It snew.

Water covering. Clinging. Freezing.

Freckles of salt across the porch stairs. Pock marks.

A grey sky with grey cloud. A muted background for white rain falling in slow motion.

Footprints, paw prints, claw prints.

Gloved hands still cold, held to my face. Cold fingertips, cold cheeks.

Snowballs, white hikes, easy-to-spot cardinals snacking on the grass seeds that forgot it’s February.

I laugh and my breath, white against the grey, warm for a moment, moist and then cold, drifts away. It is no longer mine.

Memories of sled hills in Connecticut. Ice-covered trees and no-school announcements. Tires covered in silver chains.

Snow pants.

Snow men.

Snow cones.

Snow angels.

Pink nose and watering eyes.

Winter muffling life, dimming the light, slowing the pace.

Shake me, I’m in a snow globe.

Pain and laughter.

Pain slows down time. Every breath is felt, every heartbeat, every movement of the eyes. Movement feels too fast, tilting the axis, spinning the room. Going to the bathroom is a brand new effort.

I don’t tolerate pain very well. And the anticipation of pain can be more overwhelming than the pain itself. Most of my life I struggled with a fear of needles, though I have probably had my blood drawn more than my family and friends combined. It seems the experience of pain has the same strange imbalance: I have lived with chronic pain in one form or another most of my life, yet I have this embarrassingly small ability to withstand it. (Complete with loud moans, uncontrollable trembling, leg shaking, and the most dramatic facial expressions you can imagine.)

This is what dominated my thoughts after having two upper ribs removed over the holiday break. The large artery in my neck was damaged by an extra rib that I was born with, the solution was to have the extra rib and the rib next to it cut out of my body. (With the medical equivalent of pruning sheers – shudder.) I faced the inevitability with a “just do it” mentality. Good thing I had overcome my pass-out-every-time fear of needles, because the IV alone was a thick, inch and a half long piece of shiny metal.

It is now three weeks later and I am progressing successfully in my recovery. The memory of the first day – the pain, the inability to filter my emotions, the exhaustion from simply opening my eyes – is still easily accessed. I still squirm in my seat when I recount details to inquisitive listeners.

Hours after waking from anesthesia  I look at the clock on the wall, stare at my husband’s face, breath in, breath out, groan, move my right foot, and try not to cry. I hold back the sobs, not because I have remembered that it’s appropriate to restrain emotion for the sake of those around me, but because it will be excruciating to cry. The morphine doesn’t seem to help that much, but what do I know? So I just moan for more. And then I start counting the seconds, because that is all I can look forward to; be certain of. Each moment will never have to be experienced again. Each second is moving past me, beneath me, through me – detached and rejected by me. One – go away. Two – go away. Three – go away. Three seconds closer to freedom from this punishment.

I won’t even talk about the drainage tube that hung from my chest, an inch below my incision that was drawn across the top of my collarbone. The incision that every patrolling doctor declared as “beautiful” at first site. Not surprising, since my surgeon is arguably the best in the country.

But the pain, the experience did not kill me. I might even say it has made me stronger. How – I don’t know yet. It’s just intuition. And it’s now behind me, part of my story.

Yesterday I went to my second physical therapy appointment. The physical therapist stretched and massaged aching muscles and tried to increase my range of motion. Then he carefully placed his fingers around my incision and began to move the tissues to loosen them and help with the healing process. I can’t even describe how unsettling this was. I remembered this time how important it is for a 32-year-old to not make ridiculous noises. So I focused all my energy on remaining quiet.

He slowly moved in small circles, and then back and forth, up and down. After about ten seconds I realized the disturbing contortions that my face was producing. In embarrassment I murmured,  ”Just ignore my face.”

“I’m trying,” he said playfully.

And then I laughed, suddenly able to relax.

You may have heard me tell this story before…

I have a distinct memory that occupies a very tender space in my reminiscence. It has a little bit to do with the idea of aging, but mostly it signifies a moment in my life when I first felt truly alone. It was my mother’s 32 birthday.

I walked into our bright, linoleumed kitchen in the home we had on the little cul-de-sac in sunny California. The same kitchen where my Mother would bake apple pies from scratch, peeling the apples in spirals and letting me chew on the skin and watch. The same kitchen where I was caught sticking a wet finger in the sugar bowl, in an effort to quickly and efficiently scoop as much sugar into my mouth, which I instinctively knew was a bad choice, though no one specifically told me. Until I was caught. And then I was told. Firmly.

I saw this Mother of mine – the symbol of love, the first person I thought of upon waking – leaning with her back against the countertop. She smiled. I smiled. She told me it was her birthday. The light angled in from the window over the sink,  attempting to illuminate the moment.

I told her it was impossible – there was no way it was her birthday. My exact words, at age six, were probably something like “Nu-uh.”

“It is,” she said. “It’s my birthday, I’m 32 today.”

“No. Momma. Look. I don’t turn seven until December 9th. It’s not even past Halloween yet.” I looked around for a calendar, a clock, my flashcards, something to help me explain.

She sipped her tea. “We weren’t born on the same day, Honey.” She sipped again. I just stared, the sound of her voice sounded faraway and tinny – like she was speaking through the drain of the nearby stainless steel sink. The sink that she would scoot a chair up to, after she wrapped me in an apron and outfitted me with yellow, dusty, gloves, so that I could help with dishes. The sink that I would watch the leftover milk and too-mushy-to-eat Cheerios splash into, almost every morning.

