I am anxious to write a blog two times in as many days, but I'm going to do it anyway because I'm here and you're not. I sometimes feel sad when there is only zero or one comment waiting to be read but I also know that I don't know anyone who writes anything more than once every couple of weeks anyway so I know they're just not around. But, let's get real for just a second, I feel a little lonely and I think that's the only time I ever blog. But comments. No comments. It doesn't matter--I'm going to write something else anyway.
I had a cup of coffee about an hour ago. It's currently 11:05 pm. There was a time when I would be very intentional about my caffeine intake--times, amounts, types. There was also a time when I gave a damn about what I was like in the mornings. These days I've been known to go more than one day without a shower. And for that I sincerely apologize to my co-workers. But not enough to get into the shower. It's not as if I'm not up. I've usually been up for close to three hours before I go to work (on Thursday The Wizard of Oz played one and a half times before I left). It's the water pressure. It's the water pressure that makes me crazy and makes showering such an impossible chore that I would rather apply and re-apply deodorant than go to the trouble of taking off my clothes and running around under the fall of water that can, at best, be described as an insignificant dribble.
It's significantly later than when I started writing (I got distracted) but I'm sitting here at my laptop on the new sofa after everyone else has gone to bed and I'm in my zone. And someone knocks on the door. So, what do I do? I turn off the light in the living room. Is there a more obvious way to pretend to have not heard a knock at the door? I submit that there is not. And that I am a coward. My initial thought was that whoever was at the door had designs on murdering me. It wasn't until a few minutes later that I thought about the idea that that was one quite polite murderer--to leave after I "pretended" to be out. Damnit. It was probably Ryan. It sounded like a Ryan knock. Stupid me.
A few months ago I saw this guy on Oprah. Oh--wait--let's back up and I'll open this the way that everyone opens a story like this: "Now I don't normally watch Oprah... but I was flipping through the channels and..." I'm going to be honest with you, though, a few months ago I did watch Oprah with some regularity and with some excitement. Daytime television is the drug of choice for the underployed.
Okay, so a few months ago I saw this guy on Oprah. I didn't learn much about it because I was, I don't know, probably talking to Alyssa about being pregnant (What did we talk about before she got pregnant? Oh yeah, wedding planning. What did we talk about before that? God only knows. We probably paid attention to Oprah.) We saw this guy and I thought, "He's cute. Oh look. He has a baby. Oh look, his baby is dressed fabulously. He listens to Wilco. Cool dad." And today I somehow, magically happened upon his blog and I haven't stopped reading it except to write my own (insignificant in comparison) post and to read other strangers' blogs.
His name is Matt and he was friends with Liz back in '96. And he fell in love with Liz. And then he started dating Liz. And he dated Liz for 8 years and he loved her that whole time. And they got married. And he still loved her that whole time. And Liz got pregnant. And he loved her even more. And Liz had a baby and they both loved her. Her name is Maddie. And when Maddie was 27 hours old, a blood clot killed her mom. And Matt loves her still. And he still talks about her daily. I know because I've read his blog all day. And he's a single dad with a gorgeous girl and impeccable taste. In clothes. In music. In facial hair. In literature. Under different circumstances we would be friends. It's a pretty serious example of one-day-at-a-time living. It's a pretty serious example of taking advantage of friends and resources available to us. It's a pretty serious example of the sort of impossible shit that happens every day. And while it makes me scared--nay, terrified to love anything too hard again, it makes me want to be capable of such a broken heart.
I'm reading about how he has to plan road trips that coincide with his anniversary as means of distraction because he can't handle being in the house or by himself. I'm reading about how he's prompted to think of her by things that they didn't even have in common. I'm reading about how he has breakdowns and how leaves his daughter with her doting relatives and goes to bars with his friends. I want to be friends with Matt. I get the impression that so do most of the women in America, though, according to the comments on his blog. He's just got one of those qualities that I require in my most serious of friendships. Resilience and complexity that errs on the side of whimsical with an awareness of that ache that we've all got. I need these people around me. I need people who know that it all pretty much has an overwhelming sucky vibe but at least there is still ice cream and knock-knock jokes. And You. And you know I couldn't wake up tomorrow if you weren't in my corner--knowing that I was in yours, too.