A Thousand (and Outta Here)

The time has come.

You’ve seen it coming and so have I. 

One friend said:  don’t stress it, just stop it.  Meanwhile, my brain said I had to give you an explanation of why I’m stopping it while my gut told me to not be an overdramatizing cliché.  In the end I wanted to write 1000 words for my 1000^th post but then feared that might end up being tedious and nauseating to all of us.

(FYI:  It’s 754, give or take a few. Feels long enough, right? Right!)

So instead:   I’m hoping what comes out here on the Friday night before summer, from the 28^th floor of the John Hancock tower looking out onto a purple sunset, strikes the balance.

Starting with me thanking you for reading this blog.  You did.  You let me overuse ellipses and sentence fragments and declarations starting with "and".

You tolerated my training for 4 of 9 marathons ... Boston, Philadelphia and DC and, almost, Stockholm.

You liked my legs. (1000 pageviews, baby.)

You read a whopping 43 posts about my insomnia, as well as all the ones I forgot to tag because I (obviously) hadn’t slept enough.

You sat on my patio with me at 1:24 a.m. and admired the basil and impatiens.  Once we listened to Jethro Tull together and I’ve not listened to them since.  (Have you?)  

You let me sell you on Charlie Brown and Secret Garden and Jason Robert Brown musicals and, occasionally, showed up at the shows.  You saw me buy my first piano.  You believe I can play the piano (don't you?), many without ever having heard me do it.

You tolerated my bikini challenges and my weight loss attempts and my cereal binges (and my copious apologies for them after the fact).   You tolerated 18 (and maybe more) Inexplicable Photos of My Feet and never asked why.  (Still inexplicable, BTW.)  You let me use the word penis as often as I wanted.

You looked at pretty much every photo I have of Henry and Oliver.

You heard me say kissing C-2 is better than just about anything in the world and didn’t throw up because of its idealism….or at least hid it from me if you have.  You didn’t chastise me for going back to him, and back, and back. You didn't know his name doesn't even start with C.  No, I'm not going to tell you what it does start with.

You didn’t ask for more information about the Man from San Francisco, despite my reticence to share details about him.  He is still in the picture, by the way. 

You didn’t give me a hard time for having (at least) 86 weekends where I was without a date.  Or for shamelessly transcribing OKC Instant Messenger chats.

You let me turn 36. Then 37. Then 38.  Then 39. 

You’ve met my mom.  Bobbo.  (The ever-awesome) Martha, on many occasions. The sisters older and younger.  Joshua.  Justin.  Student Driver.  Balint.   Bill.  Cousin J. The CFO.  Many, many others.

You let me bitch about Southie.  And an ancient vehicle I refuse to replace.  And parking tickets.  And parking. 

You took my recommendations for good songs.  Sometimes for good poems.  You never told me if you liked them (or even read them) … but that’s ok.

You went with me to Hungary, San Francisco, west coast Florida, Minneapolis, the North Dakota prairies.

You tasted Pretty Things Baby Tree and PBR and homemade Altbier and Grain Belt and Left Hand Milk Stout and Guinness.  And Guinness.  And Guinness.  And Guinness.  And Guinness.  (Yeah.  Guinness should have had its own tag, I'm seeing.)

And for all that, what is there still to say?  But thanks.  For being my friends, my critics, my motivation for observing.  My motivation for drinking too much.  For staying up too late.  For whining.  For chatting with 21-year-old penis-pictures and female wrestlers.  For trying to be good at things.  For trying to get better and for trying to excuse bad habits and for never really trying to sleep enough.

I'm still (sorta) single.  Still thirty-something.  Still renting.  Still in Southie. 

It's time to go. 

You can write me at sage (dot) risotto (at) gmail (dot) com (if we’re not already Facebook friends) and you want to stay in touch.  I promise to write back if you promise not to creep me out.  I promise to tell you when the inspiration returns and when I start writing .... something ... again.

And with that, this blog is over and out.

J

Karin -- May 21, 2012