tapestry

And here is where the precariously woven tapestry of my life inevitably starts to unravel....

I'm reluctantly, but fanatically updating my social networking site (which I adamantly insist is the devil), when I get a message saying that Chris, who let’s just say, might have been the love of my life, but who I totally gave the screw-over, has added me as a friend. Okay. I accept. In my mind, it’s a chance to reconnect—to apologize for past mistakes and rekindle a sense of connectedness between two people who once shared the most intimate of connections.

As I open his profile, what's the first picture that pops up on his page? A sickeningly sweet ultrasound of the lovechild of Chris and my former best girl friend, Rebecca.

When considering this joyous occasion last night, to put things in perspective, let me make clear two things: 1) I'm already nursing a sick, pathetic heart. My best guy friend is gone halfway around the globe, but--not only that--I don't know where our relationship is going. Purgatory is the world that comes to mind. 2) I want a child--there's no doubt about that. But, I don't just want one for the sake of having one, (perhaps I’ll divulge later my melodramatic views on the beauty of child-making and how it is the molecular binding of souls--)however, that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell when someone I used to love is having one with another person I used to love.

Sleep is futile. Even the shadows playing peek-a-boo through the curtains recreate the black and white image of what should have been the consummation of my childhood love.

In the morning, I had banana bread and blueberries in memoriam. This was the breakfast I had last shared with my friend, Emile, before he trekked of to his new adventure for work overseas. I was feeling a bit better, despite the fact that I had another dreaded doctor's appointment. Somehow I drug my globetrotting best friend loving, baby less, tired ass out the door and went to see the doc.

In the exam room:

"So, how old are you?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Oooh..."
"What?"
"You plan on having kids?"
"My husband and I have been trying for years."
"Oh, that's right. Sorry. Well, here's the deal. I'm worried that these cells might be hiding deeper inside your cervix, and, if we find that's the case after today, then we'll need to do another surgery. It can have an effect on your fertility by making your cervix incompetent."
"Hmph."
"Well, maybe only slightly. But nonetheless, I have to let you know of the risk."

My inner dialogue sounded something more like this:

"So, how old are you?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Oooh..."
"What the hell does 'oooh' mean?"
"You plan on having kids?"
"I've told you every visit for the last three years what's been going on. But, thanks for bringing it up again, fucker. And, by the way, I’ve moved past having kids with my husband anyway. I've really just been holding out for my best friend’s sperm."
"Oh, that's right. Sorry. Well, here's the deal. I'm worried that these cells might be hiding deeper inside your cervix, and, if we find that's the case after today, then we'll need to do another surgery. It can have an effect on your fertility by making your cervix incompetent."
"Really? Personally, I think an incompetent cervix would fit just right into my picture. Incompetent brain, incompetent heart, incompetent relationships...bring in on, doc."
"Well, maybe only slightly. But nonetheless, I have to let you know of the risk."
"Thanks for that. So, what you're telling me is that I have to do the surgery or there is a risk of death or I can have the surgery and there is a risk of no kids. Wow. You really know how to turn a girl on."

After that, I somehow managed to stumble back downstairs, out the doors, and into the street to my car (unfortunately, without being struck by an oncoming vehicle), where I proceeded to sob incessantly the entire way home.

Here I am—pitifully in love with my childhood best friend who is halfway across the world in God knows where who may or may not be "in" love with me, but definitely "respects" me and even that may all change after he hits it big with his band (money is Lucifer paper-fied), living six-doors down from my last semester of college fling who wants to get a job where I work (more on that later), looking at pictures of my former love and his spawn, tirelessly campaigning against small-minded, small-town thinking and not able to get drunk enough to blot our the aforementioned love of the best friend. Did I mention my email isn't working today and I might have cancer that could lead to "cervical incompetence"?

I think I'm going to need some safety pins.