Come Pick Me Up

"The Truth About Elizabethtown" or "Elizabethtown Forever"
A post dedicated to Natalie Harris and Whitni Gardner because they are about the only ones who will understand it and even they might only understand half each.

I'm reading a book that I've read three times before, The Truth About Forever. You'll probably make fun of me for it because it is a teen novel, but although it is a story of a boy and girl, it is about a lot more. It's about grief. It's about not being afraid. And as I forced myself to put it down and go to bed, I realized its resemblance to another favorite of mine, Elizabethtown; a delightful and quirky movie that critics totally missed the point of. Critics wrote it off as an elaborate and unbelievable "meet cute", but in reality it is also about grief and moving on.

Now nothing traumatic has happened to me recently. I haven't lost a parent, as in the case of both of these stories. But I've noticed a theme within them and me. The deadly "I'm Fine." Two (three?) extremely dangerous words. Being "fine" is a glorious concept and a terrible lie. No one says "I'm fine" and actually means it. It doesn't really mean anything. It could mean "my world is falling apart", "I haven't gotten over the fact that I stubbed my toe this morning", or "I just really need to talk to someone, but I'm afraid."

Maybe this last is why I am writing a blog at midnight rather than sleeping. A blog is a sad excuse for someone to talk to. But the fact is I don't always feel like I have the right to talk. My world isn't crashing down. I don't only have one month left on my lease and no where to live. My boyfriend didn't just leave for two years.

My life is, as it's always been, rather cushy. But I still feel like I'm saying "I'm fine". Maybe I'm just waiting for a Wes Baker or Claire Claiborn to whisk me off into a land of honesty and Ryan Adams songs. Or a Kristy to dress me up and push me out there. Or a Chuck to hug me like he means it before dancing down the hallway to his bachelor party. Heck, I'd settle for a Kid With The Hair.

But the funny thing about this wishing and waiting is that lately I've been more and more content with staying home. Sure part of it is because I wasn't here for months and I just kind of like basking in the presence of my parents and dog. I've been happy. I got to spend over a week in Sun Valley with over 40 members of my family, just relaxing and swimming and playing baseball. But I'm still just fine.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I woke up with a swollen face, when it's supposed to be getting better. Or maybe it's because I won't let myself be totally happy. Maybe I'm Macy and I feel like I have to put on a brave, perfect face for the world. Maybe I'm Drew and I'm afraid that I'm a failure, a fiasco even. Maybe I really need a road map. Or a rusted sea glass angel. Maybe my heart and my hand need to be open.

I may not have a Wes or a Claire, but I have parents who love me and aren't trying to tap dance or make me quit what I love--even if they do encourage me to be practical. (They are, however coincidentally, are fixing up a townhouse). I have a best friend who I can talk to for hours and never run out of things to say or feel judged. I have a really cool job that although calmer than catering (the job I wanted to do this summer. Another coincidence? I mean Esta even has dark curly hair) is allowing me to actually feel like I am accomplishing things in the real world. I am blessed. And I should feel like it.

During a game of ImagineIff, I was asked which make-up product I would be. The theory of the game is to guess what the person would say about themselves. Most people said things like blush for me because I'm youthful, etc. I said concealer--the "I'm Fine" of the make-up world, the "let's smooth everything over and not let anyone know what is going on beneath the surface". I guess the fact that no one else said it kind of proves my point.

This blog makes me feel overly dramatic sometimes. And really confusing (I promise this all made perfect sense in my head before I picked up the computer). But I guess what I'm learning as I write this and reflect, is that I don't need a Wes or a Claire. I'd like one one day, but until then I can be one. Maybe not a Wes (man's friggen perfect.) but I could try to be a Claire. I could stop being a substitute person and find something better than an ice cream cone ("here's something nice to make you feel good that'll melt in five minutes"). If I want to watch Rukus play "Free Bird" as the fire sprinklers rain down or finally fly again, I'll be the one to make it happen. I'll go dance in the woods with one hand waving above my head. I'll wallow in the glorious misery for five minutes and then move on. I'll laugh and cry as I talk to someone who is gone. I will miss 60-B and Sweetbud Lane.

Now to make myself follow through. Now to fail big and be brave enough to stick around and have them ask why I'm still smiling. Now to not be perfect. Because flaws make things more interesting.