Flash Fiction - Fortune Cookie

Gloria smoothed her hair down, the one brown wispy strand that always escaped from behind her ear, and laughed nervously to herself. She wanted this date to go well. How nice it would be, she thought as she locked eyes with her handsome lab partner, if this was the last first date she ever went on. Daniel had asked her to grab a bite after they'd finished class and she'd quickly texted her roommate she'd have to cancel their dinner plans because LAB PARTNER had finally asked her out. "Yesssss, girl, show him what chemistry really is," Lisa had replied. She and Lisa had been friends since freshman year and now lived with each other off campus as grad students. Gloria grinned and accompanied Daniel out of the classroom and into the fresh air where they'd soon stumbled upon a Chinese restaurant she'd always wanted to try.

Daniel glanced at her and smiled. "I'm really glad you're here with me right now." His voice was gravelly. She liked it. He sounded like metal and rain. She gazed at his almost black eyes and somehow managed to keep herself from running her hands through his moppy brown hair.  She smiled back at him. "I'm glad I'm here too. The lo mein is supposed to be great," she teased.

Gloria picked up a menu and thought about the last time she'd had Chinese food. She'd been with her Dad, eating at his favorite joint, China Gate. He loved the Sesame Beef and Kungpao chicken and General Tsos. He'd talked about his college days with mischief in his eyes. She had a feeling he'd smoked a lot of pot. 

A waitress stopped by to greet them and took Daniel in with wide eyes. A pang of jealousy rippled through Gloria's veins, but she also appreciated that another woman was appreciating her date. He really was gorgeous. And smart. And it seemed like he was nervous too.

"Our restaurant has a tradition, be right back," announced the waitress, her long black hair whipping across her back. She traveled to the back of the kitchen and returned swiftly, two fortune cookies on two trays. She delicately put a tray in front of Daniel. And then she met eyes with Gloria and without breaking contact, slowly pushed the other tray towards her. "I''ll be back to take your order in just a few minutes." 

How odd, thought Gloria. Fortune cookies first. She'd never been to a Chinese restaurant that served fortune cookies first. They were always for the end of the meal. A pocket of joy to take with you, a message you could laugh about with your friends and try to decipher. She even had a fortune cookie message or two she'd saved because the slip of paper had been the bearer of good news or an exciting prophecy.

"You first," Gloria pressed Daniel. He smiled and cracked open the cookie, taking it out of the plastic bag. 

"You will be invited to a party," he winked at her. "Lucky me, huh?" 

Gloria giggled. "Who knows, maybe you will," she responded flirtily.

"Now you," Daniel sat back and Gloria watched the outline of his lips, plump and rosy.

"Okay, okay. On it." Gloria took the fortune cookie out of the bag and cracked it against the table. She slowly picked up the paper and silently read her message.  Her large blue eyes widened. She looked up at Daniel. And then all around her. Her body went ice cold

"Whats it say, Gloria?" asked Daniel.

She hesitated.

"Ahhh, you know, I think I'm gonna keep this one to myself for now." Gloria laughed nervously again and gingerly placed the message in her purse.

"No fair!" Daniel shook his head at her, as he picked up his menu and began perusing the items.

Gloria carefully picked up her menu and tried her best to read it, but she could not get the fortune out of her head. Though the slip of paper was now out of sight, all Gloria could see were the words "You are in danger."

Hello...

Sometimes I see my cat, Camille, moving her head slowly, watching the walls and then the ceiling, tracing something invisible with her eyes in the deepest of focus, and I wonder if you're there. If she can see you. 

I used to see her do that at an old apartment. 

You were still alive then. 

Camille had sat down next to Lola, my old roommate's cat, and they'd both started watching something at the same time. Their heads had moved up and down and sideways and I'd called my roommate into the living room because I'd gotten scared. We'd both watched them watching something we couldn't see and were FREAKED OUT.

Had they seen a ghost? Maybe. 

But it's different now. 

It's my own place now. A studio. And you're gone now. And Lola is gone, too. You remember how devastated I'd been. She died in my arms of sudden heart failure. My vet, Dr. Hudson, called it hypertrophic cardiomyapathy. I'd never felt a living thing die in my arms before. I still remember the feeling of her going completely limp. My finding her, poor sweet girl, behind my couch and me picking her up in my arms and calling out her name. "Lola!" "Lola!" 

Is that how your family found you? Did they cry out your name? "Kasey, Kasey!" 

I still don't know how you did it. I don't want to know. I know I could find out if I wanted. But I want my last memory of you to be the memory of us hugging goodbye at the Gala you organized. 

I was wearing a peach dress and you were in red lipstick and a black lace dress. And I was so goddamn proud of you. So proud, Kase. I was always proud of you. Did you know how much? 

When I sometimes see Camille stop and watch something, I don't get scared anymore. I wonder if it's you. And I hope that maybe you're checking in on us, letting me know you're here and close by. Hiding my stuff and laughing at me watching the wall. And sometimes I talk to you. But you know that.

Cami is sitting by the front door right now. Looking out. And maybe she's just being a cat. 

But maybe...

.....Hello. 

The One Who Got Away

Ella thought of her friend the other day--the one she had promised to marry when they both turned 30 if they hadn't found the love of their lives yet. They had never dated, only thought of each other fondly and had known each other since middle school. Ella can remember jogging by his house in high school and playing basketball in his driveway. She remembers performing in plays and laughing and being young.

She remembers going to to same University. She remembers trading dating stories year after year. She remembers the flirtatious flicker of AOL instant messages across campus dorms.

Ella remembers the one night he kissed her. And she'd stayed at his dorm overnight in the most innocent of fashions. They'd slept in an embrace and he'd wondered aloud why they'd never done this before.

And Ella remembers her confusion and telling her dear childhood friend that they couldn't date. She saw the quick change in his eyes, the disappointment, but he said they'd always be friends in some capacity. And they were.

They'd get coffee after college ended--the year she moved home after traveling abroad. Their college kiss was long in the past, their friendship renewed. It was a strong bond that always felt like family, like a close friend who was your blanket, a friend who could always keep you warm and cozy and safe. They both moved to Chicago around the same time and would catch up once in awhile. He even drove a few of Ella's boxes still in her Michigan home up to her apartment when he did a road trip back to the suburb where they'd grown up within walking distance of each other. They'd met up a few times in Chicago, and then he moved to DC. Suddenly. For work. And just like that, he was gone.

Fast forward to 30 and 31 and 32, and neither one has married. They remind each other jokingly of the pact they made. At one point, Ella and her dear friend are both randomly back in Michigan at the same time over the holidays. He picks her up and they go to a Chinese restaurant where the owner knows him and his Mother well. He is greeted warmly as though he is family. Ella recognizes how lovely it feels to see him again after all this time. He is dear as always. He is dashing as always. He is her friend as always. But there's something different there this time and when they hug goodbye in her driveway in his car, there is a lingering moment where she thinks it would feel so natural to kiss him again, much like the kiss they both remember from a decade ago. She knows he can feel it too.

