Chrisonomicon

Friday, February 21, 2003

On temporary retreat in my apartment, I've been warding off a cold the past few days, attempting some form of R&R while obsessively consuming both an entire box of tea and back-to-back episodes of Six Feet Under, thankful that my cough is just your run-of-the-mill-cold symptom, rather than a finely-milled-anthrax symptom -- although when have I been one to buy into the fear- and war-mongering media clusterfuck? -- wondering about the world outside that looks so quiet from my living room window (I took a walk to the mailbox in my oversized cotton pajama bottoms to soak up the remaining sunlight that poured through the crevices between the mountains, wishing I could carry it inside, wring it into a jar and keep it safely stored for a snowy or rainy day. Why am I so compelled to confine and control?).

M and I talked about buying a house and moving in together on a phone call after episode 8. I'm telling him about meeting with an old friend of mine tomorrow to discuss mortgage options when the words slip out of my mouth like fish, a sudden pulse of regret running through my veins, but then I realize: almost no weekend in the past eight months has seen us apart. I'm looking for a house, he's looking for a house; why don't we look for one together? The prospect is thrilling. I could really picture it, flood-gated possibilities unleashed. His Hallmark moment was mentioning a garden, lawn mowing, domesticities -- I pursed my lips to contain clichéd picket fences -- and when we bid goodbye, I left with a sense of satisfaction. My heart had met my head and for what seemed like the first time, they shook hands.