"We don’t have to bury it"

Sometimes I feel like I could just keep using this lyric as a subject line over and over again.  It's also, at the moment, the only song lyric I've ever contemplated tattooing on myself, because (taking it a tiny bit out of context) I am far more likely to try to stove in the skull of my past and bury it in an unmarked grave with aspen branches or some other folktale that keeps the dead from rising than ever try to be gentle with myself/it. 

 I know that there's a lot of cultural baggage around pumpkin spice flavored things.  Today, I realized what I actually want is everything in the world to be vaguely nutmeg flavored and that if pumpkin spice is the thing that gets me that, I am 100% down with that.  (why yes, I have consumed pumpkin spice miniwheats and pumpkin spice cheerios, and only narrowly avoided acquiring pumpkin spice nutrigrain bars.)  Now the artificially flavored pumpkin-flavored whipped cream is just sheer abandon.

 

Moving is hard.  I'm beginning to wonder if I've got some sort of creeping sickness/malaise underneath it all.  I wake up exhausted, I sleep restlessly (i'm now just accepting there's an hour or so in between 1-4 that I'll be awake for.).  My legs always feel like the day after the gym and the dark circles under my eyes seem to be trending towards turning into a raccoon mask.    And sure, after the move I know i have to go see three different doctors, any of whom might have life-altering news for me.  (sleep study probably resulting in an CPAP/APAP, plastic surgeon probably resulting in additional surgery on the stunt boobs, gastroenterologist probably resulting in some additional diagnosis about intestinal inflammation (mom has IBS, little brother has Crohn's).)  But maybe I should put my general practitioner in there.  And I need to find a new psychiatrist, while my current one is whatever the medical version of a lick-and-stick car inspection, she's also in brookline and much like therapists, the greater the need for one, the less emotional energy I have to devote to finding a one.

 

One of the many, many things I've uncovered (in addition to things like five crutches, a random assortment of pet food bowls that I stored instead of tossing and even more books than I remember putting in storage) is a large shoebox full of old letters, completely unorganized, and I'm wondering extensively what to do with them.  I've started to sort them, I've thrown away the handful from people I don't remember at all and I'm realizing that I was pretty lucky with some of my correspondence.  I am also realizing that unlike photos, which I tend to keep because as much as I'm still camera-shy, I also know how swiss-cheese my memory is and how photos tend to bring back a decent amount for me.  Letters, on the other hand, are mostly half of a story that I only remember bits of.   Though there are a couple people I want to write and just tell them how awesome they were, but I want to do this without resorting to facebook, so there's that.

 

Porter Square Books announced it's yearly readathon sleepover and even if I'm probably a good decade too old for an all nighter, and it will be only two weeks after we move, I've bought tickets for myself, Light and Abundance. I'm not sure at what point something is organically tradition, but I'm more than happy to force it until then.   As long as I remain this delighted by the idea, I'm going, and I feel like I'm somehow repaying something to younger omnia when I do, or keeping a promise I never actually made.

Someday, baby omnia, you get to get locked in overnight at your favorite bookstore and it is actually everything you imagine it to be. I know you can't hear me, but maybe this is one of the ways I can reparent whatever part of you stayed inside me, and it just happens to be a lesson in shameless self indulgence for both of us.