More BAD HAIR

I mean, of course I loved him as a friend. And there was no denying that I had a big old crush on him. Was that the same as love? I was tempted to say I have no clue. But weren’t you supposed to know whether you loved someone? Thing is, I wasn’t sure what love felt like, at least when it came to something romantic that you felt for another human being.

There were all kinds of ideas, all kinds of images, the sorts of things that they wrote about in songs and played out on television and in the movies. It all felt soapy and false to me. Love, I guessed, was there when you knew it to be there.

I had the overwhelming desire to write to him and say okay, this is what I did to myself, aren’t I a total idiot? What could be the harm in admitting to what I had done, what happened to me?

Maybe it was love when you didn’t worry about what you were going to say to that other person.

I flashed back to meeting Matt at the shelter that first time. We introduced ourselves in that awkward way of people who perhaps should know each other’s name but don’t. My hand in his, shaking. There was a fire burning that day, scorching the nearby hilltops of Escondido to the north. It might as well have been in the parking lot of the shelter, that’s how much ash was getting dropped and wind was getting whipped and the air was chokable, practically chewable, but hardly breathable.

The shelter. That was where I needed to be. I needed to be taking care of others because there was only so much I could do for myself. Speaking of that, though, I needed to at least call The Clinique to ask them if there was anything I could do to stop swelling up like the damn Muffin Man.

I’d programmed them into my phone. At least that was a smart move, Meredith. You’re not exactly full of them these days. Ah, shut up, Self. I started to hit the Call button and my mother walked into the room. I stowed the phone under my thigh and gritted my teeth. “Don’t you knock?”

The look on her face: it was as if I had slapped her full force with brass knuckles.

“Any reason?” You could tell she was trying to be cool. “If you’ve got some sort of stash, don’t worry about stowing it. Just share.”

She paced around my room in her oversized NY LAUNDRY sweatshirt, leggings, and ballet flats. The 1990s called, Mom. They want their outfit back. But there was no denying that she was cute in her chosen clothes, even if they belonged on a 20-year-old Target rack.

My mother filled out her ensemble, her self, in a way I could only envy. Maybe when I was 800 years old like her I could be the same way. Thing is, though, heredity doesn’t let you pick and choose. The same genes that give you the possibility of confidence also slap you with so many reasons that you may never get to enjoy it.