Strange days, these days.
I’m thinking a lot about my old friends. Perhaps not without reason, seeing that this Friday marks one year since our high school reunion.
I haven’t mentioned this before, but the night before I flew home, I dreamt I was sitting on the deck of the shipwreck in Costinesti – this sea resort we used to go to every summer when we were in school. In real life, I’d never been brave enough to swim to it, of course. But it had always been a smudge on the horizon of my summer holidays. An over sized freckle on the face of the sky, as we were busy rubbing our bodies against a million shades of sand, and rarely touching each other’s skins. It felt eerily real, the dream. Hot metal shedding rusty flakes under my fingers, legs dangling dangerously over the edge, familiar voices competing with the sound of the waves.
I’d picked a white cocktail dress and a pair of grown up shoes my mother actually approved of. They make your legs look longer, she said, plucking imaginary grains of dust off my hem as I was getting ready to leave. Dad offered to drive me to school. There’s no point, I said, I’ll catch a taxi. I knew it hurt him, he measures his love for me in distances he’s driven me to and from parties where they serve alcohol and allow unreliable boys to invite innocent girls to slow dance. I normally couldn’t resist him the pleasure of delivering me safely to yet another objectionable destination, but this time I wanted a few minutes with myself. Just in case I had a panic attack or something.
I’d heard it happened even to normal, well balanced people, and I’d just dreamt myself jumping off a shipwreck. I wouldn’t take any chances.
After I got home from the party, I sat at my childhood desk and came up with this two thousand words Evernote document on what had turned into the happiest and saddest day in my life thus far. It took me until 6 in the morning, and when I was done I made myself a cup of coffee, the first in years and the last since, and sat in the kitchen watching really bad teleshopping until my parents woke up. Knives cutting through beer cans and miraculous anti cellulite body lotions.
Months later, I’d tweaked and translated it into this sort-of-letter that ended up never reaching its intended recipient, but instead seems to have touched some of you, strangers I’m for some reason sharing secrets with.
It’s a wonder we end up doing all these things we’d never imagined we would, and still manage to live with ourselves despite the disappointments we’ve become. Leavers of friends, forgetters of hopes and dreams, we’ve got many names these days.
As my secret, past rummaging life unravels inside me, my real, outside life grows into this pile of things there’s little point writing about.
It turns out we’re not getting the flat we’d been looking at for the past few months. It’s got nothing to do with us, the builders have got some problems and all work on the development has been indefinitely put on hold. For some deranged reason, I’m actually relieved, though very much aware that it means that, at least for the foreseeable future, our plans for a home away from home are shattered beyond mending. And you know what, finally freed from under this home hunting burden I’ve been carrying for half a year, I don’t really know what to do with myself.
I’m trying not to waste my newly found freedom by diving into things that, Cosmopolitan and the likes claim will help me grow as a person.
I’ve entered a 5k Race for Life event in July, so I’ve already run more these last couple of days that in my entire life so far. Typical of me not to find joy in well known endorphin releasing activities, by the end of a run I’m less exhausted physically and more by the swarm of annoying, depressing, completely race unrelated thoughts I have to deal with during my evening laps. I’m hoping brain numbness will soon follow leg numbness and then all should be all right in the world.
I’m slowly approaching 100 posts published here, and I never cease to be amazed by it, as well as by the degree of utter mess this blog has reached while I wasn’t looking. A tangled mix of happy-happy-joy-joy, cheesy, depressing and imagined, the reality of which would probably get me really down, if only it didn’t define my life, and myself, to such absolute, annoying perfection. Well, at least I’m famous. Not.
In other news, I’m almost 30. And I don’t mean almost as in I’m in fact 28 and moaning about being almost 30 is the only interesting thing about me. No, I am actually turning 30. I’m so “almost” 30 that there’s two weeks left until I’ll have to lose the almost.
I don’t think I feel anything about it, but then again, I have a way of secretly feeling things, and not realising it until it’s too late.