Sunnybrook Farm

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I am at work.  Wasn’t sure if I’d make it today, but I think it might kick me in the butt not to sort of show some work ethic, gumption and initiative. Even if those very words are exhausting me just to think of right now.  There’s always something that happens that you’re out of the loop on, that you’d rather have been the person to deal with rather than hear about it second or third-hand later.
Besides, it’s just that dang sore, screamingly sore throat and a hot head.  Nothing I can’t ignore with some tea and eventually some lozenges.  So, I’m trying to be gentle with myself, but still, I don’t know, driven?
The power of positive thinking.  My leg ain’t broken, I can mend this or at least wait it out.
So, I’m trying to read Daring Greatly…not that it’s above my reading level, but because I find it so difficult to cobble together the ability to focus lately and I’m thinking about vulnerability again…more.
In trying to take some of those lessons to heart, and because I was so irritated by my own nonchalance (it’s dictated by fear of that very vulnerability, of course, but it’s still annoying all on its own), I emailed out of turn last night.  Well, I wasn’t sure if maybe he thought my pithy little empathetic response was enough after he wrote this big, human letter and that’s the thing about being disembodied, there is no word or phrase for the subtle motion that we as humans know to make to express facially that says yes, I’m trying to offer solace and a laugh in the light of this negative thing, but do go on.  Except, of course, the literal words, and if we start using words literally, we sap the world of all its fun.
At any rate, it had been a week, I think, and I sort of felt, inanely, as I’ve talked about (we are walking straight down the Rue de Vulnerabilite right now) a lot recently, that these gaps =  he doesn’t want to write to me anymore.  He’s got ex-girlfriend stuff, he’s got stuff and whatever ridiculous character I’m playing at in our conversations (even if I’m trying so hard to be as human and free of papier mache corrections and excess gilding) is not compelling enough to continue…
But then I remember, nobody’s ever said stop or let’s cool it or I’m going off the grid for a while, I just jump to that possibility because my self-esteem, my Mildred, wants this to stop.  Because it’s freaking she and I out. Quietly, all just within this teacup, but it’s enough that she wants to pull the old disappearing rabbit act and she’ll lean against the doorframe of my mind and sigh, You know, if he actually wanted to talk to you, he would.  And this chasing after him just makes you look desperate.
But what does Mildred know?  She’s only ever been discomfited, never desperate, because she’s nearly always won.
And she might win this time, too, but it won’t be by anything other than default, not from my own inaction, but because it is out of my hands.  So this email may die on the rocky shoals, but it’s out there, capering about, breathing the free air for now.

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