Of late, I’ve been in the throes of a crush and a throng of “what will he/they/you think” harpies has been talking in my ear at about the volume of an 11 on the Spinal Tap amp. A ticker tape of my thoughts yesterday might have looked something like this:
Let’s check facebook. Don’t you think it’s time to post a new status line? How about a line of poetry?
Maybe something from The Four Quartets. You love T S Eliot. How about this one: “Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, hidden excitedly, containing laughter. Go, go, go… human kind cannot bear very much reality.”
Mmmmm. That’s great. I love it.
Hmmmm, but what if he doesn’t?
You shouldn’t care what he thinks. C’mon, you love T S Eliot. It’s going up!
OK, OK. What about a new picture? I don’t like that one that’s up.
How about that one Lizi just sent where you’re holding Isabelli. It’s beautiful.
I look old.
You look 40.
That’s what I meant. I look old.
You are 40.
Hello, thank you very much.
C’mon. What are you going to do? Stop living because you are god-forbid-40? Let’s upload the pic already.
But it shows my sticky-outy tooth. Better not that pic.
Oh not the sticky outy tooth! Wouldn’t want a sticky outy tooth! It does not show that one anyway. That one’s on the bottom.
Oh, you’re right, but it shows the one that’s a bit narrower and crooked.
Hello! It’s a crown! It can’t help it.
Hello, shut up! Don’t tell!
Would you stop it already? What’s wrong with you! Why do you care so much what he thinks? You don’t even really know him!
No you don’t.
OK, I shouldn’t care what he thinks. I know I know. I hate that I care what people think. But I don’t want to be alone and I like him. He knows places I’ve been. He was there.
C’mon, can we just decide on a picture already? You look so happy in that one holding Isabelli. It’s a brilliant smile on both of you. Your eyes are sparkling.
Yeah, but it shows the wrinkles around my eyes.
That’s what happens when you smile.
But he’ll think I’m too old for him. You know he’s 2 or 3 years younger anyway.
Men want women with fresh eggs.
Oh get off it!
No really. If I came into this world with, what, two dozen is it? Then, um, we’re probably down to like, um, 3?
I read it somewhere.
How do you know he even cares?
Hello, it’s wired into men to care. The biology thing, you know.
Oh c’mon. People hook up all over the place. Even in nursing homes.
Don’t remind me.
About nursing homes. That’s the whole point. I don’t want to be old and alone. Don’t want to die alone.
Hey, look at the people in The Notebook. She had Alzheimer’s and died in the arms of the love-of-her-life.
Yeah, my point exactly: the love of her life. They met and connected when they were young and beautiful and on account of that would do anything for each other when they were old and incontinent.
Can we get back to the picture?
OK, the picture.
C’mon, this is the best one.
But it doesn’t show my body.
You want to?
Well no but I don’t want him to think I’m hiding my body. He’ll think I’m fat.
You aren’t fat! Get off it.
But he might think so if a lot of my pics are head shots. Plus the shirt’s too bright.
You love that shirt!
I know, but it’s too pink – he prefers dark.
What? So, let me get this. You are going to stop smiling to hide your sticky outy tooth and to look like you have no wrinkles and you are going to stop wearing pink because it’s too bright and you think he prefers dark?
All fevers break eventually. The temperature either comes down or, not to put too fine a point on it, the person dies. That’s the reality of it. My what-will-he-think fever broke last night. I lay in bed in the dark on a full moon hot night and had a thank-the-good-lord cry. A good cry sure does feel amazing when it finally comes, doesn’t it? A timely cry can beat an average orgasm hands-down. So anyway, I lay there and cried out to whatever is out there and that would be me: Me in Presence. Kind me. Me with a wide open lap and embracing arms. Me that is there at the end of every day. Me that I wake up with. Me that is there whenever I stop to notice and allow space for Me. And that, my friends is the Me that will be there if I make it to be old enough to have lost all memory, which would be a blessing anyway because then I wouldn’t be able to remember whose liking I ever cared about!
My fever has gone down. We’ve got a low-grade temp today. I posted “over and out” on my status line and here I am, telling on all my schemes. That is always the best thing to do with schemes, by the way, tell on them. And laugh. Laughing about the whole crazy saga of the mind always helps too.