Chocolate Milk

It's been a typical Sunday. Wake up. Walk the dog. Watch Meet the Press. (This is usually for the purpose of watching Tim Russert calling out politicians on their hypocrisies. Tim wasn't on today. Andrea Mitchell was a good substitute, but it wasn't the same. I deeply adore Tim, and I may be the only woman in America who feels that way. Chime in on your Tim fetish, if you have one.)

I had lunch with my friends who are sisters (this is a deviation from normal routine). I bought a newspaper. Went to the gym. Did my now standard daily hour of cardio, lifted weights. Watched the fat on my thighs, mocking me, refusing to budge.

And when I came home, what I wanted, more than anything else, was a glass of chocolate milk.

The last time I had chocolate milk, I had shown up on my friend's doorstep, bawling, because the night before, I'd told my boyfriend (ring nestled in his pocket) that I didn't want to marry him. You wouldn't necessarily think that turning someone else down would hurt, but it did. Terribly. I couldn't think of anything that I wanted to do but talk to my friend, so I'd called him in the morning, afraid I wouldn't catch him before he left town.

I had reasons for not wanting to get married. The longer my relationship lasted, the more I felt it was compressing me, turning me into someone smaller. Someone I didn't recognize. My ex-boyfriend (a great friend now, someone I respect) and I had little in common. He had expectations for who I should be, how I should behave, that I knew I couldn't live up to.

That, and it was obvious to just about everyone that it was my friend that my inner heart yearned for.

My friend held me in the doorway to his apartment building, didn't complain about the snot and tears on the front of his shirt. He took me inside, made me a glass of chocolate milk, and held my hand while I cried.

And that's the fairy tale ending: the girl leaves the boyfriend, waits, waits, waits, and somehow, her friend finally sees what everyone else sees. I wish everyone could have that moment, when you practically expect to see cameras and boom mikes there to catch the finale, so unexpected it could not be real.

But a moment is only a moment. I know that I rarely discuss love any more. What could I say about it? I really wish that I did have it all figured out (sorry, Richard).

Some days are better than others. Some days are awful. Mostly, there's nothing to say. In the past year, I've spent approximately twelve days with him. And this is what I did not expect: there are still expectations, compromises. And I believe that some expectations should exist--that we should be kind, loving, compassionate, patient, understanding, that we should clean up our own messes, that we should listen to each other. Still, what do you do when someone else's expectations for you are not the ones that you have for yourself?

Maybe it's not a typical Sunday. I'm here, in humid Virginia, thinking about a man very far away whom I love and desire. Probably I'll take Radar down to the stream and scout for turtles, log a few more pages in my alleged novel, and wait for enlightenment to come. I already drank the last of the milk.