I am sitting against the wall in my sister’s spare bedroom. I haven’t had a room since July. But I haven’t been paying my own rent, either.
I keep writing and deleting and rewriting. I wanted to write something therapeutic, but not too personal, and not at all narcissistic, though I’m afraid that that is exactly what a blog is. Oh, well. Here I am in Atlanta, quite literally between phases of life, sitting on the floor, comfortably content enough to stay here until morning, when I will be whisked away to the art museum with my lovely family. And they are, truly, lovely. Though when I’m with them, I forget who I am. All my masks and armors melt away and I hunch forward safely over my curled up legs, listening and laughing and interjecting without fear or pretense.
I just wish that this nasty cold would go away.
I departed Mississippi on Tuesday, leaving one set of my parents and my latest home behind, to come play party guest to Emily’s life. I don’t think my sister has ever told me to sit down before 🙂 Strange, it seems, that she is offering me towels and wine, kissing me goodnight and giving me an extra blanket for the spare bedroom. Weren’t we just talking on the phone about boys?
I dream frequently about my own imaginary home. In it, I stand barefoot on the cool tile of my wide open kitchen, leaning on marble countertops, the sunlight reflecting in my steel pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. I am the quiet despot of my humbly rustic abode, with maybe a dog or two, and enough tea to last until my fifties. It’s Nancy Meyers on a slightly smaller scale.
Of course, this is all an illusion, and every time I look in the mirror I remember that I am far more round about the face then I’d like to be, and not nearly collected enough to be my own homeowner.
My dreams have changed so much with every passing year, yet they never cease to be fully visualized and massively elaborate. They never come true. This is why I need to watch less television. As cynical as that sounds, I am perfectly content to not watch TV, to take walks and stretch about on yoga mats and not look in mirrors at all. I realize this may seem strange to my Buckhead residential older sister or any one else my age, but I don’t think I can help that. I don’t want to help that. I want to like it and not give it another thought, because there is too much tea to be drunk before I turn fifty.
On Saturday night, after arriving in Philadelphia and unpacking in my new home, I will sleep, and, God willing, wake up in the year 2012, wondering how in the world I got to where I now am and chortling at how different my life is from what I earnestly imagined it would be right now.