All I Got For Christmas Was Freedom.

January and February of last year were particularly rough months for me.  A combination of it being the depths of a bitter winter, the heater in my apartment being broken, work being out of control, and a very close relative moving into the afterlife.  Of course, because the universe moves as it does, just as things were darkest and coldest, a girl entered my life.  She was wonderful--smart, funny, beautiful--and given the timing I had my suspicions as to her origin.  Heavenly, perhaps?  Oddly enough, we'd known each other in college.  Not well, though.  At best she and I were acquaintances, each of us perhaps having attended a house party thrown by the other.  And I'd venture to guess most of our communication back then was in the form of AIM chatting.  You know, back when Internet stalking consisted primarily of decoding cryptic Away Messages on AIM.  I suppose in that vein we reconnected through the magic of Facebook--thank you, 21st Century!  Oh, did I mention I also had a major crush on this girl way back then?  It kind of developed late in the game.  Like "a few weeks before graduation" late in the game.  After graduation I was off to Japan and she was off to not-Japan, so I figured no sense in making my affections known.  Moving across the sea is complicated enough without injecting a long-distance relationship, right?

Anyway, fast forward to last February.  A friend request accepted turns into meeting for pancakes turns into dinner turns into a budding relationship.  During the course of that relationship we discover that we both enjoy Game of Thrones.  "You also like amazingly-written and superbly-acted plot-driven fantasy genre television serials!!??!?!  I thought I was the only one!"  But although she'd seen the HBO series, she'd never read the books.  So I let her borrow mine.  All of them.  Hey, this thing was going to last forever, so I figured I might as well.

But alas, forever forever turned out to be several months.  Things began to sputter as the relationship progressed, and one balmy July afternoon I was summoned to her residence and informed that "we need to talk. . ."  Needless to say, the talk ended in an agreement to mutually part ways.  For the best, really, given the relationship's recent trajectory.  It was as civil as separations go; the work of true professionals.  In fact, we sealed it with some Tasty Noodle House.

Now, unfortunately, as with most separations, there are loose ends that needed tying.  And in this case that was my Game of Thrones books.  It's funny because the second I started driving away from her place on that July evening I realized that she still had my books.  I was tempted to turn around and collect them, but didn't.  I mean, that would be a tad bit awkward, right?  "Hey, I'm not even sure if you're done reading those books, but I need them back so they can sit on my bookshelf and collect dust.  K?  Thx.  Bai."  Nah, it didn't have to be like that.  So I waited for her to contact me, for surely this is the correct protocol for post-relationship exchange of belongings, right?  The borrower must contact the lender.  Plus I figured she'd need time to finish all four books (no need for me to get them piecemeal).  And so I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  July became August; summer became autumn, and I continued to wait.  All the while silence from the girl.  

Around the beginning of October I thought something must be amiss.  Had something happened to her?  Or maybe it was just taking her a long time to read the books?  She is a busy person after all.  Still, how long does it take, right?  So I decided to contact her.  Which then opened up a completely brand new can of worms labeled: "How?"  Should I call?  Text?  Show up unannounced at her place in the dead of night?  Should she bring them to me?  Me go to her?  Meet in the middle?  It's a delicate matter this business of getting your belongings back.  In a sense they're hostages, and I was in the worst position having no hostages of my own to trade.  No, this would take some delicate negotiation, projecting a firm desire to get my belongings back without crossing into pettiness.  Also complicating the matter was that I was still completely happy with the separation, and given a lack of any communication from her, I could only assume the same was true for her.  So I didn't want any communication from me to be interpreted as an attempt to rekindle things.  But I also didn't want to convey my desire not to rekindle things too directly.  

Ultimately I decided on email, a happy medium between texting and calling.  As luck would have it, I received an immediate response from her.  And acknowledgement that she still has my books!  This was progress.  I quickly replied with a request that she let me know of her availability so we can coordinate an exchange.  But no response came.  Only more silence.  And at that point my honor forbade me from initiating contact again.  So there I was back to square one.  October became November; autumn became winter.  All the while I waited, and all the while more silence from this girl.  

During that time I thought a lot about those books and enlisted the advice of many in how to retrieve them without losing too much face.  Perhaps one of my most trusted advisors was the Apothecary, one of my oldest and truest friends.  Now, when presented with the facts of my situation, the Apothecary responded as most girls tended to do--"Why don't you just ask her again?  They're your books and you want them, right?"  Perhaps she was right.  Take the direct approach--Man up!  But in my mind, it was too late for that.  Plus, you know, the whole pride thing.  I'd like the books back, but not to the point where I need to beg for them.

As winter progressed and the Holiday Season arrived, the Apothecary and I exchanged gifts.  As is my custom I prefer to wait until the big day to unwrap anything, so her gift sat on my coffee table, perfectly wrapped and . . . sparkling.  Was her gift winking at me?  It did have a certain twinkle in its eye.  It was a decent weight, cube-shaped, and made no sound when shaken.  What could it be?  I pondered that in between planning sessions for "Operation: Tyrion's Liberation."  When Christmas Day finally arrived I opened the Apothecary's gift first.  As the wrapping paper melted away, and I realized what lay beneath, I couldn't help but smile--with Santa's blessing she'd snipped the cord to the past.  Time to move forward.  And just in time for the Year of the Phoenix.

I sat there and looked at those four nondescript paperback novels for a good while.  They were a lot smaller than I'd remembered them.  Or at least how I'd recast them in my mind's eye--four giant leather bound tomes requiring separate skeleton keys to open.  I guess it made me realize how quickly mortal possessions can become shackles in the context of a relationship (even one long over).  I do think that a little bit of our essence rubs off on whatever we give to our significant other, which perhaps make the whole "getting your stuff back" part so difficult.  You're not simply retrieving "stuff;" you're retrieving little pieces of you that no longer have any need to be with the person who took custody of them.  Those little pieces were exchanged in the light of a promise now broken, and you want them back.  I dunno, maybe I'm a bit too sentimental.  I suppose books are just books.  Still, ever since opening the the Apothecary's gift, my spirit's felt lighter; unchained.  I feel . . . free.

--KM

"Apologies for losing my cooling.  Losing today, tonight."