A complicated description of love.
It seems so strange, or perhaps it doesn’t, to love something unconditionally. To acknowledge it, for all that it may be with its indefinite quirks and irritating tendencies, yet chose to love it anyways. I forget the very first time I had oatmeal, although I remember what my mother looked like. Her fine, straight hair was longer then. My brother had tried it first, although he wasn’t a fan. He reluctantly ate it each morning, digging out the sparse candied dino eggs, avoiding the rest of it as if picking out wet hair from a drain. Oatmeal, again. The oats barely filled the dark brown ceramic bowls of my childhood. An awkward fit, although it lay there, powerfully. The steam caressed my face, opening my pores. The smell, an overwhelming scent of warmth, like the fleece blanket I used in my sleeping bag at sleepaway camp. Eating oatmeal was bittersweet every time.
~
Time stopped when I first met you. I didn’t believe that that was even possible, for the rest of the world to move in slow motion, blurred behind you as you spoke to me. I knew your name and that you played on the football team. I knew that you had a reputation of being self centred, but were very skilled at masking it. I only knew one person that went to the same high school as you; she was a friend from my childhood that grew into a superficial, yet moderately attached companion. She invited me to your football game, perhaps to fill the awkward space. I gave her something, someone to talk about. The fluorescent stadium lights shone on you, number eight, and as the fourth quarter came to an end, I watched you run to your mother on the sidelines and kiss her on the cheek. A victorious, virtuous kiss conveniently in front of the row of girls that curled their hair for you. They all smiled as your perfectly orchestrated spectacle wooed them. It wooed me too.
~
I graduated from dino egg oatmeal after grade school, on to maple brown sugar. The brown packets lay comfortably in the top cupboard next to our fridge. A cupboard once impossible to reach, became easier with each passing year. It became ritualistic for me. To stand up on my tippy toes, retrieve a packet, and begin to pour and mix until the ratio of liquid to solid was perfect. Perfect, in my eyes meant thick. Thicker than what most would prefer, that is. The instructions suggested water, yet my mother insisted on milk to make it creamier. I have never made a bowl of oatmeal with water since.
~
Somehow, we ended up at the same dingy, dimly lit restaurant that served you and all of your winning teammates. I sat quietly at the end of the long, waxy table feeling uncomfortable, as if my clothes were wet and the wind was cold. I never ordered food, none of the girls did. We simply watched as you ate your chicken wings and laughed about things that would only seem funny to someone that peaked in high school. At around 12 o’clock, as the bills were being paid and final sips of Sprite were gulped, I stood up from the rigid chair and put my coat on; the cringeworthy feeling of assuming that everyone is watching you, when in reality nobody is. As I approached the door, head down, following the only reason I was there, you approached her.
“Who’s your friend?” Your voice was a sort of tenor, though it seemed as if you were trying to sound deeper, more mature.
She introduced me as her longtime best friend that went to the arts high school but loved football. I looked up at you, not realizing how much taller you were. As you reached out your warm, sweaty hand to perform some sort of cordial handshake, everything stopped. You looked at me as if I was a new toy and I imagine that I looked back at you as if you were my most prized possession. Your brown, curly hair fell perfectly over your forehead, covering your unruly eyebrows. Your smile was warm, dimples and all, though your teeth were smaller than I expected. I noticed your long eyelashes first, before realizing how captivatingly they enveloped your blue eyes. In spite of everything that made you so impossible to love, your blue eyes were never something that I had to fight hard against. I could not have crafted a more faultless face than yours given all of the time in the world and then some.
~
Approaching my teen years, I took an interest in cooking. Cooking oatmeal. I had asked my mother to show me the ins and outs of stovetop oats, which she graciously delivered. I was mesmerized by her ability to free handedly pour the milk into the pot, not a measuring cup in sight. The quality of stovetop oats, in comparison to microwavable, flabbergasted my soul. It was as if my taste buds had awoken from a deep hibernation to the smoothness of warm cinnamon and berries. Cooking oats on the stove gave me a purpose, a vital role in the kitchen alongside my mother. It felt so important to me every time. It seems bizarre perhaps to love something that gives you not much to account for in return. To love the taste, the texture, the time spent making it, only to enjoy it for five short minutes. No matter how much effort I put into the bowl, the oats could never love me in the way that I loved them.
~
The days that followed our initial introduction felt longer. I loved to ask about you, yet hated the thought of you knowing that I was asking. “What was his name again? The one you introduced me to,” was my most frequently selected. It wasn’t until the New Year’s Eve party that I was able to speak to you again. What a disaster that was. A conveyor belt of you laughing with the girls that found you so charming and taking shots with your teammates. I don’t remember much of who I was that night. All that I seemed to be, was in relation to who I wanted to be for you. I’m sure that we spoke. I refuse to believe that we didn’t. Although, between the discombobulated memories and cleaning of throw up in the bathroom, I can’t seem to recall what we spoke about. Each following interaction we had felt the same; knowing that you would be there, mentally preparing myself, choosing an outfit that was not too loud, but perhaps more feminine than I was comfortable with. Ensuring that I was with the right people to promote the utmost opportunity for us to speak and then shying away in wake of your blue eyes and curly hair. I was generally more confident with others, but you evoked unrest in me. I loved you, I thought. I had sworn to myself that the next time I was in the same vicinity as you, I would not follow the trend of my soundless past. I waited for you often and in the times that you never showed, my impending desire for you thickened. As high school ended, I planned to move on from you. How drained I felt, to still be in love with someone that gave me nothing in return.
