Loneliness is random

An awkward version of U2’s “In the Name of Love” plays inside Meijer today. I think I’m the only one who notices and wonders about the bongo solo at the end.

This makes me feel alone.

I buy a half gallon of milk, half a watermelon pre-packaged in Styrofoam and cellophane, half a pound of turkey breast, wonder if it’s possible to purchase just a half loaf of bread. I see couples, happy and otherwise not wondering if they will be able to finish eight bagels before the last one in the bag goes moldy. They don’t have ice cream in their freezer that has gone rubbery from sitting too long. No stale chips are thrown into the garbage, because between the two of them they can finish the bag in less than a week.

I’ve adjusted to this half grocery list of mine, stopped over purchasing food two months after I started living alone. I even use one of those half grocery carts they have at Meijer now, and only pack two canvas grocery bags instead of four. I don’t buy Tina’s Burrito’s or those bags of frozen food that simply need to be dumped in a pot and heated up, or olive loaf. I don’t feel guilty when I decide to buy a bottle of wine instead of a case of beer.

I didn’t expect to miss knowing how someone’s day went based on the frizziness of their hair and the way they smell when they walk in the door. Or having someone understand why I blocked the heat vent to my office and turned on the space heater next to my feet. The one who knows what I’m working on based on the drink sitting to the left of my keyboard.

No one told me loneliness is random; that it would strike when I want to share a joke, eat cookie dough, clean the house and sing along to love songs.

And force me to wonder,

who do I talk to about that Bongo solo?

Paranormal Activity

Going to the movies alone is an interesting event.

The first time I did it, about a year ago, I was seeing “The Reader”. I had decided that I would no longer wait for a date to take me to see the films I was interested in, and besides going alone meant that I could wear the same Western sweatshirt I’ve been wearing since 1998 and a baseball hat. And that’s what I did. Walked into the theater on a Friday night, bought my ticket and proceeded to the concession counter, where I fell in love-- with the kiddie snack pack:

Small Popcorn.

Medium Drink.

And a box of Mild Duds.

Excited by my selection, I approached the usher taking tickets.

“Um… this is a rated R film. Do you have your ID?” Was it the hat, the sweatshirt, or the kiddie pack that made me look so young?

“I’m 29 years old!” I squeaked a little.

“I’d have given you at least 22.” The man behind me laughed while he hugged his well dressed, perfectly coiffed date.

Saturday night, I ventured to the theater alone once again.

In mild protest of the hallmark holiday and to celebrate the Halloween season, I went to see Paranormal Activity.

I bought my snack pack, choose sour patch kids this time instead of milk duds, and settled into my seat in the center of the back row. Of course, being a Saturday, the theater began to fill up a bit, and someone decided to sit directly in front of me. I hate that. He could have moved one seat left or right and I’d still have had my leg room. I blame him for what happened; he put himself in the line of fire.

The movie started slow, I didn’t even jump for at least the first hour.

However, in the last fifteen minutes of the movie I jumped, squealed twice, and somewhat loudly yelled “Holy God” and “Dumbass”. And in the last minute of the movie I did something that I’ve never done before.

Actors call it a “spit take”.

Yes, I got so scared right after taking a sip of my Dr. Pepper that I blew it out of my mouth all over the poor guy sitting in front of me. Some of it may have even come out my nose, I can’t be sure.

Then the lights came up.

“Did you just spit all over me?” The guy turned around and looked at me through glasses too small for his face.

“Um. Yeah, I’m so sorry. That just really freaked me out. That last sip of Dr. Pepper turned out to be a really terrible idea.” I cringed, waiting for him to get even angrier, maybe yell at me.

“Well, how about you come buy me a beer to make it up to me?”

Shocked I replied, “I could do that. It’s not like I’m going home and going to sleep anytime soon. Or ever again for that matter.”

Remembering

I see him in my face, especially in my eyes; hear him in my voice when I am too loud in public and friends attempt to shush me.

I wear his helmet when I ride my bike, carry his backpack to classes, and it’s his winter jacket that keeps me warm when the snow flies.

It’s been four years since I talked to him.

Four years since the last time he hugged me.

Though my mind is full of memories of him, I sit here soothing a sore throat with a frosty and choose to remember this:

My Dad is seriously sucking orange jell-o through a straw.

He could have been offering a dissertation on the collapse of capitalism with the amount of concentration he shows on his face.

The jell-o finally gives in to the pressure, uncorks like a champagne bottle and slides up his straw. The other people eating at Wendy’s SuperBar that night turn and look as his enormous laugh fills the fast food restaurant.

“You just made root beer come out my nose.” I say between gasping laughs.

“Better that than chocolate pudding.”

He was always so logical.