The boyfriend box.

I've started packing for my European Experience. I still have a week until my departure but I'm one of those neurotic people who needs everything to be 'just so' and this requires me to began the process a week in advance. I typically tend to be a minimalist traveler, packing the fewest amount of items I can; usually I run into the problem of not having enough clothes, underwear, clean socks. Perhaps this time it won't be an issue since I'll be wearing a crew uniform for a majority of the time. Glamorous, really. (In that cheesy "I had to buy white tennis shoes" way. Honestly, I had to buy white tennis shoes-- and I think white tennis shoes are hideous! It's tragic but on the bright side, I haven't been forced to buy Crocs, that might potentially be a bigger relief.)

But here I am, packing. I have little else to consume my already mundane days. This morning I was shuffling through paperwork when I happened upon a boyfriend box. A "Jungle Berries energy bar" box, to be exact. AVH sent me this box before he left to sail across the Atlantic. Those 5 evil weeks of technological deprivation. Looking back I have a difficult time understanding how I coped with not being able to contact him. (His current Atlantic crossing is only taking 12 days and he has email access, like whoa.)

Back to the boyfriend box. I've been in the dating market for the past 8 years of my existence. It has been a long 8 years. I only have 3 boyfriend boxes (bless, I've had many more boyfriends than that). Well, 2 boyfriend boxes and one boyfriend envelope-- Band boy, Food Snob, and AVH. A boyfriend box is the lazy version of a scrapbook. They're emotionally convenient though, they take less time and effort to make and can be easily thrown away, or burned, as the situation demands. But perhaps more importantly, they're an easy way to store memories and trinkets.

AVH sent me this box back in 2006 and since then it has collected letters, dried flowers, wrappers, boarding passes, photos, and pretzels. I saved the mini bag of pretzels. I was immediately distracted from my packing and organizing when I started reading through the letters he has written me. His first letter, "I think this is the 3rd non-business related letter I've ever sent in my life. And that includes postcards. Quite terrible, don't you think?" that was back in October of 2006. In November of 2007 he sent me a blank check to help figure things out with Rowan; I never cashed it. In April 2008 he sent me a plane ticket to Italy, and now I'm packing my bags. He once wrote me, "even though I believe many good relationships can be cultivated through hard work, I do think what we have is more than just from a formula of success but rather something greater, something serendipitous." Amen.

That's what's great about this box-- it's easy to see how our relationship has evolved and how we've both grown during the past few years. And, just maybe, this will be the last boyfriend box I ever have.

The Rowan Saga.

Owning a horse is like having a small child. They're similar in that communication is limited to a series of guesses based on visual cues. And so the R saga continues. He isn't in serious pain, he's not on any type of painkillers, but he's certainly not comfortable. He doesn't get worse when I ride him and it doesn't prevent him from running around outside, but he limps around and won't stand on his left front foot. I certainly can't afford to have another vet visit but I certainly can't keep guessing at what's bugging him, and hoping that it will miraculously heal. It's a pity, it really is-- he's too good of a horse to have these leg issues.

But in real life, I've been having a difficult time motivating myself to study French. It was silly to think that I wouldn't have to use French again after those required semesters-- yet here I am, preparing to make feeble attempts at speaking coherent (grammatically correct?) French in France.

AVH left today. Part of me does wish that I had done the crossing with him, it would be fabulous to say that I sailed across the Atlantic. But as time goes, 11 days and I'll be joining him.

The yard.

Returning to Florida merely solidified the fact that I am about to face another transition, move to a new temporary home, and literally experience uncharted waters of my own.

When people ask me where I'm "going next" they always seem to have a story that applies to the industry, but for me it's not about the industry, it's not even the fact that I'm getting a free ride to Europe, it's that at this point in time I can't imagine my life without AVH. It's been nearly two years, two years of waiting until the next visit, waiting for the next email, the next call. I don't mind waiting, but I do mind not knowing.

But in 'knowing' you tend to learn just how much you don't know, it's that knowledge that terrifies me. It's a slow ever-moving process and I wonder if the cumulation of months will provide a few answers to the equation.

Five days in the yard provided a nice reality check. Navy shorts, white v-neck tee (don't they know I hate v-neck tees?), chin resting on the palm of my hand-- the typical day? Watching the world go by. The yard is a nasty place filled with discarded rusty razor blades, plastic, paint, machines, men. The smell of chemicals and metal. Healthy.

This lack of water left me in hesitation. This industry, this vehicle, this boy-- will I be happy here? Will I find meaning in the routine? Will I lose the excitement so easily maintained with always coming and going? Will I be the person he wants, needs? Will I become angry because I've given up some things that consistently help me maintain my own happiness? These were some of my in-flight thoughts, ponderings 32,000 miles over the east coast.

