Giuleah

Emails one shouldn't send

I find that it's handy to compile lists of do's and don'ts when on the brink. I'm in one of those precarious states where I am both sentimental and interested in sharing it, which could easily lead to firing off a loaded missive bearing nostalgic and romantic notions to someone, anyone. Especially late at night after a long day of goodbyes, and even more especially in what Dusty considers the most volitile of seasons. ("The Volidays," a new neologism, thanks to Adrienne.) So in the vain hope that I will not succumb to this impulse to get all sappy with my Gmail draft screen in the next hour, here's a list of emails that should remain unsent.

1. Missives to silent exes, both angry and compassionate. (Both the missives and/or the exes.)

2. Sudden and unheralded attacks on the past behavior of someone long after the statute of limitations on said action is past. I.e., out-of-the-blue criticisms years late.

3. Anything that's been sitting in the "draft" folder for more than 1 month.

4. Emails to one-night stands praising their hipbones.

5. Unsolicited reportorial submissions to major publications.

6. Unintended reply-alls to one's landlord.

7. Any and all proclamations of love that are not properly veiled and/or potentially unnoticable.   

The Manic Bravado of Leaving (to steal a concept entirely)

I am in the middle of a subdued, and joyously unexpected, sex frenzy. It's the best kind to have, actually, especially since my previous sex frenzies have been characterized by teenage angst and puppy-like infatuation. This one, because it is accompanied by the detachment and devil-may-care aura of Moving-Away-Forever, just seems rife with possibilities that fall into my lap.

Take the owner and manageress of the cafe I am now sitting in, for example. She's this extremely capable dirty-blond-ponytail chick with a shockingly low voice who calls me "kid" when I order my soy chai. Today, I am halfway in love with her. I literally got heatpumpingly excited when I noticed that she noticed that I had ripped off my hooded sweatshirt (revealing my somewhat muscular biceps and only slightly flabby tummy, as well as my anxiety-scabbed arms--another product of the sweaty no-future/future malaise).

"It's really hot in here," she said.

"Yes," I agreed. "It really is."

"Yeah, really hot," she said.

"Why do you think it is? Is there something screwy going on with your heat?," I said, aflutter.

"No," she said, smiling. "It's just really warm out."

"Ah!" I said, pulling out my patented chided-and-confused lilt. "Of course...it IS really warm out."

"Here you go, kid," she smiled, handing me my chai.

Dear god! I walked back to my table and smirked for a full minute at Megan Smith, who laughed knowingly.

Yet another example of the manic bravado of leaving. As simplistic as it is to say, this is true: when you are the one doing the leaving, you win. You leave others, you claim independence, self-sufficiency, and health insurance, and an ability to not need others. Moving away forever is a lot like dying. Those left behind have to grieve.

The Manically Brave are those who know on some level that leaving is bad, but don't feel the
badness through the Novocaine that is business, packing, and the novelty of a new place. The manic bravado is both necessary to leave and a result of the leaving.

I am trying to temper my MB with real conversations with friends I am leaving, but it's hard to sit there and grieve about what I am leaving when I am so excited about becoming something new. (And, full disclosure, sick to death of grieving.)

Also, I have talked myself into believing that nothing is changing...that my friends will all still be there, ready to see me, at the drop of a plane ticket or a cell phone. It's a transparent
trick, but in the throes of MB, transparent tricks are all you need to ignore that you are leaving a home which will never return.