Don thinks he may need some Tuck’s medicated pads for the new asshole I ripped him in Monday’s post.

If I told you where all of that anger and rage and hurt came from…if I shared with you what the conversations that nearly destroyed us were about, you would think it was a typo. You would scratch your head in disbelief and wonder what the fuck was wrong with us. If I told you how close we came to disintegration on Sunday * and * Monday, you would surely wonder how we could overcome so much, but not cross that hurdle.

As with most things in the nation of two we’ve created, our near demise wasn’t really about porn, pubic hair and painted toenails. It was so much more than that. The porn, pubic hair and painted toenails were only the instigators. And while our near collapse was most certainly real (and fucking scary as Hell), once again, we managed to pull it together.

With some new honesty.

Don and I broke some of our own phone records during this time. I spoke to him more than I ever had before. We went around and around and around until, all of a sudden, the surface broke and the honesty was released.

So, now Don’s new asshole is healing.

And my heart is mending itself.

Armed with the new level of honesty, we continue to move forward, the past three days only a blip in the radar, another learning experience, more knowledge.

And we can move on.

Move onto what, you ask?

Why, a new post, of course!

On my way from Manchester, New Hampshire to Toronto, I met a nice woman from Regina. She had been visiting her adult daughter, who lived and worked in Connecticut, I believe. I’m bad for details like that. They hadn’t seen each other since the fall and it was the first time in all that time that their schedules lined up and they could enjoy a visit together. She told me that she would take quality time with her daughter over quantity any day. And I could relate.

This woman, whose name I didn’t catch, and I chatted while we waited for take off. We complained to each other about not having windows by our seats and both of us craned our necks to see out the windows behind us as we began to soar up, up, up into the clouds, the little houses and cars below us disappearing in the white fluff that engulfed the plane and everyone on it.

She was casually well dressed. It wasn’t an early flight but you could tell that she had gotten up with much time to spare and everything about her was as neat as a pin. Sensible and well thought out. She was one of those people who sit with their legs bent at the most perfect angle. Like a diagram of how to sit to ensure good posture. She clearly wasn’t nervous, nor was she emotional.

I, on the other hand, had haphazardly packed the night before, leaving behind clothes that I couldn’t cram into my tiny suitcase (you were right, Judy! You were right…). My carry on bag was full of mini chocolate bars and gum for the girls because I couldn’t fit them in the suitcase.

I looked like death warmed over. I hadn’t bothered to shower, choosing instead to throw on some clothes and run some gel through my hair and paint a bit of make up on in an effort to look as though I had had more than a few hours of rest the night before. I had also spent the entire time before boarding crying. First crying into the arms of my American Boy. And then crying as I went through the first security check point, prompting the guard who gave my passport a once over to say, “Are you ready?”

“Never”, I responded.

He smiled and patted my hand and said,

“Try to have a good flight anyway.”

I continued to cry once I finished the security dance and I sat, waiting to board, with my hands over my face, sobbing as quietly as I could into my fingers. Eventually, I put my sunglasses on to hide my leaking eyes and mask the redness. But it was useless, that much I knew.

I was a mess.

I managed to pull myself together once the flight was called and a bunch of rose to get in line and board. It was at that point that the queen bitch at the desk glanced at my passport and spit out, “Canadian?” like it was some kind of communicable disease she was terrified of catching. And the tears sprung to my eyes all over again, coupled with a sense of anger and I wanted to pull her bottle blond hair and twist it in my fist and scream, “YES! CANADIAN YOU FUCKING BITCH! I DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN THERE! HE DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN HERE! I DON’T WHY EVERYONE HAS TO MAKE IT SO FUCKING DIFFICULT! I’D CHANGE IF I COULD!”

But instead, I just mumbled, “yeah”, and moved along.

So, I guess it’s no wonder that I found such comfort in the composed mother from Regina that morning on the baby plane. I found comfort in having discovered a fellow Canadian. I found comfort in sitting next to her, chatting about “out west” and Ontario. Chatting about the subtle differences between American culture and Canadian culture. I found comfort in finally feeling okay about expressing my love for my country. We both had had a great time. But we both were proud and glad to be Canadians.

