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july 4, 2000. 10:30 p.m. I cannot believe it's ten friggin' thirty all ready. I have a million things to do, a million people to call, and the night is already over. Stuff ate into my careful plan: a compelling Steven King novel, grocery shopping with my dad and of course Buffy was on. I'm doomed.
Hope roll call: as of this second I have made vague plans with 2 bridesmaids and put together 2 more invitations for "I can't believe they weren't on the list!" guests. (Incidentally, I'm completely out of assembled invitations at this point - I had to raid my parents copy, the best man's & our own to get these together.) As soon as I get addresses & last names, I'll be smokin'. Right now I'm just kinda warm.
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Dismantled. Gone.
You know, the hall always smells the same, no matter what year it is. That, if nothing else, made me feel like it was forever.
Why does it make me melancholy? This whole summer is about saying goodbye - by the time I get back from the Maritimes, I'll be firmly established in marriage & everything good about this place might have slid into to void. I'm scared. I want to be 17 and never bored, I want to be 18 and loved for the first time, I want to be 19 and tasting independence, I want to be 20 and on the cusp of great & exciting disaster, I want to be 21 with fire-engine hair and a new goth dress, I want to be 22 and madly in love. Anything but 23: educated, driven, purposeful, full of potential, scared as hell.
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Last weekend Little Spider moved into Toronto, marking the departure of my last Brampton friend. It's not only that, though...I've visited her in that apartment for so many years that it's taken on the illusion of permanence for me. No matter how much I change & grow & shrink, there's the beige couch and the tile coffee table and the abstract bronze sculpture in the dining room. The balcony where I had my first kiss. The kitchen where I've retired for numerous glasses of diet coke. The beige couch that's so much more comfortable than sharing a waterbed with 3 other girls that one of us always ended up on it, surly but relaxed. Slightly before I became her friend, there was a crazy afternoon where the table was first broken and then hastily & shoddily mended - every time her mom put her feet up, we guiltily tensed for the table's collapse. Little Spider's bedroom, crammed with books & papers, art & photos, makeup & black clothes, snappish turtles & spooky posters.