I have a feeling that this post won’t be glamorous, but when was anything that I ever did glamorous? I’m making a trip to Denver, CO to see my brother, sister-in-law, and niece whom I have yet to meet. In typical blog fashion, lets give them some pseudonyms: Mr. Hamilton, Mrs. Hamilton, and Olive. East of Eden seems apropos.
That’s where my head is right now as I sit amidst a crowd a strangers.
A couple with a red headed baby sit on the floor looking tired and contented. A middle eastern man with a sharp face talks on his phone about banks and social security numbers. A girl in tights and a striped purple shirt exits her flight and proclaims how badly she needs to urinate. Then there is me swiveling my head around, scoping out interesting people to write about to distract myself from the fact that I’m nervous as hell.
Why am I so nervous? Could it be the flight?
Am I worried that I may have severely under packed?
Is it the fact that my bank account is looking rather grimly at this point in time?
I’m anxious over the fact that I want this golly gosh darn baby in Colorado to like me. None of the dates that I have been on compare to the nervousness associated with this meeting. Normally, I can cope with the stress of meeting someone new by rehearsing a script of clever quips. I might google some provocative animal facts, like whether or not dolphins can yawn. This young lady is different. She’s simple.
She doesn’t care about the print on my scarf or the respiratory nuances of marine mammals. The irony that the girl whom I want to like me the most is also the girl who can’t even eat solid food yet isn’t lost on me. I’ve bent over backwards for some girls. I drove out of state for a chick from Michigan. I feigned an interest in Taylor Swift for The Girl Who Bit Her Lip (a truly harrowing feat). I dropped thousands and thousands of dollars on my ex wife when we were engaged.
And now this little nugget of joy decides to be born and throw a wrench into my groove! You serious?
A huge confusion that I have been trying to navigate through has been deciding how I personally am going to define “love” since the concept was ceremonially shat upon and discarded not too long ago. Olive, that tiny stranger who stole my heart, has been my north star, and honestly, I have no idea why I love her. She could be a real jerk, but I do. So what does that mean?
Maybe “love” is just a small word to describe a huge breath of different feelings of emotional attachment. If that’s the case, what the hell? From bevor to sabatons, we have a word for every single, minuscule accessory of a medieval suit of armor, yet when it comes to naming the pleasant feelings we have for our cat or our husband, we have one maybe two nouns at our disposal.
It just seems so flavorless.
I do love Olive, though. She makes me feel like I have transcended something. For the first time, I understand the sensation of having a legacy. She also makes me feel disappointed in myself; this is no fault of hers. The most honest part of myself has to admit that she highlights the parts where I feel like I have failed most severely.
Maybe that’s why I’m anxious. I’m anxious that she will be a mirror.
The plane is taking off. My belt is buckled, and my seat is in the upright position. The engine roars, and I’m bound for a love that I have never known in a state which I have never seen.