It happens when I least expect it.  One moment, everything’s fine.  It’s a day filled with the inane and miraculous things all days are filled with.  And then it creeps up on me, sparkling and mysterious, like early morning mist.  Softly and densely.  It happens when I’m sipping my morning coffee, or searching for a certain quote, or taking a walk.  Even—I’ll admit it—when I’m sitting in the bath. 

I wonder about you.  Let me repeat that: I wonder about you.

And it's easy.  A brief consideration, a passing contemplation.  Wham! Bam! Thank you, Baby--for the memories, of course.  It's just a glancing blow, a fast jump into vulnerability.  A stray, ephemeral what-if. 

Other times, my curiosity isn’t so forgiving.  And the thoughts hit me without mercy, unutterable, but begging to be spoken.  Instead, they burn the back of my throat, scalding like too many shots of tequila.  I expect to feel dizzy, but I don’t.  There’s no relief, though.  No chaser, no lime, no salt—just you.

There’s that way you smile.  The secret little grin you get when you’ve done something wicked.  That laughter in your eyes when you make a joke—dirty or otherwise.  There’s everything I know about you, crowded by what I don’t.  So, I wonder.

I wonder about what you might be missing.  I think about the loneliness that edges your words.  The small threats of truth that, perhaps, you don’t think I see.  (Silly man.  These eyes have seen everything.)  I dare to ponder what you’re like when all the moonlight’s gone, and it’s just you in the dark—no pretense, no safety net, no easy way out.  And certainly no easy answer. 

This is probably a pastime best left for fools—considering shadows.  Considering the parts of you that go unnoticed.  It's a trespass, and I should be sorry for it.  But I'm not.  Instead, there's a certain satisfaction in it.  You see, I’ve always been interested in secrets.  Keeping them.  Creating them.  Discovering them.  (Yes, I’ll say it—sure, I’d like to discover you.)  It’s a hobby, but it’s also a weakness.  I’ve a fondness for forbidden knowledge, and perhaps that’s where this began.  Curiosity’s quite the apple, isn’t it?

So, yes.  Yes, I’ll admit it.  I do think of you.  And if I ever implied that I don’t, I was merely lying.  (It's the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off.)  If I ever played coyly, demurely  ‘just’ the friend, I owe you an apology.  Or, at the very least, an explanation.

But right now, I need to know only this: do you wonder about me too?

If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to make a good pop culture reference, while sipping on a cup of coffee.  Usually, the mug is about the size a small fish bowl, and I might even burst into song.  But only if you’re special.  Or if I’ve had a fifth cup of coffee.  You see, I make coffee that could scald sins off of your soul, or at the very least cause some kind of internal bleeding.  If the spoon doesn’t stand up, or run yelping off into the distance, I’ve done something wrong.  (Word to the Wise: Never offer me decaf.  I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and I’m strung out on pixie stix, coffee cake, and chocolate.  Giving me decaf is like handing an alcoholic a Zima: it’s kind of insulting.)

What was my point again?  I mean, aside from rambling on with lightning speed, razor-sharp wit, and conveying a charming, impish kind of charisma?  (That would be evident in person, I swear.)  They tell you that you can’t learn much from watching tv.  But I simply don’t agree.  From Buffy all the way down to I Love Lucy, you can learn something.  Albeit, in the latter case, it might be how to not to make wine, but still.  Knowledge is knowledge.  Or so the devil tells me.

One of my favorite shows is Gilmore Girls.  And Lorelai Gilmore is, without question, one of my television heroes.  Self-sufficient to an astounding degree, she left home at the age of sixteen (okay, I didn’t do that), had a kid (okay, I skipped that part, too), and became a successful woman (I’m working on it).  Like a caffeine-powered, Jimmy Choo wearing Super Woman, this character possesses a level of quirky charm that could—if she really existed—resurrect Jesus and possibly block out the sun.  Okay, I kid. 

