That day was a fairy tale

A week ago last night, I was out dancing the night away with people I love, with one person in particular. Yep, prom’s long gone now. Throughout this past week, I found myself looking at the girls that had prepared a little bit too much. They were the ones that went fake tanning for MONTHS beforehand just to make sure their skin was the perfect backdrop for their dresses. I’m glad I’m not like that and found it sad that there are girls out there that are.

I honestly couldn’t have dreamed up a better date. There were times when he lifted me up and twirled me around. He even did that dance move where he dipped me down low and then kissed me. During “Today Was A Fairy Tale” by Taylor Swift, he lifted me up and swayed back and forth with me in his arms. People all around were smiling at the couple that was so in love. We were and are that couple. Prom was a dream come true, which sounds cliche, but it was.

After the dance, we went bowling and Robby amazed me by being great at it, which I never had knowledge of. Then, at my house, we socialized, but when everyone else was dropping like flies to sleep we sat on the old green wicker chairs that we have set up looking out over the hill behind our house and onto our land. I sat in his lap and we watched the sun come up together. We talked about anything and everything while we were waiting, and when the sun finally rose, we were breathless. Course, after that, we ate some breakfast and then fell asleep together on the couch in the family room. That day was a fairy tale.

When my child is old enough to go to their first prom, I will be able to gush about my junior prom. Now I’m excited for Robby’s prom next year, for this relationship sha’n’t be ending any time soon.

Everything is connected and beautiful

It was beautiful. The snow glittered in the light the streetlamp gave off and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. He held my hand as we trudged across his yard, he in his boots and me in my Converse high tops. After awhile, I couldn’t handle it anymore, and he noticed. He scooped me up and carried me to our destination: the swings.

I immediately felt disappointment upon arriving. I saw that I couldn’t swing because the snow was so high that the necessary pumping would be impossible. He, wanting to fix the problem, set about trying to fling the swing over the bar to make the chains go up a little higher. When he couldn’t do it, I settled on the lowly swing (my pew, to those who read my poetry…oh wait, you don’t), and straightened my legs as he pushed me toward the tree. He stumbled and fell when he was pushing me, and I swung back and ended up on top of him. We got soaked, but couldn’t help but laugh. I kissed him, kept laughing, and then Becky and Thad came over to assist us after witnessing the whole thing.

Thad had a different way of getting the swing to go over the bar, so when he failed his first try, Robby tried the new method, and succeeded. I was finally free to swing without the snow on the ground interfering.

It was just like it had been over the summer, only so different. I can’t believe I sat on the same exact swing over the summer without knowing whose backyard I was practically in; without knowing that I would soon fall hard for the boy who lives in that yellow house. Because I am falling. Hard. And I know that once I’ve fallen all the way, he’ll be there to catch me so I don’t smash into a million pieces upon welcoming the ground with my body. He’ll be there to keep me safe as he has been doing for the past month and a half of my life. Since that night he stopped my tears and made me laugh. Since that night, I realized that there was something special about him.

After I got too high up for him to push me anymore, I looked at the tree whose leaves I had kicked over the summer. Things had definitely changed, but it was a beautiful change. The cold air pierced my exposed hands and bit into them, giving them more sore and dry cracks, but I didn’t care. It felt so good to swing after months of not having the chance to.

I slowed down, and he greeted me with a kiss. That’s the best greeting I could have asked for. It showed that I had left one dreamland and entered another one.

We trudged through the snow again, holding hands and looking up at the stars. It’s a beautiful thing. But then again, everything has been beautiful lately. To me, anyway.

Dear March, come in!

This poem by Emily Dickinson leaves me praying for March throughout the winter. Well, it’s finally here. And here’s the poem for your viewing pleasure:

Dear March-Come in-
How glad I am-
I hoped for you before-

Put down your Hat-
You must have walked-
How out of Breath you are-
Dear March, Come right up the stairs with me-
I have so much to tell-

I got your Letter, and the Birds-
The Maples never knew that you were coming-till I called
I declare-how Red their Faces grew-
But March, forgive me-and
All those Hills you left for me to Hue-
There was no Purple suitable-
You took it all with you-

Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door-
I will not be pursued-
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied-
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come

That Blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame-

I don’t know why there are a whole bunch of hyphens. Ignore those; that’s not how it is in my book of Emily’s poems. I just love this poem. The way she personifies the months and the trees “The maples never knew / That you were coming, – I declare! / How red their faces grew!” That is probably my favorite line in the whole poem.