But Ella was someone else's girl. So they hugged and parted. And he drove away.

She didn't think too much about her friend in the months immediately following, as drama with her boyfriend was heating up, drama with her own health was imminent, drama with her father's health was horrid at best, and her life all around had turned upside down. That spring, over Mother's Day weekend, Ella visited her brother who lived in DC with her whole family. And Ella and her old friend made plans to get coffee on Mother's Day morning right before she went off to brunch with her family.

It was wonderful, as always, to see him. "You look beautiful," he'd told her, even though she knew she looked weary and creased from stress and worry and a broken heart. Ella and her boyfriend had ended things two months earlier, a break up that had shattered her heart and soul. Her father was ailing. And she, herself, was not doing much better. But Ella's friend defended his statement after she'd told him she looked horrible. "Maybe a little tired, a little sad, but still beautiful." Ella smiled. She always did love the way he could compliment her and make her feel like the most important and beautiful person in the room. Even though in high school he had teased her and she very vividly remembered him saying, "A moment on the lips, forever on the hips," when she had told him about eating Thai food and pizza two nights in a row. She had stabbed him with a blunt pencil in the auditorium. But teasing aside, he still got her. He understood her in a way no one else could. He found her fascinating in a way that no one else did. And he loved her. They loved each other.

And then he told Ella about his new love.

It took her aback. She had half expected him to flirt with her--try once more, jokingly, to get her to date him--but instead, he told Ella about the exotic South African woman he had met unexpectedly. Their relationship was going strong, and... he looked happy. Happier than she'd ever remembered. And though she was thrown off, she was happy for him. He deserved happiness and love. This man, whom everyone loved, strangely, was very much a loner. For having been everyone's friend, he himself had very few "friends." He was loved by all but spent much of his time alone.

Ella's heart jumped for a moment at the news. But she was happy to see him happy.

Even though it stung a bit.

They talked until she had to head over to meet her family and he drove her over to The Mayflower Hotel where she was getting Mother's Day brunch. They hugged goodbye in his car. It was the last time she would see him.

She remembers texting him a year or so later, maybe a year and a half, wondering if he and the girl were still together.

They were engaged.

And Ella cried.

Ella cried on her bathroom floor. Partially because her dear friend with whom she had made this pact so long ago no longer needed their pact; and partially because she realized her dear friend was no longer within her grasp even though she had never truly reached for him. And though this fact burned at her skin, she realized she was mostly crying because it represented her static nature. The world around her had kept moving and her exes were all married or getting married and people kept growing and loving and her friends were all finding their way and their partners... and Ella remained alone. Even though she was dating someone at the time, casually, she still cried. Because her friend was not hers anymore.

He belonged to someone else.

She told him that she was happy for him but she didn't realize she'd be so upset. And like the star he was, he'd flowered her with compliments and love and all of the beautiful things that make a person feel like they are captivating and talented and amazing. He wasn't hers at all, and yet, he still made it his mission to cheer her up and make her feel exceptional.

They texted here and there over the next year, and once, he even told her that "she was the one who got away." That his fiance would just have to understand if he came to Ella because it had been a fantasy of his since high school. Ella made a light-hearted joke back, not knowing if he was being playful or truthful. She let the comment go. In her younger years she might have considered the type of alluring response which other women hold in contempt, but she no longer had the room in her soul or desire to revisit that younger version of herself. She was no longer a woman who would humor any type of indiscretion, for Ella was sure she had paid Karma's toll with enduring other's indiscretions toward her. She would never again tread lightly on such sacred ground. Especially since everyone was now older and more broken, and hearts had been through so much already.

A year or so went by since Ella learned of his engagement. He was no longer on social media, no longer trackable, no longer visible. So she texted him out of the blue one day, quite randomly, asking if he was married yet.

There was no response for a very long time.

So she Googled him.

And there was his internet wedding profile on theknot.com.

And Ella's dear friend was, indeed, still getting married.

The next day.

At the Mayflower Hotel.

She was in shock. At her desk at work, her heart stopped and her head spun. Despite the fact that she currently had a boyfriend she'd been dating for quite some time and had very deep feelings for, she still had a non-sensical "My Best Friend's Wedding" moment and envisioned stopping him a la' Julia-Roberts-style-backstabbing-Cameron-Diaz, telling him that she'd realized too late what his presence in his life had meant to her. Ella's heart crackled. And for all the feelings that were present in that moment, she simultaneously felt numb. Her heart was numb and frozen by this news. It was as if a clock had been ticking and all of a sudden came to a complete stop, only to start ticking again 60 seconds later, minutes lost off its heartbeat.

His pictures looked beautiful. He looked in love. His fiance looked in love. And she wanted that for him--had always wanted his happiness. Despite Ella's initial sadness, she was truly happy for him. They were a gorgeous couple. And Ella knew that his soon-to-be-wife, his wife in a little more than 24 hours, would always be treated like a princess. His princess.

She sat quietly as decades of memories washed over her.

And then she sent him a text wishing him and his fiance all the happiness in the world and that she hoped they would have a beautiful day. That she missed him and was proud of him.

And her dear friend responded and said her words meant the world to him.

She read this response and her heart laid down to breathe.

What else was she supposed to do? She would never play with heartstrings the night before someone's wedding. And she would never want someone to do that to her. And they weren't her heartstrings to strum anyway. They belonged to someone else who deserved them. His wife's hands would lovingly play the music on his heart in a way that Ella never knew how, in a way that she never knew she wanted to learn until it was too late.

But perhaps that is life.

People live and keep living and take moments for granted and sometimes realize things too late. And who is to say that Ella's blistered heart is anything more than 'wanting what you can't have,' or that Ella's mind simply feels wistful for a rendering of a relationship that never was, an imagining of a love that never will be.

All Ella knows is that this life chapter has finally been written. It is a sweeping saga that has come to an end...and much like the words in a never-ending novel that have always been there her, she is both grateful and saddened now the last page has been turned.

...They are married now.

And Ella hopes more than anything that her friend is full of joy and love and light. She hopes the day was beautiful. She hopes he will always be happy. She hopes her dear friend will have the life that he deserves.

And Ella's sweet childhood schoolmate, her neighbor, the one she always knew she loved but never knew she wanted, will always be the one who got away.

xx

Advice to My Younger Self

I think I’d tell myself to stop worrying so much. To trust myself more. To keep my heart open but to keep my individuality at all costs. I’d tell myself that in ten years I would still have questions. I’d remind myself to truly live life while living it. Do not waste time being angry. Hold fewer grudges. Forgive more often. Keep moving. Drink more water. Take more chances because you will always fail at whatever you don’t try. I’d tell myself to have more dance parties and to give more hugs. I’d tell myself to ask for what I want. I’d tell myself that I deserve more than I think I do. I’d tell myself I was prettier than I thought I was. I’d tell myself that low-fat was just a craze. I’d tell myself that auto-pay would keep my debt on track.  I'd tell myself to pay more attention to coincidences, because nothing is a coincidence. I’d tell myself to stay strong. I'd tell myself to meditate and do yoga and believe in messages and that I can have everything.

