pancakes

I wrote this a month and a half ago... I didn't publish it at the time simply because the mood was WAY to somber on my blog. But, I haven't posted much this month, and since I'm buried in writing mortgage industry stuff for a while, I'm afraid I'll lose any regulars I might have (especially the one in Germany), so, here's what I was feeling a month and a half ago... and a little yesterday...

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I had pancakes for brunch.

If you know me, if you know my regular eating habits, if you know my standard Sunday routine, you know that this is a cry for help.

Last night was horrible. Not in 'the end of the world' kind of way, but in the kind of way when a truth hits me... a truth I knew all along. A truth I knew would eventually reveal itself, but for some reason, I thought I had more time before it did-- at least, I hoped I did. It would have been more time of delaying the inevitable, of kidding myself, but I'm involved in theatre, and so I'm comfortable in a world of pretend; often times, I prefer it. Sadly, the reality we live in rarely is a choice, and apparently, the warning is right: the objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

The details are irrelevant. I fell for someone I shouldn't. I want something I can't have. It's not the first time, and more than likely, it unfortunately won't be the last time. But, it's been a while since it's happened, and so I'm out of practice. I forgot how it felt. I forgot how to fix it.

Some people are great at dealing with disappointments of the heart. They shake them off. They go for a run. They go out with friends. Me? I wallow. I try not to for too long. I try not to around people. But, I do... I fill up a bathtub of pity and sit in it until my fingers get as wrinkled as raisins. Others easily judge this approach, but for me, it's the only way to attempt to heal or move on. Feel it as deeply as possible and explore all its darkness so I know the areas that need the light the most. Then, I have to throw it all up somehow-- either with phone calls to friends or on my blog. Then, at the end, I hopefully feel a little lighter and a little better, having named the pain, having voiced the pain-- not letting it smother me as much as it feels it does now.

Eating pancakes at brunch is my Sunday morning version of drowning my sorrows in wine -- which I thoroughly did last night. A good penot noir, “Under the Tuscan Sun” and quite a few tears. Wrinkly fingers, wrinkly toes.

When I woke up this morning, though, I hadn’t slept the heartache off as I had hoped. I saw it before my eyes opened. Getting out of bed is never my favorite part of the day but shadowed by an unwelcoming truth, it takes more strength than I can sometimes muster... like working out in the morning.

And, while someday, this despair, this heartache, may channel itself into something productive like exercising or doing chores to keep my mind off of it, today, the only way to deal with it today, this morning, was with pancakes. So, prying myself from bed (and pretty much knowing the side of bed I rose on today was inconsequential), I dressed without showering (again, a day when personal hygiene seemed like an unnecessary luxury) and made my way to my Sunday diner.

The pancakes arrived to my table hot and fluffy, with nice cups of butter and syrup on the side. Still caring enough not to OD, I sparingly spread the butter and syrup over my plate. I would only drizzle the syrup of the section of the pancakes I was about to eat. I’m not entirely sure why I took this approach. I didn’t use less syrup by doing this. I think, in my head, I was taking a more healthy approach though. I’ve watched enough “The Biggest Loser” to know that syrup is bad for you… rots your teeth, too much sugar, gets you chunky and so on. By giving myself a little at a time, I guess I thought I was being better to my body.

Kidding myself is my unconscious hobby.

What hurts so much this time around is that I should have known better. I have no one else to blame. It's like I saw the person sneaking up behind me with the intent to frighten me, and when they yelled "BOO!" I still was scared shitless, screamed bloody murder and jumped out of my skin. There was no question my heart was destined to be where it is today; I saw it coming from the start. So, why against all my better judgment did I let myself get this deep into it? I can’t play the inexperience or ignorance card. I can only look in the mirror and point the finger—and ultimately believe the heart will go where it wants.

I flashed back to a week before when I was joined at my regular brunch by the family of a friend of mine from college. Her sweet 4-year old daughter had ordered pancakes—for a completely different motivation. She thankfully hasn’t learned about comfort food yet. She wasn’t nursing a heartache… it’s simply what she wanted. At 34, I have to do something extraordinary or live through something painful to earn pancakes. At four, you just have to stay in your seat during church.

The rules change. The bar gets raised.

With half a pancake left, she asked her dad for more syrup. He explained that there was none left. They had emptied what was given them on the pancakes at the start of the meal. “You don’t need more syrup. It’s soaked into the pancakes. It’s in there.”

I heard him say those words as I slowly ate my “Pity Party ‘Paincake’ Platter” (which, by the way, comes with a side of bacon). Before I could finish whatever section of pancake I was about to devour, the syrup would already soak in. I couldn’t beat it, and I couldn’t stop it. The pancake and the syrup would be one. The pancake is sweeter, even if you don’t see the syrup on top.

The trickiest part of it all is that I want someone who is pancake worthy. I want someone like this person – someone intelligent, funny, driven, kind and beautiful. Someone that reads me better than people that have known me for years. Someone that I can’t get out of my head; someone that awakens my heart. Someone worthy of drowning my sorrows in pancakes without ever driving me to that point. It’s a risky proposition and a scary thought… and like Big Foot, I’m not sure if such a being exists. And, even if he does, how do I know that a short stack isn’t awaiting me at the end of our time together?

I don’t know. No one knows. There are no guarantees how things will end. But, when they do, if they do, all I know is that I’ve had the experience. I’ve had this experience. It has been poured into my life. And, while right now I feel the rotting, the decay, and the pain it causes, hopefully, ultimately, I somehow will be made a little sweeter by it.