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Tuesday, December 27, 2005
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i can't pretend to explain it.
Why can't I stop watching "Dog The Bounty Hunter"? And why is there a moth stalking me in my apartment? And why is guacamole so good? And why do the lyrics to "Save the Last Dance For Me" irritate me so much? And why am I so scared of Joan Rivers? And will I ever fall asleep early?
6:39:43 PM 
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please set your preferences.
I have long had a love for nearly navy, stiff-as-a-board blue jeans. They speak of first-day-of-school-rodeo-queen-Jordache-Wrangler-spiffed-up-go-to-town-for-dancing glamour -- a kind of glamour entirely recent and fresh and last-one-hundred-years. I love that the zippers stick and the butt feels like cardboard and the seams shine amber-fresh and the legs are so long you're mashing the hems with every second step. Some of you probably like your denim broken in, but I like it when the breaking-in is still on the horizon, as with new boyfriends.
We had an argument at work recently about how many scoops of coffee grounds one should put in the drip maker to effectively facilitate the water-bean-heat-magic alchemy process. My scoop amount was at least a third greater than the second-highest number expressed. Everyone winced and moaned and said that I was trying to make crude oil instead of java. But if I don't make a face when I take my first sip -- if my whole body doesn't try and pull away from the cup for a split second -- then the coffee is too weak. I hear your jokes about standing up a spoon in my dark and viscous brew. But if my joe makes cutlery stand proud and free, so be it. It does the same damn thing for me.
My iBook -- who I (just re-) named Jake today -- is a 12-inch. The size is ideal for me: it fits almost anywhere I put it and I can leave it sitting on my lap for an hour without my legs going numb. Those with less-perfect vision (which mine is) squint at the screen and call it a glorified PDA. I, however, relish the smallness of font and the adorable span of the adorable screen. I like small things, to be honest. I bought the iPod mini five days before the Nano came out and kept the Mini because it was called "Mini". I have a small phone and a collection of little tiny lipglosses and small eyeshadows and and small hands and miniscule toes and patience the size of a pea. Little, little, little. I do like some big things, but besides mountains, oceans, hair, book contracts, purses, men, and rings, I'm okay with keeping it on the tiny tip.
My taste in baubles is suspect. My own mother, who can usually call such matters of preference with admirable accuracy, is often confused by what I want to dangle from my ears or slip on my finger. One day, I'll like some gaudy thing dripping with rhinestones, and the very next day, I'll eschew glamour for ascetic silver hoops and bands. In the end, I like most things. Except for what I don't like. The first thing you need to know is that bracelets drive me bonkers. If it smacks on the keyboard, slips merrily off my hand without provocation (the curse of the small-pawed), or dangles like a windchime from my wrist, I am likely to leave it in the jewel box to sparkle in vain. And necklaces! Gah! Those wire-ring ones that look like manacles? No. Those delicate chains with quaint pendants? Nah! Those hemp or leather creations with nature remnants hanging perilously close to the collarbone? Nada! They are often lovely, especially on the swanlike throats of my friends, but I can't bring myself to hook one on. I am claustrophobic. Necklaces feel like decorative prisons. And those big chunky ones that are all the rage now, hanging halfway down the bosom like strings of kukui nuts (if that's not already what they are)? They slide immediately to the side and end up tucked in my armpit, which as we all know is where envelope purses and toddlers go, not giant beads. Verboten!
I like my time off to be unconstructed. Like today, where no particular plan is anchoring the events of the day. Even lists of things to do feel a bit opressive and cause me to procrastinate, which -- while habitual and normal for me -- is a source of low-level humming stress. Even as I sit right now in the coffee shop, sipping a cuppa and clickety-clicking on my laptop, I know that there are groceries to buy and a bathroom to clean and a house to tidy and dishes to do and things to organize and work to get done for tomorrow, not to mention making dinner and blogging and returning emails and phone calls and ahhhhhhhh... does anyone ever actually clear their mind or live in the moment anymore? I shall try to get it all done. But I might roll my eyes a couple of times, for good measure. Because I may not whine or avoid responsibility or shirk duty, but I reserve the right to make a face now and then. Making faces is one of my favourite things.
