasted like women's perfume.
In those days, you and I were still figuring out how each other moved through life.
But after ten months of daily Google Hangouts that lasted into the wee hours of each morning, bi-monthly visits (we were very fortunate), and simply getting to know one another, we realized how synchronized our paths were. While maybe we chose different hot beverages, you used an electric toothbrush and I (initially) used a manual, you ate eggs on salad for breakfast and I often skipped the meal, and you did laundry all the time and I waited until it piled up – we actually meshed really well. The slight differences became aligned, either by embracing our independent choices, a la tea or coffee, or a gentle compromise, like you purchasing me a Sonicare toothbrush for my 29th birthday, ensuring that I also completed my full two-minutes twice daily. I took on the breakfast egg salad with ease, realizing quickly that breakfast indeed was "the most important meal of the day". You generally did the laundry, but I bought you a bunch more boxers so you could wait longer in between loads. But the 'big stuff' came easy.
It was on your very first visit to Austin, in fact it was the first night of that first visit, when I asked you if you believed in marriage and wanted children. I did it as smoothly as I could muster, which was not very smoothly at all, and you later loved to remind me of that. But you said, "Yes". You believed in the sanctity and you wanted to be a daddy. You weren't in a big rush, but the answer was firm. You weren't freaked out by the forwardness of my question, in fact you respected it. I remember a weight lifting from my chest. Thank God, I thought, because I really like this guy. I didn't want to jump into something with the wrong guy, again. I had very recently come out of the worst-decision-relationship of my life and was, wisely, not totally trusting my own choices in men. But the more I got to know you, the more I realized you were what all of the bad-choices and the good-choices-for-the-time-being and the learning-relationships had been for.
We didn't just agree on marriage and family. We also agreed on politics. We agreed on commitment. We agreed on bedtimes and wake-up times. We agreed on the importance of exercise. We agreed on music, although you ruled that roost and that was fine. We agreed on how tidy we liked our home. We agreed on the temperature on the thermostat. We agreed on sides-of-the-bed. We agreed on what nights we wanted to party and what nights we wanted to lay low. We agreed on diet. We agreed on money, you allowed me to contribute regularly. We agreed on making the bed. We agreed on religion, you obliged to raising our eventual-kids Jewish. We agreed on humor: dirty, fun of witty puns, and constant. We agreed on education, the Waldorf school in Boulder. We agreed on communication, only love, never fight, little to no sarcasm. We agreed on sex, daily, at least. We agreed on honesty. We agreed on where to get takeout meals from. We agreed on independence. We agreed on personal space. We agreed on public display of affection. We agreed on nearly everything, and it wasn't because we were co-dependent or overly compromising, we just fucking agreed. Simply, we fit. It was easy.
Yesterday, I went to a party here in Steamboat. It was the 8th annual chili-cookoff for a friend of my weekend hosts. I felt OK about going... considering. Operating on auto-pilot, which I'm learning very well, I dressed myself and brushed my hair. I put on a smile, waterproof-mascara, and big sunglasses. I walked into the house surrounded by my support-group of our hosts, my dad, and three close friends.
As I entered the door, in front of me thirty joyful people mingled, mostly coupled-off and many holding babies and gripping the hands of curious toddlers. I blinked back the tears that immediately welled without warning. I took three deep breaths, which you always told me to do in situations like this. I saw a couple members of my team staring at me with pity and concern, noticing the reaction. This was going to be really, really hard, I thought. I considered spinning on my heels and bolting out the door.
I haven't been drinking any alcohol or using anything since your death. Besides for a natural sleep tincture, I had decided keeping my system clear of depressants and sedatives is important for this process. Maybe it's a bit self-harming but I want to feel all of the pain, not compartmentalize it or stuff it into a box or a pill. This is the saddest and darkest I've ever been, by leagues and leagues, so I may as well sit with it in its entirety. I didn't know how long this plan would last for and I honestly didn't have an expectation for myself other than "take care of yourself" and "be cautious".
After those three deep breaths and those concerned looks, I excused myself into the bathroom. I couldn't breath. Tears streamed down my face. My hands pulled into tight fists. I stared at my own eyes in the mirror and said, "Holy fucking shit, Ted. I miss you," out-loud. If I was going to buck up and do this, I was going to need a beer, and that was OK. I accepted my own decision to drink some social lubricant and take the edge off. I'm glad I did, because that beer and those deep breaths got me through the next three-hours. It got me through tasting and voting on chilis and cornbread. It got me through meeting dozens of people. It got me through small talk. It got me through people seeing my left finger and assuming I was betrothed in the typical way. It got me through talking about my careers. It got me through chatting with a couple I had met before, at my own birthday party a few months ago. They knew you. They send their condolences. It got me through a conversation that included friendly flirtation. It even got me through hearing and participating in laughter. Laughing hurts a lot, the moment the sound is emitted, daggers of pain pillage my chest. But it didn't get much easier. As the party settled and people snuggled into chairs and onto sofas, I watched the couples pair off.
