The Acedic Nun


Tomorrow, I will be infinitely more erudite and elegant when I complete my post.  I will have a slice of morning to linger in, no rush to get up.  No shambling hurry to brush my teeth and get myself in just as clad and alive enough a state to call myself awake and hurry to the car to spend the next thirty minutes playing at sleep again.

But that’s tomorrow.  Today was fine.

I have been listening to a lot of Brene Brown – I think I mentioned this yesterday and she spoke about vulnerability and the ways in which people with big, juicy lives accept it.  Ways I have patently not accepted it, mostly without much awareness that I’ve shunted vulnerability into brief gasps of air before submerging myself again in the oceans of solipsism that make my life.  I have taken the opportunity to make a small fool of myself with regard to this one dude.  Entirely undeserving of a name, as of yet, aside from ye one dude who called me pretty and this is enough to enshrine him in some sort of vault against all eternity.

Brene Brown mentions how much we run off half-cocked having made up whole universes and stories that end relationships simply because we don’t go to the other person involved and ask for clarification.  Because we’re ashamed of having to question our own stories, stories in which we are almost always the victim, the star, the wounded party.   When we’re just random-ass people whose egos inflated at some far-distant noise we called a rattlesnake.  So yes, I just involved myself when I might have ignored it.  I took a post as invitation to show up and try and be clever.  Now, naturally, I have a story that despite a like, it wasn’t clever, it was stupid and embarrassing for both of us and now, that little seed of nothing has been sprayed with pesticide.  Now, in this story, he thinks I’m weird and wanton and a kid and st…it’s getting kind of offensive in this ratty backroom of my mind.  My vulnerable act – an act where I’m just trying to say, hey, I have a sense of humor, dude – is conflated in my head with instant desperation.

I wasn’t flashing him.  I wasn’t stroking the edge of his ear and saying I have a waterbed if he wants to come over so long as he’s out by nine when the jerk who owns the place gets back.  I wasn’t doing anything but a pert, cute, hello.  I gotta dial this shit back.

And wow, do I not know any of his opinion about anything.  I only have the silly like button, a positive sign!

Subductive plate, tectonic tremor, these are shifts, but they are geologic.  Slow to register, until they are unavoidable.  Pressure.  I’m trying to think of a seven word story about sloth for BPAL while I’m doing this and that’s not even close to happening and maybe there will be another hour because I think I could get clever…I just want to be vulnerable and try.

Okay, I have fifteen minutes, holy smokes! I have to give up the contest and get back to saying nothing right here.  Ack.

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