A/N: I'm alive, I really am. But you might want to send a rescue squad to relieve me of my mounds of homework. (And when homework is described as 'mounded', you know it has to be bad).
-
To me, change came slowly, breath by breath, until the dregs of the life I had known before were filtered out, and only memorable fragments remained, a whisper of dry leaves against the bare autumn earth. Doesn't that sound poetic? Monica wrote it. Had I been more enlightened, I would've written something by me, from me, for me, but what is a man to do? The most I could muster was: change is hard, and by the time my two and a half hours of thinking time was up, Monica had written out our life story, with a chart of house chores to match. To think she wasted all that that time creating the chart when she knew she would end up doing it all anyway (you know it's true).
So, change. Everything started to change the minute it seemed stable. The coffeehouse being built, Joey, Rachel. Ross's divorce (yes, his first one). Maybe things started to level out again after that, but by the time we reached London and Ross's road to divorce numero dos, change seemed inevitable. And here we are, five years later, preparing to move from Apartment 20 into a beautiful house in Westchester. It doesn't matter how ready we are, or how spacious and perfect the house is, it all seems too soon. Joey took it the hardest, even though we promised him a guestroom and an invitation for day-to-day visitation, if he wanted. I didn't show it, but it hurt me too.
It was a few days after our announcement and Joey's initial meltdown that it hit me with full force, and it surprised me so much I couldn't finish my haircut. One more change seemed too much, one more change of scene seemed as impossible as writing a poem.
Maybe I'm becoming sappy in my old age, or maybe Joey has rubbed off on me more than I had originally thought, but as I finished out the day, everything seemed to bring back memories of the old days. Remember when we were over-caffeinated gung-ho twenty-somethings? Remember? I do. I thought everyone overreacted, in turn, when we segued into our thirties (have I really lived that long?), but I've realized that I was just storing the emotion away for safekeeping, as I've always done.
I'll miss this. I'll miss pointless conversations, unlocked doors, margaritas and strip Happy Days. Stupid things I never thought would mean anything to me. Maybe I've been too cynical. I'll never be a kid again, now that we're getting a kid of our own. And that scares me the most.
I thought I could be the strong one – comfort the girls, reassure Ross, tell Joey everything will be alright.
I think I overestimated myself.