Why is it so hard to let go of something you never had within your grasp. Does almost count? A maybe, a one day or a let’s wait and see? Yet I hold on, not to them, but to the idea of them. The dream that accompanied the desire long ago sparked but never allowed to build into a roaring fire.
My hands burn from holding on.
An Open Letter to D.L.:
You came into my world quietly and slowly, so genuine and real. I could have sworn I felt your hand on the outside of the bubble. Over time you revealed yourself to me, I felt safe and began to open myself up to you. Then you disappeared with no explanation. Vanished. Poof…gone.
Every day I wondered why? What happened? Did you plan this? Was I a game for you to play? I want to understand even though I doubt I ever will. You hurt me.
You reached out and broke off the slender branch I had walked out on.
And I don’t know why.
I refuse to retreat back into the shell I had just begun to break out of. I’m not going to let you have that power over me. I refuse to call you and question your motives and intentions. I’m not going to let my self-esteem and self-worth suffer.
so I forgive you.
…but I still think you’re a douchenozzle.
I said, “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why he’s gone.”
She said, “You’re in a bubble. God has you in this protective bubble and he’s pushing away those who aren’t suited for you. He’s keeping you safe until he’s ready to bring the right one to you.”
I said, “In His timing, not my own. But I sure am impatient!“ Then a tear slowly fell.
All I could imagine is being inside this bubble and being able to see all those around me, those that I want to be with, want to interact with, and not ever getting close enough to really get to know. I can put my hand against the inside as they match it with their own from the outside. I can feel them, enough to know that they are there. But then they are gone.
And I’m left in this stupid bubble.
It’s probably best I don’t say much. Its part frustration, part disappointment, with a smidgen off irritation thrown in just for good measure. And confusion. I’m confused. Mixed signals aren’t better than no signal at all.
Yeah. Frustrated.
And I didn’t even get kissed.
One of these days I won’t ever need to blog again. Because one of these days I will have someone in my life to be my sounding board and won’t need the internets to blab to. Someone happy to listen to all my wacky stories and off the wall ideas.
Someone who won’t judge when I start listing out 25 weird things about me that may or may not include the fact that I can fit my fist in my mouth.
Someone I can rush home to at night that I can share a batch of photos I took of myself while standing in front of the bathroom mirror at the office.
Someone who thinks its a great idea to eat animal crackers dipped in cream cheese frosting for breakfast and to make pancakes with Skittles in them for dinner.
But for now, and especially right this moment, I am painfully aware that there isn’t that someone.
And so I blog.
I’m finding myself getting used to, and quite enjoying, a lot of other “missing” things lately. Like the coating of partially dissolved protein shake mix that was always left to dry and cement in the bottom of the kitchen sink. Apparently turning on the faucet and rinsing was too foreign of a concept for you.
I also do not miss your underwear lying on the floors (yes, as in multiple rooms) or your keys thrown carelessly on top of my heirloom wooden jewelry chest (thanks for scratching it jerkface and then trying to say it was already damaged). Ditto on your lazy butt using my bath towel and then not hanging it up to dry, I totally love wiping off with a smelly, soured towel. *hoarf* You obviously knew that you were getting in the shower – would it have killed you to grab your own towel?
I can’t say that I’ve missed the house being dirty all the time either. It’s amazing how spending 5 minutes a day to pick up after yourself will do wonders for the place. The kids understand this concept (to a certain degree) and I don’t have a problem with it. But somehow, your genius level I.Q. 39 year old self can’t grasp it. Buh bye.
No, I don’t miss you and don’t sound all pissy when I confirm this to you every single time you ask me. The kids don’t miss you either. Oh wait – The Boy would like for you to put his basketball goal back together, the one you disassembled before a storm and then have let lay on the grass for the last three months. Preesh.
I especially enjoyed telling your friends at church today that you were gone. Oh and the one that’s known you for the last 25 years? Yeah, she didn’t really seem all that surprised. Go figure.
I hope you had a nice weekend on your bike at the beach. If the check you wrote me on Friday bounces, I’m selling your tools.
I was on the phone with a new salon making a hair appointment (still can’t believe I’m cheating on my long-time stylist!). The man on the phone laughed because I kept saying “sir” to him and joked, “call me sir one more time and you’ll loose this appointment.” Now, I get the joke. I’m not miffed that he was joking around and had he shut.his.mouth at that point then I wouldn’t be writing about this.
What I’m miffed about is that he then proceeded to call me “darling” and then “cutie” as I completed the appointment making process.
WHY is it not ok for me to be polite and use the formal “sir” (seriously, I just have good manners!) and it’s ok for him to use terms (darling/cutie) that some women find degrading when uttered by strangers or people less than familial?
I’m writing his name down in my book. He and I will have a conversation about this when I visit the salon.
Strike one.
No seriously I do. Not too many days can heighten the significance of an event like a Monday can. The ordinary can be come extraordinary when it happens on a Monday.
Like when the crazy old man on a motorcycle decided in rush hour traffic to stop his bike in the one lane and then lay down in the right hand lane of a six lane major highway in town this morning.
Not injured. Just aparently sleepy.
Best part? When he would throw his hands up in frustration that no one was running him over. The nerve of some people.
I had the worst stomach ache at work yesterday. It wasn’t something I ate and I know that I’m not coming down with anything. No, my stomach hurt because of something I witnessed. Yesterday I saw a child traumatized when he heard his father cuss out one of our tellers. The customer was obviously upset over a transaction he was unable to perform. What it was or why he couldn’t complete it is inconsequential to this story. But what he did next was inexcusable. He began to verbally assault this young woman, screaming at her to “f**k off,” and then he turned and stormed out of the lobby. His young son, who couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9 years old, was visably stunned. I could hear the sharp intake of his breath from across the lobby as he started to cry out towards his father, “daddy, no….don’t….don’t be so mean…”
How could anyone do such a thing? It is horrible enough that he used such language with another adult. But she’s tough, she can take it, she can see past the words. His young son will never forget that moment, I assure you.
My stomach hurt because I wonder how often this child has heard this from his father. I actually guess not much, judging from his shocked reaction this time. But what about the next time? And the time after that? What about in 20 years when this child is now an adult and decides to verbally abuse someone else? It has become an accepted pattern by now and he won’t think twice about it.
Yes, my stomach hurt quite bad.