I thought of how at a Superbowl Party at your cousin Hunter's house last year we had operated in that same fashion. We chatted with friends, we ate and drank a couple beers, and you introduced me to people. We split off: me, hanging with the girls, and you, making fun of the game while the other guys watched with fervor. Then, within a short amount of time, we made our way back to one another. We wrapped our arms around each other and found a spot on a couch, disinterested in the game but enjoying the company. We snuggled up and shared chips, salsa, and seven-layer dip. We sat, as a pair, and contributed to the party together, as our own team of doubles. We bounced jokes off each other, giggled together, and made eyes at one another. Eventually, I laid my head on your shoulder and whispered in your ear, "Let's go home." You looked at me, also bored of the game and ready to retire, "Yes. Lets," you responded. And we left, together. Just how we came. Happy and whole, as a pair. It was simply the way we moved together.
I miss the way we move together.
Showing posts with label steamboat springs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label steamboat springs. Show all posts
Glitch
As I sit here in Steamboat, looking out over a beautiful cascading view of the mountain range, snow just beginning to appear on the runs, it takes me back to our visit here early last Spring. You had a gig at the Ghost Ranch on Friday night. I had a deadline for my job at the magazine. You drove the 3-hour-trek gracefully.
I never knew a man could operate a car with 'grace'. Testosterone, heavy machinery, highways, grace? It didn't seem plausible – but you broke the mold. You, always hugging turns, driving faster than it felt, passing slower traffic with quick ease, and still somehow finding time to give oncoming drivers boater's waves the whole way. You taught me to always stay in the righthand lane except when passing – a traffic concept I somehow missed all these years. You were able to balance the rugged mountain highways, change the track on your iPod, make a funny pun, and open a pressurized kombucha all at the same time, without raising a hair. You always preferred to drive. My nervous acceleration and lack of cruise controlling juggled with asking you to navigate, change the music, and peel me a banana just seemed like more work. You never said it to me directly, but we both settled into that habit. I was just fine with that. Having survived a near death accident when I was younger, I preferred to let you take the wheel.
Along that drive, we drove over Berthoud Pass. As you glided around the turns, we noticed some commotion a few cars back. You continued on the path, not sensing danger and on a time crunch to make it to your gig. Later, we found out that an avalanche had occurred, completely engulfing cars in snow. Everyone was OK, but the road was closed and major delays ensued. We looked each other in the eye and exchanged a few words of gratitude for our safety and timing. I made a joke about how lucky we were that you'd been driving, because if it were I, we would definitely have been inside a giant snowball.
A few miles beyond, as we descended the pass, we hit traffic and came to a stop on the road. We were caravanning with the rest of the band in a few cars and they were ahead of us. Stopped, and obviously not moving for a while, we leashed up Kira and walked her up the road to the guys in front of us. We all shared a bowl, a few laughs, and you probably topped it off with an epic fart. Then we hopped back into the car and continued on our way: quiet, happy, and slightly stoned. It was a peaceful drive.
We arrived in Steamboat later than expected and checked into our hotel on our way into town. The rest of the band was sharing a couple rooms at a motel on the edge of town, but you had gotten us a room at the ski-in, ski-out Sheraton at the base of the mountain. I wished you luck and gave you a kiss as you left, hurrying off to sound check. I stayed in the hotel room for a couple hours working. I remember taking a photo: Kira on the bed, my computer open to a page layout, a room service salad, a glass of champagne, and the lit up ski-run with night skiers gliding down the slopes out the window. I posted it to Instagram with a show-offy caption saying something like "I could get used to this groupie lifestyle".
A while later, you arrived back in the room full of gusto and excitement for the gig filling me in on the details of the backline kit, the crowd, and everyone's moods. You ate the food I'd ordered you and we made love, quickly. You changed into a fresh tee, a solid maroon t-shirt that was 'dressier' in your opinion and appropriate for a gig. Your hair was not to your liking so you grabbed a baseball cap on our way out the door. We drove to the Ghost Ranch just a few miles up the road. I remember the exact parking spot you got, directly in front of the marquee reading "The Drunken Hearts". I made a joke about how it was V.I.P. and saved just for us. You locked the doors of the Volvo, grabbed my hand, and we walked under the marquee lights and through the door. I danced all night to your music and we both drank a bit too much. I don't remember going to bed.
We awoke late the next morning, still a little boozy from the previous night's high. After room service breakfast, some extra snuggles, and a quick dog-walk, we made our way to the base of the gondola. Everyone else was moving slower than us so we hung around waiting. It's those moments I miss most – the times when we were doing nothing at all but having so much fun together, just being so happy, wrapped in a blanket of love, not a care in the world.
