Writing Sep 12 2008

Things are finally going my way and I think I am making the transition into "adulthood" rather successfully. My situation is still mildly tumultuous, but it is about to settle down much quicker than I expected.

I signed the lease on a large studio today, a mere block away from where I live now. I walked in yesterday after work and fell in love. It is the perfect beginner apartment, with hardwood floors, pink bathroom tile, a full kitchen, and plenty of light. The manager is an older woman from New York with an accent like a cartoon character's. She curses frequently and threatens to "break every bone in your body" as she eases down the stairs on a bad leg. She kissed me on the cheek when she gave me the keys today and the gesture was reminiscent of a black and white movie. "You're a sweetheart," she said, "Good luck with everything." My heart felt so full of reassurance I could have cried.

But even as I face a bright new future, I can't help this vague ache. I know a great deal of it has to do with missing Samuel. As I walked home, my head swirled with absurd romantic notions and the kind of girlish hope that only pays off in the movies.

Why does adulthood have to be so bittersweet? Adults get to have fun things like their own apartments and bar tabs...but it frightens me how gloomy the landscape of responsibility seems. I feel like a child among my peers and it makes me wonder what I am doing wrong.

I read a young adult fiction book called Ariel by Tiffany Grace. Though I did not find the plot particularly well constructed, the character of Ariel - borrowed from Shakespeare's The Tempest - is whimsically engaging. Born of a dying man's delirious fancies, she understands only play and vanity. Likewise, I only understand bright colors, good music, dark clubs, the pleasure of my own reflection, and sweeping superficial affections.

I need to get back to reading, writing, and visual art.

I was awakened this morning by an intense urge to pee. What was worse was the pain I encountered in the bathroom. It was clear that I required immediate medical attention, or else my grave would read:

Here lies Liz Acosta
Died of a UTI - the poor schmuck
Unemployed, uninsured, and between doctors, I found myself in the waiting room of a Planned Parenthood. I sat among girls and their supportive gal pals, endearing teenage couples, and even a woman with her baby son walking in for a pregnancy test.

The couples huddled close to each other; a boy with a scraggly beard and floppy hair discussed something playful with his girlfriend (I noticed belatedly that they were both wearing wedding bands), a pierced pair stroked each other's arms, their eyes locked in young devotion, and the final two hung their heads in silence, their bodies clutched to themselves.

I recalled my own teenage boyfriend and our own dramatic pregnancy scares. When I consented to sleep with him, he swore his devotion to me, and as promised, accompanied me to the clinic every time. The results were always negative - we were kids priveleged with an abundance of sex education.

We thought that we were going to get married, but of course, I broke his heart. However, only after years and years of mutual destruction and wasted youth.

But it doesn't matter what you tell the kids. Much to the heartbreaking dismay of my parents, I had to learn it on my own.

Writing Sep 12 2008