On Pride

Tan lines deepen, are altered. Steps lose their speed in the incessant rivers of sweat, every movement slowed, every action considered in terms of energy expenditure and chance of even the slightest breeze. We cross the City to Tompkins Square Park, to hear a quirky bitter woman sing catchy tunes of men and women and "love"; the conclusion seems to be that it is best to stay away. Returning to the West Village, the streets are exploding in a veritable rainbow of people, where every shape, every color, every person is allowed and encouraged to love and to celebrate it. The two sides of the city seem like the two sides of a coin, and we end up on the stoop, contemplating where we fit in it all. How hard it is to find someone into whom to pour your heart matter; how hard it is to think you'd do without.

I fear my fancy university diploma has taken the magic out of love. My rational defenses voraciously absorbed every interpersonal theory of psychology and now delight in using them to deconstruct the madness of falling, until there is nothing left but ghosts from the past and discourse. So that on such a day when Pride was a beautiful, empowering wave of acceptance and joy, I remembered that my pride simply holds me back from taking that one step over the edge, from jumping heart-first into unknown rabbit holes and having faith that the landing will be soft.

And still, in the back of my spine, the feeling, that should the right person stand on the opposite side of that edge, I'd have no choice but to surrender.

I undress, put away my rainbow-colored earrings for another year.
The flag I wave is white.