What’s up, Universe? The past couple of weeks, five ex-boyfriends have let it be known that they have new girlfriends. Normally, that’s just news for congratulations, but I was a little inclined to say uncle. I mean, is that really necessary? I figured I was being hit over the head with either: 1. I have too many ex-boyfriends, 2. I should get off my tush and start dating, or 3. I should concentrate on finishing my book. I can’t really do anything about having too many ex-boyfriends. One can never have too many ex-boyfriends? What is the ex-boyfriend limit? #2 just seemed reactionary. The answer was to do #3 because really until I finish that, I don’t have time to troll dating sites and do the witty-email-exchange dance until we get to our appointed drinks date.
Sigh. Even Saboteur, who I speak to on a weekly basis, has a new ungirlfriend. I asked him, "Hey, can I crash at your place some time Labor Day weekend, I have to see my folks and some of my high school friends." "Oh man, homegirl is coming up," he said. "Whut, really? Everybody has a girlfriend!" I moaned. (Maybe that was #4, to express the discomfort.) I texted him later to see how his long weekend with her and her gang went. He wrote back, “Better than I expected, but the saboteur is on the loose.” Meaning, he’s already looking for excuses for why it wouldn’t work. Poor Saboteur.
So, I saw two sets of my high school friends. The gang in Huntington Beach had the eleven children running around again, which I love because I get to see my friends being parents. This includes keeping the peace and making sure the kids eat and preventing small ones from wandering over to the pool, and also, most admirably, keeping their space, not letting their conversations get interrupted by mayhem. I stayed late into the night, talking to my sweet, smart Mormon friends (30% of my high school friends are Mormon) about everything from parenting to religion to pole dancing to teaching junior high. We also reminisced about when we ourselves were in junior high and then when we were 19 and back from our first year of college, when J-Bozz was sad because suddenly all the things we used to do weren’t fun enough anymore and everyone wanted to drink. “And didn’t someone OD on something at some party, too?” J-Bozz said. “Uh ya, that would’ve been me,” I said. “ODing” on too much weed. You know, one of those newb moves when you panic because the room spins and pins you down to the floor and your limbs are twitching uncontrollably, and nobody else is experienced enough (my gang were late bloomers) to let you know that it’ll pass, and whatever you do, don’t call the paramedics.
It’s nice and funny to talk to people who know your 13-year-old self and completely apropos, as I was just working on a chapter about that period. Every time I’ve looked at my primary source material for junior high -- my diary, I’ve felt like there’s absolutely nothing of use in there. But this time, after talking to my friends, I saw it fresh. The stilted language and the boring details were hiding something big and galumphing. They were hiding the Herculean efforts we were daily engaged in to try and control our uncontrollable foolishness. Our hormones and our burning desires and our ceaselessly uncooperative bodies and impulses and things being blurted out of our mouths. Bam! I was off. Hopefully, it’ll make a good Chapter 10 or 11.
And yeah, I’ve been quiet cuz that’s what I’ve been working on. I’m taking a three-week book writing class with my former retreat instructor because I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t finish this thing unless I’m held accountable. So far, we’ve had two short writing marathons. Today is the big one. The six-hour monster. I’m gonna love every minute!
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