grace under fire

today, i rolled my ankle. i stepped out of the car, caught my heel on a thoroughly-invisible lumpy place in the pavement and went down on one knee like i'd been shot. swollen ankle, sore knee, sore hip, and weirdly, sore neck. (i strained my neck monday night - don't ask how - and reaggravated it when i fell.) i got up, reassembled myself and walked into the drugstore. good thing i was already there; i bought an ankle brace, to add to the four i already owned, then put it on as soon as i got back.

good lord, i'm in pain. but what's worse is that no one i know reacted to this with the typical level of shock that usually accompanies an adult falling down. no one said, oh my god! are you okay? good grief, how did this happen? no, what i got was, there you go again, haha. you're okay? good. damn, you're clumsy. another day, another fall, eh? sigh.

there was a time when this was funny. i know there was. but more and more, it's just getting old. i hurt myself so many times in a given day. i cut my finger the other day while sitting still in a car, holding a plastic box of salad. i do stupid damn things all the damn time, and the result is pain every damn day. i've never been particularly physically capable. i used to walk into door jambs and fall down constantly as a small child. daddy always called me "spatially gifted," which was his kind way of saying, good christ, my kid's a klutz. this is nothing new.

but what is new is this feeling of dread when i move around in the world. i should be able to walk places, do things, live my damn life without stupid little injuries. the joke on me shouldn't be, we have to wrap her in bubble wrap to get anywhere. but it is. i feel like a constant, never-ending punch line. there are other things that feed into this feeling, predominantly the new information that, apparently, i'm the most serious, joyless person on the planet (another rant for another time), but it's largely the clumsy, stumbling way i move through the world that makes people laugh at me.

i feel like a joke all the time with this. but i don't know what to do; i am already so careful that the other punch line about me is that i am the queen of the obsessive-compulsives. i don't know how to fix it. so this is my cross to bear, i guess: i lack grace, and everyone in my life gets to have a nice chuckle at my expense. over and over. forever and ever, world without end, amen.

pardon the interruption

i knew this time was coming. i knew, eventually, that this little... tic, i guess, of yours would eventually become an issue. i'm actually surprised it took this long. but here it is, so i'm dealing with it.

i know you don't like everything i like. we don't have to have the same tastes in everything. never have, never will. but do me a favor? when i happen to mention something related to something i like that you don't, could you maybe not just wait for me to stop talking, then immediately go back to the last thing you said before i spoke, as if i hadn't said anything at all? see, when you do that, here's what you convey: "if i wait her out, she'll get the hint and shut up."

yeah, that's really not what will happen. what'll happen is this: i'll begin to get the idea that you don't respect me. we can have differences of opinion until the cows come home; that's actually a whole lot of fun. you are a worthy opponent, and i love sparring with you. but i will not be made to feel like my interests are SUBSIDIARY to yours. that's when things start leaving the realm of OK and careen headlong into... unpleasant territory.

part of the deal i made with you is that i'd open myself to the things you like and at least make an effort to indulge you. i don't expect you to be able to rattle off hockey stats and learn the difference between colton orr's role with the leafs and brooks laich's role with my beloved caps. but i do expect you to treat my loves with the barest, gentlest modicum of respect. it's not an unwarranted interruption to your life to listen. you can handle it. i have faith in you.

needful things

i am a low-maintenance chick, as these things go. not that i'm a doormat or anything. i just don't require a whole lot of relationship upkeep. i'm pretty easy. i'm not a princessy kind of girl who needs expensive dates all the time. i don't keep the man from his friends, insisting that he accompany me on errands or all those other things that TV tells me women are supposed to do to men. i don't criticize his clothing choices (out loud, even when i want to, and believe you me, there are times when he has it coming). i pretty much give him latitude.

i have some non-negotiable requirements, though. they're small, but they are 100% locked-in and necessary. you can't avoid them. you need to be good to me. you need to support me. and for the love of all things sacred and holy, you have to make an effort to make room for me in your life. that's just not something that can be bargained away. it's just not an option. if you want the benefits that come with being with me, you have to cede a little bit of your independence and, every so often, try for me.

thankfully, so far, the man seems to understand this. he may be a loner, but he's made some room for me. it's not an easy task for him. i know why it isn't. it's not like i haven't seen this movie; i've known him for his entire dating life, seen him with each and every one of his girlfriends. i know what it's been like in the past. but it's my turn now. those girls had different needs from me, needs that were in some ways more petty than mine and in others way deeper than i could ever address. but he's been so good for all our lives at silently being there for me. will my lone wolf be able to give what a man has to give me to satisfy me emotionally? that will be the challenge. he's been amazing so far. let's see if he can make the jump.

middle relief

the man has two roommates. we went to a party last night; i came from my place to head over with them. when i got to their place, i knocked on the door and he answered. i heard the roommate's voice from his office; the man responded, "tell her yourself." o-kay... i walked in and the roommate said, "you know you don't have to knock anymore, right? that just means that one of us has to get up." i chuckled. "okay, hon. just thought it'd be weird to randomly barge into your house without notice." he looked up at me and said, "no, see, you're like a middle reliever now."

wait, what?

"before, you didn't even travel with the team; you just sorta popped up every few weeks, hung out for a few days and left. but now, you're here every weekend, you're in on all the meetings. you're not on the field every day, but it's close enough. so don't knock anymore - just come in."

in a weird, awkward sort of way, that's one of the sweetest things that's ever been said to me.

rock star

it's the dream we all have, i think. everyone wants to find their soul mate, the person who takes one look at you and says, "yes. you are perfect just as you are, and i love you more than life itself." and then one day, BAM. there it is. there's that person who sees you, looks you over, and decides that you are everything good and right and true in the world. and because of the strength of that feeling, you find yourself saying the same thing about your lover.

the feeling of being IN LOVE, just gobsmacked out of your mind in infatuation, is so powerful that it can cover a lot of things that really need to be seen. for example, it can pretty much obscure the fact that the scenario i'm describing is not at all a mutual building of trust and respect. it's a squealing teenage pop fan on the occasion of meeting a jonas brother or whatever. that person doesn't see you as a soul mate. you're a rock star. it's a fabulously dizzying level of flattery to be that to someone. the pedestal feels good under your feet; the spotlight warms your skin and makes you look amazing. you can feel the constant waves of adulation wash over you.

but you know, at the end of the day, that one-way street of worship can feel pretty hollow. you look across that table, and what you see is a... sycophant, really. this isn't love. love builds you up, creates a framework for a future. rock-star life doesn't give you that. respect is so, so vital, and when you're the rock star, it is so, so missing. you don't have a respect-based life. you have a charade, a performance, a crystal cage. and there comes a time when the crystal cage has to shatter, once and for all, so that you can brush off the debris, shake off the hangover, take stock of the damage and get yourselves back.

at some point, the house lights come up. the show will eventually be over.