During the Fall of 2010 I fell in love. It was silly how easy it was. Crazy even: a short drive, a salesman, a point, a swipe, a contract, a lifestyle. Stepping out of the retail store with a bag around my wrist and it in my palms, I felt like I was just handed the holy grail. Beams of light seemed to radiate from it. Its fragility juxtaposed with my wild inability to keep my desires contained; I wanted to look at it all day long, my focus captive as a beetle in a glass jar.
I didn’t give it a name, but I did believe its delicacy meant it was a she, and that I needed to take good care of her.
She was simple enough to understand, and she could do everything. My blood pressure seemed to decrease with each new thing I learned she could do. My life would finally be organized, I thought, and pools of knowledge, social interaction and game-play were finally at my finger tips. That night I held her face close to mine and we stared at each other for hours. My body had scarce been this attracted to anything before, my mind never before so enthralled, and my heart never so quickly in love.
The next day I took her to work with me because I was too excited to leave her in my bag or in my car. I had, after all, created a space for her just below my computer screen between my stack of post-its and paperclip holder. We watched each other all day, just as the evening before, and we held each other more often than I’d done with any others before her.
Needless to say, during that Fall season, I accomplished a significantly smaller amount of work than normal.