More Game of Thrones episodes are on the deck for tonight, I’m about halfway through season two. And hopefully, there will also be a quick trip to the grocery store. I am beginning to gag on my applesauce, so I guess some yogurt to mix it up would probably keep me taking it. Not sure that it’s impacting the actual problem, but the actual problem is not so onerous right now so I’m alright. Headache again, throat a bit raspy, have ideas about life betterment plans, zero will to do anything about anything. Not a great place to be.
What I want to get past is the little hiccup, the little zap, the tiny thrill that runs the length and breadth of me when I see the green flashing light on my phone as if it’s you and things are on track and the next day on the advent calendar can be punctured, its delight retrieved.
You get it, you get it, you work it over in your mind, commit to getting it, and then, a moment passes, and you are on the squarest of ones. Why is he really waiting? What is the real problem? What is the real, best, final answer when you don’t really know him from Adam, from axe murderers, from any other anyone who slowed to tell you your shoe was untied on the street?
It is such a blind bet. Put it all on red. Mr. Rochester, now the last blurry line on the eye test of my heart, could be applied to certain stereotypes. You could mine the vein of who he seemed to be for lifetimes. You could dance tangos, tarantellas, cha-chas with the might-be, could-be back and forth of him. You could convince yourself, as I’m sure many women did, that you were saving him from the Charybdis he was sailing towards and somehow, doing the same for yourself. Illusions. Effects. There wasn’t even a boat. Not even a body of water. But you could turn a fan on, let the shower run, flip your head back and forth until you got dizzy and disoriented, close your eyes and halfway get there with him captaining the vessel of your head.
This? I don’t know. It’s not fun to hope, really. It’s not mythic or heroic or a story I want to tell. I just feel awkward, in a waiting room for someone who may or may not show up. And thinking about it too much, I think, might lead to caring about it too much when I already know how this is more likely than not to resolve. Still, it’s right here, right at hand, so much easier to draw on when I’m sitting here at work.
I have less than fifty words to finish this up, and grocery store didn’t happen and great choices didn’t happen and letters didn’t happen and I am just not enjoying being in my own skin right now. Everything hurts and feels bad so I am off to deal with that.