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Nutshell Kingdom: egg salad days
2002
There's a poem by Billy Collins called "Marginalia" which talks about finding smeary fingerprints inside of a used copy of Catcher in the Rye accompanied by writing: "Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."
To me this really sums it all up folks. To be in love is to be a mess. You have egg salad on your hands. You spill coffee on the stereo. You leave the milk out, the bath water running and the oven on. People in love are scary. They frighten themselves.
Emotionally, they're no better. They say the wrong thing. Constantly. Feeling and action stop corresponding. They ignore their friends. Their feelings get hurt. Easily. For no reason. Their
hearing gets distorted. "I'm gonna go to the store" starts to sound like "I'm leaving and never coming back." They cling. They peck. They beg. Of course, they also coo and sigh and moan.
I know this because I am covered with the egg salad of love. It is dripping down my back. My hair smells of it. I am a moron.
And all I know to do is to hold my chin up, excuse myself discretely and clean up occassionally, hoping that not very many people notice the grown man lathered head to toe in egg salad. Or if they do notice, perhaps a little nod of acknowledgment would be in order. A little sympathy. You know, next week at this time it might be you.