~
Once I started running more frequently, I decided that sugary oatmeal would not suffice in fuelling my deteriorating joints. Thus, I began to add protein powder. A goopy blend of wholesale rolled oats and cookies n’ cream flavoured protein; “proatmeal” if you will. The satisfaction of mixing the two together never ran out. I envisioned making a red velvet cake instead, with batter so thick it would stick to a spoon turned upside down. Adding the protein set my mind at ease, ensuring me that I was not making the oats for nothing. Every morning felt the same. A ten kilometre run to escape my issues and that very same bowl of proatmeal, to remind me that I am not able to run away from everything.
~
My choice to move on from you, although in good nature, failed miserably. High school had ended and our worlds were much farther apart, yet all I wanted on that brisk, dull night was to see you there. At the bar. How pathetic is that? That I did my makeup so consciously and wore the outfit I thought you would like over the outfit that I liked. It felt like high school all over again, when the alcohol was illegal and you pretended like you were better than all of us. Those days seem so far away from now, although they aren’t really. I still thought of you often. Mostly past 9 o’clock. When the weather was cold but the room was hot, which used to make your cheeks blotchy and red, just how I liked them. Your white t-shirt and flannel, similar to the outfits of every other guy there, made me feel comfortable. Although I had tried so hard in an attempt for you to notice me, you put zero effort in, and I liked that. We made eye contact, or so I thought, yet you walked right past me towards the bar. Another drink for you and a missed opportunity for me.
~
It was the toppings of my oatmeal that truly gave it pizazz. I often found myself explaining this to others who looked at oatmeal as a chore, a burden. Berries were a consistent and reliable choice. In a sort, they made the otherwise beige breakfast seem more appealing. They did not change it, nor make it better, rather just masked the blandness and disappointment, making it seem less obligatory. The colourful additions blurred an otherwise red flag. As I sprinkled the berries on top, I often asked myself, if you feel required to add, alter, or adjust something, do you truly love it?
~
I walked over to the bar. Following you in theory, although I told myself otherwise. As I positioned myself equidistant from you and my freedom, a friend I distantly knew was standing there, slouched over the counter. He looked up at me and gave me a side embrace. I wondered if you saw. He began to speak words I barely heard, as his slurring lips and hazed eyes communicated some sort of “how have you been?” I looked over at you again, only to see you smiling at the girl I knew you were indefinitely focused on. A smile I hadn’t seen since the night of your high school’s graduation. I still thought of you often. When jokes seemed much funnier than they were and my skin was clear. When the music was not too loud, nor too quiet, and I could see you staring at me from across the room. You always used to stare at me. Yet that night, as I looked at you, I watched your eyes fixate on just about anything else.
~
I still eat oatmeal every morning with no sense of duress or regret. It is not taxing to me, nor am I at all tired of the taste. Whether it is left in the refrigerator overnight, or cooked freshly atop my stove, I feel excited for the first bite each time. I become exhausted by things often, food and hobbies alike. Yet, I have never not enjoyed a bowl of oatmeal. In all of its blandness and peculiar texture, I choose to love it every morning.
~
We barely spoke the entire night at the bar. It burned deeply in me to watch you walk away after simply saying “hi.” The bare minimum, as usual. I internally begged whatever higher power lay among us to have us bump into each other on the dance floor or for you to return back to me asking something personal about my life. I escaped to the bathroom like clockwork to reapply my lipgloss and fix my hair, for I simply could not risk looking anything less than my personal best for you. I watched you dance with the girl you had spoken to earlier. Your toned physique awkwardly twisted and jolted while she swung her hips sideways with her arms in the air. In a moment of pure conviction, I inserted myself along with my closest friend, into the dance floor directly next to you. I was never afraid to dance in front of others. As we sang along to the song and let all of the rigid joints in our bodies relax, I looked back at you. I thought of everything that you had done, or not done that took fragments of me. All of the times you ignored me, or looked over me, or chose someone else in spite of me. You smiled. Your smile was warm, dimples and all, just as it was the first night we met and suddenly, all that was bad about you seemed to evaporate into the sweaty air.
Perhaps the only thing that you have in common with my beloved oats is my fascination with you. My obsession with finding something that I love, becoming blinded by its beauty, and reluctantly choosing to love it continuously. Acknowledging that somewhere, there is better. That somewhere, wherever it may be, there is something that makes days easier, makes loving you easier. A breakfast food that isn’t so thick and a boy that isn’t so thin. And in the odd chance that our paths collide, I will run towards it, or perhaps away from you. But for now, I choose to continue to love you. Because to love something is better than to love nothing at all.
Author Bio
Karly Benson is an aspiring writer and dancer, originally from Windsor, Ontario. She is currently entering her fourth year at Ryerson University, completing a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Performance Dance and a Minor in English. Karly’s writing, much like her dancing, is diverse and finds inspiration from many different genres and styles. Her main focus is the art of storytelling, both through her writing and her movement.
Instagram: @karly_benson
Writing Tip: Simply start writing and the rest will follow!