On Being Invincible.

On Being Invincible.

It is not overnight that one becomes invincible.

It is after the war.

It is after you have been terrorized by your own dreams and made a prisoner by your own devices.
It is after surfacing the river from which you've been submerged.

Submerged by your own hands.
By others' hands. By the land.
By the night.
By your own bones.

Sometimes we betray ourselves.
Sometimes we save ourselves.

And it is only after we have fought ourselves and won that we are invincible.

When you've died and come back to life several times, when each blow ravages you more than you know...you come to learn that with every return....you are invincible.

And the strangers will shake you and your loved ones may rake you and your own heart forsakes you.

And you punch the air, grimacing, strangling the strange sensations from which your incarnation tempts fate and celebrates that
you
are
still
here.

Then you will be invincible.

Empire-Waisted and Preggers

Janie feels a tap on her finger.

She is holding onto the pole on the bus, making her way home from work. A kind-looking older black man with crinkles near his eyes looks up at her. "Would you like to sit down? You're pregnant right?" Janie isn't even sure she heard him right, she just shakes her head, "No, thank you, I'm fine."

She is stunned. She wants to scream at him and retort back, "I AM NOT PREGNANT, FUCKER." But she also doesn't want to attract attention to her sodium-enhanced tummy that looks larger than normal because she is wearing an empire-waisted dress that moments before she had thought looked lovely but at present moment she now silently vows to never wear again.

In fact, she will burn this dress. She will throw out every empire-cut piece of apparel she owns.

She was fit, wasn't she? Wasn't she? Janie vows to stop eating all carbohydrates starting today.

She saw Alyssa Milano on TV the other day.

Alyssa Milano looks old.

Much like a Milano cookie, she is still sweet but slowly crumbling as though she has been sitting in a cup of milk for too long. And this makes Janie feel old. Makes her feel like she will soon look old, too.

Like a soggy cookie.

Alyssa Milano was every boy's dream back in the 80s. And now she is in her 40s. Which means Janie will also one day look like that. Sooner than she wants.

Janie looks out the window and contemplates her own appearance. She is wearing a powder foundation that is a shade too dark for her skin but she did not realize until it was already applied and she was under the work lights. Her hair is frizzy and her eyes tired. There is an enormous purple bruise on her left arm the size of an obese hamster she got from making out in the shower and playfully getting pushed against the tiles the day before.

Janie realizes she must look like a battered pregnant woman on the bus.

Janie doesn't know how this happened.

Fuck empire-waisted dresses.

Fuck salt.

An overweight woman in the seat across from her looks Janie in the eyes. Janie can feel her thoughts, "Yeah, girl, sucks to have people think you're pregnant when you're not." The woman's eyes burn through Janie's soul and newfound maternity gear.

The crinkly-eyed older man gets off the bus and Janie sits down, confused and embarrassed.

Well. Pregnant women with bruises and no wedding rings should sit, goddammit, she thinks to herself.

It starts to rain and Janie decides she will eat a large bowl of rice tonight and watch the Bachelorette because she likes torture.

Six Minute Writing Exercise

Write for 6 minutes and don't stop. See what happens. Here's my (edited) 6:

**

Lazily strumming her guitar, Layla sprawled out upon the grass, grinning to herself. She looked up at the sky, noticing a cloud shaped like a giraffe, and she brushed her long jet-black hair out of her eyes. The sun beat down on her back and she ran her fingers through the lush grass, laying her guitar to her side and letting herself sink into the soft ground.

In the distance she heard whistling and she knew it was her sister, Maribelle, playing in the open field, a kite flying high above her head. Maribelle also had dark black hair and looked like a miniature version of her older sister. She tried her hardest to play guitar like Layla, but her 5-year-old fingers would not cooperate.

"Fly with me!" Maribelle cried out.

"Mari, go play for a bit, I'll be right there, sweetie," Layla had told her little sister fifteen minutes earlier.

Layla let her eyes fall shut. 

But when she opened her eyes and called out for Maribelle, she found no one.

Maribelle was not in the field, only her kite was left, the string spilling across the grass as it fell from the sky.

****

Obituary Searching

Tess searched for the obituary.

She typed in the name, checking on this woman she had never met but felt like she knew.

Incredibly morbid, yes. But a morbid curiosity to know the stranger's fate propelled Tess forward. She had only heard stories about the woman before, but having been effected by her existence, Tess felt that knowing the woman's fate was somehow very important.

You see, she cannot ask if the woman has died.

She can only wonder.

It wasn't hard to find out who she was, Tess had known early on who she was. And she had wanted her to live but sometimes she wished she'd go away and sometimes she wished she could just ask her questions.

But Tess knew the woman had red lips. Like her. And curls. Like her.

And Tess wants to know how the story ends.

She wants to know the rest of the stranger's story. She wants to know if the woman is at peace or if she fought and healed herself and healed her torched relationships and survived against all odds and experienced a miracle.

But she cannot ask. She can only wonder.

There is no obituary.

And though Tess supposes she won't ever meet the woman, nor does she think she'd ever want to, she hopes the woman has kept fighting.

Don't Backstep

Don't think on the past think on the future.

Don't look behind you look in front of you.

Don't worry about what you don't have be grateful for what you do have.

Know that there is a mystery greater than yourself that will unfold in time.

Keep faith that you are on the right path and that all is coming.

Be aware of what you need and don't settle for less.

The Universe is doing its job and you are listening to its messages.

Post Race Breakdown: Part 2: RACE DAY: The Good, the Bad, the Ugly. And Boy, did it get Ugly.

Flares rattled my body the week before the Tri. I was consumed with worry and stress and a sore throat which made me so tired I could barely imagine covering 32 miles in a few days. But with an emergency acupuncture appointment and the love and energy of my friends and family, I felt better by the big day and was able to get through the flare without destroying my body. I went to the Tri Expo, wide-eyed and horrified and excited the day before and bought more things I didn't realize I needed-- I bought Suit Juice, a compact towel, an emergency tire repair kit that I did not know how to use and I prayed to the Flat-Tire-Gods that I would not get a flat tire, because let's face it, I had no idea what it was I just bought.

Can you see the wide-eyed excitement/panic?

I sat on the living room floor of my apartment, a sea of gear and nutrition and expo pamphlets surrounding me, not knowing what to do first. I decided to start with putting on my temporary number tattoos. I peeled off the number stickers on placed them on my bike, on my helmet, on my bags, I stuffed nutrition and water and gels into the zipper of my backpack, I checked and re-checked my gear, marveled that the big day had finally arrived, took sleep meds to calm my mind and somehow by the grace of the Universe, I managed to get six hours of uninterrupted restorative sleep.

