|I read something recently about an artist having the most inspiration while she is avoiding real work. Perhaps that is why I, all of a sudden, feel like writing...I need to complete a final draft of a Tolkien literary analysis and fashion some sort of Katniss costume for my youngest before tomorrow morning.|
Since my last post,
I wrote a letter to the doctor's office.
I lost part of my nail.
And, I went on a few "dates" - if you call a game of beer pong a date.
The dates were short lived, though, as in between them, his phone frequently died and subsequent games revealed beer pong clearly exceeded his interest in me.
I am embarrassed to say that I actually questioned myself as I sensed his interest dwindling--like, man, if only I played better beer pong. If I could just get the wrist thing down. If only my aim was more accurate–as though my worth at that moment consisted solely in sinking a ball into a solo cup of cheap beer. Not that it isn't his prerogative to include beer pong skills in his dating criteria. I'm sure he has some serious tournaments to think about and I'd hate to jeopardize his standings. Who am I to stand in the way of such lofty goals. But my criteria included an intellect slightly higher than beer pong skills and yet it seemed to just go out the window until I resumed consciousness and was like, what the hell, Carin. Abort. Take the offensive. Raise the bar.
In his defense, my lack of beer pong skills may not have been the deal breaker.
The deal breaker may have very well been my black nail.
How could I blame the guy? Who wants to date a girl with a black nail?
So, I told him he deserved a woman who knew what to do with a ping pong ball - someone strong, who could really carry her weight in tournaments.
And, dammit, he deserved a woman without a black nail.
But, I did tell him I thought he needed some time to charge his phone.
I am told these are rights of passage - they're just typically earned before age 36. I am told such experiences are character building - reminding me that I am not all I think I am. But, I kind of feel like I might be ready to leave my twenties - at the very least, slow down a little and live with more intention.
Having older kids with busy schedules, working full-time, and attending school myself, the speed at which I live my life at now is somewhat unavoidable. But, I think part of it is also a way of running toward the next high. The busyness can become addicting. Because to really stop is to feel and be reminded of what was lost.
"You're wriggling again," said my friend, 26. "Kind of like when you try and pick up a toddler."
"Betch. You're itching again," said Barb.
And, I am.
But, I'm not cliff jumping this time.
Not just because my hair is already short.
But because I feel like I need to practice being still.
Let my soul heal a little.
Or at least my nail.
For now, I am off to whittle some arrows for Katniss...