“What?” I asked.

“I’ve been alive a lot longer than you. My birthday is on a different day.” Another sip of tea. Another smile.

My memory stops there. Black. Motionless. But a feeling remains – hovers over the end of the revery. A realization that my Mother, my love, my comfort, my hug-machine, was NOT an extension of my own body. Maybe I looked at my arm, maybe I just wandered back into my room, absorbing this instant moment of maturity. I don’t remember.

What I do remember was how that changed my outlook on the world around me. The world a little bigger, me a little smaller. Everything a little less safe.

Except when I would hear my Mother sing, while she sat on the livingroom floor, strumming the guitar on her lap. That same California light reaching across the shiny yellow wood, and warming my back as I lay upon my stomach watching her. I would feel safe.

Three days ago I turned 32.

I have no daughter to reassure that she can face the world alone. So I reassured myself.

In some ways, I am still that six-year-old, looking for meaning by belonging. And in some ways, I am 32. I now see the choice in where I belong. And I am grateful that I, alone, make that choice for my life.

Label confusion.

I’m an explainer.

Which some people confuse with complainer.

Or long-winded, but I am that too.

I have friends who mean to be well-wishers. But sometimes sound like non-listeners.

Friends that are comedians, but are actually genius observers.

Friends that seem genius, but are just wise enough to not say much.

I’m a sensitive soul who uses words as roots, and I have  a worrying mind that lives in the clouds. But often I just look unorganized and tired.

I am that too.

Confessions of an anxious extrovert.

If I were to be honest – really honest, I would write about my overwhelming anxiety. About the physical sickness (a cousin of the flu) that overtakes my body with aching limbs and sore throat. The struggle for balance the day after having guests over: compulsively recounting every grammatically incorrect phrase I uttered, every sharp-loud laugh I dumped out.

Was I annoying? Silly? Weird?

Did I make them feel uncomfortable?

My heart pounds so hard it hurts. My eyes ache from the over concern of it all – as if I have been physically focusing for days on this tiny dot of insecurity that has preoccupied my life.

I swing from one social experience to another – analyzing, questioning, aching. Attempting to satisfy my extroverted need for people in my life, genuinely enjoying the company around me, yet not enjoying my own role. How does one become a part of something if the only social tools they posses are the trembling tools of a wallflower?

Yet somehow it’s getting easier. Easier to dial the phone without scripting what to say. Easier to bump into a familiar face in the grocery, when I’m focused on my cart of allergen-free edibles and completely unprepared to present the put-together version of myself. It’s getting easier to laugh real and loud (and every once in a while, snort) without feeling like I just attracted the attention of the surrounding neighborhoods (even though I probably did).

I think maybe it comes with age, maturity, wisdom from experience. Or plain old rote exposure, de-sensitizing my over-sensitive emotional nerves.

Whatever the reason, I am relieved. Though I still experience the flu of social anxiety, I also experience the satisfaction of friendship. Pretty soon, I expect, I will discard the carefully written script, lean back into comfort, and get to know the social Me.

Though, I doubt I will ever get over the blush-inducing shock of hearing my own laugh.

The ghosts still linger.

The day after Halloween I ran through the still decorated neighborhood streets. Miniature grim reapers softly floated in the wind, their flowing black gowns snagging on the branches of the tree they hung from. Pumpkins still grinned on porches. Thick, cotton-candy cobwebs still frozen in the act of devouring bush, or tree, or house. The colors of the brick-paved streets matched the hallowed palette nicely.

The sidewalk’s light grey concrete bore witness to the death of the Autumn leaves. Evidence of once soggy carcasses, now washed away, covered the stone like a rash. Splotches of surprising detail. The sharp edges of birch. The distinct shape of maple. Was that an outline of a buck-eye leaf?

I can’t help but think these haunting imprints are proof of some sort. Proof that a leaf lived and died.

A leaf-ghost.

A word about marriage.

The “M” word has been the topic-of-choice in my small social circle lately. And with my travel plans for wedding #4 for this year, it seems to be the theme for 2012. It’s also been a part of my daily thoughts as I am in the midst of my own best year of marriage to date.

On some days, marriage is more about finding the one you can live with, rather than the one you can’t live without. Marriage is hard. Sharing a bathroom is hard. Knowing that someone else knows ALL of your faults, and sometimes reminds you, is hard.

On other days, marriage is the look from your partner that reminds you what you are worth. It’s that moment when you are watching a DVD together for the tenth time, still laughing at the same parts, that you realize you are content. It’s the interruption of your pulse as your heart spins around when you see how handsome he looks in the same ol’ t-shirt and jeans.

My husband has become more to me than a best-friend. More than a road-trip partner. More than a co-bill-payer.

He is the one that I am embarrassingly honest to. He has become the one I am most judgmental of. The one I run to when I fail. The one I apologize to the most.

He has become the one who can bring confidence to me during my most insecure moments – with just a smile. He is the one that is in all my dreams for the future. The one I have discovered I don’t ever want to be without.

He is the one. And after over nine years together – I am so glad I figured this out.

Marriage. I highly recommend it.