One thing that I always liked about Lorelai is that she had standards when it came to men.  Sure, her dating record was as marred as anyone else’s, but she didn’t date just to date.  Recently, I’ve been thinking about all the women I know, and I’m wondering what happened.  Instead of focusing on dreams and careers, it’s about finding a boyfriend—any guy will do!  Hey, you there!  You’ll do!  No, not you.  You in the blue shirt—and getting married.

Somewhere, the Ghost of Sadie Hawkins is doing a waltz.  In her wedding dress, I assume.  What else would she be buried in?

Now, before you start calling me a Marriage Hating Whore, take a breath.  The institution of marriage, while largely flawed, is a good thing.  What I don’t get is why so many people I know seem to be settling.  As in “If I don’t have a boyfriend, something must be wrong with me—oh, you there!  Blue-eyes!  You’ll do!”  Granted, the moment you walk out of the womb, some of your relatives will be plotting your nuptials.  By then, it’s too late.  You can’t very well crawl back in.  (And trust me when I say, nothing is more humiliating that a female relative telling you to go hang out at the nearby army base to find a husband.  Because you’re twenty six, unmarried, and therefore some kind of a societal leper.  Note to those concerned: men are not fish.  If I wanted to catch something, it’d be a trout.)

So, enter onto the scene the fictional Lorelai Gilmore.  Her dating disasters rival my own, except she has a slightly better wardrobe.  Granted, I’ve never left anyone at the altar, or proposed to someone.  But still.  Work with me here.  Aside from the coffee-guzzling, pop tart eating, flawless skin, and keen fashion sense, that is something I admired about the character: she didn’t settle. 

When I look around at all the people I know—friends, acquaintances, family members—I consider that maybe I’m the Dodo bird.  And then I realize that so many people are in bad relationships.  Or they’re in relationships just to say, “Hey, Look!  I’m not alone.”

Because, strangely, there’s something wrong with that.  And instead of worrying about ourselves, and our future, we’re wondering what kind of flowers to have at our beach wedding, to the guy we met last week.  All things must lead to marriage, after all.

There’s nothing wrong with dating.  It can be fun, when it isn’t a total disaster (I really should share some of those stories.  They’ll make you weep caffeinated tears, I swear).  There is, in my opinion, something wrong with waking up one day and realizing you have a boyfriend that you don’t even like.  Or who your friends find incredibly boring, because he is duller than a silver spoon buried in dirt for twenty years.  And yes, mea culpa, because I’m referencing women, and maybe I sound a little sexist.  But most of my friends are women, and the guys are either married or single.  Maybe it’s the social stigma—bachelors vs. old maids.  I don’t know.

So, yeah.  I want it all.  The Jimmy Choos, the writing career, and the guy who can make me laugh, until I nearly snort coffee.  I don’t care if he’s divorced, or has kids, or has a tattoo on his ass.  My standards aren’t etched in stone, either.  I’m flexible.  (That’s what she said!)  But I do have standards.  I won’t do what I’m “supposed” to do.  I honestly prefer to be a little quirky.  Not Courtney Love quirky—but Lorelai Gilmore quirky.

If I like a guy, I’ll date him.  If not, hand over the coffee and go.  Life shouldn’t only be about the Pursuit of a Husband.  Or the Pursuit of a Boyfriend.  Whichever.  My point is that if you don’t know who you are, no one else will either.  Unless you figure out what you want, instead of what other people are telling you to want—you can’t really find certainty with someone else.  Or in someone else.  You can fake it for a while.  (There's a joke in there, somewhere, I just know it.)

So, this was a little personal.  And a little ranty.  But I love to rant.  And I’ve had two cups of coffee already.  I’m going for a third as soon as my heart decides to settle, instead of trying to break out of its rib prison.  Granted, I have my Bridget Jones days.  When weddings roll around, or I run into an old friend, I rather loathe the inevitable “Oh, I’m single.”  (Or the "are you dating anyone special?"  "No, but I'm dating a lot of unspecial people.  Thanks for asking.")  It’s not because I dislike being single (sometimes, I do; I’m complicated like that).  No, I don’t like that crestfallen look people tend to shoot me. 