I woke up and took a shower to loosen my morning stiffness, acknowledged that I didn't feel horrible, had two waffles with peanut butter and a banana (surely that is a triathlete's breakfast), took my vitamins and my green powder, and Kajal picked me up at 4am. We loaded up and took off. Timing wise we got to the transition area with about 30 minutes before it closed up. We needed to be out of transition by 5:45am. I set all of my things down, not knowing exactly how to set my gear up, but I did the best I could. I said a little prayer to the Transition Gods, and went on my way. I found Kajal waiting for me on the grass and we made our way to the Chicago Triathlon tent that was just setting up.

All I could think was, THREE HOURS.

I have THREE HOURS before I am set to start.

My Tri Mama, Kajal.

I was plagued by many things the day of the tri, but one of the worst curses was the fact that I was placed in the LAST wave of International triathletes. This meant that, yes, I had to wake up at 3 am, but I would not be competing until 9:20am. Three hours of nerves, three hours of watching other athletes start, three hours of saying goodbye to Kajal and the other CTCers as they made their way to the water,  three hours of the sun getting higher and brighter and peaking in the 90s, three hours of psyching myself out.








I finally started to get my wetsuit on around 9am and I walked purposefully down to the line that was forming for the 46th wave. While in line, I ran into my friend, Keely, whose husband had just finished the Sprint Distance. "How'd it go!!!???" I asked him. "Horrible!" he said. He looked proud he'd finished, but he was glad to be done. The swim had been hard for him. Keely snapped this pic of me as I waited to get in the water. Seeing them gave me a small burst of encouragement and the feeling that I could do this.

I'm about to jump in the lake!

Energy surged through me. I was so ready. I got my cap all set, I got my goggles ready. And I hopped in the water along with 150 or so other women between the ages of 31-34. We had 30 seconds or so to get used to the water, and then the officials shot the starter gun, and we were off!

The beginning was the best.

For that first half mile or so, I had calm strokes, I had even breathing, I was moving well.

And then everything started to unravel.

Unfortunately for me, the next wave after mine was the Relay. Relay teams have three different people to do each part of the tri, and the person who is strongest in a particular event takes that leg. We're talking swimmers who can do the mile in less than 20 minutes. All of a sudden, swimmers started taking over all the space around me. I had carved out a good position, but the fast relay swimmers swam around me, over me, in front of me, to the sides of me. WHERE DID THEY ALL COME FROM????? I thought, my brain not clicking right away that these were the relay swimmers.

My breathing started to become more shallow. The fast breaths dismantled my strokes and my heart started to pound. Instead of every four strokes like I had practiced, I breathed every two. I swallowed water and coughed up Lake Michigan.

And then my goggles fogged up.

But I had bought anti-fog goggles! What was happening!?

I stopped mid-stroke and took off my goggles, hoping I could unfog them. I put them back on and still was having trouble seeing. I didn't understand what was going on, but my heart and breathing were not cooperating with the one end goal of GET ME THE HELL OUT OF THIS WATER! I started to swim so  far right that I was straying off course towards one of the safety boats.

Well. I guess when you accidentally swim to a safety boat, you might as well use it. 

"Are you okay?" the volunteers asked me.
"Yeah..." I breathed.

This was not how I had envisioned my triumphant swim.

After about a minute of trying to calm down my exploding heart, I attempted freestyle again but it was no use. I resorted to back stroke, and then a minimalist back float, gliding on the water, catching my breath, alternating with a bit of freestyle whenever I felt I could manage. I could barely consider the fact that I was going outrageously slow--all I wanted was to get out of the water. I just wanted to get to that bike. I had not been concerned about the swim before the race at all. I had thought, "Well, yes, it will be slow, but I won't have any problems. Slow and steady."

I did not anticipate the nerves, the relay swimmers, the heart-rate, not being able to see, and back-floating my way to greatness. But this is how it was and all I could do was focus on getting out of the water.

I somehow managed to finish the swim with freestyle and got out of the water, breathing hard as I, at first, tried to run to transition, and then thought, "Hell No," and walked my way to a grassy area to pull off the rest of my wetsuit.

And I still couldn't see. It hit me that it had never been foggy goggles, I had lost my right contact.

Where was it!!!!? Was it in the water? Did it roll in back of my head? I rubbed my eyes, feeling around for a dislodged contact, but couldn't easily find anything without ripping open my pupils, so I figured:

"Well, my contact is either in the back of my eyeball or it's at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Guess I'm doing the rest of the Tri with one eye."

My vision is not horrendous but I do need my contacts in order to function. In an emergency I have used one contact, have even driven on the expressway with one contact (for 20 minutes), but have never engaged in 4 hours of physical activity with one contact.

And so it was.

I took my sweet-ass time in transition. Thirteen minutes to be exact. I ate half a Cliff bar. I dried off. I used the bathroom. I tried to slow down my breathing. And then I got my bike out and headed off onto Lakeshore Drive, doing my best to adjust to my new vision.

One of my biggest fears had been falling off my bike on the way up the ramp to Lakeshore-- that had been the biggest bike concern before the race had actually started (and possibly getting a flat). But now I was dealing with a different reality: my legs were gooey, my heart was still pounding, it was over 90 degrees by the time I had gotten out of the water, I had one contact that was messing up my speed and balance, and instead of the full water bottle I had prepped, I only had half a water bottle for 25 miles (the bottle I had brought had somehow gotten misplaced in Kajal's car that morning and I had been unable to locate another water bottle to set up in my bike).

Thing were not in my favor.

To add insult to injury, being the last wave of the race meant that I was very much racing solo. Not only was I the last wave, I was a SLOW athlete in the last wave with one contact and a wildly palpitating heart. That meant that all the other athletes in my wave had gone ahead of me and I was very much on my own, just hoping I was going the right way. At a certain point a string of athletes emerged from behind me and I felt a little less alone. They were on their second loop of the course and they zoomed by me with ease as I struggled to get to first turn around. By the time I finally did make it to the second loop, I was very much alone. That portion of the race was very surreal to me, as I rode my bike down Lakeshore Drive. Cars in a lane to the right of my zoomed by and I listened to the hum of motors as I focused on the road in front of me. At times I could barely maintain my emotion. Tears poked at my eyes as I realized how tired I was, but they also were tears of great pride and elation...

It occurred to me how very symbolic it was to have the road to myself.

This had always been a race with myself and no one else. There, on Lakeshore Drive, I raced myself. I raced my fear, I raced my doubt, I raced my confidence, I raced sadness, I raced my illness, I raced my heart. I challenged all of these things, and at one point, tears started streaming as I said out loud, "This is for you, Dad." I had just dedicated that moment of the bike ride to my Father. I started to ride for a greater meaning at that point. I started to ride for life. For existence. For the right to endure.

Cars kept driving past me in the lane to my right and I looked over at one of them and cried out "CHEER FOR ME!!!!!" It was a plea, it was a demand, it was a call to action. And the woman in the car looked surprised and a little shocked that this haggard athlete had just requested her support, but from her throat emerged this enthused "Whooooo!!!!!" As silly as it was, that little voice of encouragement helped push me forward, and in the distance I saw another biker who was also going slowly and I rode behind her and then next to her and then I called out in uniting agony, "We're doing it! We can do this!" She nodded at me and groaned her own personal story of pain and I rode in front of her, the one athlete I managed to pass on the course. I was dizzy with exhaustion and soft focus from my blurry eyes.

