Procrastination

Went to home group tonight. 4th Step, ugh. Been dreading this. Sort of did one last year, shared at a speaker meeting, felt like a 5th. But now it's really really time.

Get home, walk in, want to shower, write a little while it's still fresh, sleep. Roommate says, "hey we mopped the house." I say, "yay, thanks, it smells good." He says, "every room but yours so go ahead and use the mop water." Annoyance and resentment flashed across the inner frame of my mind. The whole, "Clean your room!" thing, ugh. My inner teenager is screaming, "You're not the boss of me!"

Shower, pout.

Get out and look at my room. I'd never really organized it when I moved in. Crap sticking out here, a couple unpacked boxes there, etc. Started sweeping, going for the corners, under the bed.

Holy crap.

My room is my life.

All this junk I haven't wanted to deal with. Got serious and determined to do it correctly. Dadgummit, it's time to clean my room and it's time to clean my life.

Stupid metaphor, pointing out how childish I am and how afraid I've been to really deal with my stuff. But the floor is shiny, winter clothes are stored away, and I'm ready to sit down and do the rest the Big Book way.

The Song

It's a funny thing about having Artist's Disease
- my momentary obsessions view like a movie that quickly fades to black.
The credits roll and I don't recognize any of the names.
The film score is familiar,
I know every crescendo and resolution,
but it's as if I'd heard it before in a dream or with different ears.
The melody becomes more important than the message,
which simply doesn't make sense any more.
I can blame it on that song.

Queen Can Sing

You look at Queen Latifah and you don't expect for her to sing as well as she does.

Beauty comes from the least expected sources sometimes. My new roommate, Ouida, is a BRILLIANT artist. She told me about a contest she entered in high school: the objective was to draw the most beautiful thing imaginable. Of course there were butterflies and birds and blablabla. Ouida decided to draw a life-sized warthog. A warthog. It was ugly but so well done she won. The most authentic was judged to be the most beautiful.

I don't know.

I'm definitely not comparing Queen Latifah to a warthog.

Life is too short to go to bed thinking you chose the wrong ice cream flavor.

Dang it.

Post Just to Post

I have no reason to write.
I could sit here all night.
Valentine's Day?
I have nothing to say.
No profound observation,
Just making conversation.


Did a game this morning, got a good run in. I get to see my daddy tomorrow. It's raining outside. I just cooked dinner for my roommates, they were complimentary as always.

Life in general is happening. Things are much more calm than they've been in the past.

And I'm glad.

When Ambien and Peanut Butter Collide...

You get up and run three miles in the freezing cold.

Nothing

My heart palpitates.
It's hard to breath.
Shoulders feel heavy.
Fight or flight response activated.

But this fountain doesn't care.
The clouds shrug and turn away.
The wind still slithers through the leaves of the trees.
Cars race past, occupied by other lives, headed to other destinations.

The worry builds up in my head,
like the lid of a boiling pot of rice.
It's going to bubble over any second.
Any second now.

Then I think:
In a week, this will be
nothing.

This too shall pass.
It always works out.
God is in control.
God is in control.

My heart will keep beating.
My lungs will expand and contract.
My burden will be lifted
and I'll realize there is nothing to confront or flee from.

This fountain doesn't care.
The clouds shrug, wind blows, cars pass.

I am not the only one.
Something,
Everything,
can become
Nothing.
Or was all along.

This too shall pass.
It always works out.
God is in control.
God is in control.

What Is All This?

What is all this? I wake up and rub my eyes and can't help but notice the floaters in the corners. Ya know, floaters, they look like amebas when you look up into the blue sky and see them run down your line of site. This eye-rubbing feels good, until I realize that I'm raising my eyebrows to really get into it, and this means I'm wrinkling my forehead. Rats. A few years ago I was sitting in a chair at the Bobby Brown counter at Saks and the girl applying my powder and lipstick said I was too young to have such pronounced wrinkles in my forehead and told me to quit raising my eyebrows. I decided to love myself enough to accept my wrinkly forehead.

Did I mention the gray hairs? I have at least two gray hairs on my head. They are short so relatively new, and I'd be willing to bet I know where they came from. I had a friend who started getting them in college and would systematically seek and destroy these tail-tale signs of aging. She had gorgeous, thick healthy hair and I thought the little gray strands here and there added character and were just beautiful. But what did I know until it started happening to me?

Yes, I am now one of those women who is disturbed by the aging process.