Joy and Pain

There are times when we all need a good cry, when we feel the need to let whatever vile solution that ails the heart escape our bodies in the form of liquid salt.

Last Friday I had ample inspiration to do so. I'd just received news that confirmed my third heartbreak in a record 1.5 years (insert self-loathing but pithy and comical comment here to relieve reader of the need to feel any empathy for me and my wanton ways of the heart). I left work early with a visual of my favorite chinese delivery menu in mind; I'd clearly go for General Tso's this time, a girl needed comfort. I emerged from the subway right onto the corner of South Portland and Fulton to taunting sunshine and the sounds of happy people clinking beers at Habana Outpost. My sunglasses pushed further up my nose, I quickened my pace, determined to make it home without any of the infamous run-ins Fort Greene is known for.

It's just like the universe to prove me stubborn and completely unaware of my needs. As I turned onto my block I saw one of my favorite, most kindred spirits sitting on a neighbor's stoop. She listened politely to my babbling filler, orchestrated to throw her off the scent of my true state of heart. She let me go but 5 minutes later my phone rang. She was outside.

We sat for an hour or so on my steps, the sun warming our legs. I told her what had happened and she listened, silently, only interjecting when she knew I was headed towards the deep end. She's my practical girlfriend, my "man in a skirt" so to speak. The only one who won't let me wallow and mope, but instead inches me toward reason and action. I bit at her sentences initially but eventually, as usual, I realized she was right. And I took the advice.

I still thought a good cry would be nice and so I gathered my things and headed indoors alone, to switch the jeans to cotton shorts, to draw the curtains, to find that menu. Just as I was hanging up with Hunan Delight, another friend called, one with amazing news. And she wanted to celebrate. She was on my corner in fact and could she come over? Of course. Tears deferred. She arrived moments late with a bottle of rosé champagne and some flowers that she thought would brighten my space. (Universe, is that you again?) Four hours later she left my apartment and me with no traces of sadness or the desire to induce it. I fell into a deep slumber, one of the better nights of sleep I'd had in awhile.

The weekend followed suit. Brunch in a sun-drenched window in the LES, shopping, a visiting friend from Munich, a dinner party and lots of reading, writing, learning. One week later, I still haven't cried and I don't think I will. One could say that's very New York. No time to process, moving on, moving on. I say it's a relief to know that joy can be more powerful than pain.

In slight recognition of the latter, I'll commemorate my heartache with this tune...



In the spirit of love and continued openness to its forces, I'll end with this one...