I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I'm pretty girly. I have hot pink pants, for pete's sake. I like to paint my nails, and read about celebrities, and buy shoes. I heed Mindy Kaling's blog the way some people heed the Bible. So you would think I would have very little trouble finding something overwhelmingly delicate in my life. Nevertheless, I am struggling. I can find a lot of indulgence, perhaps. A significant amount of fluff, but nothing particularly delicate without getting into some stuff I'd rather not discuss on the internets. However, since some of my blogging compatriots have been so generous with themselves this summer (ie, since I essentially tear up every time I read Rachel's blog) I would like to offer something a little more substantial than just some bullshit story about how my bones are more delicate than I realized (hence the metal plate in my arm) or the lace bobbins in my grandmother's house or my eyeballs (as I am currently peering at this computer screen through new glasses).
I started off with the dictionary entry for delicate, since that seemed as good a starting point as any. And you know what? I was surprised. I was expecting the first definition to address the easily wounded, or the intricately designed. But the first definition was:
Pleasing to the senses, especially in a subtle way.
Fascinating.
The very first thing I thought of was air. The smell of the air has always been oddly important to me, which seems kind of like a bizarre characteristic of some sort of Disney villain. Can't you see it now? Cruella DeVil, teetering down the street in sky-high stilettos and baby seal fur, bitching about the smell of the air? I can see it, at least. And I'm not talking about when you're driving along the highway and you catch a whiff of skunk, or when you drive into Moscow. I'm talking about a subtle scent, so subtle that it seems less like a smell that's bothering you, and more like the place itself is just giving you the creeps.
The inverse of the creepy-air smell, of course, is warm and inviting - just a generally content smell. Real estate brokers will tell you that it's baking bread, or something like that. But again I think that's a little too obvious, don't you? My favorite is the smell the air takes when it's about to rain. Or, the odor right before a big electrical storm. These scents are almost imperceptible, but so lovely. These smells are a quiet assertion of presence, and in those moments before the storm I feel like I too am more present. Those are wonderfully calm moments, and I love them for their quiet dignity.
Ok, that's probably more on my love affair with smelly air than any of you really needed. But, it kind of sets the groundwork for my larger, original point (also known as the point I was going to make before I actually looked "delicate" up in the dictionary).
There is something subtle in the way the air changes as you move from place to place. My home in Bellevue, as I've mentioned, pretty much always smells as if it's going to rain. The air in my temporary home - Pullman - smells like heat and humidity (at least, it seems to these days). The air at Jo's house - yet another home - has the weird, tingly current you inhale just before a really powerful sneeze. (I don't think it smells like this for most people, but I am, tragically, really allergic to Bampton. It is like Pollen Land there.) So I suppose it's fair to say that I've collected this weird affinity for delicate shifts in air scents because I have this impulsive need to keep moving. I've been thinking about my pack-up-and-move bug a lot recently, because I've been here in Pullman for a year now. That means it's time for me to get antsy again. I'm like Juliette Binoche in Chocolat, but not in any of the cool mistress-of-chocolate ways. Just in that move-every-time-the-wind-changes way. I've only got a year of this chunk of my life left, so now my vision of the future is once again kind of an inchoate, shifting image. Generally speaking, this is the way I like it. It's exciting to think about the way the air will smell in my new home (wherever that may be). But, in this case, what is exciting is also incredibly selfish. I leave. I leave all the time. It was recently pointed out to me that I have about a billion best friends. The English student in me recognizes, immediately, that "best" is a singular superlative. But Lauren, who in fact is the one who pointed out this "best friend in every port" situation, is totally right. I can in fact, off the top of my head, think of seven people I'd classify as best friends. Best friend from high school. Best friend from college. Best friend from my sorority. Best friend from the crew team. Best friend from Scotland. Best friend from France. Best friend from Pullman. And I adore these people so, so much. And what I'm wondering is, when will I stop leaving these people? Isn't the ability to stay put a mark of adulthood. And if it is...when will that bug...bite?
1 comment:
leaving is something i am familiar with, although i have a different reaction to it.
it is very interesting to me that you are okay with leaving, want it, welcome it, evidenced by the fact that you have a different best friend in every port. it is interesting only because i think, after i found two new "best friends" at evergreen and here at wsu as an undergrad, i decided that i hated the idea of leaving them. there's nothing much you can do about it, right? you move on. life happens. you can't guarantee that you will stick with these people for life. but i thought - then why bother? if you can't keep up with these people, then what is the point of making new friends?
so i think that you should feel less concerned with your inability to keep close with them physically and instead be proud of the fact that you are able to both do things in your own life and maintain relationships with those from moments pass. it says so much about who you are and the kind of friend you are.
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