Archive | February 2013

HANNAH BRENCHER

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If a weekend was delivered to my doorstep this past Friday then I didn’t seem to notice it.

Either I confused it for a never-ending Monday or decided that Friday and Saturday would just look a lot like thick, thick work instead of the play days they were designed to be. Regardless, I spent the last 48 hours amidst a pile of mail crates stacked high in my hallway. 

It’s been that kind of endless weekend. Of sorting mail. Of ripping open endless amounts of envelopes. Of gaining a headache quickly over the sadness some people pour into their letters. Of counting & recounting & resorting & straightening over 1,000 pieces of mail. And staying grateful the whole way through.

So yesterday at letter 700, just as my fingers were about to divorce the rest of my body, I decided to watch a movie that’s been tethered to my to-do…

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HANNAH BRENCHER

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I want to remember everything about this time.

The details. The silver linings. The gooey middles. The intricacies that hold in these once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. And how these once-in-a-lifetime opportunities seem to be happening pretty consistently in my day-to-day. And I want to remember that they should always, always humble me to my knees.

Last week I boarded a flight for Hollywood. I was there for a solid 24-hours. I stayed on the Boulevard. I brought wardrobe choices. I walked on a TV set. I had a dressing room with my name in the middle of the star. I sat down with a host I’d known for years by the glow of the screen. I wondered when I would wake up.

Life feels a bit surreal these days. It feels like it probably belongs to someone else. Or that it’s been lent to me by someone who’s coming back tomorrow, planning…

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HANNAH BRENCHER

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“It’s not going to be her,” I murmured.

“He said earlier that he could not get past a barrier with her… she never let her guard down.”

I sat curled up in a recliner, still enveloped by unplowed roads and blizzard conditions outside, as I watched four women stand side by side and wait to hear their name called. To be granted with a single stemmed rose and no thorns, offered by a man who keeps falling in love over & over again on TV.

And I thought to myself, while this happens, while girls throw themselves at one guy for a chance to be morphed Cinderellally into his wife for better or worse, a different kind of love is fraying at my sides. A different heartbreak is tearing at my eye sockets. The woman in the limo going home and I, we cannot relate tonight.

 

I found out just…

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