We used to live in that building…

My ex wore a scarf just like that when we first met…

I had my picture taken once between these bookshelves on a summer afternoon…

I want to but can’t…that movie sing-a-long was “our thing” and now it’s “sacred”…

I walked down this street the night before I left for good, sobbing my eyes out the whole way…

This is the doorway through which we first walked together on our first date…

There are so many things I remember. Things that I miss. Things that I do not. Things that have left their mark. An imprint. On this city. On me.

Live in a place long enough and you’ll be bumping into ghosts at every turn; board the bus with them, grocery shop with them, get coffee with them. Order take out. Pick up the dry cleaning. Look at art. Pay bills. Ride bikes. Window shop. Return library books. Nod along to some band. Drink your drink. The whispers of a life lived with someone else, whispering to you each step along the way.  Ghosts of loves past.

I remember…

I used to…

Once I…

That used to be…

I let myself be whispered to now. I no longer fight it as I once did during the break ups of my twenties. Now, I feel no stab of regret, remorse, sadness at the memory. Very well, come along then.

There is detachment, yes. Acknowledgement of the place and memory as one would note the color of wall paint. Matter of fact. That has happened and now this. More than that, there is respect for what was, for who that person was, for who I was.

I have loved, been loved. My heart doesn’t quicken to know it. My eyes remain dry. Dull acceptance. Things that were but are no longer. Places that hold memories but not pangs.

I am alone. And never much lonely.

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While it is not happening to me, I care about the people involved and feel a gut-wrenching anguish and odd weakness in my limbs each time I think about it. I am reeling. Shell-shocked even.

Jaded as I am about proclamations of “forever” and “true love,” this sort of occurrence does little to dissuade me from my cynicism. In fact, it has me questioning why people get married at all. Where does it really get you? What does it give you that an otherwise committed relationship does not? And, do people actually still believe it will last when they’re exchanging vows? How?

The thing is, sometimes what you think you want isn’t really accurate at all- whether that’s marriage in their case or living together in mine. You think you want something so much and you strive with all your might to get there, but then when you do, it turns out it’s horrible. Suddenly, you hate it and the person you’re living with or married to. You’ve lost your way, you don’t want those things anymore, and maybe you’ve somehow lost a bit of yourself too.

I find mistakes, or perhaps I should say evolutions, of this nature anxiety-inducing. I literally feel sick inside knowing what I know right now, having watched as things unraveled in my relationship and theirs, seemingly helpless on both accounts to do anything to alter the outcome.

And it’s not just my relationship or their marriage. It feels like everything falls apart eventually, that no feeling of being in love lasts. For those who believe love does last, aren’t you simply neglecting to see that it will change/ already has changed into something else entirely? If not dislike or hate; perhaps companionship, complacency, or even apathy instead? I mentioned I was jaded, didn’t I?

Reflecting on these recent events of the heart, I can’t resolve if- given the odds- it’s better to simply ”opt out” or to just “try your best.” In the meantime, I seem to be unconsciously giving less and less of myself in each relationship I enter into…a cause or effect of  ”Post-Romantic Stress Syndrome?”

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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“I miss him,” I admitted. “Grandpa had a singular ability to always make me feel special- like every day was my birthday.”

As the words slipped from my mouth, I suddenly realized why my birthday often ends in tears or sadness. Because it’s over. Because my special day and the specialness I’m allowed to bask in is at an end. Because I tend to question whether I’ve made the most of it. Because until next year, that’s it.

Having that one day a year when I’m The Birthday Girl, savoring the attention, can place a lot of pressure on the day itself and the people with whom I spend it. In prior years, I’ve taken some exciting  trips, made exceptional purchases, and shared fancy dinners which have certainly proven memorable and hard to top! One year, I was even shit on!

For this birthday, however, I chose a quiet weekend at home. I went for an after work drink with Fancy, and saw the jellies exhibit at the Shedd and shared dinner with my parents. On the day itself, I took Wendy with me to get gelato with a thoughtful friend, went bike shopping with my boyfriend, took an epic and mimosa-induced nap, then had dinner at the Signature Room at sunset. And I felt happy.

