I have a hard time letting go of things. And I’m not talking about my bottle of Xanax before I’m carted off into that damn MRI machine or my box of Whoppers while I’m at the movies. It’s not my fault my friends decided to get those nasty Sour Patch Kids. I mean, you can only eat so many of those things.
I’m talking more along the lines of grudges. Doesn’t make me sound very pleasant, I know. But I remember the time I got my first pair of stonewashed jeans. They were the kind with the yoke front. It was the late ’80s. And I wore those things all the time. No really, all the time. I’m talking to bed even. I just did that as a kid—even with shoes. I guess I was scared the things I loved would somehow find a way of leaving me during the night, so I secured them to me. It’s a wonder I was even able to fall asleep with crisp, acid-washed jeans and alligator-laced Nikes fastened to me. At least I couldn’t be accused of having boring taste.
Well, one day I was playing in my grandma’s front yard with my sister and brother when I tried to be like Jackie Joyner Kersee and jump over a fence. I am not an Olympic athlete and landed on top of one of the fence posts, tearing my coveted pair of stonewashed jeans—and my knee a little bit. Looking back, I’m grateful I didn’t tear my lady bits. There was minimal blood, but a lot of tears. I ran in the house and buried my face in my mom’s lap. She and Grandma were sitting around the table, drinking coffee and breaking pecan bars into chunks, and then eating each and every chunk (somehow breaking them into pieces makes them lower in calories than eating them whole). My mom yanked my face out of her crotch and asked me what was the matter.
She knows me well, “Is this about your jeans or are you really hurt?” Even back then I couldn’t lie well. I was utterly devastated about my jeans—nothing else—and I was sobbing like Tammy Faye Messner did when she sang hymns on the 700 Club. The only way my mom could get me to shut up was by promising me a new pair of jeans. Well, it’s been twenty years and I’m still waiting for my second pair. My mom promised. She promised me a pair of stonewashed jeans and the woman never delivered. Moms are supposed to deliver. And I don’t just mean in childbirth. I guess I could buy my own pair. I mean, I am thirty-two and all. But it’s just not the same. I equate it to buying your own birthday cake. Screw that.
Fast-forward to two weeks ago. My boyfriend and I got into a bit of a spat. I won’t get into all of the details here. As much as I might violate emotional boundaries in my writing, I do like to maintain some privacy in certain areas; mainly one area. Anyway, I acted in a way he wasn’t used to and he did something he said he’d never do. Of course, there were extenuating circumstances. I realize that intellectually. I was a juror on a capital murder case. I know all about mitigating factors—except when it comes to my life. That’s why I depend so heavily on my friends; they’re like my own personal jury. I poll them regularly on things like, if I should order my coffee iced or hot, to if I should watch Desperate Housewives or skip it a week and see a movie, to if I should call my sister back after hanging up on her for calling me dumb.
I can’t help it, I need guidance. Sort of like the blind need seeing-eye dogs. But, when it comes to my intimate relationship, I abandon my trusted service companion and go at it alone (everyone knows making love in front of dogs is awkward). So it’s to be expected that I bump my nose a few times and step on his toes right? It hurts like hell, but it’s worth it. We all grow up in such different households and learn such different ways of treating people and communicating.
