In all its fullness
Last night I watched The Princess Bride, wrapped in an afghan on my couch. I know the music intimately, having listened to my soundtrack cassette at bedtime obsessively during one period of my childhood.
—
On Wednesday, even though it was the day after spraining my neck, I determined to eat painkillers like candy and carry out my plan of driving A Curious Mango to her job interview on the island. We’d been planning it for weeks and I couldn’t bear to miss out on a day out in the world.
On the ferry we loaded up on Christmas CDs from the gift shop that we hadn’t acquired yet. She bought Enya’s "And Winter Came … "
We were driving back to the ferries to take us homeward, when KT called on my cellphone, needing to vent as she studied for her next exam. (She finally made it to med school. Did I ever mention that? That’s a morality tale to be told someday. Stick to your guns and all that.) I was driving so Ellie yakked to KT, with occasional asides from me as I could figure out what they were talking about, – but I was also conscious of this as a counterpoint to the new Enya music we had on. There have been a few disappointing Enya albums that made me feel I had grown out of her, but there it was again – that simplicity, sincerity and outright magic that reduced me to a willowy twelve-year-old believing that Anything might happen … The line of red lights ahead of me, a synchronized ballet of commuters heading to the sea, became an icon of humanity and possibility. I almost gasped when the moment of recognition came. It never abandons me, though I can’t say I go looking for it much anymore. It can’t be hunted. I mostly just work and keep my eyes open.
—
My massage therapist (whom I have seen just twice now) moves like a dancer from the Ballets Russe. Buoyant, sturdy, somehow unnervingly efficient. At our first meeting I felt like a bride in an arranged marriage, being appraised. I stood meekly for him. He regarded me with pale eyes. "You play violin," he said in his thick accent. I blinked at him. He said my torso was "translated" to the left, and that my left shoulder was much higher than my right. But he said he would deal with that after getting over my present "trauma" (the sprained neck from my fall). I turned various directions for him – looked around at various angles. Then he came to me from behind and in that instant when his hands touched my waist, I knew I was in for a different kind of experience than a mere appointment. I don’t mean to make this sound sexy or the prelude to a porn scenario. But part of what I have been grappling with (as an Orthodox catechumen, too) is the physicality of my being and its inherent goodness, no matter what has been done or not done to me.
And yet, I could almost cry when he says quietly, "Relax. Let me do this," and takes my head with sure hands and gently holds it just off the table, till he feels that I have abandoned myself completely. It is hard not to feel loved when I am physically cared for this way, but of course my intellect knows that I am receiving healthcare from a professional. It is one of the little ironies of my present life.
It reminds me of Mr. Cosmic Clarinet. We gave each other massages regularly, and it really helped build up the illusion of our love.
—
On Wednesday, on the ferry ride home, A Curious Mango took out the bottle of recovery ointment I use sometimes on my wrist/arms if I’ve played piano a little too long, and bared my neck and right shoulder and lovingly massaged the ointment into it.
—
Today was the scheduled "Christmas in the small town nearby" day that A Curious Mango and I had planned a long time ago. After teaching my morning lessons, I went out to meet her. Apart from wanting to see the town’s Christmas tree get lit up, we had only nebulous plans for the day. I said, "I have decided I need to get a coat. And some decent shoes." So off we went. The coat is necessary anyway, but the urgency is because this Monday night, I suspect I’m going on a date, and if my date takes my coat off for me when we arrive at dinner or the symphony, I want him not to gasp at the state of the lining inside it … All my coats are old or hand-me-downs or downright unflattering. The shoes are necessary because one of the reasons I fell and sprained my neck was because I was wearing slippery shoes, the soles almost worn away …
In record time, the Mango and I chose to shop at a clothing store that was right next to a shoestore I knew of, and it was in and out at both places. I now have a very nice black wool coat that proves to me that I’ve lost weight (it was the smallest plus size! and it hugs my curves warmly), as well as three necklaces the Mango spotted with her unfailingly sensible eye (actually, one was spotted by her – the other two I spotted and she approved). I also have two pairs of new shoes, loafers and nicer black ones I can use for fancier things (but with good soles).
I put on the reddish-themed necklace (hard to describe) because I was wearing a red sweater over my black V-neck shirt, and we went off to the small town to see the lights. It turned out that the lighting up of the tree had been postponed due to some movie or other being shot on location. That happens a lot there. By sheer luck, we happened into a tea shop (British-themed) in which carollers were about to sing, one of whom I know from the music school. So we settled into the cozy chairs by the fake fireplace with eggnog lattes. (I popped some more Robaxacet and settled in as comfortably as I could.)
—
Random happy moment:
Driving around with the Mango in Father M’s car (it’s on loan to me while he and Matushka are away on vacation), listening to our favourite Christmas songs, singing along in spoofy voices … "Last Christmas I gev you my heart, but the very next day, you gev me away … " While along the roads of my neighbourhood, lights and decorations turn on in the twilight.
It still feels so … luxurious … to live in the same general area as the Mango.
ch convinces me that I am not even on the radar as a possibility for him. But that’s a story going nowhere that I don’t want to tell.
I tried to pooh-pooh the Monday thing. I said, "For all I know he’s going to write this off as a business expense. You know, Schmoozing with potential violist for next summer’s gigs … "
And I’m still not sure. After a series of e-mails in which I suggested we see such-and-such a show, he wrote back saying he’d "see about the tickets" and again later saying "the tickets are bought and will be waiting for us." The fact that he didn’t then tell me how much I owed him made me think this might be a date. I finally sent him the stunningly graceful paragraph: "I’d be happy to share the cost of the tickets, though I hesitated to type this, because I’m not sure which is more rude – obliviously accepting a ticket you had meant me to pay for, or trying to pay for a ticket you had meant to pay for yourself – gee I’m good at this … " His response was, "Why don’t we meet for a quick and casual dinner before the concert? If you feel guilty about accepting a free ticket, you can feed me!" I agreed to that. Though that leaves me wondering still. Ah, well. I guess it’s a sign that he wouldn’t mind spending a bit more time with me, but … I’ll stop overthinking this now.
—
Random happy moment:
Driving around with the Mango in Father M’s car (it’s on loan to me while he and Matushka are away on vacation), listening to our favourite Christmas songs, singing along in spoofy voices … "Last Christmas I gev you my heart, but the very next day, you gev me away … " While along the roads of my neighbourhood, lights and decorations turn on in the twilight.
It still feels so … luxurious … to live in the same general area as the Mango.