At 31, there were no tears when the sun set and the frenetic lights began to twinkle on the streets 95 floors below. At 31, there finally came acceptance and recognition instead. Acceptance that the “specialness” I miss so much and grasp at during my birthday each year is as fleeting as the people who have come and gone in my life. And recognition that the people who are still here, the people I appreciate and love dearly, made time in their busy schedules just for me on the occasion of my birthday.

Being able to share that time and create those memories with them couldn’t have been more special to me.

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Fast-forward to four weeks ago and my plane was touching down at the Vegas airport. My cab whisked me off to the hotel I said I’d always stay at if I ever came back: the Bellagio. I had my dinner reservation all set at Olives and my ticket to Cirque de Soleil’s “O” later that evening. I had a day to myself before the Bloggers in Sin City festivities truly got underway and I was a bundle of nerves and excitement. Amongst the bloggers who had signed up to attend, there were several I’d been reading for years, of which I’d only actually ever met Jenn, the Mayor of the Josh Lyman Tiger Sex Den.

It’s a funny thing meeting other bloggers for the first time. I’m always worried they’ll think I’m not at all who I seem to be online. That they’ll think I look dumpy or that I’m boring or, worst of all, that they’ll find other people who are more energetic, happier, or more outgoing to talk to instead of me. I want to be liked by these people I admire, who make me laugh, whose word choices I fawn over, and whose confidence I observe and marvel at…and okay, envy. But, from every other blogger I’ve met already in Chicago, I’ve learned that generally they are one of the most welcoming and accepting groups of people I’ve had the luck to encounter in my lifetime.

So, when I hurried up to my room later that day after seeing “O” and knocked expectantly at the door, I was gushing with anticipation to meet the girl I’d invited to stay with me. Brandy was the first blogger I’d meet at BiSC and she and I quickly became brand new besties just as I’d always thought we’d be! When we decided to room together for the weekend, I confided I felt like the coolest girl in the world because my roomie was her. I still do.

Together, we had a hoot of a time talking about meeting other bloggers, catching up on the drama in our lives that we aren’t writing about right now, and planning a trek to Mandalay Bay’s Shark Reef the next day where we would run in front of a motion camera, making wavelike ripples against an ocean backdrop and spend upwards of 40 minutes petting sting rays.

In the days that followed, Brandy informed me that American monies are “confusing because they’re all the same color and you have to actually look at the number on them,” whereas her Canadian monies are bright and colorful and “made of hope and free health care!” Don’t worry- I called her a whore and slapped her, and then promptly wound up leaving my carry-on bag in the back of the cab as we checked into the Flamingo (which I actually got back when the cab driver found Nicole’s phone number inside and called her and she called me and informed me that “Some cab driver totally has your shit and wants to give it back to you so call him back here’s his number and you probably won’t be able to understand him at all but call him okay I’ll see you soon bye!” Nicole talks really fucking fast and is, of course, awesome not only because she planned the whole BiSC thing but also just, you know, in general).

And then I did finally meet Nicole. And so many other bloggers that the whole experience became a dash overwhelming. I hurried to hug many an almost-stranger and butt into conversations because I was overly excited to actually meet the person behind the blog. Which, let me send my deepest thanks right this minute to Jess for telling Katelin about me and asking her to keep an eye out for me!

That night at the meet and greet, Brandy and I spent several hours unabashedly wearing balloon hats on our heads as we introduced ourselves, and if that’s not a conversation starter right there I don’t know what is! From the people I met that night and the days that followed, I have so many memories and things to smile and laugh about…

Brandy’s destroyed phone from a leaky 20 oz frozen Miami Vice that she was carrying around in her bag while shopping for Kaci’s impromptu bachelorette (which would later bring us all to/near to tears).

