Steak...

If I could use colors to describe my mood today it would be a nasty vomit color mixed with traces of black. I still have no words for my feelings. As I’m getting dressed I have to remind myself to do my hair, put on makeup, and wear earrings. I did none of this yesterday and was reminded that I work in front of a mirror all day and need to make an effort.
In the bathroom I spread on a thick coat of red lipstick hoping to erase the vomit color that has clouded my mind. I’ve had plenty of good days and bad days at work. I’ve dealt with a lot of emotional ups and downs throughout my career and have always kept everything in check but this… losing Rob has kicked my ass so hard that sometimes I find it nearly impossible to actually talk to people. The urge to walk out the door sometimes is so strong that I have to remind myself that walking away is not the appropriate response and I can do this. I can do my job. Sometimes though I’m surprised at myself for glossing over the news of Rob’s death when discussing it. I keep a smile on my face somehow when explaining it to some of my clients. Heaven forbid they feel uncomfortable with my news. I don’t want to weigh them down with the heaviness of my grief so by smiling I can at least appear ok and that I’m not going to start crying and appear to lose focus. Focus I didn’t have to begin with anyway.
“Melissa, your cousins are dead.” my dad tells me in a slightly aggravated tone. I am nine years old, sitting on his lap, giggling. We’re at my grandmother’s. My mom’s youngest sister was in an accident days earlier that killed two of her three children. This news makes me uncomfortable and I don’t know how to act. I’m giggly still, out of nervousness and my father is taking it as disrespect.
“I didn’t know they died.” I quickly reply. I did know though. They were on life support and I knew by my grandmother’s quiet tone while she had been talking to my dad earlier that this wasn’t going to end well.
“Yes, they both died.” he firmly states.
I don’t know what to do with this information so I pretend I’m not hearing it.
The weight of this news actually hits me seventeen years later when my dad called to tell me about Rob. I can see now while I’m telling my clients about Rob that I’m still that nervous nine year old, giggling her way through the uncomfortable feelings.
My eyes fill with tears but I don’t let them spill over my mascara covered lower lashes. I quickly exit the bathroom, grab my things for work and head out. It’s Friday morning and I’m off tomorrow. Just one more day. ‘I can do this.’ I remind myself.
I drive to work, and park. The daily panic that usually accompanies me to work now spread over my torso, constricting my heart, and once again I can’t find the air. I don’t want to take care of people today. Not for a long time and I feel so guilty. I’m lucky to have such a great job, lucky to have wonderful clients. What is the matter?
I don’t look anyone in the eye when I go in. I make a beeline straight for the break room and unload my things. I look up to see Monique outside the door.
“Hey Melissa.” she smiles.
I lower my eyes again and manage a quiet “Hi.” before she disappears into another room and I walk out to set up my station.
My first client won’t keep his head still. I contemplate screaming at him but don’t say a word. My second client comes early and I finish her in no time. I walk back to the break room and text Monique.
“I love you. I love my job. I hate today.”
She texts back quickly. “I love you too. I knew something was wrong. We’ll talk when I’m out of this meeting.”
My phone rings after I read her text. It’s mom.
“Hi.” I answer.
“Hey Sissy! How are you?”
“Ok.”
“Are you at work?”
“I am.”
“What’s the matter?” she asks.
My boyfriend died. I don’t want to be here.
“Nothing.”
“Is it a bad time to talk?”
Yes. No. I don’t know.
“No.”
“Ok, well, I was just on my lunch break. Thought I’d call you.”
I nod but she can’t see that.
“Well. I guess I’ll let you go then.” she replies after a fat silence.
“Ok.” I literally can’t say anything else. We say goodbye and hang up.
I place the phone on the table and sit to eat a cupcake I brought. I’m suddenly being interrupted by various people. I’m not looking up from the cupcake, staring and picking at it like it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen, delivering very short answers. I hope by doing this people will get the hint and quit talking to me but that doesn’t work. I decide to tune the voices out. I don’t care if I’m a bitch right now.
“You’re the icing on my cake.” I grinned at Rob one Sunday afternoon. “I’m gonna eat you for dinner!”
“I’m your crack.” he laughed.
“Yes you are!” I stare adoringly at him.
I finally understood what people talked about when they said you need to find someone that compliments your life, not completes it. The spouse should be the added bonus. Rob was the best icing I’ve ever tasted. Apparently somebody else thought the same thing cause he was licked right off my cake in one fell swoop.
I stand up from my chair at the break room table and trash the rest of the icing left over from the cupcake, unable to listen to the mindless chatter anymore.
