the periphery

you will never be my oversized sweater, I will never be your good luck charm

Joan Didion died and I cried. I think the cry was building up and I needed something to puncture the bubble, so in some ways this news came as a relief. It also gave me an excuse to stay in bed. Alone time in the hectic week before Christmas. He had more running around to do, more tasks to complete, more emails to send, and I stayed in bed. I wonder if he thought I was lethargic. He never thought I was lazy, but maybe something in the world of incompetent? Like I assumed someone else would do the work for me. Like I waited until someone asked me to lend a hand. Like I wasn’t a team player. Truth be told, I’m not a team player. But those other assessments of me don’t really paint an accurate picture. After a lifetime of defending myself, I’m too tired to do it now.

Joan Didion’s work was meaningful to me and I really did like her, but there were who people devoured and analyzed everything she wrote, and I admit I’m not among them. Still though, I was sad when she died. I didn’t know then that would be the week two lives ended. She writes about loss masterfully and I wonder if she’d despise that I just compared getting dumped by my boyfriend of one year with the death of her husband and adult child. If I got a chance to ask her, I think she’d be indifferent.