It’s too much, some days . . .

I need to go away.

Miss Fisher Hugh & Dot's Wedding

Miss Fisher’s Dot and Hugh get married

I just watched an episode of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries and was a sobbing fool. Dot and Hugh got married. I love Dot and Hugh. Especially Hugh, played by Hugo Johnstone-Burt. He looks like someone — reminds me of someone — I thought I loved. I meant to love. I wish I had loved better. Love. I’m just so tired of that fucking word.

I’ve been crying for — well, forever actually — I’ve always been an easy cry, but since the San Bernardino thing, I’m a ridiculous mess. It didn’t happen to me, I know. There is no reason I should be taking it this hard. But, I am crying as if — I don’t know.

Tonight, I was at the gym, working through my back-twist, trying to readjust my spine, making progress. The gym is quiet on Friday evening, other people have lives and activities. I have the stories in my head and the stacks of books. After working out, I went to the shower. Then sauna. Then shower, again, and was dressing to go when a young liaison showed up and positioned himself, and came at me indicating we should head to shower to tryst, but, I demurred because I am exhausted from being lonely, and those sorts of nameless, meaningless zipless-fucks — of which I am completely in favor — aren’t going to fix what I’m feeling right now.

He huffed in that dismissive “I didn’t really want to anyway” manner of pretty twenty-somethings who could do way better than me and I continued dressing, knowing that should I recover the urge for zipless-trysting, he will no longer be available and wondering at the wisdom of a fellow my age and body turning away a fellow his age, endurance, and body. But, there it is (was).

As fate would have it — and fate does indeed have it, even though I am not a big believer in fate —  nearby sat a fellow of whom I am less than fond. He is a high-fiving, grunting-lifter, shouting, loud, obnoxious bro-type, who man-spreads his way through the locker room and gym, taking up more space and air and sound than is really his share. Tonight, though, he was dejected. He came in and sat on the bench when first I was readying to shower. He was there, still completely dressed, when I moved from shower to sauna and remained unmoved, unchanged when I returned to shower. Thirty minutes. As I was dressing after this final shower and turning away the twenty-something boy, this bro continued to sit, managing only the removal of one work boot.

I am a sucker for a sad face. Always have been. And despite the fact that I have heard this fellow on more than one occasion use a derogatory word for my people, I didn’t feel like I could leave without making sure he was okay, or, was going to be, or had someone to make it so. I was gathering up the courage to speak to him when his bro arrived. Bro2 we shall call him.

Bro2: Dude, you’re blocking the aisle in everybody’s way. (This is true. He had dumped all his stuff on the floor in front of him, and his work-boot was even further out. One had to maneuver to get past him.)

Bro1: (Silence.)

Bro2: Dude, what happened with the car?

Bro1: I can’t. Insurance problems.

Bro2: You suspended?

Bro1: No. Not anymore, but, if I got this car the payment would be like $600 and the insurance would be $399 a month. So, I can’t. Thousand fucking dollars a month.

Bro2: You made the right decision, bro. With your financial status. Yeah. You just have to take better car of your car now. You know, maintenance and shit. Come on, we gotta push through a shoulder workout.

Bro2 was on his way. Bro1 didn’t move. Still. He took out his phone and was talking to someone.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me right now but I just wanted to — had to call you to say I love you — and I’m gonna find some way to get there next weekend. I know you’re pissed about this weekend but I just couldn’t get the car it would be irresponsible and you keep telling me to grow up and this is but — look, I love you. Please, call me back.”

I am ashamed to say that I left without offering him any comfort. I mean, I’d been there through the discussion with Bro2 and the phone call, and we’ve been at the gym the same time over and over and over and never said hello or acknowledged any sort of connection. Or, really, that the other exists. And, truth, I was crying.

I held it until I got to the car, mostly, but as soon as I got in the car, sobs. For that guy. And the car he can’t have. And the person he loves who he can’t see this weekend. Who wants him to grow up. And that one work-boot. The only thing he took off in the almost 45 minutes from the time he came into the locker room until I left.

Miss Fisher's Hugh: Hugo Johnstone-Burt

Miss Fisher’s Hugh: Hugo Johnstone-Burt

Not Hugo Johnstone-Burt

Not Hugo Johnstone-Burt

There is so much sad. There is too much sad. And Hugh — a character on a tv show — looks like — too much sad. I am exhausted. From sad. And, the thing is, I have been sad, mostly, for so long, and loved so badly, so unwisely, have been undone by people I never would have thought could or would undo me, undoings from which there is no recovery, by people who I trusted more than any others in my life, betrayals and abandonments for which there are no apologies, can never be apologies, there is no way to give me back what they took, what I lost, and there is no possible way that anything could happen in this life to balance that sadness.

And I don’t trust love anymore. Not really. And I’ve no faith in anything. Not truly. And I am exhausted — which I have been saying for years now — I am exhausted.

I will always have this weight of sorrow that causes me to cry for strangers in locker rooms and characters on tv programs and I am just . . . I don’t know. I can’t win, have never won, will never, and I am tired of playing.

It’s too much today.

 

 

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