Choosing Door #3

Last night I found myself on autopilot, doing the things that were necessary to usher in a sense of peace that’s been absent for a few days. I took on my Shoe Personality of the Week and sought balance in another Grace Under Fire moment.

I’ve been in the process of a purging for a while now, managing to prolong it because I don’t like endings. I’m the kind of girl that has to deal with feelings of loss and mourning at the end of a good book. I never really want them to end. This is no book though, this is my life and some things MUST be. As I spoke to him on the phone, feeling like things were finally being put in order-the order I previously resisted-I realized I was making spaghetti for the 1st time in almost 2 years. It was his favorite. Perhaps I was cooking for our repast.

I expected to be filled with sadness. I’ve carried enough of that already. Instead, I felt light, much like the first time we shared an ending of a different sort. If I’d remembered that feeling, maybe this could’ve been avoided altogether. When you carry parts of someone’s heart and they carry parts of yours, it’s easy to forget the not-so-good things until they return to bite one more chunk out of you. I’m tired of being a buffet.

The concept is sadder than the reality. Self preservation is real and, thankfully, he understands that. We both care enough about my tomorrow to discontinue the affect this has been having on my today[s]. Really, my yesterdays were enough, but he selfishly whizzed by it almost as though it hadn’t happened. Reminders hid behind street corners and jumped out with a loud BOO from time to time. He managed to dodge these ghouls seemingly with skill. I've given them his address; they must take this elsewhere.

There will be better days ahead for him too, if he fights for them. He'll have to best these goblins in a street fight. I hope he got the gloves I sent. I hope he finds good management and is able to pull a good comeback out of this as well. He is worthy of his best. Many people are. Not so worried about me, but I hope he doesn’t fail them.

In the meantime, my smile is dug up. My spaghetti was hittin’ in his/our honor. And I’m excited to see what comes from this feeling of being a featherweight.

Watch me move [from a distance].