It’s not going to be perfect. A weekend visit, filled with entertainment and excitement and really wild things is no marker of how my life is going to be, every minute and every hour and every day. It’s going to be hard, and it’s going to be cold, and it’s going to be terrifying—I am relying on myself, after all, entirely. No sick days, no vacation days, no bonuses, no getting up every morning and coming into work because my boss expects me to; instead, I am the boss, and if I don’t feel like it, I don’t have to. Except I always, always have to. And I am doing this to write. Do you know what that means? It means I have to write, every day. I have to sit down and make it go, every single day, and I am the only person to whom I am beholden to, and it is going to be the absolute opposite of perfect. The absolute opposite of perfect feels like gut-loosening terror, I am here to tell you.
It’s going to be perfect. I am going to be able to rely on myself, and not have to come into an office every single day. I will work in my red monkey footy pajamas, and drink tea with a cat in my lap and do my freelance work in the morning, go to the gym, do my writing in the afternoon, and then E. will come over and we will both be in excellent moods and everything will be great and wonderful and swell and we will never argue and we will always be perfectly, beautifully in love and he is never going to drive me completely batshit crazy. It’s going to be the absolute epitome of happiness and perfection. It feels just like sunshine and butterflies crapping diamonds.
It is all a big question mark, and I have absolutely and completely no
idea how it is going to work out, for the good or for the bad, for the
beautifully integrated melting pot of both good and bad, for however it
works out. I am hopeful, though. I am a little ball of hope. Cut me
open, and there is blood, but that blood is made of hope, and also the
Christmas cookies the vendors keep fucking sending us that keep ending
up in my belly somehow and I have no idea how they got there. So weird!
I would like to go on believing that everything is going to be perfect,
because otherwise, I shoot straight for despair and become convinced
that everything is going to go terribly wrong and there is no hope.
There is no happy medium, for me.
I think it is going to be a happy medium. Did you believe me when I
said that? I am trying to believe myself when I say that. It is going
to be hard, and I am going to make a lot of mistakes and do a lot of
dumb things (the short version: I am me! Hooray!) but it seems like it
has the potential to be really good for me, to be a wonderful
adventure, to be exciting and new and spectacularly, intestinally
hideously terribly awful except we’re not thinking about that. We’re
thinking positive things. We’re trying to strike a balance. I have
never been very coordinated. I have never felt more schizophrenic.
When I visit for Christmas, this coming Sunday, I am taking a check
over to my landlord, a deposit for my beautiful little house with the ’50s kitchen and the fireplace in the living room and the wallpaper
with the little apples on it and the very big closets. I can paint and
decorate; I am already thinking about the couch I want. I think it
might be red. I’ve never actually owned a couch. See, there’s a new
thing to put on my list of the super awesome positives that are so
numerous and varied that they completely kick the ass of the negatives
and are so great that they will keep everything from going to total
nightmarish hell, right? Say yes, please, and give me another Christmas