Somewhere in the middle of a day like today, I identify the life-lesson or life-reminder. I smile. Move on. And continue with the day.
On a day like today, my life has a story line: a beginning, middle, and end, you might say.
On a day like today, I can feel the earth spinning on its axis–and it’s not all that unpleasant. I can feel myself standing still–and it’s not all that unpleasant.
But, today, a day not unlike any other day of cognizance and self-awareness, I could not and did not identify the life lesson—and, oddly enough, I’m very okay with that. In fact, I like it.
I woke up to my alarm. I had unpacking and breakfasting to do before I made myself pretty for a day out.
My new roomie woke up in a slight panic because of her sick child, her sick self, and her desire to get out the door to the aquarium.
I have newly shorn hair. I can’t decide if I look like my 18 year-old-self or my 50 year-old-self. Either way, it stuck up at odd angles in bedhead fashion so I had to tackle it with mounds of putty.
I set off, irritated because the new love of my life, my gps, has gone temporarily missing in the move. It wasn’t until I mentioned this to my first appointment of the day that he pointed out the obvious irony: a lost gps. I simply admitted that I’d sat at my computer earlier in the day, staring at the google page, wondering whether it would help if I typed in “I can’t find my gps.” Would google come through and point the way? I didn’t give in to the pathetic urge to make google my savior, by I was sorely tempted.
My fist date was with Mr. Dad of Two. Not a “date” I should clarify. Just a catch-up cup ‘o tea. A “Hey, how are you since you disappeared and sometimes I think of you so I was just wondering” cup ‘o tea. It was nice. And then it got sweetly odd…because we walked out to our cars and he said he had something for me. He bought it last summer, when he read one of my posts, “and they match.”
They’re black. And lacy. And he admitted he’d never get to see them, but he wanted me to have them.
I blushed. And giggled. What a girl.
Alone in my car, I fought back a few tears. Neither said nor happy. Relieved, I think, upon introspection. Relieved that there are men in the world who enjoy giving random beautiful gifts. Just because they can.
And then the tears went away, and I moved on. And I felt us spinning on the axis, and I wondered where my gps is, and I drove on.
And I arrived at a local community center by way of a trail of purple and yellow balloons. A baby shower. A baby shower filled with cousins and little girls running about. Filled to the brim of lovely old ladies and pink bags of crocheted bonnets. And I wondered why I wasn’t jealous. Jealous because my shower was so small and my circle of friends is so small and my family is so small. Jealous because I dream of another child, and another, and another. A life full of many children that I will not have for many more years. But I wasn’t. Instead, I felt such a deep sense of pride and admiration that this young woman, my friend, would be surrounded by so many women who loved her and wished her well. How wonderful for her. How beautiful she is.
And then I drove home.
My roomies were back. And then they left to go out to dinner.
And then my last roomie came home.
The child of my heart.
And the rest of the day dissapeared in its disconnected connectedness. It didn’t matter. Lacy undies, purple balloons, floating gps, rumbly belly. It didn’t matter.
So we sat and colored.
And then we went to bed. And her kisses and cuddles have never felt so sweet.
