Dashboards

French pen pal letter to my mom from Claude, written in 1966

Yes so I'm now 38. It's a brilliant thing: I take no exception to turning older particularly because What's the Point, We Can't Stop It. And, if I don't mind saying so, I'm an exquisitely adorable 38 year old. I have my issues, but don't we all?

My birthday weekend was astounding. I wound up going into work that day, despite that I traditionally take my birthday off as a National Amazing Holiday, and Harley, one of our Project Administrators who is adorable, little, rich (we tease her of it), from the Hamptons (we tease her of it), neurotic (we try not to tease her of it: for instance, she keeps only an even number of pens in her pen cup; I admire and adore her) snuck out to a bakery near our office and bought me a cake. She brought it back and the staff scuffled around to collect everyone in the conference room and then they summoned me and those gathered broke into "Happy Birthday" and it was...all too sweet. After work many had agreed to go have drinks to celebrate, and I selected a random Midtown spot (Midtown is the worst place to go out, ever, but convenient for all of my friends) and I left the office early to locate the place, and within half an hour, after texting Harley and Arvinder (another awesome girl in my office) my location, second floor of The Harp, I turned to see an entire cavalcade of Shawmut team members climbing the stairs to the second floor of the bar to meet me. My heart soared.

I did wind up seeing Greg later in the weekend, although I completely canceled our trip to Providence. I have so many justifications for canceling, the number one being that he had been so silent for so many days that How could I feel like an Amtrak Ride and My Favorite Band Live could help us? At that rate, nothing (seemingly) could salvage our deterioration. Which feels like round 2 of deterioration. 

We had sort of mutually agreed to meet on April 18th, the evening after my birthday, but I received a text that he was with his Mom and Bob in Jersey and potentially wouldn't be home until 9:30 or so. Now, not only is the L train not running on weekends through until May 18th, which makes travel from Williamsburg difficult, but also...Greg, seriously? 9:30? I just turned 38, not 28. So I texted him not to rush back and that maybe Sunday night, April 19th, would be more conducive. 

He complied via text, and so Sunday he invited me for pizza in the evening (he had a bike ride in the day time.) I'm supposing it is utterly clear that he didn't actually clear space in his calendar for my birthday, rather filled it with other things, thus I was a filler piece if he could figure out how to squeeze me in somehow. We did meet for pizza at Motorino in Williamsburg, and spent maybe two hours together there. His leg bumped mine once under the table and I thought I could die. Hating him emotionally is impossible despite these social quirks he has. Hating him physically is impossible as his presence, his body, is the one that reminds me that I'm alive.

And when we decided to exit Motorino, he elected to grab a bike to go back to Brooklyn Heights and I elected to grab a cab. I stared at him briefly: he neither attempted a birthday hug or even, at this point, a smile, so I waved enthusiastically as I jumped into the taxi. And that was my birthday experience with Greg, April, 2015.

I cannot say that I have any regrets, canceling the Providence trip, turning 38 without him. He seemed dismissive enough of my celebration of being born that I basically wrote him off.

And since he has left for California (he is about to enter his second week there) I'm sort of of the mind that I just don't have the energy to wait around for verbiage from him anymore. He's totally fallen silent, again, and so now we're non-communicative and I am absolutely filled with venom over it. Who does he think he is? Some sort of fucking voodoo hippie head doctor? Over it. I fell madly in love with a guy that I now am not sure I know, at all.

The dashboard display of my life, for my birthday, would read something like this (and let's say that I am about to embark on the 9th anniversary, at the end of May, of me having not driven a car) (so, my dashboard is figurative):

Age: 38
Speed: Full force
Mental state: Happy, with shades of dark blended in
Exuberance: Overwhelming and powerful
Life: Filled with meaning and true experience