Pressing and pushing against the beefed-up safety bumpers of my mind, guarded within the confines of routine and normalcy, precariously perches an ever ballooning desire. When all told, as point of fact, this want has percolated for all the years of my adult life, ebbing and flowing in its urgency as reality took place, stretching out like taffy, malleable as a lump of clay, and, when attended to, massaged and sculpted with any number of outside influences and circumstances in mind.
59. An unassuming number; Not anything that represents much more than the accumulated value of smaller increments. It’s the number of times the minute and second hands on a clock are aligned within an hour. It’s how many earth days there are to one on Mercury. It’s the colloquial name given to the Queensboro Bridge in New York City that Simon & Garfunkel famously sang of in the ’60s, offering their advice to “slow down, you move too fast.”
It’s how many days have passed since my baby brother Tim unexpectedly died – the youngest of eight siblings, and the first of us to leave the world at just 39 years old. It was just yesterday and it was forever ago. It is as fresh a wound as it is an old scar. And it is as senseless as it is meaningful.
So here I go again. A quiet evening spent at home with the company of a glass or two of a bold Red and a self-professed “Pragmatic Idealist” (read: Myself) has the tendency to bring about those TL;DR entries, those threaded with over thinking and existentialism, with other common subject matters from previous entries branched throughout. You may choose to stop here, and I wouldn’t blame you.
That Winston Churchill guy really knew what he was talking about. Okay, I suppose this is one of his lesser “important” quotes, considering his role in the history of the world, but still! Important it is! Because not only does his wisdom speak truth about the audacity of leaving a rockin’ party before the good times have to end, but, by omission (and a bit of imagination, no doubt), it also says a lot about leaving right on time. And there’s no need to stress it, because, existentially speaking, the timing is always “right”, regardless of when you hit the door. But, at closing time, no ifs ands or buts, you gots to go.
Ah, the blank page.
How many times will I stare at the achromatic display of my humble laptop in supposed reverence, my immense devotion to and admiration of the vacant screen only equal to my towering disdain and criticism of it? When will my fingers cease to hover as they wait on words to evolve, to flow from the roughened stubs in an exquisite dance across the black keyboard, stopping only when it becomes necessary to wet my exhausted throat, fatigued by the continuous flow of clairvoyant colloquium?
Consider the life of a paper clip, an unassuming little piece of twisted steel with a heady job: to hold things together. I’d half feel sorry for the little guy, all bent up, ever working to keep things in place, its burden more askew than not at times, and often over the capacity of its capabilities- stretched beyond its means. Until I realize that story sounds wayyyy familiar.
So, turns out all of us have a story- and everyone’s is different. Joy, pain, love, hurt, excitement, drama, success, struggle – collectively these things are not unique to a small fraction of the population, but rather have touched most of us in one form or another along the tightrope of life. These are pieces of us as human beings – some happening as much to us as because of us, and the strands of our lifelines steadily braid with all other experiences to make the whole of our stories.
Perspective. Personally, I find it to be a bitch of a reality, mostly because I want mine to always be the “right” one. But, since it seems two or more people can look at the exact same thing, and each see something entirely different, that surely isn’t always the case.
Every now and again – like most women, I’m telling myself – I have pulled what I like to call a Crazy Girl, defined succinctly by Urban Dictionary as “the phenomenon where girls act irrationally because of insecurities.” With that conceded, let’s just say a few times or so in my years I have emotionally reverted from a mature, grown woman to a PMSing 15-year-old schoolgirl, complete with irrational hurt, unreasonable anger, and an un-ending mass of tears.
It wasn’t bad enough that he was gorgeous. Or that his athletic biceps were nearly bursting at the seems of his short-sleeved dark navy blue cotton/poly blend uniform. Or that he called me Miss, rather than the ever-hated Ma’am, which made me feel like an old lady – unless, that is, a well-mannered Southern Boy was using the term – particularly one in a hat, tight jeans, and cowboy boots.