It’s been one of those days/weeks/months. It bleeds together like my skinned knee into my favorite pair of blue jeans. How it’s always a blur, a soup, a fog - I'm not sure. I wonder if I float above my days. Touching my toe down here and there but rarely making contact with the sidewalk. The soles of my shoes still look brand new and reality is for other people. Not me.
It’s been awhile but all that’s been missed are a number of happy days and a handful of ones that were not. And the drama that comes from the in-between. The switch from major to minor. The switch from go to no-go. That moment when you pull out your umbrella on the walk home from work. I don’t manage those transitions very gracefully. I wish to. I try to. But. My personality gets in the way. I’m tenacious. And direct. And sometimes I just don’t get it. And "no." Try telling me no. I don’t hear it. Literally. This is why I’m in sales. Wait. That’s not right. It’s not why I’m in sales, it’s why I’m
good at it. I get praised 40 hours a week for something that causes people who love me to beat their head against a wall and not want to answer the phone.
So these months that are all the same month. This ying and yang that are all the same ying and yang. Hmmm. I think I stopped making sense back at “It’s been one of those days...” But there is something to say here.
Right?
Maybe about getting back up on the horse because for all the floating and for all the times I can’t hear you because I have my headphones on the one thing that always always happens is eventually I hit a wall and bounce on the ground and one second later I’m brushing my pants off. And one second after that? My shoelaces are skimming the tops of trees. He’s calls me unsinkable.
But that makes me want to sink.
He says all the right things but only some of the time. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Laying on the couch this weekend he told me that on my birthday I became his best friend. I let my guard down. Shared all my dirty secrets and shined a light on all my darkest fears. He dabbed my cheek with a Starbuck’s napkin that day. And no matter how many times I apologized for the melt-down he would volley it back with a no-need-to. A please don’t. He even said he was jealous that I could do that. That I could just be like that, a pile of goo in the front seat of his car. That made me his best friend.
Wow.
But after that. It was all mouths and legs and hands and spit. And today it’s all phone calls and emails and a .jpeg I found on the internet of a busy guy. With four arms. And he was sweating.
Is this pretty? Spilling words like this? Being able to spill words like this?
Worthy of jealousy?
Or even just worthy?
