mollyelizabeth

“Happy Thanksgiving. My parents keep asking about you. It’s gay.”

Love. Family and friends. Coffee. Running. Keeping warm in sweaters and scarves. People who make me smile. Grad school. Student loans. Having Rye for eleven years. Mittens. Cute boys. My beautiful new house. Obama. Being employed. Enjoying my job. Text messages. The Internet. High volume on my car’s stereo. Sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie. Leftovers. Spending two weeks in Greece with my ‘Olly cousin. Blogs. Sleeping. Thunderstorms. The decrease in gas prices. Alcohol (sad but true). Beaches. A good book. Time to read non-school-related books. Parties (especially of the dance-variety). Being in a more stable place than this time last year. Red wine. Comfy pants. Health. Happiness.

What are you thankful for this year?

With my busy schedule, sleep and exercise are typically the two factors that are compromised. This week, I took three half-day workdays, leaving me some extra time in my schedule. Time that I should have dedicated to three final school-related projects, but instead, I used it to spend quality time with my bed and treadmill. Glorious. I forget how much sleep and exercise are my cleansing outlet. It’s exactly what I’ve been needing lately – I only hope I got enough of it to last me until the end of the semester. Because the next three weeks ain’t gonna be pretty.

Yesterday when I was taking a half-day workday, The Realtor was at his office and stopped to visit, eat a pizza, and watch Rocky IV while I studied for an upcoming exam. After my study session, I joined him on the couch –he’s surprisingly affectionate –only to shortly thereafter hear his phone vibrate. I picked it up from the ottoman to read the screen; it was Glitter (see here and here). When he screened, I asked how Glitter was doing, surprised that they still talked. He shrugged, answered factually that she was in love with him, continued to lazily rub my back, and changed the subject.

When he left my couch, he covered me with a blanket and regretfully said that leaving was the last thing that he wanted to do at that moment but he had prior work commitments (which is true, he had taken a few work-related phone calls over the course of the afternoon). Once he was gone, the Glitter incident stayed with me, resonating until I finally texted, “Is Glitter the girl of our break-up?”

Without an answer an hour later, I asked if the lack of response meant yes. “Yeah,” he said.

That “Yeah” text hit my stomach in the same way as when I found out about The Kid’s her (well, not as big of an impact -by a long shot -but the concept is the same). The other girl. Not a random but the same one that has been involved since the beginning. Another girl. A specific girl. I answered, “I guess I feel like you guys have always had a thing going between you, so I think I am going to leave you alone for a bit.”

I’ve declared doneness before, this time the line’s been crossed. I would fight for a guy, but I don’t fight against a girl. Am not strong enough, nor do I feel that it’s my place. And he never gave me a response, so he’s not necessarily fighting for me either. I erased his number and saved texts (The one from Friday that stated: “Oh Molly, you’re so right, that’s why I’ve been attracted to you from the moment we met. Because you’re the smartest, funniest, and most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.” Yeah, that one’s gone, too). Done. Here I go again on my own. Without any viable prospects in sight. And I’m really trying to convince myself that I am strong enough and that it’s for the best.

First, let’s get this out of the way: no, The Realtor did not make an appearance (shocker). Moving on.

The house-warming party did indeed warm the house. We had enough beer, enough snacks, and the worlds collided without too much friction. Once or twice my select group of eccentric family members tried to answer the door or approach extra-sensitive friends when I was preoccupied and I would need to throw my mom a look of intervention; she would laugh and hurry after them – of course hesitating first as if unsure what I was communicating via eye-contact – because she is sometimes EVIL. She also decided that my Baby Cakes looked adorable and proceeded to instruct my friends to tell me that they also thought he looked adorable. I don’t think she fully comprehends the magnitude of the best-friends-with-The-Kid thing nor the lack-of-sexual-spark thing. My Work Husband had the opposite reaction, experiencing full-on hater-mode toward Baby Cakes and pleading with me to end the “poor bastard’s torment.” The party had relatively low drama, just a lot of drinking, eating, laughing, happiness, etc (blah blah blah).

I wish I had A Great Event that happened but no, it was somewhat boring on that front. I shared my bed with The Bestest Friend’s sister if that’s any indication of my evening’s prospects. Course, my breakfast eggs were cooked by a cute male the following morning; the fact that that male was my brother? Well, it’s almost better that way. He amuses me. And I can tell him, “shut up, I’m hungover” without offense.

Among our texting banter, The Realtor wrote:

“I am completely serious. 100%. Let’s get married.”

Probably not the healthiest sign that my first thought was the last person who pseudo-proposed and how it felt wrong coming from someone else.

I am a little bit in love with my classmates, specifically three of them and more specifically the three who were randomly selected as my group final-project team. The group is two girls and a dude (who makes up for 33.3-percent of the male population in the program and 50-percent of the straight-male population. He also happens to live less than a block from me), and they are the only reason why I am enjoying grad school as much as I am right now. The good news is that they’re a little bit in love with me too, which we emphatically state via emailed love declarations:

The only thing that has gotten me through today is the thought of seeing you guys at class tonight.

I hate the people at work; it would be like grad school if I didn’t have you three.

This does, however, confirm that if I had a laptop and wireless Internet in undergrad, I would have been even less productive (is that possible?) than what I was. The professor’s voice has reached white-noise status as I am too preoccupied on my group’s conversations, especially when one is chewing their snack deliberately loud enough to reach me three rows up and another is making sarcastic commentary on the lecture while the third is excluding me from their hipster clique (apparently adding “Sent from my iPhone” to the bottom of my emails without having sent said emails from an iPhone makes a difference? And is not as cool?). Who would listen to the professor, who costs many hard-earned dollars, when such delightful distractions are available?

Unfortunately, I enjoyed them a little too much at class yesterday and as a result needed to excuse myself for a few minutes to gain composure – could not keep my laughing-shit together. And I sit in the front row. In a class of twenty. The professor did his best to play oblivious and keep the death glares at a minimum, but my GPA definitely dropped a few points as a result. Which means I should probably start that 30-page paper that’s due in two weeks that we’ve supposedly been working on the entire semester … that accounts for 50-percent of our final grade … Because without any favoritism points, it looks like I am going to need all the help I can get. The last two exams I took last-minute PTO to finish my work; looks like for finals, I might need to take a week or so, as my time-management skills are crap. But at least my group still loves me.

“So … do you think I’m attractive? I’m just trying to figure something out.”

“What exactly are you trying to figure out?”

“If I’m insane.”