Last year, I kicked myself for not appreciating March like Emily does in this poem. I spent all winter reviewing that poem, just looking forward to March and the changing of the seasons, when it suddenly passed by me without even saying goodbye. This time, I plan to enjoy it.

Today brought my dog’s birthday. He turned eleven years old today and it’s scary that he’s really getting up there in years. He’s laying right next to me as I listen to Psapp (a band I just found today), text Robby, read Emily’s poetry, check my facebook and write this blog entry. He’s in his own little dreamland and kicks every now and then. I can’t believe that it has been 11 years since that day that I was five years old and we went to visit that litter of eleven puppies. One of Reggie’s sisters wouldn’t stop licking me, and I wanted her, but my mom came out of the sea of puppies with Reggie in her arms, and we never looked back after that.

Other than that, today was any other day. Yesterday Robby (you, reader, might as well be aware of my boyfriend’s name, since I will probably be writing about all of our adventures in the future) and I built a snowman out in my front yard. The snow was the perfect packing snow, and Robby rolled a ball around until it turned into the huge base for our snowman. From there, we messed around with my brother’s dog and tackled each other because, in the snow, nothing hurts. Amidst the tackling, snowball-throwing and occasional kiss or two, we managed to finish the snowman. Well, not totally; we still have the to put stuff on the face and give him arms, but the framework is standing securely in my front yard. All we have to do is get our butts out there to finish it sometime this week. That should be no problem.

I’ll miss the fun times in the snow Robby and I have had, but I won’t miss the white stuff once it’s gone. March is now here (come in!) and I can’t wait for that first real warm and mild day where the birds are out and I can finally open my window without a risk of catching pneumonia. That first day where the birds singing accompanies a chorus of dripping icicles and drainpipes is my favorite day of the year. After that day, I look forward to when our lilies pop up again. I can’t wait for that, either.

Dear old friends,

Yep, that’s what you are, old. You’re not the shiny new car with that new car smell. You’re the old rustmobile that needs several air fresheners to keep the air inside bearable to even breathe in. What’s my problem, exactly? The fact that you’re old. Now I’m ready for some shiny new friends that won’t be stupid like you.

When I kissed the last person I kissed, I was completely sober. Were you for yours? Do you even know who you kissed? Were you certain that it was a person of the gender opposite you? Do you know how completely stupid you probably act and sound when you have vile substances in your body? Probably not. So, why do you insist on continuing? Since you most likely do not have an answer that meets my high standards for any of these questions, I would like to say adieu to you.

I feel sorry for you. I’m sorry that you think you need alcohol in your body to have fun. I’m sorry that that has become the only way you can ever have any fun. I’m not planning on inviting you to anymore of my movie nights or anything I have with friends in the future. There won’t be any alcohol involved, so you probably won’t want to come anyway. I suppose I could slip some beer into the Jell-O to please you, but that’s not me. I’m sorry that that’s you.

I have morals. I’m not about to fuck myself over for life because I got drunk one night. One mistake is all it takes. I hope you have fun washing your beer-stained clothes the next morning and attempting to hide the fun you’re having from your parents. Sounds like a bitchin’ time. I’m sorry that I don’t feel right being a part of it. I’ll have fun drinking when I’m at or close to the right age. And when that time comes, I’m sure I’ll want something more sophisticated in my body. No beer for me. I don’t need to be drunk to have a fun time with my “friends.” Have fun at those parties in the future. I won’t be around to “enjoy” them with you. I’m choosing not to. And yeah, I may be a stick in the mud, but it’s because I know what I want. Maybe you should figure out what you want. The next time you’re wandering around drunk and stupid, I’ll be sober enjoying the company of a good book or my boyfriend. Sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than what you’re doing.

Sincerely,

Emily