We were still very much in that light-headed, breathless, noyouhangup period of the relationship. I've always liked that part. He swore he couldn't believe his luck. I swore that I couldn't believe I'd let him see me naked. I walked around with a permanent smile on my face. He texted me well into the early hours of the morning.
Then, the bucket.
We were dressed up and about the leave my apartment for dinner and a concert. Time had sort of slipped away from us (what can I say, I'm a real sucker for a skinny guy in a suit) during the course of that slow afternoon, so I was puzzled when he stopped me outside the car and made me close my eyes and hold out my hands.
He put a bucket into them.
"What is this?"
He smiled his crooked smile and if my hands hadn't had that bucket in them, I would have pulled him back into the house, reservations and Bach be damned.
"You know. For when you bail."
Retrospectively, it wasn't very funny.
***
"Let's move to Chicago."
It's a text I send Michelle while I'm walking home, a little drunk, extremely tired, and unbelievably maudlin.
Mental illness is a funny thing. I just had a fantastic night. Wine, cornhole, and long conversations with friends in the backyard of someone's new house. It's dusk, it's warm, the city actually smells like jasmine and roses, and I'm walking home through my city, the place that I love beyond comprehension and I never thought I'd want to leave.
But, in that moment, I do want to leave it.
I send the text because at this particular moment, I'm pissed at myself. It feels like I've never taken any chances, that I've never made the kinds of stupid mistakes you're supposed to make in your 20s. I've done some interesting things, but none of them feel like the kind of knock-you-out accomplishments that I thought I would have by 30. I'm still single, I don't even have a dog, my job eats up most of my time, and I'm nowhere close to having a down payment on a house.
That's not what has me pissed and sad. That's not why I'm texting Michelle about moving.
***
I still haven't seen the final season of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
It's not because the writing in the final seasons is less good than it was at the beginning. I didn't stop watching because I found another show I like better. God knows it isn't because I have less free time.
I don't like endings.
***
With the exception of my first boyfriend, I've ended every one of my relationships.
Every. Damn. One.
And sure, I sentimentalize them when they're over. I cry, drink, listen to Patsy Cline. I gain break-up weight, run a half marathon (seriously, how do I manage to do both?), try everyone's patience.
I still ended every damn one.
I don't like the idea of being left, of being the one who trusted too much or loved too deeply in the relationship. As a result, the second things are less than ohmygodyou'resoperfect I take off. Then I drink. And cry. And wonder but what was wrong with me?
As if I wasn't the one ending things.
***
The night that I text Michelle about moving to Chicago was tricky.
It was the first time I realized, really realized that my life is on the cusp of some intense changes. Friends are likely to start moving to the suburbs soon. The couples I know are planning to have kids in the next few years. The people I love are getting promotions and settling down.
They're moving on.
And while I know (the non-lizard part of my brain, that is) that I'm not being left behind, it sure feels that way. Despite being promoted at work, crossing things off of my 30x30 list, despite the fact that I am living a life I love and in my rational moments wouldn't dream of trading, the panicky, unwell side of my brain is busy screaming:
They're going to leave you.
So I text Michelle about leaving, about ending all these relationships before things change, before people leave me. And I walk home a little drunk, extremely tired, and unbelievably maudlin.
And when I walk in the apartment, and put my shoes in the closet, I see the bucket that ex gave me all those years ago.
Every. Damn. One.
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