Truthfully, I like my freedom.  It means that if I see a hot guy (yes, I’m mature), with perfect hair, at Starbucks—I can talk to him.  And by Java, I love to flirt.  I think it should be an Olympic sport.  (It could work.  Really.)  As long as no one’s bunny gets boiled in the process, all is right with the world.

But hey, that’s just me, and I’m a little more caffeinated than most.  Some might say that impairs my judgment.  I like to think it keeps things interesting.

I want you to forget everything you’ve heard.  Or put it to the side.  And just pretend, with me, for a moment. 

Imagine that you’re in cold a marriage.  [If you’re currently happily married, imagine that you are not.]  This is the kind of marriage that lives by the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy.  You live separate lives in the same house.  You have children, but they are not young. 

You’re not happy, but you’re comfortable.  Resigned.  Possibly a little numb.  There’s work, which keeps you busy.  And you do so need to be busy.  Keep running, and going, otherwise you might have to consider all that’s missing.

And then something considerable happens.  Like turning around a corner, a friendship that you’ve had evolves.  This person who has always seemed to get you—in a way that no one else has—makes your pulse race.  You start to look for extra reasons to talk to them, and the conversations that you have become a bit more intimate.  It takes you by surprise, and suddenly…reason and sense leaves the building.  You’re profoundly affected in a way that you’ve never been.  And you act on it.  You make this difficult choice to follow through on these feelings that you have.  Perhaps it’s against your better judgment, because what good could come of it?  You’re married already. 

But this choice—you make it.  You see that other person.  You make love, and you talk for hours.  You feel at home and at peace, when those are the last things that you should feel.  Regardless of the circumstances, you’ve fallen in love.  You didn’t go out and seek it, but you’ve found it.  Or it found you.  For a brief moment in time, you get lost in it.  You give up something of yourself, but take a piece of that other person as replacement.

And then you leave.  You go home.  Because you have to.  Because you have duties and responsibilities.  And those stolen moments don’t last forever.  But they do stay with you.

Then imagine it all becomes public knowledge.  Everyone knows.  Everyone knows.  Your mail man, your kids, everybody in your office.  People you’ve never even met before.  They know.  They know that you cheated on your spouse with someone else.  (Granted, that’s not an original crime, but still.)  There’s a big old Scarlet Spotlight following you around.  They would’ve branded you with a Hester Prynne letter A, but they have to special order those.

Now, end scenario.  Let’s look at the picture, which I’ve editorialized a bit.  It’s the picture of an imperfect person.  Someone who is supposed to be held to a higher standard, because he’s a religious man—and a politician.  Yes, I’m talking about South Carolina’s Governor Sanford (for a plethora of articles on the situation, go here).  He’s been a person to cast stones in the past (I believe he was very vocal during Clinton’s Infamous Saga of Scarlet).  He’s been married a very long time, as well.  That’s rather dirty pool, and not something I’m advocating for, necessarily—cheating, that is—but it’s a fact of the situation.  I’m leaving aside the issue of his disappearing to the Appalachian Trail—uh, sorry—Argentina.  No, I don’t think a politician should just *poof* off to go on personal business.  However, I can almost understand it, from his perspective.  It’s my understanding that he went there to breakup with his mistress.  The woman he’s referred to as his soul mate.  These days, I’m not even sure we know what that term means.  We’re too caught up in our Starter Marriages and whatnot; as a result, we mistake attraction for love, and commonality for connection.  That’s not the point.

No, my point is this…you found someone, despite the circumstances, awakens things in you.  Who brings you to life in a way you’ve never known, or even thought possible.  And now you’ve been given an ultimatum of sorts.  You have to stop seeing her.  (A reasonable request.)  But it’s breaking your heart.  You’re a bloody mess.  The last thing you’re going to think about is work.  Yes, he’s in a position of authority.  Yes, he has responsibilities.  And no, he shouldn’t shirk them.  But imagine, for a moment, the utter devastation someone might feel in that moment.  The soul-wrenching agony.  And tell me that you’d be thinking straight.  Tell me that you’d be entirely reasonable and calm.