That day, we skied for a bit, but less than we anticipated because our hangovers kicked in. You were particularly happy to ski down to my level that day because of your headache, but you always did without complaint anyway. Everyone else left to head back home to the front range, but we opted to stay an extra night.
The Wailers were playing a free show at the base of the mountain that afternoon. I took a photo of you on our balcony. You were in your boxers, the gondola behind you, and the band warming up. "Watching The Wailers in our undies," I'd captioned. We walked Kira and found a liquor store. We grabbed pints of tequila, for you, and whiskey, for me, and joined the crowd, stealing nips of each others bottles as we laughed about how ironic it was to listen to reggae in the snow. I told you about how badly I wanted us to visit Jamaica together. I'd lived there as a little girl, and you'd never been. Kira made friends with other dogs and we watched little kids being adorable in their oversized ski gear and mittens. Eventually bored of the scene, and pretty drunk, we went back to the room and dropped off our Kira-monster. We grabbed a bite of food at the hotel's restaurant. We retired early that night, exhausted and saucy. You ordered a dirty movie from On Demand and we made love again, and then again. We drifted off to sleep, wound up in each others limbs, fake orgasms still playing on the screen, empty liquor bottles on the nightstands: a classy scene, indeed.
As I awoke here this morning, the scene was so different. Your absence was so present in my heart and in my world. I slept in a twin bed last night, tossing and turning in the darkness. My mind wandered sleeplessly: I fit in a twin bed now. Alone. A bed built for one. A bed made for a person alone, a person with no partner, a person who does not get to make love. Kira jumped into the bed with me at some point, understanding that I needed another warm body, some comfort. It helped a bit and I slept lightly.
I woke early and wandered around our host's beautiful mountain home. I admired the finishes, the steam shower, the radiant heat floors, and the views. I tried not to think of our home in Boulder, just about to undergo it's own makeover, now halted.
As I trolled through the house this morning, barefoot, sleep still in my eyes – I felt like there had been a glitch in the Matrix. I half-expected Keanu Reeves, with his too-smooth skin and dead eyes to walk out of a closet, garbed in a trench coat, and say, "Sami, there's been a major mix up." Barely surprised by his arrival, I'd retort, "Yeah. No shit." Keanu would say, "Ted wasn't supposed to die. He can't die because we need him here on this earth for the duration. He's too important for the master plan. We need your help Sami." "Anything!" I would say. "We're not sure you're the right person for the job. You will need to keep a secret for the rest of your life and not tell a soul," Keanu would say. "I can do it!" I'd plead. "I just don't know, Sami. You have a higher than usual amount of honesty in your source code and keeping secrets is not your forte," Keanu would insist. "Please! I can do it. I will never tell anyone. Just bring him back," I'd say. And he would. He'd instruct me on how I need to make every decision exactly the same as I had the first time, up until those last few days – then he'd tell me how to change the sequence of events. He'd rewind the Matrix to that morning we woke up, hungover, 9 months ago, just down the road at the Sheraton. Everything would be in place again, and no one would remember what had originally happened, except for me. And I'd never tell a soul and we'd live happily ever after.
I never knew a man could operate a car with 'grace'. Testosterone, heavy machinery, highways, grace? It didn't seem plausible – but you broke the mold. You, always hugging turns, driving faster than it felt, passing slower traffic with quick ease, and still somehow finding time to give oncoming drivers boater's waves the whole way. You taught me to always stay in the righthand lane except when passing – a traffic concept I somehow missed all these years. You were able to balance the rugged mountain highways, change the track on your iPod, make a funny pun, and open a pressurized kombucha all at the same time, without raising a hair. You always preferred to drive. My nervous acceleration and lack of cruise controlling juggled with asking you to navigate, change the music, and peel me a banana just seemed like more work. You never said it to me directly, but we both settled into that habit. I was just fine with that. Having survived a near death accident when I was younger, I preferred to let you take the wheel.
Along that drive, we drove over Berthoud Pass. As you glided around the turns, we noticed some commotion a few cars back. You continued on the path, not sensing danger and on a time crunch to make it to your gig. Later, we found out that an avalanche had occurred, completely engulfing cars in snow. Everyone was OK, but the road was closed and major delays ensued. We looked each other in the eye and exchanged a few words of gratitude for our safety and timing. I made a joke about how lucky we were that you'd been driving, because if it were I, we would definitely have been inside a giant snowball.
A few miles beyond, as we descended the pass, we hit traffic and came to a stop on the road. We were caravanning with the rest of the band in a few cars and they were ahead of us. Stopped, and obviously not moving for a while, we leashed up Kira and walked her up the road to the guys in front of us. We all shared a bowl, a few laughs, and you probably topped it off with an epic fart. Then we hopped back into the car and continued on our way: quiet, happy, and slightly stoned. It was a peaceful drive.
