I am in a waiting game with so many things in my life.
Work, we’re definitely waiting on a few things to happen, a few promises to be kept, so that we can keep a few of our own. It’s stressful. It’s unpleasant and I think I’m acting out, so to speak, by focusing on ways I can pacify my worries. Essentially, I’m doing my own version of packing my head in ice. Ice won’t last at the moment, anyway. You’d dunk your head and find bathwater after a few minutes of this summer heat. So instead, it’s food, it’s video games, it’s youtube self-help videos that make you feel something until you watch fifty of them in a row.
Obviously, the most expected and conventional phone I’m abeyante by has not yet rung. Or chirped. But I think the thing with Mr. Confusion is that I will always be confused by him and I have to say, I did an admirable job today trying not to pick at my memories and work out all of the resolutions to every possible path that might come up as a result of this single, remarkable but not flawless date. I kept doing the Oprah trick that all of those self-help videos have embalmed me with: I surrendered it to the universe. I don’t think the universe leaned back and thanked me for it, but the universe is going to have my confusion if it sends me such a soul as Mr. Confusion. Of course, she did that and got the thing she wanted most: her role on the Color Purple. I, perhaps, am not surrendering it whole and entire for fear that my want would be plopped in my lap. I suspect, though, that nothing happens because of my inherent ambivalence. I want him in the most ideal, unobtrusive, teaspooned-out fashion. Or I don’t want him at all and I want that not to mean than I’m shying away from some definitive and formative life experience. I suspect that the universe has no idea where to go with that.
As for the rest, waiting for Fred soon enough. Waiting for my sense of sensibility to return. Waiting for the trip to Salida where I will regret all of the food choices I’ve made and my refusal to exercise and where I’ll wish fervently I gave a damn now, now in the precisely perfect damn-giving time. Waiting for some prideful energy to rise up and say you deserve better, your health is on the line, waiting for a time when I am willing to sit with those awful feelings I have about my body and renegotiate something. Beyond any of that, though, I am just waiting for me to clue in that I don’t get to drop back or out anymore. I have to do real shit. All the time. Even if I don’t like it.
Tomorrow, dentist. Driving there, disturbing the peace of my apathy, having some new hygienist force her fingers around in there and tell me it’s bad. That’s exciting.