It’s Not You, It’s Me

Retrovaille (n.) the joy of meeting or finding someone again after a long separation

My new old friend, Meriam (see Freedom Tickler to understand how cool she is) sends me these word-porn gems. They’re like ammonia to my muse.

I have a keep-in-touch deficiency. When I move–schools, cities, states, jobs–I inadvertantly cut ties with everyone. I don’t do it for any real reason. I’m not a phone person to begin with, and I have a love/hate relationship with texting.

(what’s great about texting:

  • I rarely have to talk on the phone
  • shorthand wit-battles
  • paper trail

what’s sh*tty about texting

  • manic reciprocation expectation
  • more editing. emails cause me enough distress.
  • ALL CAPS and !!!exclamation points!!!! WHY IS EVERYONE YELLING!
  • emoticons. There aren’t enough adjectives for me to describe how I despise emoticons.
  • paper trail)

Most all of my relationships end on a bad note when my feeble reciprocity tapers out. The only ones remaining are with those that know full well and have no problem that I will disappear for years at a time. Those that can leave the “Oh, I guess now you have enough time for me” bullish*t out of it. Hey, how’ve you been? Any kids? Still married to the same guy? Laugh laugh laugh, I love and miss you always, talk to you in a few years.

I don’t mean to be so shitty about it. I’d love to be the type of person who remembers birthdays and what your husband does for work. But not many of my memories survive the passing of time. Some do; To find my reading zen I summon the preteen me reading in my mom’s old bedroom at my grandmother’s house in Puerto Rico, and I can still hear her old window unit. I can still see the lamplight, and I can still feel my mom reading/sleeping next to me. It works really well.

On parents day at sleepaway camp, my dad (a former camper. campers understand certain things about one another) took me to my favorite dock, sat me down and had me close my eyes. Then he told me to breathe everything in about the very moment, sponge up everything and make an effort to store it somewhere deep inside. So I did, and what’s cool is: 25 years later I still have the key to that memory, and I can effectively allay anxiety swells with an astral projection to that dock.

But I barely remember my home addresses and can’t give an accurate detail about high school. I think that’s why I have such a hard time making and keeping many relationships. Please understand that I have fun and interesting times with people everywhere, and that I genuinely appreciate them. But some people plummet into your life at just the right angle and burn a thumbprint into your timeline. I can count these people on one hand and I think I’m out-of-this-world lucky to have that many.

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