so, i began getting ready for bed, here, now at midnight, and decided that i need to open a bottle of wine and winge.
i looked at myself in the mirror and saw: a 30+ female who's kinda cute, fairly fit, and a divorced, soppy mess.
as it is winter, it's pretty cold in my apartment right now. i turned up the heat, but i don't understand how the thermostat works in here. the ondol sometimes turns the place warmer, and my feet'll randomly get nice and toasty, but it's capricious. the temperature seems to rise when i'm sweating, but the floors are always cold to the touch when i groggily stumble out of my bed. apparently, i can turn up the heat for the water as well, but my showers are still only lukewarm.
i'm cold tonight--this Friday night--and i'm actually *in* b/c the prospect of going out makes me curl further into my blankets with a book and Left-Eyed Leonard. or the remote.
when did this happen?
when did i prefer to wrap myself up in this warm little Spring/Fall jacket and cuddle with my sock monkey, rather than dance and flirt on the crowded dance floor?
and this stupid jacket.
i've worn this jacket every Spring and Winter for the past 5 years--forgetting that it actually has some kind of significance besides the pullover that keeps the chill out. but tonight, i'm startled to recall: Chris got me this jacket.
many seasons ago, in a suburb of Chicago, in a different lifetime, he had asked me what i wanted for my birthday/Christmas. i told him: "socks, undies, and something warm. maybe something Puma."
a bright fuchsia puma leaps from my collarbone, mockingly stretching it's lean body to the sky. reminding me that everything is connected, and my history is not something that can ever be escaped.
looking for a moment at that bright, lean figure in the mirror, i had sudden nostalgia of the time when cuddling was free, comfortable, and kisses didn't make me nervous. when everything was a soft, worn pair of pilled socks. Chris and i had jokes about farming mini-donkeys or hosting our own cooking show or i might stroke the first digit of his left thumb because it felt safe. and familiar.
i stared forever into his big green eyes and saw our bedroom lamp reflected back to me.
i saw the walls our first apartment with the crotchety deaf lady who blasted her TV every night.
the fishtank where he first got excited about fancy goldfish.
the townhouse where we bought IKEA furniture and then died in.
is this my life? did i actually live there sometime before today?
or is it a dream?
was there a point that my life was actually reflected on the surface of his big green eyes?
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