My roommate is moving out, which is good news for her and ok news for me. We are still super gal pals, and this move is a great thing for her, for which I am glad. She really has been an enormous support these past few months. She tumbled into Miriamworld (directly from the Craigslist stork, by the way, for all you doubters) in a moment when I needed someone new to look at my life from that outsider’s lens and tell me gently, kindly, what she saw. And that was not an easy job, and she was totally up to the task. But now she’s leaving, and I’m back to that old burning question:
Who will I call to let me in when I’ve lost my keys?
Because, folks, this is what it’s all about. The bottom line. The realest of the real. Humans partner up because we need to know that if we lock ourselves out of the damn house/car/office/bike, that there is SOMEONE we can call, someone who can curse our name and grumble about our irresponsibility and come and save the day. It’s the “in case of an emergency” person. It’s the safety net person. We spend our lives seeking someone to literally let us inside when we’ve screwed ourselves over and are stuck out in the cold. I’ve heard somewhere that penguins do the same thing.
There’s something a little lonely about hiding a key under the mat or the mailbox or in one of those fake rocks in the front yard. It’s an admission of solitude. It’s the “I’m the only one I can count on” gesture that makes me feel like I’m burying the softer parts of me in that little hole that I’ll never find, despite the clever markings and the treasure maps. I may carve “Croatoan” into a tree somewhere, but let’s be honest, even I won’t remember what it means. An inside joke with yourself isn’t nearly as funny. It’s just something you do to get through.
So here’s the big project for this year:
(I mean, in addition to the moving across the country thing and the paying off my debt thing and the making one of those braided-rag-rug things)
The big project of 2007 is that I am going to build a Frankenstein.
I know, I know, that was not what you were expecting. And I know that if I really think this is a good idea that you may be worried that I missed some of Mary Shelley’s major themes. But, it seems like a much more viable and fun project than something like “learn to love myself” or “do a daily affirmation.”
Building a Frankenstein is the perfect marriage of some of my favorite activities: collaging and science and acting like god. And, what a nice Jewish name the archetype already has! “Jason Greenberg, Avi Goldstein, meet Frankenstein. Who wants some gefilte fish?”
My Frankenstein will be funny and gentle and 9 feet tall, which is totally ok, because the ceilings are 10. He’ll glue the rearview mirror back onto my car and he’ll always do the dishes and he’ll hold me gently while I watch “Harold and Maude,” all misty eyed and happy. My Frankenstein will be a mani-pedi guy, both giving and receiving, and we’ll have pillow fights and facial nights and camp out in the backyard once the weather warms up. We’ll ride bikes around town and crack jokes at one another, as my spare keys jangle off the caribiner hooked to his Carharts.
I am falling in love with him already.
If anyone wants to be my Igor, that’s the newest personal ad that I’ll be posting. Please submit your resume and qualifications to my laboratory.
