So, just like at the beginning of summer, I was in
waiting-for-letters mode as I settled into my Dad’s apartment in a suburb of
Small Hometown City. His was a quintessential divorced-guy apartment,
rent-to-own cream-colored furniture and nondescript lamps. Where were vertical
blinds on every window. There were pretty pine trees around the front balcony
though! Dad was (and is) a man of
routine and coffee, as I eventually grew up to be. (Coffee always, but the
routine part of my heart took a while.) It was comforting and monotonous there,
great for feeling safe and figuring out what was next.
During the intermittent times I lived with Dad, my bed
was a waterbed, sheeted with mustard-colored cloths from my Grandpa’s restaurant
days. It was heated and welcoming. There was a nice big closet for my not-many
clothes and a yellow landline phone perched on top of a moving box. There was
room on the windowsill for my thrift store tchotchkes.
The immediate challenge as my long-distance
relationship with Perfectly 1993 Guy began was having anything to say in my
letters. The main emotion of my early adulthood was exquisite boredom, still
one of my very favorites. (These days, on the rare occasions when I’m called in
to my college bookstore job, the boss saves the most tedious tasks for me and I’m
grateful!)
But I could put off the letter writing troubles,
because Perfectly 1993 Guy planned a visit almost right away. He and I had
consecutive birthdays, though he was a year younger than me, so we planned for
him to visit me at my Dad’s on the weekend of both birthdays. It was truly one
of the top two most adorable weekends of my young life. It might take me a
while to get my head around it but I’ll do my best to not take a million years.