I don’t know how to describe the feeling better than that. I looked forward to walking to Davis Square. I started planning what I could do at the office instead of just wasting time and courting disaster. I tossed around ideas about when I could start riding again. I felt noticeably more at ease over the events of the weekend. I even thought about picking up a portable cd/mp3 player (which is remarkable only in that I tend not to listen to music intentionally while I’m depressed.)
I don’t know, maybe Ellie was right. Maybe I have turned some corner and am finally coming out of this. It’s nice to think that I might have survived without drugs or physical harm, but I’m hesitant to get too optimistic. Baseline operation for me has always been one of mild discontent and it’s uncommon for me to feel “good” for more than a couple of days at a time. I guess that I’ve been shooting for something a little different. Don’t know if this is it, but I’m willing to reserve judgement.
My crazy friend came to visit this morning to show off her latest body mods. No, she’s not into piercing or tattoos, though she does have the “can’t get just one” compulsion that I often hear from folks who are. She’s doing the cosmetic surgery route. To be fair, she looks a lot better than when it all started and (more importantly) she feels a lot better about herself and is much easier to deal with as a result. It was odd, though, having her come over so she can get my opinion on her implants. I’m no prude by any stretch, but being asked by a woman to stare at her (for clarity’s sake, fully clothed) breasts and then to comment seemed a little bizarre.
I suppose that really it’s no different than noticing other changes like a haircut, weight loss, or a pierced tongue, but it feels different somehow. It doesn’t feel like quite enough to say, “You look great” to someone after she’s been through surgery, and “they look great” seems too crass to contemplate seriously. Worse, there seems to be an impulse towards curiosity, where you start wondering whether they really do look or feel different than “real” breasts and if you’d be able to tell if you looked or touched. That, of course, is not mentioned either, because that strays too far into the realm of the intensely personal. So what, then?
Take the easy way out: “Well, how do you feel?” Safe, non-committal, and personally involving without being too terribly intimate or sounding lecherous unintentionally. The way she feels is what it’s all about, anyway.