I started to sing to myself with what little breath I had left. I had 25 miles on this rickety blue bike, Merriweather, (I named my bike Merriweather when I bought her because she was old and curmudgeon-y and needed extra attention like the little Blue Fairy, Merryweather, in Sleeping Beauty) with very little water. I might have been starting to lose my mind a little, yelling at cars and singing and such. Whatever it takes, I thought. Just get through it. I came up to the end of the bike course, my emotion surging as I processed that I had just finished the second portion of the race. I half strolled, half ran back to the transition area, again taking my sweet time. I drank whatever water I had stashed in my gear to try to make up for the very dehydrating bike ride, and I put on the race belt with my number 7046 attached to it, very unsure how my run would go. I would probably be out in the sun for another hour and a half to two hours in what would be the most mentally and physically challenging part of this race for me.

It had always come down to the run. To the knee. To the last ounce of energy I had. Except I had nothing left. There was nothing left. I'm not sure I can properly convey how very little anything I had left in me. I had always been concerned on how a body with Fibromyalgia would respond to all of these events back to back, but now with the sun and the dehydration and the one contact and the bad knee, I had absolutely no energy. But this voice just kept telling me to find it, find something, find anything. And somehow, I found the fumes of determination and I kept going. I persevered. I pushed. I walked the first half mile trying to catch my breath, I stopped at every single water station, drinking as much as I could, dousing myself with water, sticking ice cubes in my hair. The sun was blazing. It was well over 91 degrees with no shade on the course.

And there was barely anybody left. The athletes who had started 3 hours before me, 2 hours before me, 1 hour before me---they had already made their way through this part of the course. The crowd was there for them. There was no one left for me. Every once in awhile in the beginning I would get a little cheer from people telling me to keep going, or a shout out from someone who recognized my Chicago Tri gear, "Chicago Tri Club!" they'd shout. But as I got further in, there was hardly anyone on the course. Even the volunteers were sparse at this point. There were regular joggers on the Lakeshore path at this point amongst the scattered leftover triathletes. I felt so sick I wasn't sure how I could possibly get through 6 miles. I started to run, a pathetic little jog, but I was surprised that the knee was holding up so I kept up with the scuffle. I hobbled up next to another man, one of the only people I'd seen on the run leg of the course, who looked to be struggling as I was. We acknowledged each other and jogged side by side for a minute, "I just want to finish this," he said suddenly. "Me too," I breathed. That's all I ever really wanted.

But fatigue overwhelmed me. I pulled back and stopped. "Come on, keep running," he called to me, half encouraging me,  half giving me a hard time. "I have to walk," I told him, and I watched him jog ahead of me and out of my view. I spent the next mile or two trying my hardest to keep going and I walked so very much of that time. I was again struck by how symbolic this was. It was an odd triathlon of my own, it all came down to mind over matter. Did I want this or did I not?  

...There is no one out there to make you finish this except yourself. There aren't crowds cheering for you. You need to cheer for yourself. You can do this. You will do this. This has always been your race. You've always been racing yourself. You've got this. And there is no way you aren't finishing this. You will crawl over that line if you have to but you will finish this...

I ran for a bit and then passed the Fire Station where the firemen had cracked open their water truck and were spraying all of Lakeshore path with a glorious burst of water to give the triathletes momentary refuge from the heat. I walked into the sweet water, the giving beautiful water, and let it drench me. It helped revive me from the sweltering sun. I looked to the firemen to my right and silently said "Thank you" and looked up to the sky and held my face in the downpour of the graceful water. After a bit, I summoned some strength and started jogging. I jogged for maybe a quarter of a mile, and all of a sudden, from my peripheral view, I saw an athlete hobbling toward me. It looked like she was skipping or limping. I thought for a second it was an athlete with one healthy leg and one metal running leg, teetering as she ran. But no.

It was HILARY!

My roommate, a runner herself, had asked me if she could run me in the last few miles. At first I wasn't sure--I had wanted to do this on my own, but the night before, I had welcomed the idea of Hil runing me in, knowing I would need morale. And I had needed it so badly at that point that I became overwhelmed when I saw her bundling towards me, overjoyed she had found me! I had forgotten that Hilary would be looking for me! My tracking hadn't been working and it had appeared I hadn't finished the bike portion, so she didn't know where I was or if I'd gotten sick, she just stuck by mile 3ish waiting for me, about to turn around and go home when she looked up and saw me. I started crying and we hugged as I told her I was never doing this ever again. She walked with me when I needed to walk, and she ran with me when I decided to run, and sometimes she would run and I would look ahead and tell her to stop it because I just couldn't, please stop running, I have to walk this, there's nothing left. It went like this for almost 3 miles.

I had run for almost 3 miles when I had thought I wouldn't be able to run at all.

And then I saw in the horizon the finish line.

Words can't quite describe the emotion that started to surge through my body as I caught sight of the finish line. I was so close. I had a quarter of a mile left to go and my body seized up with emotion. I had to stop for a moment and walk, and then I started again and tried to run, holding back tears, my body producing great heaves that threatened to turn into sobs of relief and joy. I half started crying, half started running faster, exhausted, overwhelmed-- unbelievable emotion like I'd never felt rippling through me. It was the rawest state of emotion I have ever felt coursing through my veins at an electric rate that both propelled me and left me breathless. It took hold of me and I as I got within 20 feet, a smile spreading across my face, I summoned any possible strength I had left and ran as fast as I could as I heard the announcer call to anyone that was in the immediate area to put their hands together for me.

I raised my arms in the air and held my head up high and smiled this grand smile of triumph as tears streamed down my cheeks... and I crossed that finish line in a strong run, my body immediately erupting in a loud sob. I bent my head to my knees, catching my breath, crying in great heaves, overcome with raw emotion. I have never experienced anything quite like that moment in my entire life.  The moment I completed my first Olympic Triathlon.

This makes it look like I finished in 8 hours. It was really 4:37. I'll take it!

I never stopped. I never let the setbacks take away this dream. I could have stopped before the Tri even started. I could have stopped after the swim. I could have stopped at any point.

But you must never give up. 

You can take a dream that seems impossible and make it your reality.

You can take back your spirit and your health and your life.

 

You must persevere.

You must do all it takes.

But you must never, ever give up. 

Purple Hair and a Tattoo.

Gosh, I want to be more of a bad-ass than I am.


Don't get me wrong, I'm a good deal bad-ass when it comes to motivation and drive and determination and stubbornness and passion and scrappiness.

But I want to be a bigger-bad ass.



I want to have streaks of purple in my wavy hair.

I want to have a tattoo on my ankle.

I want muscular defined arms that people might suppose I use for pushing scoundrels down stairwells when they piss me of.


