They Had Something I Wanted

But still, I felt one-upped.

Hello Beautifuls,

I am humbled and thrilled by the community gathering here. Thank you for your kindness, your vulnerability and your presence.

What readers are experiencing:

• “You land straight in the center of it and don’t drift.”

• “You make the ordinary feel holy.”

• “ I gasped so many times reading this, wanting to pull out the words and pin them somewhere to revisit later. Maybe I'll cover my mirror in lipstick.”

If you need a weekly balm for your tired soul, Hello Beautifuls is the perfect read as the world falls apart.

We're selling our house in Texas and the only thing I want in the world (besides the madness of this administration to stop) is to move back home to California. I want it more than I want my dead dog to still be alive, more than I want sex, more than I want to feel like my life is figured out, running along a smooth track to somewhere good and right and important.

I am singular in my desire. I wonder, when the constant wanting is fulfilled, when I am finally in California, will I feel satisfied? Or will I feel lost without the conviction of my exile.

The home inspector was here yesterday, a nice man with kids in early high school, who was dreaming of the cool mountains of Ecuador, of a Honduran island's apartment building he could buy for under $400,000. He and his wife are making exit plans during the home stretch of their children's dependent years.

Whether we are kindred spirits or not, his report will say what is does about the house. I am fairly certain everything but the roof is fine, but the not knowing is a dark well, its sides slick with moss.

I've been doing what I do in response to overwhelming feelings of helplessness and lack of control:

I run.

Sometimes twice in one day. For as long and as hard as I can. Until I feel like I'm about to throw up.

I told an acquaintance the other day, as a sort of badge, that I'd run so hard I felt queasy. He shrugged me off, "Oh I can't even count the number of times I've thrown up." Granted, he was a semi-professional hockey player. But still, I felt one-upped. Self harm as competition.

I stop eating.

Not entirely. Just whole meals. Breakfast. Or dinner. Sometimes both. And then I get sensitive when my husband comments on me eating a full plate. Self denial is a window that doesn't open.

I seek out distractions.

This used to look like drinking and dancing and staying too late at bonfires on the beach with men I didn't know well. Now it looks like buying two jean jackets I didn't need, (but they're different from the other three I have) and spending more time swimming, sleeping and running. Distraction is a blindfold on the present.

I remember being a buyer and feeling like the seller was part demi-god, part enemy. They had something I wanted and were surly charging too much, surly hiding pitfalls I wouldn't know about until it was too late. I remember fearing I'd buy the wrong house.

It's possible I could try to have some compassion for these buyers. It's possible I could try and offer myself some grace.

I'm not sure I'm capable right now. So even though I don't know how to get through the fear, the potential devastation of staying here in Texas any longer, I get on my mat and breathe. I keep the phone date with my sister. I show up to the work date with my friend. I get on the team meeting with my client. I work my way through the hours, and know, at some point, things will change. We will know or not know if this deal will go through and then we will move onto the next step, whatever it is, grief or joy. My sister will still love me, my friends will still want to play, work will continue to move forward.

Maybe that is all there is anyway. My hand reaching for yours, your hand waiting to clasp mine.

In moments of brevity, I am reminded of the scene in Gilmore Girls where TJ and Liz buy a house and he declares he's in, "Escarow."

If you need a weekly balm for your tired soul, Hello Beautifuls is the perfect read as the world falls apart.

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