We arrived in Steamboat later than expected and checked into our hotel on our way into town. The rest of the band was sharing a couple rooms at a motel on the edge of town, but you had gotten us a room at the ski-in, ski-out Sheraton at the base of the mountain. I wished you luck and gave you a kiss as you left, hurrying off to sound check. I stayed in the hotel room for a couple hours working. I remember taking a photo: Kira on the bed, my computer open to a page layout, a room service salad, a glass of champagne, and the lit up ski-run with night skiers gliding down the slopes out the window. I posted it to Instagram with a show-offy caption saying something like "I could get used to this groupie lifestyle".
A while later, you arrived back in the room full of gusto and excitement for the gig filling me in on the details of the backline kit, the crowd, and everyone's moods. You ate the food I'd ordered you and we made love, quickly. You changed into a fresh tee, a solid maroon t-shirt that was 'dressier' in your opinion and appropriate for a gig. Your hair was not to your liking so you grabbed a baseball cap on our way out the door. We drove to the Ghost Ranch just a few miles up the road. I remember the exact parking spot you got, directly in front of the marquee reading "The Drunken Hearts". I made a joke about how it was V.I.P. and saved just for us. You locked the doors of the Volvo, grabbed my hand, and we walked under the marquee lights and through the door. I danced all night to your music and we both drank a bit too much. I don't remember going to bed.
We awoke late the next morning, still a little boozy from the previous night's high. After room service breakfast, some extra snuggles, and a quick dog-walk, we made our way to the base of the gondola. Everyone else was moving slower than us so we hung around waiting. It's those moments I miss most – the times when we were doing nothing at all but having so much fun together, just being so happy, wrapped in a blanket of love, not a care in the world.
That day, we skied for a bit, but less than we anticipated because our hangovers kicked in. You were particularly happy to ski down to my level that day because of your headache, but you always did without complaint anyway. Everyone else left to head back home to the front range, but we opted to stay an extra night.
The Wailers were playing a free show at the base of the mountain that afternoon. I took a photo of you on our balcony. You were in your boxers, the gondola behind you, and the band warming up. "Watching The Wailers in our undies," I'd captioned. We walked Kira and found a liquor store. We grabbed pints of tequila, for you, and whiskey, for me, and joined the crowd, stealing nips of each others bottles as we laughed about how ironic it was to listen to reggae in the snow. I told you about how badly I wanted us to visit Jamaica together. I'd lived there as a little girl, and you'd never been. Kira made friends with other dogs and we watched little kids being adorable in their oversized ski gear and mittens. Eventually bored of the scene, and pretty drunk, we went back to the room and dropped off our Kira-monster. We grabbed a bite of food at the hotel's restaurant. We retired early that night, exhausted and saucy. You ordered a dirty movie from On Demand and we made love again, and then again. We drifted off to sleep, wound up in each others limbs, fake orgasms still playing on the screen, empty liquor bottles on the nightstands: a classy scene, indeed.
As I awoke here this morning, the scene was so different. Your absence was so present in my heart and in my world. I slept in a twin bed last night, tossing and turning in the darkness. My mind wandered sleeplessly: I fit in a twin bed now. Alone. A bed built for one. A bed made for a person alone, a person with no partner, a person who does not get to make love. Kira jumped into the bed with me at some point, understanding that I needed another warm body, some comfort. It helped a bit and I slept lightly.
I woke early and wandered around our host's beautiful mountain home. I admired the finishes, the steam shower, the radiant heat floors, and the views. I tried not to think of our home in Boulder, just about to undergo it's own makeover, now halted.
As I trolled through the house this morning, barefoot, sleep still in my eyes – I felt like there had been a glitch in the Matrix. I half-expected Keanu Reeves, with his too-smooth skin and dead eyes to walk out of a closet, garbed in a trench coat, and say, "Sami, there's been a major mix up." Barely surprised by his arrival, I'd retort, "Yeah. No shit." Keanu would say, "Ted wasn't supposed to die. He can't die because we need him here on this earth for the duration. He's too important for the master plan. We need your help Sami." "Anything!" I would say. "We're not sure you're the right person for the job. You will need to keep a secret for the rest of your life and not tell a soul," Keanu would say. "I can do it!" I'd plead. "I just don't know, Sami. You have a higher than usual amount of honesty in your source code and keeping secrets is not your forte," Keanu would insist. "Please! I can do it. I will never tell anyone. Just bring him back," I'd say. And he would. He'd instruct me on how I need to make every decision exactly the same as I had the first time, up until those last few days – then he'd tell me how to change the sequence of events. He'd rewind the Matrix to that morning we woke up, hungover, 9 months ago, just down the road at the Sheraton. Everything would be in place again, and no one would remember what had originally happened, except for me. And I'd never tell a soul and we'd live happily ever after.
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