Because its in there! Beneath this lady-like exterior, there is a bad-ass confined by societal walls.

Well, maybe it's time to be a tattoo-sporting, cray-cray B.

Dangit. Tough girls don't say "cray-cray B."

They say "One crazzzzzzzzzzzy BITCH."

I swear, beneath the pearls and polka dots and the cardigan sets, there is a swearing, foul-mouthed, sexy rule-breaker who wants to sass authority.

"I HATE AUTHORITY," she proclaimed, as set down her quiche.

                       I HATE AUTHORITY.











I mean, I don't want to be grungy.
Or smelly.
Or do drugs.

Or push people down stairwells. (Not really.)

I don't want to be mean.

Cuz I'm not mean-hearted.

But I'd like to be a little bit tougher of a lady.

A bad-ass lady.



With red lips and hot-rollered hair.


And a tattoo.


Maybe just a little one.

The Magic Cafe

What if there existed a cafe that was dusty and antique and Parisian and magical?

It would be an obscure tiny undiscovered cafe-- one with no regulars because it is too hard to find.

People might only stumble upon it once or twice in their lifetimes.



Because it keeps moving.

It is a traveling cafe.

It sets up shop by night or day and is gone the next.

It is a cafe of miraculous design.

And when those who are lucky enough happen to stumble upon the cafe and actually walk through its doors, their lives are never again the same.

Walking through its doors signifies something wondrous is about to occur.

When you sit at one of the enchanted tables, grand ideas suddenly emerge, you are present and enlightened. The answers to your deepest questions are suddenly revealed to you almost as if you always knew what you have just realized.

Your deepest sorrows will miraculously cease to cause you pain. The memories won't disappear, your soul's ability to process sorrow and learn from it only has only been heightened so you are now more equipped to understand how true sorrow can shape your spirit...

Perhaps most magical is the cafe's ability to connect strangers and loved ones. Your soul mate from a different lifetime who you never thought you'd stumble upon is now sitting at the table in front of you and you are mysteriously drawn to this individual in a way you've never experienced. Your eyes lock. Your soul mate walks over to you and draws the chair, sitting down next you. Your life will never be the same.

Your long-lost family member has just walked through the door and ordered an espresso. You have been reunited after years of searching.

Your childhood best friend is sitting across the cafe and after twenty minutes you both see each other and understand you were supposed to meet once more so that you could explore the world together, make up for lost time, have adventures, and swim in oceans in far distant lands.

In fact, this cafe is so breathtaking and life-changing, that it can only exist in one plane, one realm, for one set amount of time.

The cafe knows it must keep moving, must keep changing the lives of all who walk through its doors.

And if you are so lucky to stumble upon this cafe twice in your lifetime, you will only have the faintest feeling that you have been there once before.

 A warmth will fill your entire being with such mystery and happiness, that you will simply feel compelled to stop for a moment, order a cup of coffee, and wait for whatever magic might happen next.

Infected Train

His infection looked quite serious.

He pulled the leg of his jeans up to show the train-car of passengers his wound and begged us all for help. Not in a hysterical way, not in a belligerent way. In a very sad and ashamed kind of way.

And every passenger on that train stared at him. I could even hear a few disgusted gasps as he displayed the infected gash on his calf. I thought, surely, once the passengers saw this, they would act on compassion and help him. But no one moved except me. I immediately reached into my purse as everyone else disconnected and looked at their electronic devices or listened to music from their ipods. Everyone else ignored him.

He had said he was homeless, he had just come from Rush Hospital and was trying to fill a prescription that was $18 dollars and he only had $4, and as he winced in pain, I thought to myself, this man is begging for medical attention. I seriously doubted he would be using any of this money for booze or illegal drugs, I could only hope that he was being honest and as soon as he got this money he would fill the prescription for antibiotics.

He just kept saying he was sorry, he didn't want to bother any of us, he just didn't know what else to do. His eyes looked so full of sorrow and shame. And either he was a wonderful actor or his energy was so sad and desperate that I barely thought twice about helping him.

I looked into my wallet and realized I only had a $10 bill.

He was close to my age and wore a zip up hoodie, his face looked lined with worry and his eyes were small and slightly glassy. He had a non-threatening frame, carried a backpack, and as soon as he'd hobbled onto that train I'd known something was wrong. I'd kept my eyes on him and part of me wondered if this was a man who had perfected his scam or if this was a man who truly needed medical care.

I nodded at him and he came over to me and I handed him the $10 bill.

"I'm so sorry," he said to me. "I'm so sorry, thank you."

I just nodded my head at him with compassion. He sat back down. No one else moved to help him.

"I'll be getting off at the next stop," he announced to the car after several minutes. "If anyone else can help. I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be bothering anyone."

But no one else helped him.

He got up and looked at me sadly before he got off the train, "I'm sorry," he told me again. His face and voice sounded pathetic, like he had no idea what else to do anymore, like he was at the end of his rope and hadn't wanted to beg but could come up with no other way.

"It's okay," I told him.

And he got off the train.

I was astonished that no one else had offered to help him. Was I just that much of a gullible sap? Was I just buying into this young man's act? Was he really not suffering and simply fantastic at putting on a show? But the wound. What about that wound? It really did look very bad. He'd said that he didn't have a medical card and the prescription was $18 dollars. But if he didn't have insurance, wouldn't antibiotics be much more expensive than that? Were generics not that expensive even without insurance? My mind swirled around as I wondered if everyone else on that train had chosen not to get involved because they didn't believe him and I was just a sucker, or if no one else had helped because they did not care.

I suppose I won't ever know.

I've lived in Chicago for almost 7 years and I've seen scores of homeless people and beggars and I've ignored most and helped some. But I hadn't recalled a situation like this--and this urge to immediately assist because I felt it was the right thing to do.

I can only hope that the man will find his way, whether he was lying or not.

Because whether it was medically or emotionally or physically or all of the above, this man had been suffering. And at least for me, I find it incredibly difficult to look into the eyes of a soul who is truly suffering, and just turn the other way. 

The Triathlon

Did I mention I am competing in the Chicago Triathlon on August 25th? I am!

Have I ever mentioned I have Fibromyalgia? Chances are many of you would say "Probably not!"

Here's the thing. Fibro is crazy little pain/fatigue disorder with no cure and I've been battling the symptoms for years and years. I just don't talk about it a ton. Why? I don't want to be labeled. I don't want people to think I can't do things just like everyone else.

But it's time to start talking. We need awareness.

And in my most audacious attempts at living well and taking back my heart and soul and physical health, I am racing in the Chicago Tri. The Olympic Distance. Cuz I'm stubborn like that.

I won't really be chatting about the training here, BUT if anyone reads this blog (and seriously if you DO read this blog, leave a comment sometime yo) please know that I have started this other little blog that will chronicle my adventures training for the tri WITH fibro.

http://tri-ingwithfibro.blogspot.com/

Much love,

Katherine

Dateline and Dating

It is Friday night.

And I am watching Dateline.

