I'm in Charlotte again, and this has been another few days of indulgent inner reconciliation: loving/hating suburban comforts/my Dad's car; loving/hating being gay; loving/hating my drinking habits; loving/hating that my vacations over the past two years have consisted of me seeing my family; loving/hating the well of uncertainty that is my future. And look: I miss my mom, I miss playing Uno with my ex-boyfriend, and I miss having all my friends living in the same city. My sister-in-law and I went to Borders and because she could get it for half price, she bought Eat, Pray, Love. "I think I'm going to hate this," she said, because she'd heard that in the beginning the protagonist throws away the perfect life, "and I don't know if I can sympathize with that." We all went swimming. I did flips off the diving board and laid in the sun, allowing myself to not be embarrassed of my pale yoga body, and I marveled cautiously at all the beefy teenagers who (shockingly!) had to get out of the pool for adult swim. Here I was enjoying myself a lot. Driving home and in my post-pool glee, I mentally lauded myself for being so great to be around and making the trip so fun for everybody, thinking of how hard it is for all of us—the family—to be having fun at the same time. Snap, duh, no one else was really digging the pool like me—I was making this fun for you because I was having fun, is that how the reasoning goes? See, sometimes I’m a selfish shit, but sometimes I do it in the name of complicating things by exaggerating my own control. Or maybe this is what I mean: I am an exhibitionist in a wallflower, and vice-versa (in sixth grade, I was cast as the Nurse in our class production of Romeo & Juliet), and I have a blog.
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