Unlike my previous post, which I wrote the Wednesday after we returned from our trip, I wrote the following on the very day that it recounts, which means the style and tenses are nowhere even close to those of yesterday’s post.
Why did I not post it when I wrote it? I was afraid they’d be famous last words. You know, like when you say something like, “This day couldn’t get any worse,” and then you get a flat tire that leads to an outrageous cell phone bill and an overdrawn bank account. I didn’t want these to be my famous last words. That and the whole trip couldn’t possibly be real. It just couldn’t, so why tell everyone about it?
Here’s a terrifying glimpse into the way my mind works.
Wednesday, May 3
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. I’m just walking in circles. I mean literally, not figuratively. Or maybe I do mean figuratively, too. It is a rather apt thing to say right now. Unintentionally apt.”
And I was walking in circles—glass of ice water in my hand, pondering a future flight on an airplane to a amazingly luxurious spa in Texas that I could never in my wildest imagination even think to afford to set foot in to meet an author that I had never read a word of until just an hour or two prior to that very moment—walking step-by-step, dining room to hallway to library to the living room back to the dining room around the dining table (still pulled out to ginormous proportions because I’ve either been too lazy to stow the butterfly leaf or too hopeful that I’ll one day take some sort of earth shatteringly good photo of some overly scrumptious food that will perhaps land on the cover of a magazine because I’m just that talented—bwa-ha-ha; read deluded instead of talented—but I need good light on a pulled out table to take that photo, so why make more work for myself?) and back to the hallway on my way to the library.
How’s that for a sentence? Did you follow it? Have you made it through the weeds?
Yeah, neither have I.
My brain is simply feeling a bit like not enough butter scraped over too much burnt toast, you know? I just saved this bit of writing to my documents folder and I had to stop and think really hard about what today’s date is. And I still think perhaps I got it wrong.
I’ve always—okay, maybe not always, but at least for the portion of my adult life that I can remember (the fact that I can’t remember what today’s date is notwithstanding)—believed that everything happens for a reason. You meet the people you’re supposed to meet, getting multiple opportunities to meet them. How many times have we spoken to people who never in our wildest imaginations we would have stopped to think knew each other, but it turns out that they do? It’s like something or someone in the great big Universe is saying, “You’re supposed to know these specific people.” Or it could just be probability. But, you see, the English person in me says Bah to probability. Probability needs to leave me and my romantic notions alone. Because…because there has to be a purpose. There has to be a reason.
I’ve never been the kind of person that can just go for something. Just do something because it’s there or because I want to or just…just because.
But that isn’t true either.
Everything great that I have ever done in my life I have done because I simply stepped out there and did it. Carpe diem and all that jazz.
(Okay, a side note: I freaking hate the green grammar lines. Yes, Word, I am fully aware of the fact that I am a sentence fragment freak. That is all. For now.)
Friends, school, husband, kids, even my career (the one that’s on indefinite hiatus). Everything that was wonderful and good was a direct result of stepping outside of my comfort zone just once each time.
Yet here I am walking rapidly in circles…literally and figuratively.
You know what happened last time I literally walked around my home in circles in a way only fit for the Indy 500? I broke my toe (and I still think I broke my foot, too). Seriously. I raced around my living room and dining room (back when we lived in the town house and I had less room to roam) while on the phone with my OBGYN when I was almost eight months pregnant. In a hormone induced tizzy, I raced myself right into the vacuum cleaner and a broken toe. Mother Fletcher.
I am afraid that I’m going to kick my mental vacuum cleaner. No telling what I’ll break if I do that.
I have this terrible habit of worrying things to death. This is at complete odds with all evidence to the contrary—the evidence that says everything wonderful in my life happened when I jumped into that deep end with both feet without worrying too much over it all.
And so many of these thoughts flowed through my brain in the few moments it took for that absurdly apt statement to pass from my lips. Looking at my bemusedly amused husband who knows me so well—knows me to my very core, every expression, every statement, every tic—I stopped walking in circles, literally.
And it occurs to me as I type this, sifting though those thoughts that came rushing at me earlier this evening, it’s time to stop walking in circles figuratively as well.
Everything happens for a reason. Even if that reason is that the Universe is trying to find a way to tell you, Relax. You’ve got this, and you’re not alone.
I am going to relax. I’ve got this. And I’m not alone.