And I am happy to be watching Dateline about murder mysteries and women snapping and I am laying on the couch marveling how my Friday nights have changed so very much. I have gone from wearing skimpy shirts and looking for a man to having boyfriends and spending my Friday nights with my man to me being tired from the long week and relieved I can sit my ass on the couch, eat some Chinese food, and watch Dateline about a woman "accidentally" killing her man.

I find no shame in putting on a face mask, drinking a glass of wine, and watching the news.

Evenings as a twenty-something are very different from evenings as an early thirty-something.

This month I found out my first boyfriend is engaged. We miraculously still speak and are on good terms. This month my second boyfriend will be getting married to the first woman he started dating after he broke up with me. We, unsurprisingly, do NOT speak and are in no way friends. And this month my third and most recent ex-boyfriend and I have been broken up for 2 and half-ish months. We never said we would try to be friends. We didn't want to make promises we couldn't keep. I'd like to think we could be one day, but I know it's not realistic considering how sad we both were when we decided to part ways. In the most adult breakup of my life, we both knew we weren't right for each other and neither one of us wanted to walk away, but we both knew we should. Or shouldn't we have? Ick.

Those kind of breakups suck by the way.

And so I sit here on the couch on a Friday night because I am tired.

Dating is difficult and I tired of it a decade ago. I'd love to press a little button and just make my way through the sea of men and find a good fit, but I am nutty and most people don't interest me. I'd also like to press a little red button and be ready to date. I've been on a few dates the past month or so, but even the good ones leave you wondering if you're ready. But that being said....there was a good one.

So I guess you won't know if you're ready til you try?

Why I Love Blue Crush

I love the movie Blue Crush.

I do.

I am not afraid to admit it. I love this surf movie, I love Kate Bosworth at 19. I love the stupid romance twist with the football player on vacation (Matthew Davis? Yes!), the soundtrack is awesome.

And I love the cinematography.

It's true.


I want to be a bad-ass surf mama when I watch this movie.

This is my all-time favorite movie to watch when I am feeling under the weather. In fact, I have forced countless friends to experience Blue Crush with me.

I think the obsession first started my senior year of college when Blue Crush was being aired on television every day. I was trying not to study and I plopped down on the couch next to one of my roommates, Vanessa, and we commenced in being sucked in by the all-time greatest time suck ever. That entire week the network kept playing Blue Crush and we kept watching. I think all of my roommates sat down on that couch watching the movie at some point that week.

But I was the one who formed the greatest connection to it.

Yes, as I moved on from VHS to DVD, I bought Blue Crush so I could abuse it on far too many occasions.

This has become my go-to movie of choice when I:
a) am sick with the cold
b) am sick with the flu
c) am tired and don't want to go out
d) am in a good mood and want to stay in
e) am sad and need a pick-me up
f) am kind of under-the-weather, but not quite sick sick yet
g) am wanting to experience the greatness that is Blue Crush with someone so said individual will be able to understand my allegiance to this movie and relate to me on a deeper level.

These people have been best friends, boyfriends, roommates, people that I love and want to know that this movie will lift me up when I am down. Because sometimes you just gotta watch Blue Crush.

And when Anne-Marie catches that final wave, I am not ashamed to admit I get teary-eyed.

She scored the ride! She battled her demons! She represented women at Pipeline! She gets Matthew Davis! She gets sponsored by Billabong! She didn't get smashed by the reef!

 Live your dreams, girl.

You local Hawaiian native, surf-babe struggling superstar.

Somehow, this movie makes me happy.

And there's no shame in that.

Crawl and Totter

Anna has started talking to her Dad every two days. She has made it mandatory.

She just tries to get him on the phone.

Pick up, pick up, she hopes.

His voicemail is full. He doesn't empty his messages.

He does not know how to text.

Forgot how to email. He used to email her about 15 years ago.

The house phone is never charged and even when it is no one can find the receiver.

Most of the time, getting Anna's Dad on the phone means getting a hold of her Mom on her cell phone (which is another challenge) and getting her to hand the phone over to him.

And then they try to talk.

The first few words are painful. Pulling teeth. Anna can't tell if it's harder for her to find things to talk about or harder for him to give her more than one word answers.

She rambles on about her life and tries to get a reaction from him.

His favorite words are "I don't know," and "No."

Sometimes he throws in "I'm fine," or "Oh well."

And Anna wants to cry.

Because she just want to talk to her Dad. Her Dad. Her awesome Dad who used to talk non-stop and sing and laugh and tell stories about life. Her Dad who used to have no problem striking up conversations with strangers, her Dad who loved adventure. Her Dad who was like a little kid.

And now he is more like an old weak man. One who has aged about 25 years overnight. Overnight, meaning the past several years.

She worries his mind is wasting away.
She worries he's fading away.
She worries he'll forget important memories.
She worries she'll forget what his laugh sounds like.
She worries she'll only see him smile on rare occasions.

While Anna is on the phone with her Dad one night, he randomly says, 'You have to crawl before you can walk." The words strike her. "Totter," he corrects himself. "What was that?" she asks. "Did you say something about an otter?"

"Totter. You have to totter before you can walk."

She isn't sure if he is just getting confused or being inventive but for a moment she can hear her old Dad, the Dad of the past. "That's true of most things," she tells him.

Anna considers the demise of so many things in her life right now and it suddenly resonates with her that she can't just pretend she can walk again without tottering around for awhile.

Life is full of quite a lot of tottering and crawling.

"What do you remember about the Boston Tea Party?" she asks her Dad.

"I wasn't there."

"I know you weren't there, what do you remember about it though from reading about it?" she encourages him to start talking. She had realized a week or two ago when she was at her wits end trying to find her father's voice again, that if she asked him open-ended questions he would start talking more. And then she randomly asked him about the Cold War and he started talking more than she had heard him talk in months. It was like his brain lit up and he could remember historical facts and dates and Anna kept asking questions in between her tears just so she could hear his voice.

There he was, there was her Dad. If only for a moment.

He remembers old things, but not a lot of new things. It is scary. His forgetfulness, his change in mood and behavior. The weight he has lost. The joy that seems to have been sapped from his soul.

The doctors are still looking for all the answers.

But Anna and her family are pretty sure they know what is happening.

And it frightens all of them.

And every two days, Anna tries to get her Dad on the phone, even though, recently, he's missed several of their mandatory phone dates.

And she crawls and totters and hopes.

The phone rings.

Pick up, pick up.

GET CRUNCHY

Wah-wah-wah.

How fuckin' moody I've been.

Ethereal lingering prose-y writing and this and that. Sentences that go on forever, odes to adjectives and images. I can barely read my own material without wanting to punch myself in my own sniffling face. God, have I ever written so many back to back pieces in the 2nd person with "you" as my favorite pronoun in the world?

Here's the deal. I'm going through a breakup. An icky, sad, disgusting, smushy breakup. The end of every great love affair is like this. Your body turns itself inside out. You sob in the shower (that's my favorite place to sob! It's like crying in a waterfall! Ask your travel agent for more info!) You get a cold for two weeks. You sleep. And sleep. And then you sleep some more. Heyyyyyyy, STOP IT, 2nd person voice. Let's take this back to 1st person.