“Oh! There you are!” Cheyenne exclaimed as I almost ran into her while exiting the room. “You’re client is here.”
“Thanks.” My next one, Cynthia is new to me. I remind myself to put a smile on my face upon meeting her.
“Hey! I’m Melissa!” I smile at the pretty, blue eyed woman sitting in the small waiting area.
“Good to meet you. Cynthia.” she offers her hand.
In my chair she tells me that her fortieth birthday is this weekend and she wants a new haircut. We settle on a layered bob. (I know, I know, imagine that… coming from me!) I shampoo her hair and as I’m cutting she tells me about her upcoming party.
“I’m so excited! My husband’s a chef but we’re having everything catered.” she tells me.
“You married a chef? That’s amazing!”
“Oh yeah. We both love to cook. He has me try all his creations. Not so good for my waistline but he’s awesome! He makes the best tenderloin!”
I remember Rob’s family telling me he loved to cook steak and did a fine job with it. I hate I missed it.
She goes on to explain how meticulous her husband does things with his steak and when she says his name I stop cutting and look up at her.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“My husband? Rob.”
My heart skips a beat and my entire body warms. I smile. “I thought that’s what you said.” I get back to cutting.
Cynthia goes on to tell about how wonderful he is, about their kids and their life. I soak all this up like it’s the most riveting information I’ve ever heard. The nasty vomit feeling dissipates and my mood is lifted. I finish her hair and tell her I’d love to see her back in six weeks.
“I’ll do my best! Thanks Melissa, this is great!” she exclaims, having no idea how she’s lifted me up and out of my funk.
At six o’clock my workday ends. I race home pack a quick bag and set out for the interstate. I’m halfway to my parent’s house when I think to myself that if everything were still as it was before Rob died I’d be heading up I-85 to Anderson, not down I-75 to Jonesboro. Rob and I had been talking about going to Charleston this weekend. He didn’t want to confirm any plans right then when I mentioned back in April that I had this particular Saturday off. I was hoping he’d take Monday off and we’d spend time wandering around Charleston, going to all his favorite places.
I make to mom and dad’s and feel an uncomfortable silence washing over me as I sit next to my mom in the living room.
“Was everything ok when I called today?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“You just didn’t sound good.”
“I’m not.” I reply staring at the wall. My dad walks in.
“We’re leaving on the first flight out. We’ll have to leave here at 5:30am.” he tells me.
“Ok.” I smile. Dad and I are heading to Washington D.C. in the morning to spend the day there looking at museums.
“Do you know what you want to do once we get there?” he asks.
“Kind of. I bought a book.”
He smiles and walks into the kitchen. I can’t sit still any longer and go into what used to be my room before dad took it over with his office and music things. I sit at the computer and open email. Rob’s mom wrote me a message about my latest blog entry. (Sex…) She shared it with a dear friend of hers and shared her friend’s response with me. It was so kind that it brought tears to my eyes. I’ve found that the things that are hardest to write are the things that have generated the most amazing responses. I grew up receiving the message that a sweet lil southern girl such as myself should have no issues and whatever issue that may be there, she certainly does not burden someone else’s life with them, she hides them and pretends everything is perfect. This same lil southern girl is to never ever utter an inappropriate four letter explicative. She is also not to *gasp* have sex and is to never ever speak of doing it. A ‘lady’ doesn’t do such things, but hell, if that’s the case then tell me folks, how does the damn population keep growing?! News flash, God created sex and created it for us to enjoy.
In putting my experiences out there I’m taking a risk at receiving some harsh feedback. I know this and do it anyway, seeing I need not to apologize for any choice I’ve made. The unwanted feedback doesn’t come though. All that’s there is love. I’ve put my tattooed, pierced, foul mouthed, food obsessed, sexually charged self out there and have received nothing but utmost kindness and respect.
I close my Inbox and sit for a moment, letting everything sink in. I can’t find words for this feeling except sheer happiness. I’m desperate to share this with my mom, exclaiming “Mom! Guess what?! People love me! I had no idea!” but I don’t say a word as I enter the living room again. I sit in chair, staring at the television, and bask in this new feeling of contentment, of feeling as if I’m on the right track somehow. I open my mouth to speak but close it quickly. If I tell her I wrote about sex I’ll get what I feared. I’ll just hang on to this by myself.
The news is on and she’s making comments here and there about various stories. I don’t care about the news. My skin begins to crawl and I want to scratch at it. I try to sit still. She’s still talking. My skin is still crawling. I don’t want to hear anymore words. I just want to hug her. Instead I walk away.