a time to drink Cava

The winter Olympics are ending... I'm watching Apollo Ohno being interviewed under the 'final ceremonies' dome, craning to see the faces in the background to see if my auntie and my cousin will make it on camera. My favorite Oregon and Vancouver residents. I've always loved watching the Olympics, but this year really felt special. I loved watching the opening ceremonies with friends in my home, I loved the three nights I spent curled up with my parents cheering for the skiiers and the women's skating short program, and I loved earlier today when a bunch of us crowded around Peter's television with a basset hound and a plate full of homemade chicken wings as we cheered for the hockey game. I loved looking up to see the curling scores while I pulled my hair out over infuriating online job application nonsense.
They're special and beloved because they're only on once in a blue moon, but they came and left so fast. I'll miss you, Olympics.

Today and Friday were unbelievably low for me. I don't know if I've ever felt so low, or so completely overwhelmed-- even by small details. Tom came over after a long day of work on Friday, and I had spent the past hour at King Soopers just standing there holding my little red basket. I was surrounded by shoppers, feeling completely numb... unable to choose between hot dog bun brands and totally unsure of how to navigate the fresh produce aisle. Instead of the warm-smelling kitchen that I wanted both of us to come home to, Tom entered my apartment just to find a cold bag of hot dog buns sitting on the counter next to an unopened box of highlighters.
Just the sight of him made me buckle-- it made the awful sense of panic that I'd been holding in all day bubble over and I lost it.

Some people know just what to do. (I am not one of them.)
He put his arms around me. He put his face against mine and let me cry. He listened. Even through the hot tears. And then-- in a moment of sheer brilliance-- he opened the fridge, reached down to the bottom shelf, and grabbed the cava. The bottle of rose that I bought last fall, confident in my budget and the promise of a new job that an odious company had winked to us that would be his by the end of the day. The bottle that I'd hastily stashed in the bottom drawer of the fridge under a bouquet of broccoli when he told me that they'd lied, the job wasn't his. The bottle that became permanently off-limits... unopened on Valentine's day and our one year anniversary.

The need for an 'occasion' had become too built up, with a shiny bottle of pink silliness reminding me of that daily, and what Tom taught me is that Shitty Day Cava is the best bubbly cork-popping ego boost in the world. The fine nuance of distilled brut is best brought out by $2.99 cole slaw and well-done hot dogs. Sometimes, your fanciest treat needs to be enjoyed in stretchy pants, with hot tears drying on your cheeks and speed skating on NBC.

Between that and the sweetness he showed me today, Tom continues to remind me that even when things feel too big to handle, a pair of loving arms is all I need. It's ok that I lost my saved freelance money and my carefully e-saved 1040. It's ok that I not only lost my reference and a professional mentor I looked up to, but that I have to face her in a hearing next week. It's ok that I sound ridiculous with sinuses that are permanently on vacation, waiting out my flailing panic in the Bermudas.

He reminded me that I have all that I need-- I have my brain and body and home, I have my family, I have him. I can't "what if" myself into the ground... there's enough on my plate as it is. It's a very small plate... it fits a hot dog with mustard, relish and ketchup, cole slaw and a dill pickle. No room for additional fear.

This venting is just a repeat of the purging, cliched and emotional babble I've been so consistent with lately, but I need this to be in print so I can look back on it. Writing from the midst of rawest emotions doesn't make for good literature-- but it can be decent therapy once in a while. And tonight, with endearingly cheesy Olympic farewells set to dramatic John Williams scores (and Neil Young... and...Nickelback?!? and... Avril Lavigne?!?!?), I know that I need to listen to my wheezy lungs and achy stomach and keep the things that are dear to me close, without needing a "special occasion" to validate it. Cava was meant to be opened, and loved ones are meant to share love.

I'm not a religious person, but I sometimes wish I was. I appreciate the comforting repetition of lovely verses and prayers such as these (made even better with the chorus of "turn turn turn")

ecclesiastes 3:1-8
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

"a time to weep and a time to laugh"-- these words never ring so true than when you have experienced both in the same day. The same moment.

A time to get, a time to lose, a time to keep and a time to cast away. A time to drink cava with hot dogs. A time to be small and to feel awe at the bigness of the world. A time to seek comfort, and a time to feel blessed in love.