vicariously

We’ve had a lot to celebrate of late. I use that pronoun very intentionally. I mean I haven’t been celebrating. I’ve been scrambling. Scrambling to move from 550 feet in apartment 2C to 550 feet in apartment 2D. Scrambling to finish my history of bryn mawr (300 pages done and another 70 to go). Scrambling to find time to sew and to read and to exercise. Scrambling to figure out what I’m going to say in one month when I stand up in front of my friends and family and tell J why I’ve chosen him. So I’ve just been hurrying.

But we, well, we have a lot to celebrate.

Like the Lakers winning it all.
Like the end of J’s semester and his summer stay in Philly.
Like the fact that J got a book contract from UNC press.
Like the fact that J got a surprise “bonus” from his college.

So you see, J has a lot to celebrate.

I couldn’t care less about the Lakers.
I didn’t have an end to the semester because I have to finish this book.
I don’t have a hope in hell of UNC ever publishing my book because they published its doppelganger in April.
My promised cost of living increase turns out to be an extra $12.32 a month.

But wait, this isn’t self-pity, though it may look a lot like it. No, this is about feeling—I mean really actually feeling—what it means to be a “we.”

I sat at the bar last night until the wee hours with my fists clenched actually cheering for Kobe.
I made room in my 550 square feet—clearing drawers and closets—for the arrival of J and I greeted him with tremendous good cheer.
I imagine his book with its sexy new title and I think, yeah, I sorta kinda helped make it happen.
That bonus of his and those $12.32 will make plane tickets next year a teeny-tiny bit better.

I think probably the best part of choosing this “we-ness” is about allowing his good fortunes to feel like my own. I feel fortunate that he’s willing to share.