The Beautiful Waiting

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Last night was writers’ group.  It was fine.  No castigations on my leadership.  No grumpiness about my communication or lack thereof.  I was glad I went, if only to keep the flame alive, but right now, given that it’s midway through this Friday, I’m just very tired and distracted.  I’m good, I’m not complaining, I just feel like this week is a long rubber band just about to snap on me.
I definitely need to do more driving.  I was absolutely fine getting there.  The light was good.  But on the way back, I kinda…boy, the rustiness led to panic and that led to me taking twice as long to get home.  Super unnecessarily, but I also had some food yesterday that was not great, my first real wiggle from diet planning and caring, a little apple tartlet from Starbucks among other things and I think, I got in the car and realized how that stuff affects me both in actuality and in how I anticipate it should affect me.
And whammo, ooooh, I got myself a dizzy, not good, creepy feeling.  And start realizing that it’s dark and worrying, well, what if I just pass out?  And I can’t see right and everything’s blurry and the glares feel violent and terrible and omg, I can’t do this…and all of these frantic, familiar thoughts just flooded me.  So for no clear reason at all, except it sometimes was that way before, possibly as a result of the exact same genesis of nothing, and it was be awful.
So, lean in to the awful?
I don’t want to be on letter watch, but at the same time, I have to say…I have long made an art of anticipation, of limerence (though it is definitely different than a limerent situation this time, at least, thus far), of this sort of level of waiting for interaction.  It’s strange, with Mr. Rochester, I made whole feasts out of short conversations.  Short, intense, conversations about which I was the subject.  But he was “real” in that what endeared him to me was how I could see his foibles, his bone dry sarcasm and know that it came from a wounded place because…I could see him.  I could touch him, more or less.
If I’m failing now, I have no way to judge.  I can only find the waiting beautiful.
One of my old co-workers is retiring.  I am surprised, though I shouldn’t be.  I imagine that with the old boss gone and me gone, that a lot of the antics didn’t work as well anymore.  That’s a rough way of putting it, at least the way I mean it, and I’m sure that there were all sorts of reasons and pressures involved.  It’s the end of an era.  It’s a loss and a gain and I feel detached from it now.  Like, ah, well, someone else in that chair is fine because there’s someone else in my chair and it’s fine enough.

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