88/90

I tried really hard to react to something this morning. To feel something, connect to anything that would lend itself to a bit of nonfiction narrative.

All I felt was the burn of my thigh muscles as I entered Day 3 at Level 1 of the 30 Day Shred. After a shower, I walked into the kitchen to make some breakfast. I realized that I had no bread to make toast, so  I stole some. I then realized there was nothing for me to put my coffee or toast on but my own hands.

The burning muscles were drown out by the rising annoyance. I washed the rest of my belongings and removed them from the kitchen. I realized I had to pee and remembered that we don't have any toilet paper. I took all pieces of my life out of the kitchen, with the exception of about two meals still hanging out in the fridge, next to a mold-speckled cucumber and seven jars of mayo/nayo/Smart Balance creamy spread/Miracle Whip.

I walk out of the kitchen. Forever. Basically. I'll only reenter to grab the contents of the fridge and freezer, toss them to my parents before they leave town and gag feeling my feet stick to the floor one more time. Just one more.

I thought that there was a lot in this moment. I'm leaving my first house, if you can call a college rental that. My main tangible bit of independence (even though a loan signed by my parent paid this semester's rent) is only in my life for one more day, and that's including the extra time we're stealing from our landlord.

Rachel and I spent some time in front of the house yesterday, scribbling with chalk. That was the moment when I felt like I said goodbye. When I colored in my last squiggly shape, I felt done with Muncie, removed. Not wanting to go out and celebrate, not wanting to see everyone and share farewells. I want to hide from all of it, be in my room and remember what it's like to have no obligations and no work.

That's not exactly true, since my actual work, the stuff I get paid for by the Archives, got held over. I skipped it this week for lack of endurance when it comes to looking at a computer screen. Twenty hours of translating was impossible. Period. I spent so much time flopped on the futon mattress, eyes closed, no music, this week for lack of eye power. And I don't feel bad about it. I loved it. I remember what it is like to be myself, be alone with myself.


Joe gets here this evening. We're spending some time with my family, who will be in Muncie and staying the night for graduation tomorrow. I've begged him to hide away with me. I know that his graduation will have us bopping about from get-together to get-together and party to party. And I have to go. I have to let him have that time. It's "his day," like the wedding is supposed to be my day, like my own graduation is supposed to be my day.

Maybe it's all selfish, keeping us off by ourselves. I can't stand the bar crawls or the loud, drunken reveling. I want to be quiet, with a drink in my hand and people I care about; I want to notice the minutes passing until their aren't any more of them; then, I want to move on. I want to take it slow, since we have so few days together this summer before we leap into a marriage and fly away. I want to hold onto him, literally, and continue to just be.