pinch me, pinch me harder

I’m in Zeitgeist Coffee. It’s a cool place about two blocks from my apartment. Legend has it they have these really amazing donuts, but I have thus far restrained. And by thus far I mean, I’ve been here three times total and the only time pastry was an option, I opted to split a blackberry oat scone with U-Paul. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I really haven’t had to put any work into passing up the donuts. Tomorrow, when I walk down here in my pj’s for some iced coffee that 1) I don’t make myself and 2) have to pay for, well, we’ll see how the donut boycott is going then.

If you haven’t guessed already, Zeitgeist Coffee is in Seattle. Which means we made it. Which means that while Montana tried to kill us, it didn’t succeed. Which means that this last week has been a careful mix of teary good byes, happy birthdays, making googly eyes at Paul and lots and lots of driving.

Last Friday was my burpday. I noticed that while Blogger hasn’t updated my “Recent Posts” since November, it sure was on the ball by immediately upping my age come the big day! Thanks, Blogger. Glad you’re looking out for me.

I am now 34.

You know what that means: one of these years the pigtails are gonna cease being cute.

The last three days in Minneapolis were really difficult. Saying goodbye to friends I’ve had for years and who I’ve come to rely on lots as I’ve struggled through this mess proved to be harder than I imagined and I imagined it to be pretty hard. My last night was spent falling asleep on Jodi’s cushy sectional couch while holding onto Irene’s hand. And I probably don’t need to say it but just incase I do, I was bawling like a toddler. Surprisingly, the ickiness of the last year has had a lot of payoffs and one of them is a renewed friendship with my two best friends. Saying good bye to them was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I’m certain that I have some of the best people in the whole world as my cohorts. And that makes me pretty sure that I’m one lucky girl.

Sunday was a mad rush of last minute packing and trying to reduce the size of my puffy eyelids to a thickness in which they could be opened more than a quarter inch. I had to make a couple tough decisions – ditching the TV, the coffee table and microwave in favor of clothing and art supplies – but all in all, most everything important fit snuggly into a 10 foot Ryder (Not Ryder) truck.

Ah, the truck.

The little yellow moving truck with the yellow duct tape over where it had, at one time, said Ryder. I assume the last time it bared it’s name with confidence was sometime right before the Oklahoma City bombing. Since then, I’m guessing it’s been all duct tape and second glances. To make us even 30% more sketchier as we drove across this fair and mighty large land, was the fact that our Ryder (Not Ryder) truck was registered in and baring license plates from Oklahoma. Even better. I started calling Paul “Tim McV” and nicknamed myself “Nichols.” We didn’t bomb anything more than the occasional joke though. It really was a fine little truck. It navigated the steep and curvy mountain passes with grace and only made a burning smell one time.

Sunday night was spent eating Chinese take-out on the floor of my empty house with my best friends and waiting for Paul to finish his drive back from Chicago, drop his bandmate off and eat the spring roll I had ordered for him. We were on the road by 8:30, leaving via the western suburbs and talking about how strange it was that I wasn’t crying. Paul didn’t think it was strange at all. It was an adventure he thought. A fresh start. As our shared Pisces horoscope had said a week earlier, “the season of our awakening is now at hand.”

“See, you have no reason to cry.” he said.

“I guess you’re right.” I nodded back.