Pushing the button to open the drapes at the Flamingo and reciting lines from The Hangover in my late-night-drinking voice as I gazed out at Caesar’s and the strip below while laying in bed. “Hey guys…how about that drive? Hehehehe….” “Could it be? Could I have found another member of my wolf pack?”

There was Suki and Leah from San Fran, who I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time with but am looking forward to seeing again very soon. Labor Day weekend?!

Brandy finding and proudly wearing a tiger shirt, then starting a band with Rachael called “Fanning the Slash.” Yup.

Pseudo stalking Jenny Blake only to scream “YOU’RE KINDA MY IDOL!” when I finally met her as a group of us waited outside Serendipity 3 for late night frozen hot chocolates. (P.S. I’m reading/ working through the prompts in your book right now and just…YES.)

Enlisting Boston bloggers Germana and Ginny to go to Bouchon with Brandy and I before the Black, White, and Gold party at Pure. Thank you for going with us and for walking in our fancy dresses and heels from the Venetian to the Flamingo, then to Planet Hollywood and to Caesar’s. It totally was a sucky walk, but you guys were awesome.

I’ll always remember Brandy replacing swear words with “Holy Dinah!” and teasing her when her Canadian accent would slip out. Agaaaainst. Aboot. Sephoria. Incidentally, if she says “never mind” to you, that means you’re in deep trouble!

There was the Boston crew I just sort of “fell into” lounging by the pool: the aforementioned Ginny and Germana, but also Bob and Carly, and Nicole Marie Says who has now forsaken Chicago for Beantown once more. Hearing them talk about “Southie” boys and comparing commutes during games at Fenway vs. Wrigley made me all ga-ga for everything Boston. Thank you for being so lovely to me and including me in your dinner plans at Sushi Roku! I miss you WICKED hard.

I’ll remember with a smile Ameena’s dinosaur sound & walk, which she showed us after much peer pressure in the midst of Pure’s rooftop lounge.

Brandy worrying (A LOT) about the Kardashian girls, who she informed me are “tormented by their bodies.”

There was Jenn Bizzle Rainbow Brite who will always be known as such for her epic Rainbow Brite costume at the meet and greet. There was Chelsea and her tall, skinny-mininess and adorable dresses from Mod Cloth, Kathleen who I just instantly clicked with but somehow never got to hang out with again. There was Stacey who was ever so sweet, but had to leave early under the saddest of circumstances. There was Katherine with her beauteous glitter shoes in a plethora of colors. There was Simone who was a true dancing queen in her badass Black, White, and Gold party dress. And there was Tiffany who was one of the friendliest people I met and who introduced me to a new Chicago friend- Caryn!

I’ll fondly remember catching the last fountain show of the night at the Bellagio with the kickass Terra, who I absolutely adore and sincerely wish lived closer, and Katelin’s husband, Matt, who was so nice in walking us over there and ensuring we made it in time. It was a lovely way to end the evening! Thank you Terra for lending me Jayme’s flip flops to wear while watching the fountains…and thank you Jayme for unknowingly lending them to someone you still hadn’t met!

And then it was time for us all to say good bye. Brandy hugged Maxie through a wall, which only makes sense insomuch as one can see the photo. Almie wore her pink wig and Kelly and I decided the Farewell Brunch should morph into Misfit Brunch where everyone wears their as yet unworn items of clothing/ accouterments (I’d have brought my ferocious shark lunch bag that I picked up in the Shark Reef gift shop. It’s pretty badass and I proudly carry it to work).

There was the “baller” private gondola ride Brandy and I took before we had to leave for the airport later that day- thanks for that awesomesauce!

And then came the inevitable flight delay back to Chicago, which evolved into a canceled flight, a two-day stay over at the airport La Quinta, and a curious bout of food poisoning. When I finally did leave Sin City, I sat at my gate with an airport gift shop purchased mug filled with alka seltzer, wearing my sunglasses, trying not to throw up, and pretty much penniless. And when I happened to glance down, one of the last things I’ll remember about Vegas is seeing somebody’s toe nail clipping on the carpet. An actual fucking TOE NAIL. No wonder the place smells like feet! Seriously. The Las Vegas airport smells like feet. I should know. I was there 3 times in a week.

