Another yankable post

Good morning, friends. It feels cozy this morning. I drove home and put my jammies back on straightaway, nudged the heat up a couple notches, poured a second cup of coffee, and contemplated my day. The dining table still has all its leaves in from Thanksgiving. It’s a magnificent, huge, spanish-style table we bought when we were first married from the mother of someone Scott worked with. It cost us $300, extends to about 1000 feet, and came with eight chairs. I say “came with” - because through the years, and the unremitting efforts of wild children, the chairs have dwindled down to four wobbly, scratched, and buffeted remainders. One day I’d like to buy a completely new dining set, and use this fat old table as a desk. One day.

But today, I need to put everything back in its place. The orange paint that works so beautifully in the dark hallway looks terrible in the kitchen: too gold. I’ve plumbed the magical depths of Wal-Mart’s paint section, so this time I really do need to take a trip to Sherwin Williams and pick up something spicy, something called “Cayenne” or “Paprika.” Lorraine will be laughing her butt off, because that’s exactly what she told me to do a couple years ago and I mocked her to her face. To her face. Or maybe over the phone. I don’t remember.

Yeah, last night was really fun. I got off the phone with someone, and immediately stomped into the bathroom where I yelled at a cricket that was staring up at me from the floor, “Nobody ever F*ING asks me how I am!!!” I waited a couple ticks in case the cricket wanted to sing me an encouraging song, as it looked intelligent enough - with its bright, beady eyes - but it didn’t so I left. Maybe I should have put my ear closer to the floor. Anyway, I was really yelling at God, so it doesn’t matter.

It’s disheartening; people don’t know how to communicate very well. I’m not talking about you guys - there’s something intrinsic to the written word that invites courtesy. I’m talking about talking. This has been a thorn in my side for years now. I used to rattle on without stopping, never giving anyone the chance to ask questions, just spewing information out like so much stomach effluvium. But one day I wondered if anyone would ask, if given the chance, so I stopped rattling. I was friendly, but didn’t carry the burden of the conversation. And to my dismay, I found that only about 1% of my friends cared enough about me to even ask the initial and inane “hi, how are you?” Forget, “Now, tell me how you really are.” Even when I asked them a hundred questions about themselves, they didn’t catch a clue. Do I sound bitter? I am. I mean, I don’t feel it now - like I did last night - but the pain is still rumbling around in there.

If I sit back and analyze with objective eyes, I can see that I’m overreacting when I say that nobody cares about me. Lots of people do. They love to hear me rattle on; have even come to depend on it. They like to laugh when I’m silly, and even grieve with me when I’m sad. But, to feel really loved, it’s important to be asked.

Here I am at that familiar crossroads again, tired of carrying conversations, of taking care of people who should be adult enough to give at least as much as I do, and wondering if it’s worth going through another rather lonely patch to find myself again. Oh my God, this is turning into a tirade, and I didn’t mean it to. Yikes on a stick. I’m just lonely in the deepest places, and I don’t know what to do about it. I think I may even be lonely for me. That sounds weird, but somehow right.

So, I guess I’ll move the table back to where it was, and leave the couches where they are because the livingroom feels more open and inviting. I’ll buy new kitchen paint. And all day long I’ll think about what I wrote, and ask God to clue me in on what’s really going on inside me.

Does anyone else think it sucks that we know less as we grow older, not more? Maybe if we collectively fall on the floor, beat it with our arms and legs, and scream ’til we throw up, God will pay attention and give us what we want. No? You’re right; that never worked with my parents either. Love to you. xo