You guys are pretty tired of me talking about moving, yeah? Well fret not, for it's actually happening THIS VERY WEEK! Soon it will all be over, and I'll get right back to writing, I don't know, mopey observations about relationships or whatever the hell my schtick is anymore.

It's just hard NOT to talk about this move. It feels like life-changing times. Similar to having a baby, if the baby was furniture. And if the furniture didn't have to come out of my uterus. I'd also like to point out that my furniture doesn't poop.

You know what? Forget I said anything.

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There's no one thing you can point to, in the end. There isn't 1 weird trick that fixes temporary apathy in a relationship; that rekindles a connection.

I know. I was certain they'd made a pill for that by now. Or, that at the very least, it was nothing a couple Four Lokos couldn't solve.

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Last Friday night I leaned across a narrow wooden arm rest and proffered my friend a Coke Zero into which I had poured white rum. I would have normally chosen whiskey, but the circumstances of a crowded theater prevailed. Once you have experienced the cheek-burning realization that every stranger in your immediate vicinity is delivering you some serious side eye, you learn to pack a liquor without a distinctive smell.

As my friend was passing the bottle back to me her fingers brushed mine. "Your hands are cold!" she mouthed over the opening credits as she grabbed my closest hand and held it between her own. And this simple action cut me down. I was a dog slowly rolling over, surrendering belly to the entire room.

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"Well, I'd better get going with my run," the beau announced, shortly after waking up on Sunday morning.

"Your run?" I asked. Weekend runs were our thing, last time I checked.

"I really have to get serious about this half-marathon next month," he said. "I gotta figure out my pace." 

"Right. Of course," I said. Because I am the model of understanding and support.

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The beau and I don't argue very often. But lately, when we do, it's been about photographs.

Specifically, mine. 

Specifically, how I hate any photograph of me ever taken. And how he's a dick for insisting that he wants to keep the photographs he takes of me, like a total dick would.

This particular series of arguments began in earnest several months ago, when my boss asked me for a picture of me for the company profile. I took a mental survey of the handful of known photographs of myself that I actually like and quickly ruled them all out since they all involved me either 1) wearing a wedding dress or 2) grasping an adult beverage in one hand while groping a friend with the other.

Yes, I am one of those friends.

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The beau snuggled in, wrapping his arm around me tighter. He leaned forward for a kiss and held his face in front of mine, gazing tenderly into my eyes.

“Get off,” I moaned, “I can’t breathe.”

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This is the first Christmas we did not travel to see our extended family. I could say this was on purpose; I could say that we wanted to start making our own holiday memories as a new(ish) family. That we're trying to stand on our own two (four?) legs. Drawing lines in the sand. Setting boundaries. Duh duh duh. La la la. Bah.

See what I did there when I ran out of points to support my argument? Scholars and politicians, take note!

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How can someone else ever really know you?

How can someone else know the fictional lives that play out in your head as you brush our teeth in the morning?

How can someone else know how you delight in catching patterns of color and light?

How can someone else know why you sometimes need to listen to the same song over and over?

How can someone else know the stories you map using threads of overheard conversation?

I don’t know.

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I was walking to the post office this morning, briskly. Bag slung from my shoulder, package under one arm. Suddenly, maybe 20 paces ahead, a guy turned the corner from one street onto mine, heading the same direction as me. The streets of downtown Santa Barbara aren’t exactly teeming with people at that hour on a weekday. Aside from the elderly lady I’d just passed, we were the only two people on this block.

So I studied him, as one does when one can’t be caught looking.

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