Have you ever had an "I enjoyed myself too much last night" hangover?
I have no energy to be thrilled at anything today. I think I sapped my humanity with every laugh that tore screaming through my gaping throat.
My tonsils were dancing.
(I hate taking lunch breaks, I can never get my mind back on whatever solutions was thrumming on the tips of my fingers.)
We took another motorcycle theory class last night with results largely resembling last time.
Our theory exam is Sept. 7th (took me seven or so phone calls to get that organized today)
We were both jonesing to play Everquest afterwards but couldn't pass up sitting down for a beer. (and still I was surprised he wanted to spend the time with me)
We talked.
I could get used to this.
To the look on Marc's face when we actually say things to each other.
And once in a while, when I know with such terrible certainty exactly what he means.
But y'know those self-conscious moments that aren't fair to the person you're talking to?
Y'know when someone says "fuck, I hate when so-and-so does that" and you can't help but wonder if they see that in you too?
I have no patience for that kind of doubt in myself, and less in other people - if I'm saying it to you it's because I think you are capable of hearing it, understanding it, whatever.
But with Marc, my self-esteem is seventeen years old again, balanced on trembling coltish legs - the beer in my hand too terribly dear to me to drink because it's the excuse I have for being there.
S'not so bad, actually. It's just the moments when the glasses are almost drained and the conversation turns to the convoluted excuses we have for our secret cynicisms, and I wonder if I'm really an exception to Stories That Make Marc Glower, or if I'm just another face across a table.
Sometimes I convince myself, when we're racing around the pharmacy looking for shaving cream Because Lucky Used the Last of Marc's and Can't Be Trusted To Replace It, and running a commentary on all the odd-to-us products like EYEBROW PENCILS or EYELASH CURLERS and laughing like highschoolkids playing hooky on a pop quiz day and making the caissiere laugh like we've just met in line for a rollercoasterride, that the friendship between us is just as childlike and pure.
Point being, I looked at yesterday with a child's eyes, a child who's accepted her responsabilities, paid her bills, returned triumphantly from work having accomplished something, a child who speaks with the self-respect of what an adult should be, a child who laughs in glee at the sight of someone else's smile and then takes off racing down the street because the sky has too much energy today.
And I've paid my bills and called the car dealership and signed up for insurance and done my groceries and folded my laundry and researched why the content window of Netscape 6 refuses to play nice, and none of it has broken me.
My name translated from the hebrew means "joy" or if you stress the second syllable rather than the first - "exile".
I used to find that painfully ironic, but finally... After 23 years of hating the world and hating the people in it and despising the people who'd given me such an unfair name - I'm proud.
Because you can't take my laugh from me, and you'll never shatter the glee - and I'm exiled for not letting you tell me that my goal is to be passively content - I'm exiled to that secret place behind the evening beers and cab rides home
I'm exiled to that hidden spot between bored housewives and selfish businessmen and angry kids who've never learned to laugh - I'm exiled to that spot where no one can steal my smile.
And I wonder, will that same smile be in my heart tonight. When he said "I will definitely see you at foufs tonight" my heart skipped in fear that last night's ringing laughtrack will be smashed to pieces
but I'm not that easy to break.
I'm not that grown up yet.