I don’t care about party—Republican, Democrat, Independent, Wig, Tory, or whatever (shout out to my Canadian friends!).  Is it ironic that Governor Sanford, a conservative, would be entrenched in a scandal such as this?  Yes.  Is he a hypocrite, considering his previous moral standing?  Yes.  But which one of us is perfect?  Honestly, we’re all hypocrites, sometimes.  We all are capable of preaching one thing, but practicing another.  Am I saying that's good?  No.  Does that make us lesser people?  Maybe.  I can’t say.  I do know that it makes us complicated.  Personally, I don’t give two shriveled figs about the irony.  “Ohhh, look at the Republican!  He’s got one hand caught in the Bible, and the other hand—” (I trust I don’t need to finish that statement.)  I’m an equal opportunity observer.  It wouldn’t matter to me if Sanford was a Democrat.  His party affiliation is just one aspect of the man.  Sure, it might make better fodder for comedy, but if Jack Kennedy were alive today, I cringe to think of what our media would’ve made of him.

I’ll be honest, I read the published email exchange between Sanford and Maria.  It left me more compassionate that I had been, originally.  It makes the situation more human.  (Note: I found this article rather interesting, as well.)  And, honestly, there’s something beautiful about affection like that.  There is real love in the way he speaks about Maria.  (Don’t take my word for it.  Look at the language he uses in his public statements, lately.)  I can’t imagine how gut-wrenching it would be to have a personal item like those emails made public.  It felt intrusive to read it, because it is intrusive. 

I know I’m doing the unpopular thing here.  It’s easier to make snickering remarks, throw our noses in the air, and scoff that we could never be in such a position.  We’re so much better than that.  We know right from wrong.  We know where our duties lie.  (Saying nothing of the duty we might have to ourselves.)  But the truth is, it’s just pretending.  Pretending that everything’s cut and dry, that the human heart will dance like a monkey, if ordered to.  We pretend that it’s okay to heave blame at a man, because he’s supposed to be better, uphold a certain standards.

Under the right pressure, we all crack.  In the right circumstances, we all can make what seems like the wrong choice.  I think that we judge, occasionally, in order to make ourselves feel better.  “Well, at least I’m not that guy.” 

But the dirty, ugly, wretched truth is that you just don’t know, until you do.

“I don’t know why you still care.”

Those words hit me, hard.  Like a brick to the head, or an unfortunately dropped Steinway.  Wrong place, wrong time—or was it?  I can’t tell.  But it left me kind of dizzy, confused, and…contemplative.  (Granted, a lot of things leave me pensive.  But, still.)  It wasn’t said in uncompassionate way, just incredulously.  As if I’d stated that I had the intention of dying my hair green.  Some things just don’t make sense, and they’re bound to confound others.

I don’t know if it’s fair to expect someone else to understand.  I know that I don’t always understand things.  And, honestly, I don’t always understand myself.  But I know that there isn’t some kind of light switch for emotions. Yes, I'll admit that I don't care in the same way I once did, but I do still care. 

You fall apart.  You grow apart.  You breakup, or stop talking.  You move away.  The exact way a relationship dies doesn’t really matter.  Something happens.  Either you fall out of love, or realize that it wasn’t love to begin with.  You realize that you don’t have anything important in common, and you can no longer relate—and the friendship dissolves.  Whatever happens, it happens.

And time passes.  Lives surge forward, or sideways; things progress.  But isn’t there always a small part that still cares?  At least in the back of your mind, or your heart, or wherever.  Or maybe that’s just me.  I tend to hold on to things, all things.  Emotions are no exception.  I tend to think it’s a special kind of hubris, when one person attempts to control the heart.  Order it around, command it to sit, beg, or roll over.  It’s usually at that point your heart turns into Cujo.  Metaphorically speaking, of course.

But back to the beginning—“I don’t understand why you still care.”

