She is right, of course, that the thing to do is to rip the band-aid off. To tell and having told, be past that part of it, and into the limbo soup, the green and greasy Limpopo where I must swim for my life to the other shore despite all my alassing and alacking that I cannot swim. It was definitely noted for the heavens and the record today that I cannot swim and if I bear children, they will be branded with the mark of having a mother who cannot swim, and that is a tremendous shame, a scarlet N-S that will be sewn into everyone of their lapels. They will see a mother who cannot and will necessarily believe that they cannot. Unless, of course, they’re intelligent children who want to swim and when given the opportunity to learn, choose to do of their own accord. But how likely is that?
I digress. I know things and learn things and forget them all the time.
I haven’t forgotten certain things. Like I’m going to Italy in short order. That words to the poem my grandmother recited to us at every given opportunity…”Little Orphant Annie.” What it takes to start low-carb and what it feels like to need to do it.
I have at last one day’s supplies to be here, to exercise (keep working on breaking in these damn shoes – there must be a lifehack to figure that one out) and the usual suspects for making myself feel totally gross and awful tonight to encourage a clean morning slate). I am going to work from home tomorrow – in as low-key a fashion as possible because I worked twelve hours voluntarily yesterday and there is plenty of life stuff to do here, house cleaning, mental organization and list-making or writing my resignation letter and just maybe, maybe, maybe, I feel wildly out of my depth with this much change happening. The piece I wanted to write was to tie together my travel this year and I had it all lined up. Salida, Atlanta, Rome, little fish in bigger and bigger ponds and then, my grandmother passed away and we went on that whirlwind trip to northwest Minnesota and now, I have, somehow, decided after years of angsting and fretting (though the angst and fretting is trebly paralyzing and petrifying at this moment) to move on from my eight year-old job and suddenly the story is too big for a casual piece in some travel mag. It’s my life and I don’t exactly have total control over it and I’m wondering when last I did and what’s going to happen next and what other angles I can focus on if work can bring me a state of calm instead of…well, the need to eat chipotle and pie until I want to vomit just so that I’m constantly distracted from anxieties and failures that feel bigger than celestial intervention (but can be solved short-term by sugar and fat).
This is happening. All I have to do is something I’m great at…just have to stand there and say yes. It’s like a wedding and a divorce all rolled into one.