Sunday, November 19, 2006

To Investigate the Haunted Attic, Turn to Page 37.

It may have been the effects of drinking a lot of coffee right before going out, but last night on the way to Movida my stomach was in knots.

I prefer to think that caffeine is not the driving factor of my feelings like something's gonna happen, because 1. who wants their premonitions to be purely chemical? and 2. I don't get feeling that every day. If coffee alone could manufacture butterflies, I would live on the very edge of my seat from nine to five, Monday through Friday, when I am so full of office-brewed coffee my blood tastes like a cafe au lait.

Cafe au sang? Whatever.

I've gotten that same "holy shit, somethings gonna happen" feeling for years, like a restless leg syndrome of the heart. You know that commercial? With the people going on about the devestating effects of RLS how the creepy crawlies and pins and needles in their legs won't let them sleep? That's it, except it's my whole life, and for no good reason to boot. I passed these stupid nights sleeplessly and slowly in my room when I was a teenager. Infomercials as my soundtrack, the sun coming up through the stained glass coloring book pages scotch-taped to my windows, I'd fill hour after manic hour only to discover my jitters were rarely a symptom of an actually thrilling night. Most of the time I'd just be eight mortifying love poems lamer by the time the butterflies disappeared. Or, like, so excited to wear the purse I spent eight hours making from my childhood She-Ra sheets.

Crafts are a poor subsitute for real teenage excitement, but they'll do in a pinch.

It's been a long time since I've felt so sure that something Very Important was happening somewhere, but it happened last night. My hands were in fists and my guts were on vibrate as Brad drove us over the Manhattan bridge to the same places we go every Saturday.

And, of course, butterflies or no, last night was every Saturday. The same hellos and kisses on the cheek, the same songs, the same kids, although that's why I like Saturdays. But when your entire gastrointestinal system is positive that something gigantic is supposed to happen to you, it's a little bit of a letdown to just have a good night. Good is good, but it's not enormous. Or earth-shattering.

Or mindblowing! Or life-changing! Or making-out-with-a-big-ol'-grade-A-hot-dude-esque! Exclamation! There were no exclamations!

I've written about this before, this feeling I have that there are multiple mes because life works like a Choose Your Own Adventure novel. Just because I decide to follow the weird noise into the cave doesn't mean the me that chooses to turn around and go back to the picnic is erased from the book. My restless heart syndrome is just further proof that there's another me out there hitting a critical point in the story I don't know.

Scratching off the last number on a winning lottery ticket, biting into the best veal parmigiana ever.

2 Comments:

Anonymous gil said...

RLS! haha! i thought i had RLS. turns out i just have palmer hyperhydrosis and it keeps me awake (?)... eew, right?

infomercials keeping you up? ive heard your radio running into the wee hours of the morning.

grade-a hottie-campfire-esque making out sessions are really overrated, but needed sometimes. but youre classy enough to not succumb to the twat-showing that it is usually dependent upon. :*

11:16 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

The infomercials are more keeping me company than keeping me up. I go to sleep with a rotisserie grill or a winning real estate system every night.

12:55 PM  

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