Why do they say "fall in love" ("like a fall from grace?" - Mary, The Happy Ending, 1969: "affluent Denver housewife drinks, takes pills, and walks out on her husband after fifteen years of marriage") like it's something that happens when you trip over an uneven span of sidewalk along your path, stumble several steps, and then re-right yourself to a steady stride? It's not that it's not totally the case. I mean, it happens unexpectedly and suddenly and shockingly, and it hits you sideways from somewhere behind you and to the left, deep within your blind spot, that shadowy blur of a gray triangle through which you never even think to look, especially when you've given up on looking and decided that if it ever happens, it's going to have to happen later because right now you don't have the time or the energy or the attention needed to pay to a significant other. How do you make God laugh? You make a plan, of course. Say that there is only one thing that couldn't possibly arrive at a worse time and that's the exact moment when that one thing trips across the uneven concrete, stumbles a few steps, and re-rights himself straight on into your arms that you've slung open to catch him. Yeah. I guess I've fallen in love. And on the eighth day, God said: Let there be love, and it was the best of all.
Last night was the third meeting of the Shreveport-Bossier Book Club, the second consecutive month in which we actually discussed one of the books on our list, the third month after originally meeting to plan meeting dates and meeting times and books to read and wines (that the others, no worries, people... it's not even a blip on my radar) for consumption and foods to devour and discussions to tackle. The first month was Julia Reed's The House on First Street and last night was Ian McEwan's Atonement, a big, sprawling, beautiful story of love and loss and the death of passion in romance through the cruel twists of fate and the lies that children tell. I made my famous chicken salad and Mexican fiesta dip with crackers and breads and a big, fat bottle of Yellow Tail Pinot Grigiot, a wine that I once consumed en masse, and the only idea I could lay my brain on and wrap my thoughts around when trying to determine what my tasteful contribution to Book Club could be since, five years of step work and meeting attendance and a whole lot of soul searching later, I remain clean and serene and sober and grateful. There was just under half a bottle remaining as the ladies began to make their ways to the door (something that DEFINITELY would never have been the case if I were still a drinking man), so I sent the remnants away with the one member of our party I knew would enjoy the grape fermentation the most.
It's hot here. Inexcusably, exhaustively, oppressively, disgustingly middle of deep South summer, New Orleans afternoon, Bourbon Street-caked on hot. It's not like it's the hottest it's ever been or anything, but I'm ready for the summer months to be over and complete. For the onset of sweater weather and no flip flops, driving with the windows down, sleeping with the windows up, planning on camping and pitching a tent and living off whatever the sig. fig. decides to catch or hunt or grab and skin and boil or fry for us to consume. Yeah, camping is a big and great idea, but one that I'm actually, really and truly looking forward to this fall, and I know that there will be afternoons and evenings and late up-all-night-study-sessions in which I'm going to have to put love on the back burner, but I also know that I've come this far and worked this hard, and it's imperative that I keep control, remain on top of my game, and keep on keeping on this path to perfection I'm pushing so hard to reach.
People in love are crazy.
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