Wednesday, August 27, 2008


I've always hated change.

For example: When I was four-years-old my mother cut her hair from long golden tresses to a pixie Peter Pan cut. She emerged from the salon feeling like a new woman, and I cried. And cried. And cried.

I even went as far as to engrave "I hat you mommy" into the bottom of a Tupperware with my dulled number 2. She wasn't my "mommy" anymore with that haircut, she was some other version of mommy, same hugs, smell, and snuggle, but she looked different.

I eventually forgave her, but the terror I felt in that moment has followed me from time to time.

And while I've had the same haircut since kindergarten, every other change, big or small, good or bad, has sent me into a state of panic.

Most recently, after giving up my "independence" for a man, I left single-me behind. And in the coming months, I'll be leaving her apartment behind as well. No more clearance shampoo and empty fridge. No more phone calls from him to see what I'm up to. No more pop-ins from my neighbor-friend. No more girl-he-fell-in-love-with.

I assume she's still tucked into the corner of the couch, sipping pinot and fantasizing about the future. I like to visit her from time to time, reminiscing about the pain and passion I seem only to find in men who are bad for me. I tell her about all of my fears, but mainly about my fear of change.

The fear that the change in me might be a catalyst for the end to us.

Because if he fell in love with her... then what happens when she's gone?

Like mom with her new haircut, I'll still have the same smell, snuggle, and hugs, but my life will look entirely different.

And if the change is too much, I'm just hoping he'll be more subtle if he realizes the the girl he met is gone...

Because I can't imagine anything worse than reading a break up letter engraved in the bottom of a piece of Tupperware.

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