I want to scream.  Or cross my arms, glare, and state, “Because I do.”  I won’t, because I’m not three years old.  No, instead I’m thinking about it.  In some instances, letting go means losing hope.  At other times, it means giving up something that we cherish.  That is difficult, regardless of what it is.  It’s a sacrifice.

There are times when caring becomes…detrimental, though.  Abusive relationships, manipulative relationships, or even a dynamic where the power balance is more off-kilter than the Leaning Tower of Pisa.  It’s impossible to see clearly if you care.  Let me repeat that: it’s impossible to see clearly if you care.  And it’s that very thing that helps us to overlook someone’s flaws, to adore them for all their imperfections. 

Caring isn’t about should or shouldn’t.  Good or bad.  Yes or no.  Just like love, it doesn’t bother with wrong or right, perfect or imperfect, timely or untimely.  You can’t make yourself fall back in love, anymore than you can talk yourself out of it (someone might consider alerting certain politicians of this).  You can’t say, “I’m going to stop caring about my friend, because she’s a mess.”  If that were possible, caring wouldn’t mean as much, would it?  If it was like choosing between paper or plastic bags at the grocery store.  If it was as simple as “I think I’ll forget about you, today.”

But it’s not.  It can’t be.  And yet, sometimes, love isn’t enough.  Caring isn’t enough.  It’s then that most people become jaded.  Telling the world to piss off, because we felt some kind of miracle—and it went not unnoticed, but worse: it was unappreciated.  Or it was appreciated, acknowledged, cherished—but then *bang* something changed.  And then it’s difficult to differentiate the lie from the truth, what was from what seemed to be, and all that dances in between.

I don’t really know why I still care.  But what I do know is what keeps me from acting on it.  It’s not self-preservation, or reason, or even common sense.  It’s the history; it’s the chase.  It’s the fact that sometimes you realize that you want more.  You want more than what can be written on any pages, or conveyed in a simple sentence.  Sentence lies, words are easily manipulated, and truths can be quickly covered in convenient shadow.  You crave more than just some version of what you’re really after.  Anything else just yields a dark dividend of disappointment. 

If affection fails, or it’s unreturned, it’s foolishness to tell yourself “Stop caring!”  What’s wise is to curb how you act, react, and really—who you tell.  (Whom?  Oh, frak it.)  There’s nothing worse than admitting that you still care about someone you shouldn’t, and being met with a quirked eyebrow, disapproving look, and a “Really?”  It makes one feel foolish, instead of reassured.

Yes, caring complicates things.  But I dare you—really—to try and avoid it.  Live without it.  It’s damned near impossible.  And if you tell me otherwise?  Well, I’ll just assume you’re lying.

Larry: So Anna tell me your bloke wrote a book. Any good?
Alice: Of course.
Larry: It's about you isn't it?
Alice: Some of me.
Larry: Oh? What did he leave out?
Alice: The truth.

~Closer

Dan: Deception is brutal, I'm not pretending otherwise.

~Closer

• Over the past two days, I've written 15,000 words.  It's a personal best.  And, yes, keep wondering--what if I've written 15,000 crappy words?  But, whatever.  It felt good just to write.
• Right now, I'm watching Generation Kill, mostly due to my crush on Alexander Skarsgard. (Eric, on True Blood.)  Yes, I'm single.  Call me! *wink*
• The universe has a sense of humor.  I got three rejection letters from three different agents, today.  I'm now wondering if they all have the same mail person.
• I keep using words I don't intend to use.  I wrote 'too' instead of 'today,' in the last sentence.  Been doing that all day.  Not sure why. 
• The Starbucks closest to me closed.  They made good coffee, damn it.  Of course, there's another one about five minutes past it.  That'll work.
• I cannot find a pair of brown sandals I like.  I don't know why.  The pair that I currently own has moved three times, and is years old.  So cute, but they've begun to deteriorate.
• I've begun to rethink my outlook on certain things.  It's oddly refreshing.
• And that's all for now, folks.