I'm so tired of saying 'youyouyouyouyou.'

How about ME ME ME ME ME.

I'm tired of feeling icky and smushy. I hate this version of me! This version of me stinks. This version of me is fricking falling apart, not just over the breakup, but over everything else life has handed me at the same time. The human body can only take it for so long. Someone once told me that the body won't let itself stay raw for very long. Its not its natural state, it doesn't like to feel that way. And for good reason--who wants to walk around feeling like an exposed boo-boo? Not this girl!

Where's that band-aid?!

Agh, but there's the little stinker. [Please note use of 2nd person is coming back to be utilized for general knowledge as in a 'How-To-Guide'] You can't just slap a band-aid on it. (Or a ring for that matter. Zing! Ouch. Jokes. Yes. What?) You have to let your wound heal on its own time. And some wounds take time. And some are deeper than others. And some wounds re-open. Wounds must fester and ooze like the strawberry Gushers of our childhood youth and then sloooooooowwwwwwwwly start to scab over and get crunchy and THEN you must wait for the little bits of scab to fall off on their own. Cuz if you pick at it, ITS OVER! My guarantee: you start picking your scab off too soon, you'd best be starting that whole effing ooze/fester process all over again. (Why did I just say 'effing' when i said 'fuckin'' above? F that shit! Let's swear!)

Well, fuck.

Hmmmm.

So now that I've finally said, "Here boo-boo, face the world WITHOUT a band-aid!" I have to do just that.  Be exposed and start getting crunchy.

And it is a long crunchy road.

Or at least it CAN be, I been there before, Mama!

Didn't want to walk that road, again, but whatccha gonna do.

Hail a cab? Nope. Cabs don't come to this part of town, stranger. (Cue dueling sundown music between two cowboys.)

Find a prince on a horse to ride me back home? (Hmmm, when I word it like that, that doesn't sound half so bad! ...) But, NOOOO. No. BITCH, don't be rebounding on princes. (Or wait, WHY NOT? Then I'd get to drink tea with the Mum and be besties with Kate Middleton...unless the prince on the horse was William and then I'd have be all, OH NO YOU DIDN'T, WILL!)

Right....so, what? Click my heels three times and wish I was back in Kansas? Oh, Dorothy. You simple-minded twit.

WHY DIDN'T WE ALL JUST DO THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE INSTEAD OF SKIPPING ALONG YOUR DUMB GOLDEN HIGHWAY TO A PILE OF MELTED WITCH AND MONKEYS?

Dorothy, you led me to a pile of melted witch and monkey brains.

Ugh.

But it's okay! Just like Dorothy, I've got to travel my own yellow-brick road and grab a motley crew of friends suffering from various emotional and personal issues like fear of confrontation, illiteracy, and the inability to love.....and THEN we'll all be transformed at the end of the journey!

Right?

Right.

Let's add into the mixture of monkey brains and melted witch the fact that I'm also dealing with career stresses, artistic woes, my own health issues, parents' MAJOR health issues (yes that merits all caps), and there are now plenty of outside forces making the breakup boo-boo a little tougher to heal--which deserves credence of its own-- it will never heal properly if I don't acknowledge that it is a legitimate wound of its own. It's just that all of these outside forces COMBINED with this oozey breakup wound are making for one sore body, one with unfortunately LOTS of wounds that all are festering and oozing at the same time. It's like life just handed me an awesome car crash on a plate and said, "Dig in!"

Well, I'm gonna be an awfully crunchy lady for awhile, but hopefully I will reach the end of this road (along with my dumb friends who can't love or fight!) with some thicker skin and a bit more insight as to what exactly is at the end of the path.  I'm not saying I won't trip when I try to do that really cool skipping move like they do in the movie (I never said I was coordinated) and fall on my face and rip the scabs open and have to start all over. But sometimes that happens with scabs and wounds. They re-open and we try to close them again.

Hell, I might look kinda gross for awhile.

But all people in battle do.

Yep, Dorothy was totally a battling warrior.

And I gotta be right now too.

So I'm ready.

Time to GET CRUNCHY.

Empty House Dream

You were in my dream last night.

But you were dead.

...Or maybe we both were?

And I stayed in bed longer than I needed to so I could see your face again, so we could embrace one last time.

I walked through each empty room in a house I did not recognize. It was a new house or an old house--one I was moving into or moving out of. There were no boxes, just blank rooms. And each room was bare and dark. There was a sense of either an end or a beginning but I couldn't tell which one.

*

My family was there too, and as I weaved in and out of each room I could feel their presence, see their faces. Perhaps they were there physically in one room and they just remained on my mind as I journeyed through all of the rooms in the house. All of the rooms were connected to each other by one long hallway and separated only by the doors that connected each room.

And as I found myself in the last room, I realized you were there beside me. You had either been following me or you were in the room by yourself the whole time. And all of a sudden I knew you were not in this world with me any longer. I knelt beside you and we embraced. It seemed you had been wandering. Unable to move forward, you were trapped between life and the after-life, had not walked into the light, had never seen the light to walk into. I did not know what happened to you or why you were no longer alive, and I did not ask. I was only sad. After some time, I said, "We could have made it." You closed your eyes and hung your head and after some time said, "I know." And we both looked at each other in sadness but we both knew we did not exist in the same realm anymore... So we just embraced again.

But now I'm moving through the rooms again even though I want to stay there with you, and there's a feeling of newness or oldness, of death or is it life? is it a beginning or and ending, I can't tell, all of these things seem so close to each other now, so interconnected that one can't quite tell what has just started and what has just finished, a brief understanding that life and death are so thinly connected, so finely interwoven that an ending is a beginning...that a death is a life....that a beginning is also an ending...

The rooms remain dark and I am on my own now and after some time I find someone, I don't know who it is, but this someone let's me know you are no longer in between worlds.

You are no longer stranded.

You have found light and moved into the next world.

And I am at peace for you but ravaged for us and empty and full and each room is still dark and I continue walking, knowing that you are not wandering anymore, knowing I will not see your face in your purgatory any longer. You have found your way out of the empty house and I continue walking through the bare rooms...

*
*

The dream ends, though I want to see you for longer than this short visitation we have strangely been granted, and I wonder now if I am in between realms, as well, searching for the light in the empty house like you were.


*
*

A Note to your Surgeon

Crafty scalpel.

Did you do the job?
No need to pretend, there's no shame.
Seriously.
I'd like your Institution's name.
So I can also do the same.

See, this stitch right here?
That's where my doctor botched the same incision.

but your work looks highly efficient
swift
recovery complete

Did your office not process the surgical evaluation we drafted/the detailed Scottish tremors/ the medical history we were hesitant to fax over/the get-well note rendered/our grievance committee had hoped for/at the very least/notice of receipt/

Skilled Surgeon,
Quite impressive.
you've ripped out
your stitches well.