" title="Juliane Huang"> Juliane Huang

27 Is The Age For Love

… or whatever.

I was digging through an old spiral notebook today, searching for unused lined paper, when I found a sheet on which I had tracked personal going-on’s for past birthdays in a manner similar only to archaic library catalogues.  Handwritten.  Yellowed paper.  Saved as reference.

20 was spent lounging, daiquiri in hand, by a pool off the coast of Mexico.

21, drunk in Las Vegas, encouraging strange men to buy me drinks and forcing my sister to be my designated driver.

22, at my parents’ house in Tustin, abnormally thin and suffering from a broken heart.

23, indoors during a rainy Taiwan spring, receiving the largest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever gotten. 

24, revelling in the most beautiful part of China, letting everyone think my friend was my husband just because we shared hotel rooms. 

25, in someone’s bathroom in Manhattan, sobbing because my grandfather had just gotten diagnosed with terminal cancer. 

26, training in San Francisco for the half-marathon race that I completed 2 weeks later.

27?  My god, that’s coming up fast.

I wonder if 27 should be the year I find myself in an authentic, loving relationship.  Fully recovered from what I was almost led to believe would be an insurmountable heartache at 22, I speak with more reservation, I write with less conviction, and I run when I should stay.

And damn if I’m not ready for something else.

In a few months, maybe I’ll find myself engaging in romantic relationships where longevity is an actual possibility.  Or maybe I’ll just keep dating the hell out of this city until it cries uncle and refuses to see me.  I mean, I need something with which to occupy my time (lord knows I can’t find a job to save my life).

At Least I Have My Sense of Humor Going For Me…

him: “I tend to like things sauce-y.  Pasta, stir-fry, steaks…”
me: “wenches.”
him: “…”

Dammit.

At night

I fall asleep at night with a sweater on, fighting convulsive shivers.  Did I eat enough today?  What did I eat today?

My bathroom is filled with products for the skin.  Body oils.  Butter lotions.  Eye creams.  I slather everything on, layering clothing over it.  Long sleeves.  Sweatpants.  Sweatshirt.

I crawl under the covers, spreading my three blankets neatly around me and then stacking them one on top of the other.  Down comforter.  Tan comforter.  Blue comforter.

Arms and legs inside.  Head tucked in.  My skin feels warm, but I can’t stop shivering.

“You’re like the Tin Man,” I tell you, expecting a protest.
“Everyone has their flaws,” you reply unconcerned.

This response has an immediately sobering affect on me.  I look back on our happy moments, laying them out neatly side by side on the floorspace in my head.  I kneel down to track their evolution– from surprising to exciting to so new, so fun to an abrupt end.  I suppose I shouldn’t have tried to ask for anything more than a good friendship from you.  Appropriately chastised, I think I finally understand.  And it’s not a big deal, really.

I dreamed about you last night, though he looked nothing like you.  He was missing everything that you have, but was everything you’re not.  And I woke up feeling better.