What If
The old couple lay in their bed dying, one cold February night. The old man turns to his wife and says, "If I had to go back and do it all over again, I'd pick you to do it all over with. I'd still pick you."
Maybe somewhere right now this is being passed from one grayed soulmate to another. But I worry that it is said all too little and meant even less. Because who dies in love but those who are young? Who really loves the same person their entire life and actually has the opportunity...no, no, the
privilege to spend all their 80 something years with the only person they've ever truly wanted? I can't help but think that my mother wouldn't pick her fiancee at the end of the day but rather my father, and would my grandmother only pick my grandfather because she knew no other? And would I only pick
my husband because I'd feel
guilty not to?
Future Next Door Neighbors:
I love Bryana Dee!!!
Ode to Sad but Insignificant Memories
I have no idea why the topic of nonchalant sad moments brought me out of my bed in the dead of night to this computer…but alas, here I am and here they are.
Age 9: I was hanging from the high bar for what seemed like hours in that hell hole called Gym Kids. I was not allowed to drop from the bar until I had mastered 20 pull-ups. Each time I dropped I was forced to restart my count and continue until completion. I had already dropped twice; my total count was of course well over 20 (I say screw consecutiveness even to this day) and the team was waiting for me and only me to move on with the conditioning. It was then I began to cry, one of the only times I’ve ever cried in gymnastics. I cried for 15 minutes before that Hitler-in-her-former-life-coach let me drop.
Age 13: Cheer camp…it’s usually a pretty joyous occasion. Lots of yelling, lots of laughing, and boy do we got spirit. Yes we do… my new best friend Bryana and I decided to bunk together that year. We got along great and we’re having a blast until I hit a T and knocked a diet Coke off Bry’s dresser. The Goofy pillow got the bulk of it; I think this is the only time Bryana has been at me in person. But we survived. I still feel horrible though…poor Goofy.
Age 15: My 6th grade crush said I was like a sister to him…doesn’t even need commentary.
Age 17: I went to Carmi, Illinois to watch my boyfriend play in a tournament. I had brought Bry’s little sister with me as Bry’s support system while she cheered. On the way out something happened with the locks in my car, oh that’s right, my key couldn’t turn them. And so we were left in Illinois for a couple of hours because my dad never came to pick us up. Finally Bry’s parents came to the rescue… and I think our team lost that night too.
Age 19: I was macking with this guy when all of the sudden he stopped kissing me back. Confused, I asked what was wrong. And he said something to the effect of, what’s the point we’re not getting anywhere. Yeah, my heart broke in 5, maybe 6 places.
Age 20: I was driving down the highway in Indiana, going 55 in a 55. A mini-van was riding my bumper…no idea whhhy she didn’t just pass me. After about 3 minutes of her up in my business she grew a brain and joined the left-laners. As she did, she threw me a violent glare; one only a 30-something soccer mom could possess and gave me the finger…so unexpected.
Family Tying
Last night, I sat across the long dining room table from Carrie Knarian-McDonald and Shani Jolly. We were eating our Christmas feast and each of these two older cousins nudged and dug at their food discussing what should and shouldn’t be consumed. You might think they were on a diet…I guess that’s somewhat true. Both Carrie and Shani are pregnant...by the way lunchmeat is a big no-no if you are with child. I could contribute little to the conversation not even just because I’m -65 months along but because our family grew apart along time ago leaving my ties with them somewhat... how shall i put it... frayed. As I listened to them babble on about names and leading baby care brands I thought back to my earliest memory with the two of them. I was five in my Aunt Debbie’s van. My mom and aunt were up front in the captain chairs and the three of us girls were on the back seat that was folded down to make a bed. We were heading home from a gymnastics meet in Ohio, I was sitting patiently on the floor of the vehicle as my two older cousins weaved Kleenex’s into my hair. I remember my tender head throbbed from their pulls but almost gladly enduring the pain to be apart of my cousins’ experiment. My rag rolled hair was taken out the next day…and it was a job well done for two 10 year olds. None of us had sisters and so we claimed each other in these moments. When I came back to a conversation of due date miscalculations, I missed them. That’s the worst, to miss them when they are right there in front of you. I wish I could have asked them to rag roll my hair.
Major Prayer
The Holidays are stressful. Every ounce of my stress has been generated from the BYU TMA department. I printed out 20 pages of criteria and prequisites for my college's film school. I have great ambitions to become a screenplay writer so I began the tedious process at 11 a.m. this morning and haven't stopped yet. I didn't explain to my stepmother that I was watching Hoop Dreams and Eyes on the Prize (Civil Rights) for my major, leaving her to guess that I was in fact getting in touch with my African American roots. Fo sho. I began to consider my 3 minute creative project and came up with a few ideas. After finding a perfect story complete with wit and humor I developed a story board and rough draft script. I was very excited to share it with my dad, sure that he would think I was riot and be proud of his comedic daughter. When I was finished with the reading, chuckling at my own hilariousness, his face remained unchanged. Mine didn't. I looked at him harshly and exclaimed, "What!? You didn't think that was funny! Why aren't you laughing?" He told me no and that I needed to work out alot more kinks attempting to offer some advice that would no doubt change the entire meaning of my story. I stood dumbfounded, still convinced I had my golden ticket to success in hand. He announced he was going to bed and that we needed to have a family prayer. So we all bowed our heads and he thanked God for our comfortable home and the great food we were able to eat and he blessed my stepmom that she would finish crunching her numbers at a decent hour and he blessed me that I may write a GOOD story to help me get into the TMA program. It was about then I opened my eyes.
No Hot Water
Day 1: Woke up at 2 p.m. Took a cold shower…not by preference. Listened to the Song of Rebellion and felt better about life. Drove to Evansville discovering the ex’s vehicle at the local tanning salon on the way and thought it was gay (gay like that accidental rhyme of mine). Turned the music up louder and ended up in the painting section of Hobby Lobby. Bought and left. Said hi to Mom, Matthew, and Sparky. Did my best not to judge the new bf. Went to the lib for inspiration…didn’t find much of anything. Ate at Tequillas with Dad. Texted with Jase who finally broke up with his gf (YES!). Got scared. Called Jill. Watched Never Been Kissed. Thought of my no kissing goal, but didn’t reconsider. Reviewed my mundane Indiana day…
Aeroplanes
I always get embarrassed with myself when I blog what I really feel. These are the types of things you share with your friends. I have friends, great ones in fact; but I can’t force myself to be entirely real with anyone or anything but paper (in this case my little 14 by 12 screen). I flew into Indiana today, I was more excited to go to the Turtle Soup Festival in Troy, Indiana at age 12 than I was to come back home for Christmas ...it feels like blasphemy calling Mt.Vernon home. I love flying and I hate flying. I love it simply because for those few hours in the air I value my life and am grateful for each passing second I am granted for fear that it will end with a large gust of wind…a total The Life You Save May Be Your Own complex. I hate it because for those few hours I’m valuing my life I’m deliberating all of the what ifs a twenty year old brain possesses. I have one big what if. It will stay with me for the rest of my life discounting every new experience I will have. Being here emphasizes the supremacy of that what if all the more. And what is hell really, but every what if you’ve ever had massed together into a chaotic state of emotional torment. I’ll walk around this town with my eyes closed, clad in my bullet proof vest.