She was a knitter. She stowed her needles and yarn in her carry on bag and she waited until she got the okay to take them out and then began click clacking away. My mother is an avid knitter and so, I also found comfort in the familiar sound of needles clacking and in the familiar sight of fingers moving, dashing and twisting as though it’s second nature.

I felt like if I stayed close to this lady from Regina, I would be okay. If I didn’t lose sight of this Canadian, I wouldn’t lose my way. I felt as though I could calm down and breathe normally as long as those needles were clacking and that chattering continued and her legs stayed in a perfect posture position.

Then she pulled a sandwich out of her bag. And I heard myself sigh. I hadn’t eaten anything. I certainly hadn’t packed anything. My heart was breaking…how could I think about my stomach?! The sandwich she pulled out was one of those perfect, made at home sandwiches. Whole grain bread with little seeds and stuff on the top. Some kind of meat that looked like turkey or chicken. Bright, leafy green lettuce. And some tomatoes. It was wrapped, quite neatly, in plastic wrap. The weird thing was that it seemed as though the sandwich was perfectly timed. She had stopped her knitting abruptly, looked at her watch and promptly put the yarn and needles away in her carry on bag. Then she had taken out the sandwich, unwrapped it and started eating.

The chewing was deliberate. Not too fast, but not too slow. Almost like she wasn’t really enjoying it but also wasn’t disliking it. Like it was something that had to be done. And she was prepared.

Looking back on it now, I think she must have been diabetic or something. The sandwich interval * was * probably timed. And I’m sure that the ingredients weren’t accidental, either.

But in that moment, I didn’t see that.

In that moment, that perfect sandwich was a literal reminder that I will never be “one of those people”. I will never be that composed, that put together, that organized or that concise.

I will always be the girl with a Wonder Woman t-shirt, shoes with skulls on the toes, big purple sunglasses and crazed hair. I will always be the girl whose pin up girl carry on bag is stuffed full of mini chocolate bars, a breast pump, cigarettes, tabloids and flip flops. I will always be emotional, crying alone in an airport or dramatically hugging and holding onto the person I love while I cry. I will always be the girl who slugs back as much coffee as she can before she goes somewhere and then realizes she forgot to eat, only once it’s too late. I will always be the girl who is unkempt and a little bit off.

It’s who I am. And no amount of trying would get me a sandwich like that in my carry on bag (for one thing, I am not a person who eats whole grain bread with seeds on the top…my sandwich probably would have been comprised of Cheez Whiz and sticky white bread…).

I’ll always be a mess.

We landed in Toronto. The pilot climbed out and looked at me and whispered, “Are you okay?” I stared back at him and said, “Not really” and then tried to smile. We all got off of the baby plane and began the confusing trek through the Toronto airport. I stuck by that woman from Regina with the perfect sandwich and quick stride. She looked like she knew where she was going. And I didn’t.

I remember her turning around and saying to me, “Well, I’m sure they’ll be waiting for us in customs. They can’t let us get lost.” I felt immediate comfort and relief in her assertiveness.

And then we turned a corner and headed into a huge room, packed with people waiting in line to be scrutinized by the Canadian Customs Officials. It was what I had expected and I grabbed a declaration form and got in line and started to fill it out. I wasn’t bringing back much…just that candy and gum, really.

It was then that I heard a gasp and turned around.

There stood my woman from Regina. Her mouth was hanging open. She looked at me with eyes as big as saucers and said, “I guess I was being naïve.”

It was then that I realized that we all fall apart from time to time. The messes AND the perfect people. And I knew it was my turn to make her feel at ease.

I held her place in line and grabbed a form for her to fill out. I gave her my pen to use. And when they called to Canadians connected to another flight and gave us a short cut because we weren’t visitors, I tapped her on the shoulder and she followed me to the nice guy at the desk who barely glanced up. I went along with her to claim her baggage so that it could be cleared by customs and re-checked. And I stayed next to her through the winding corridors to the security check point.

She thanked me as she made her way to the connecting flight that would take her back to her home.

And I smiled and said, “No problem. You’d do the same.”

And I knew it was true.

The trouble isn’t the in the falling apart…that much I am learning now. It’s not collapsing into yourself that really matters. Because sometimes, we just can’t do it on our own.