Your Mystery Woman

I got flowers today from work.  They are the only flowers I’ve ever gotten, save the usual ones you get with a Grease Monkey oil change, and one rose in high school from some anonymous person who wrote in the note: You are so sweet. This was back when, or perhaps they still do this, kids could buy each other carnations and roses to express their friendship and love or whatever it is that high school students feel and benefit some high school booster organization at the time. I’ve always been under the impression that I received this flower in error since no one ever came forward to explain it or why they gave it to me.  It left me more restless than anything else.

The flowers at work are like clockwork.  We had the luncheon and we get thanked for our service and given a beautiful vase of flowers.  Gigantic Stargazer lilies and snapdragons and as per usual, everyone complained about the terrible smell of lilies.  I don’t adore the smell, but it is what it is, and I’ll pay for the short-lived beauty of the bloom with a short-lived odor that’s a bit off.

It was a nice, packed luncheon for 180.  I sat quietly and took a few pictures and ate almost ravenously my not measured meal.  Now, I’m eyeing my SparkPeople with a deep frustration since I have no real idea what was in what I ate and what was so knee-knockingly delicious.  I know there was brie in the salad. It could be approximately 1,000,000 calories.  Or maybe half that.   I ate it, whatever it was, and I’ve got exercising to do tonight and for the first time since I began, I feel really, really, agonizingly disinterested in dieting.  A couple days of stagnant weight and a chicken roulade with raspberry something sauce could do that to you.

I’ll get myself together.  Tonight, even.

I got a lot of hugs and lots of earnest, well-intentioned people complimenting my work ethic and my warm demeanor and my devotion to the organization.   I have learned to accept those compliments in the same way most people have learned how to accept an unfortunate Christmas gift.  In the moment, you have to graciously embrace the ugly sweater they somehow love and just tell yourself you’ll discard it all later.  I have to get rid of it, because somehow, some way, I need to get the hell out of there and into some other life.   They mean so well, and yet, this pencil shaving that they love so much is so long distanced from where my spirit roams that sometimes I have to astrally project just to keep up conversation.

There is some other life waiting for me on Saturday, at least a thin slice that tastes a bit like brie, guiltily rich and celebratory.  It’s our slumber party with my aunts and mothers and sister and cousin.   There will be good food – not all of it, I assume, crashing, hideous delicious food.  There will be a window where I am not in service to anyone but myself.  Then, all bets are off, for my birthday.  Firstly, I pray that what ever happens, I don’t let it bother me.  But, really, I pray, I pray, I pray that it will not be one more birthday of being shoehorned into what people would rather be doing.  That I will not have to spend it hearing about impending marriage or weddings or the supremacy of such acts.   That I will not be very sad and emotionally on a hair-trigger when I have a thousand reasons to be glad, starting with Sleeping Beauty sunsets, Stargazer lilies, and that fact that I am at this very moment, some unknowing soul’s mystery woman.  There is so much yet to be revealed.