You always swear that there aren’t five hundred words for the day.  Not five hundred words of blame or befuddlement or rambling or gratitude, or god forbid, story.  You always swear that today might just be the day that we pack it in.  Maybe that’s just the Open Sesame the mind needs to hear to get started, a little bee in the little bonnet that we can’t let win.

Of course, there’s no word from Mr. Confusion.  But, less obviously, I continue to be more or less okay with that.  Mostly because there are potential mitigating factors, but the rest of it is me forging this sense of I did what I could. I said it yesterday and the day before and I’ll say it again tomorrow.
 I tried my best.  I couldn’t have possibly done anything else and now, the way the cards are played out is out of my control.  I had a good time, I liked him, I brought him the best version of myself available and I didn’t pretend anything was otherwise.  I followed the fear and ended up being not so afraid. That’s enough. That’s more than enough, that’s a hot damn giant piece of Something.

I did get my teeth cleaned and got a good report – yes, you can see that I am the apotheosis of modern literature in this piece – four months until I go back rather than three.  Things are mild, not severe.  The hygienist is getting married and the last thing in the world she wants to do is go have her “test” makeup done, but her friend insists, so maybe after four glasses of wine it’ll be amazing! Rgghhg, I gargled in apparent sympathy, rrrghnnynn.  I didn’t mind her, talking away over my head, it was quick.

What is more notable is that after several days of non-driving, not needing to, and having the usual flutter of misgivings.  Not that I couldn’t do it, just that the panic would be unbearable.  And it’s never UNbearable, it’s just really unpleasant, it really encourages avoidance.  I figured out my route, took my time, pulled over once or twice on this road where I’ve had bad attacks before, where I’ve gone to 8 or nine on my scale of get me the fuck out of this car right now I will crash it I will kill I will…, sat in a church parking lot that looks over a stretch of highway (parallel, but not crossing the little road I meant to take) and glanced at Amanda Palmer’s recent blog post.  Her friend who I read about in her book The Art of Asking passed away this weekend.   I felt the instant, unbidden recognition of empathetic response.  To be so alive to know such loss. I looked up into the bright sun and saw a rabbit scuttling along the hot cement next to the church.  It’s okay, I thought, it’s okay.  And panicked my way down the road to the turn which made it fine again and it was fine all the rest of the way there and home.

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