There can be a countdown now, 2 weeks until I leave the country. 2 weeks. 2 weeks until I leave Rowan behind. I have 2 weeks to figure out how to be OK with doing this.

Realize.

A warm Florida night, airport arrivals.

ALN picked me up in the Accord. Windows down, cigarette lit. We shared a #68 deli sandwich direct from A2, the one that almost made me miss my flight.

It was late, we caught up on six days worth of gossip. We stopped at Starbucks. I can't even remember the street names anymore. But this song reminds me of her and of being there.

Sometimes I wonder if what we did was wrong-- but she shouldn't have been stuck there either.

Every so often I have fond memories of being in that sheltered life, of having that group who fully understood everything, and sometimes I realize that there are some small things that I miss-- like listening to this song at 11pm on our way home from the airport.

Sun deck.

10:34pm my phone rings. Picking up my phone, "unavailable". It's AVH. Why is he calling me again? Earlier this evening we spoke for nearly a half hour.

LG: Hello?
AVH: Babe. (lots of background noise)
LG: Hey, what's up? Where are you?
AVH: I'm on the sun deck.

The sun deck. Ah yes, the sun deck. Memories of an October evening, after three days of not eating, shaking, crying-- the infamous night he broke up with me to my face. But this time it's different. This time, in a week's time, I will be there. For good. I'm ready.

...but am I really ready? For the first time I'm starting to feel some doubt. I'm leaving Rowan after nearly a year of being engrossed in horses-- after 5 months of just horses I'm about to go cold turkey. Poof. Like that. I'm wondering if I'll regret this, leaving my Rowan, leaving after developing such a good seat, such good horsemanship skills. It's a shame really, "you could go all the way if you wanted" (sometimes I wish I had that drive).

But it's not really any of that. Maybe it's that I don't know what I would do if I didn't join the Ob. I seem to be in the mentality that this was my only option, even though it wasn't-- I could have gone to Europe, trained will Ulla or California to train with Jan. I could have done many things. So the more I talk about it and the more I think about it maybe it really does come down to females making these sacrifices. (that's what Dmar says) And how is it that we can be OK with them?

But, the hardest thing about all of this is leaving Rowan. He has been my life for the past 6 months, how can I just leave him? I worry that I will lose sight of my passion after being away from it for so long, will I lose interest in Rowan? Will I decide that being tied down (by a horse) is just something I don't want burdening me? Will I just forget about how much he has meant to me for the past year and a half? These thoughts frighten me.

But AVH. I'm not worried about that. I'm ready for that part.

Unwell.

I'm wondering why it is that while I was at the Poo's I didn't get sick, not even once. But since I've left, gone only a month and a half, I've been sick twice. I suppose I can contribute both sicknesses to severe lack of sleep-- but still!

My days have been relaxed and uneventful-- perhaps even a little obnoxiously so. Sometimes the weather in the Mitten is absolutely dreadful and we just happen to be in the midst of the gloomy in-between days of grey, dirty, melting snow. These conditions aren't quite conducive to productive behavior. It's ok though, I need to spend the next few days getting myself healthy again before I'm off to the Sunshine state again.

Roni pony has been doing well. I have suspicions that his back is bothering him but it might simply be because I've been working him more uphill than just long-and-low. I gave him today off, we'll see how he is tomorrow.

Otherwise, I find a lot of random, small things that need to get done. Maybe one of them will be finding an institution to further my education...

de.tri.tus.

It's easier to ignore it, to pretend that in the gray area the patches of black are merely memory gaps. I never asked the questions because reading it makes it fictional. All just characters in the novel. I shrug it off with a half smile but when I'm alone and I think of our time together I think about her, whomever she may be, and how she has somehow shoved herself indirectly into my life.

I shouldn't care, but I do. I don't know what questions I want to ask, I don't know what I want to know, or if I even want to know anything at all. I don't. I do. Tormenting either way. Will it always be in my head? Not talking never fixed anything.

I can block it out-- the images. But do you? No. I have so many. Enough for you. Those were different feelings then. Different times. Emotions. I didn't know any better. Desperation, need, habit. Drunkenness, induced-- sleep deprivation.

But you'll never know. Riding the bike, clinging to K, tears soaking my face. A horrible way to die. To live out the last seconds empty, already crying. Don't do anything stupid. Please. Thinking about it now, watching the film, tears in my eyes. Don't wish on anyone. Bruised and broken.

I would have climbed in his bed, naked. 100% certain. No questions asked, silent understanding. I had said it, I would have been all yours; slipping between the cool sheets, this: it's for you-- unrequited in some strange way. Still foggy, even now-- the hours on the couch, a hazy morning through Atlanta. I would have.

"I don't know." How can you not know? You were there. I'm the one who doesn't know. Don't worry, I'm not over it, either. Why don't you tell me, everything. Everything. Why do I have to ask the questions?