These are the things I’ll always think of when I think of Vegas now. I’ll think of you. And you. And you. That time we laughed at Absinthe as Penny relayed a really hilarious and really NSFW story involving sock puppets (seriously, ignore the annoying fucker who recorded it and USE YOUR HEADPHONES). That time we walked right into Pure ahead of eighty bajillion other people standing in line. And that time we had Second Dinner at 2 am at the burger place in the Flamingo. And I’ll think of this, courtesy of Almie, and watch it over and over again.

BiSC happened at a pivotal moment in my life and I’m so happy and grateful for being able to go. I know so many more bloggers now and know that should I have the opportunity to travel to the cities they call home, there will be a welcoming hug and drinking buddy waiting for me.

Those were my thoughts as I moved out of the apartment I’ve called home for the past six years and in with my boyfriend. The last time I’d give a cab my address was when I came back from Vegas. Saying it aloud that night, sitting in the quiet of the darkly lit cab, it hit home. After Vegas, everything was irrevocably going to change.

And, it has.

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You didn’t know my name, didn’t know my hair color or smile or laughter. You didn’t know the way my hand would feel in yours, didn’t know if there’d be a first date. You didn’t know how your words would resonate.

You told me not to look back, not to regret the past. Told me not to hold myself too culpable for supposed missed opportunities, for “phantoms of choices that never were.” You were out of the blue. You were eloquent.

Two years ago, I read your email as snow fell on branches, sidewalks, and terraces. Each flake covered over, cleaned away, the dirt and dust and shambles of earlier. Email for email, sentence for sentence, we forged our way toward that doorstep, that snowy April afternoon, that first look into each other’s eyes. And on an untarnished blanket of white, we left footprints side-by-side.

Neither of us could know what would come, what happinesses we’d find, what challenges lie in wait. We couldn’t yet know how love would find us, change us, sometimes disappoint us. Couldn’t know how in time we’d take one another for granted; still always support, rely upon, listen, and comfort.

Two years ago, I got an email from you.  Two years and my heart still replies.

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• Your first post (Mine: “My First Blog” - this post is so trite and BLAH and fearful of being anything special that it’s actually embarrassingly painful to share. Ouch.)
• A post you enjoyed writing the most (Mine: “Taking Stock” -  it felt really, really, REALLY good to reflect on and accurately portray the path that lead me to where I am at 30.)
• A post which had a great discussion (Mine: I have two posts actually… “ISO Guy with Dentist Pen” not only for all of your interesting comments but also for leading my boyfriend to find me, and “Race Relations in the Race to the Altar” because of the amazingly complex and honest responses each of you gave on such a difficult topic.)
• A post on someone else’s blog that you wish you’d written (Brandy at “It’s Like I’m…mmmagic!” has written several posts over the years that I sincerely admire, however, recently I was deeply moved by two in particular: this and this. Brandy, I hope that you have a great summer adventure with H.A.D. at Harry Potter World!) 
• Your most helpful post (Mine: “30 By 30” – I got to be the conductor of the Cliché Train all the way to Tritesville with this post, but you know what? Cliché or not, that shit is all TRUE.)
• A post with a title that you are proud of (Mine: “Remembering Putz” – maybe not so much for the title itself, but for the sentiment the post captures.)
• A post that you wish more people had read (Mine: “Cutting Through” – in an effort to be authentic and own something that will always be a part of me, this post became the most difficult narrative I’ve ever written.)

So, that’s it. Now that I’ve shown you mine, show me yours. Be sure to leave a comment with a link to your own!

*An especially timely bit of nostalgia as my blog reaches its FOUR YEAR mark next Wednesday. Who knew I had so much to say?!

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