Manchvegas, the Social Introvert, and the Soul

I’ve fallen into a pattern of walking the main streets of New Hampshire’s major cities whenever the weather is nice and I’m able to find a good-enough excuse.

A pattern of parking just far enough outside of the downtown area that I avoid the meters, walking until I’ve blistered the parts of my feet that meet the edges of my shoes, and eventually returning back to the real world, exhausted and filled and achy and whole.


On Thursday, the weather is predicted to jump as high as the 50s.  Practically unheard of, especially for New Hampshire in February.  This time two years ago, we were shoveling ourselves out of yet another blizzard.  Two years later, we’re watching the snow melt into muddy puddles.

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Three or Four.


On Valentine’s Day of 2006, I got stood up.

I remember the scene with the type of vivid detail that makes me suspect I’ve started filling in the blanks that inevitably occur as the years go by: I remember waiting in the lobby of my dorm hall, watching as the agreed upon meeting time came and went.  I remember sending texts to the boy in question, asking him where he was (and this was back in the days when you had to tediously find your letters on a number pad in order to text).  I remember the half-hearted excuse he would eventually send, hours after we were supposed to go out for dinner.

This would be the second time this particular boy stood me up.  Just a week before, he had stood me up for a casual dinner date.  When I confronted him about this, he gave me a matching set of flimsy excuse and flimsy apology – with an equally flimsy promise to make it up to me with a perfect Valentine’s Day date.

Looking back, I shouldn’t have been shocked that he would leave me stranded a second time.

But, then again, I’ve never been one to catch on quickly.

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New Paths Forward

We were shown the nature paths when we first toured the house.

The first two acres were technically our own, before it went off into the wild west of the woods.  According to the realtor, the paths could lead you all the way up to Canada.  We’d learn later that it wasn’t hyperbole: the paths actually linked up with snowmobiling paths – which did, in fact, snake their way north until they hit the Canadian border.

The paths became as much my home as the house itself.  There were times, even, that the paths became more of a home than the house itself – when the woods offered escape during times when it felt like the walls were closing in on me. Continue reading