This morning my boyfriend strapped on a fanny pack for his trip to Cedar Point.
My sensible conclusion was to respect our differences and let him use an appropriate tool for his generation. Either they’re back in all of their glory and he will be a fashion god or those junior high kids are going to laugh their asses off on that field trip.
“It’s a nice one,” he explained as he snapped the plastic ends together, strapping it on. “My wife gave it to me.”
Then he pulled out a plastic bag of weed, a glass pipe, and whatever else. Whenever he touches something old the past is guaranteed to manifest itself.
“This was the joint I rolled for her, her last one before she died.”
Every day for the past four years this woman has died. I deal with it according to my mood, or according to things going on. That and the house, and all I am surrounded by, they’re all a constant reminder that my life will never be a certain kind of normal. It will always be my whatever-I-decide, whether that’s normal or abnormal or good or bad.
It seems kind of fucked up and doesn’t seem to have made any sense to anyone else, but what matters is what makes sense to ME.
And anything I struggle with, or bitch about, or laugh at, it’s part of my normal. How absolutely bored I’ve been, how soul-searching, the more my life was hunky dory. Dark days dressed in mediocrity just disappeared into repetition – taking innocent bystanders with it. I am happy – genuinely, happy, that those days are behind me… or wherever they went.
It’s so much better with a million questions.
Goddamn fanny pack is right.