Rosemary

I was in love with a girl named Rosemary when I was 21.

She was beautiful, or course, but that’s not what captured my heart. She was confident, intelligent, and happy–that’s what made her sexy. You could tell by the way she walked; by the way she carried herself. Everyone around her knew it, too. There was something about Rosemary, something everyone could pick up on, but not necessarily put into words. She had a presence. She would smile at me sometimes, a playful smile, that said, “I know you want me.” She was powerful, and she owned me.

But I was a fool. I wore my heart on my sleeve, as I had always done. There are rules to this game, particularly at our young age, and I broke them all. I called the next day. I told her I was thinking about her all the time. And I was the first to say, �I love you�, when we had only been dating a few months. I was completely open with her about how I felt. In fact, at times I�m sure I gushed.

I couldn�t help it. I was so stunned, so helpless! Yes, I was helpless! She made me crazy. I couldn�t get her out of my mind. My heart raced when I thought of her, the adrenaline rushed through my body, and I got goose pimples across my skin. I had �the butterflies�, that sensation that young lovers experience, and old couples wish they still had. I wondered if she felt the same, and fearfully doubted she did.

I would spend my entire day thinking of her: her captivating green eyes, her curly locks, and a gorgeous face of Costa Rican and Dominican descent. I longed to hold her in my arms and kiss her lips and make love to her all night long. I was absolutely worthless at work.

And yet my heart ached for her. I knew how I felt. I shared these feelings with her on paper and in person. But she was silent. I couldn�t crack her. If she loved me I never I knew. When I said, �I love you Rosemary� I got nothing in return, not even a smile, or a frown for that matter. Just a blank stare, and I could hear her thinking, �Tom, you�re not supposed to say that.�

I would lie in bed awake at night, sometimes all night. The bed we shared, her bed, was positioned beneath a large window. The wind would blow gently through the blinds, and they would shudder. The blue rays of moonlight would shine upon her bare skin, and I would simply watch her sleep peacefully. I would watch over her sometimes the entire night, wishing she would suddenly wake and embrace me, and tell me she loved me. But that never happened.

Eventually we drifted apart. I suppose I was the one that drifted away from her. I wanted to be loved, and I wanted to know it. But in the end, Rosemary remained the rock that could not be cracked. And life goes on…

Hail to the King, baby

In addition to being the one and only King of all Squirrels, I am also the King of all Procrastinators. You may think that you are the King, but you are mistaken.

I know what I have to do, but I’m lazy. After all, what’s the hurry? I mean, I know that it will eventually get done. I suppose that’s all that ever mattered to me…

I make a list. I have a big whiteboard on the wall, right next to my desk. I make all kinds of notes like, “Memberships due soon: Trout Unlimited” and “things to buy: scissors, clicky pens” and “develop film in disposable camera”**.

**Note: this is the camera from 3 years ago.

I should just do it. I know I should, but I don’t. I sometimes look at the list and all the things I have to do. I feel like I might actually get motivated enough to make a dent in the ol’ To-Do list… but no, I get distracted and I quickly forget about the list was I was looking at just a few seconds ago. “Oh look, there’s a squirrel outside my window…”

One day it happens, though. The list gets big enough and I decide it’s time. I take that list and I accomplish every task. It takes the whole day, and I run all over town, doing this and that. At the end of the day the list is empty and I am exhausted, so I drink a beer.

Today was such a day. I’m sure the nice weather had something to do with my motivation. When I finished the day with a haircut (my first in almost 10 months) I hit the only decent pub in Hayward for some IPA sampling.

As I sit in the pub and watch the bartendress clumsily try to make conversation with her patrons sitting at the bar I think of Chico. Good ol’ Chico. Friendly people and the great outdoors and pub after pub and great local microbrews. I find myself wishing that the King was still in Chico.

Maybe I’ll sit on this a good long while and not do anything about it. I’ll put “Move back to Chico” on my whiteboard To-Do list. I’ll do it now, I swear.