Yep.
2:51:42 PM
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running to stand still.This is a good place I'm in. This place in life, this moment, this rung on the ladder. And through no effort of my own, most of the time.
My life is not devoid of frustration or hurt by any stroke of the imagination, but there are limits to what I go through. At the end of the day, I have a family, I have a roof over my head, and I have a life rich with love.
All the things I long for and am working towards may seem out of reach at times, but they are extras, not basics. The icing, not the cake. What I possess is more than what most people know on a daily basis.
When I try and imagine the pain they experience, I find myself struck by the same thought, again and again: "Why have I received so much, when others receive so little?"
And I don't have an answer to that.
I just know that we often go through life swallowed up by our melancholy and loss without taking even a moment to realize what we do have.
Did you eat today? Millions didn't.
Did your family drive you nuts? Millions are completely alone.
Did you wish for a bigger house, a less lumpy bed, a better computer, a nicer anything? Millions go through life without anything but their bodies to call their own.
If that.
Sometimes I wonder when the bills will stop pinching, when I will find lasting and secure love with a partner, when I will know peace and rest on a consistent basis, and when I will achieve a level of health that isn't typified by a consistent state of so-so.
But I always know that things could be much, much worse. I need only turn on the news to confirm that reality.
I know that this is a difficult time of year for many people, for reasons both emotional and pyschological. I'm not telling you to ignore or belittle your own pain. But if you can, find a way to take what you do possess and share it with someone who doesn't even have the luxury of pondering their state.
Help them have a chance to be. Because that's a bigger deal than we usually realize.
Send money. Volunteer. Write a letter to someone in power. Donate something you no longer need -- or something you need that someone else needs more -- to an organization that will put it to use.
Grasp at every chance to share.
I know I need to do more.
I was walking down the alley behind my house tonight on the way to the grocery store, and suddenly I became aware that the worries of my week were piling up like crashed cars in my brain. They do that sometimes.
How would I manage this?
How would I pay for that?
How could I make that person happy?
How could I make that situation work?
And I didn't know the answers and my heart was racing and I felt so alone, standing in the dark, rain-slicked street, trying to put the pieces together. All I did know was that I had to stop this trajectory somehow.
So I paused for a moment to take stock of all the things that were good in my life right then. In a matter of seconds, I'd managed to shake off the reverie I'd blissfully been in for the past two days. And I wanted it back, so I made my list.
Money for food? Check.
iPod wailing merrily in my ear? Check.
Shoes on my feet? Check.
Key to my apartment? Check.
The knowledge that I am loved unconditionally, where love exists in my life? Check.
The knowledge that I can be an ungrateful brat at times? Ugh. Check.
Then I broke into a wobbly sprint, as though I were trying to outrun my own self-obsession all the way to a place where my heart could see something larger than my own reflection. After a few hundred feet, I started to laugh at how silly a notion that was, and how crazy I must have looked, barrelling down the alleyway.
When I stopped in behind another apartment building, an old man smoking on a balcony three floors overhead peered down at me -- doubled over, breathless -- and shook his head theatrically. So I called up to him.
"Merry Christmas!"
"That you, Santa Claus?"
"Nope, I haven't got a present to give you at all."
"Ah, well, nothing I need. A fine young thing wouldn't go amiss, but I seem to be out of luck."
At that, I laughed, and walked on, calling back, "It's a lovely evening, at least!"
"Easy for you to say!" he called back, with mock scorn.
It was.
It really was.
And that is blessing enough for me tonight.
2:47:26 AM
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© Copyright
2006
Meg Fowler.
Last update:
3/4/06; 2:31:17 PM. |
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