Days often start with big ideas. Ideas about what I hope to accomplish on my days off. How much stimulant I need, how much rest, how much intoxicant, how much food, exercise, water? I’m in that tunnel now, it’s 5:56 am on a Saturday. What’s the next right action?
Write.
Tennis last night was delightful. I have not been able to get my tennis/exercise in over the last few weeks. Illness. Poor schedule. Not making it off the waiting list for noon cardio. I need to look and see if I’m in the class this morning. Just a sec. Nope, I’m on the waitlist.
“Today is going to be a beautiful day and here’s why.” – from Dear Evan Hansen, the amazing play about parenting, depression, suicide, and positive affirmations. Even without tennis, today will be filled with joy and creation. “In the name of Baby Jesus, Amen.”
I enlighten myself each morning. Open to the stars still in the sky when I go out back and soak in my silent hot tub. This is church, prayer, gratitude.
“Mom, thank you for all this.”
A moment.
I’ve been unsuccessful in my transition away from the Keurig pod. I either make it too strong, or the grounds get in the cup, or it’s bitter. This morning’s Peet’s pod is perfect. Dark. A touch of Organic Whole Milk. Simple.
I ask for forgiveness. First from myself. This walking talking job is tiring and poorly paid. The hunt is still on for a job, a remote job, a job that pays five times more per hour. A job that’s not hourly and tracked by punches and 10-minute breaks.
This is the second day off. I have two more.
What are you going to do with your beautiful time off? I ask myself. What indeed.
Yesterday was a wash. I slept. Did some of the work of writing rather than write. My body was telling me what it needed. I listened. I forgive myself for not being super productive. I set up big expectations of myself for my time off. I guess that’s a benefit of this jobby-job. The preciousness of time. I understand the meaning of a ten-minute break. My work life is divided into four equal parts, interrupted by an unpaid lunch and the breaks. The two-hour stretches often go by quickly, as I’m fascinated by the river of life flowing through my line.
I have benefits. And then there is the inspirational benefit. I am appreciated by the customers. The management can go fuck itself. A few days ago I watched our Team Lead, the head of our entire Customer Service and E-Commerce crew, instruct the new “supervisor” in how to load plastic spoons into the dispenser. Okay, I get it. This place is not for me. Best not to get comfortable.
I am off today. I don’t miss the work. I miss the people watching and banter with customers and colleagues. I have a tennis party to attend today, men I have been playing with for over 25 years. Joy. Pure joy.
I am aligned with my highest intentions today. 1. Attend to my spirit and body. 2. Expand my mind. 3. Write here. (done) 4. Play music. 5. Get the girl.
Okay, the last one I am as conflicted about as I am about Jesus Christ. Do I need a primary lover, a woman at my side, a companion, a co-pilot? If I grok the idea of the holy spirit and God (capital G) is it important for me to agree with Jesus the man? Jesus the “only way” Jesus?
And that last Pope that died recently, really set my mind on fire when he said,
“God is God for everyone.”
That’s where I come in. I believe in God and the energy of the holy spirit inside me. I don’t have to dedicate my music or my books to Jesus. I’m beyond Jesus. I’m into the monotheism of God. The God larger than any human mind can comprehend. Right?
He’s unfathomable. I am too. My heart is wandering in the romantic desert, seeking Jesus and his message. I really just want a boob to cuddle at night before I drift off. But… And this is the big one, I only want it on certain nights, not every night. I had just created that perfect scenario with my last lover. Four years and counting. And over. The “time at craft” for me was clashing with “what are we going to watch tonight?”
Entertainment. Television. Drinking. Whatever. I’m not into being the ring leader all the time. We went to a few concerts together. One was fabulous. It was a small club, a European pop-rock band, and we danced close together all night. Sure, my car was booted in the parking lot by the predatory owner of the asphalt across the street from the club. $150 later, they took CCs, and we were on our way home. That was the peak of our “entertainment” moments. I tried other times. But nothing recreated “my enthusiasm” for the pop band and her.
In San Francisco, sort of the last hurrah, I suggested going to see a man doing a solo show in the city. I love his music. She was “meh.” It had been raining. We stayed in.
In San Franciso we fucking stayed in. And don’t get me started on the fucking. I will leave that off the record, but it wasn’t ecstatic. It was odd.
It was during that last trip together that I came to understand the issue. I was full of ideas and momentum to do stuff. I wanted a partner who brought that same interest, outside interests, into the party between us. If I was the only inspired one. Well, that was the other half of the problem.
She loved me as best as she knew how. She didn’t have much experience. It was an issue between us. I tried suggestions, books, talks. I tried explaining sensual behavior that wasn’t directly related to sex. I tried variations. I considered “the lifestyle.” We were not thriving. I was actively doing everything I could think of. She was tired. Frustrated. Overwhelmed at her job. Collapsing on the couch, awaiting my arrival for the party to begin.
I can bring the party, yes. I want you to bring the party sometimes.
The less I talk about the girl in the white dress or the other woman in Ft. Worth, the better. I check two online dating apps, but without paying for bonus boosts the view is always the same. The share “the best” profiles sparingly. Usually, the first two to five profiles are “YES” and the next twenty are “WHAT THE…?”
I’m not looking.
Yet, last night at tennis, I was falling in love with the cute non-binary girl with two kids. “We didn’t want to fuck it up by getting married,” she said. She was not a relationship candidate, but a clear indication of my burning desire. I was trying to keep that under wraps for a bit longer. My desire.
I am all about building a bonfire of burning desire. At this very moment in time, I do not have a person of interest. “Jesus, can you help me with that?” My Protestant soul laughs at my prayer.
My mentor says, “Jesus will always be there for you. He’s there even when you don’t notice.”
Oh, I notice, alright. I pray. I wish for. I hope for. I wait.
“Um, Jesus…” Wait, maybe I did that wrong. “Sweet baby Jesus, please bring her my way, give her dark hair, a collection of tennis dresses, and several cultivated outside interests.”
