Two things I’ve learned over the weekend:
- Never buy a Frenchman a bottle of wine, and
- Never buy a Sicilian a copy of the film, “The Princess Bride.”
More importantly, I’m beginning to wonder if the recent short episodes of fever/headache/sinus infection are related to the weeks…nay, months-old tick bite places on my legs that haven’t completely healed.
Most importantly, I’m glad I have my wife. Despite our differences (she thinks of Gene Kelly when she hears “Singing In The Rain” and I think of Malcolm McDowell, which leads to the Malcolm Baldrige award and then to Malcolm Gladwell’s pop novels), she has my best health in her thoughts, or so her actions lead me to believe without question.
If only I could blame the tinnitus on tick bites.
Most Monday mornings, I’m rather depressed because the weekend had filled me with new personalities and their busy lives to ponder and compare my quiet Monday mornings to.
But then, in the middle of a dream last night, I was at some gathering and up walked my best friend in high school, Monica, her face covered in reddish-purple makeup that I just now realise was in the style of a character named Mystique in the film, “X-Men,” who reached up, rubbed my chin and shivered, rubbing her own smooth chin, saying, “You know I don’t like beard stubble,” and me apologising, saying, “I know, I meant to shave before I got here but didn’t.”
I suddenly remembered my moonlighting job as a stringer for the Huntsville Times covering high school sports in the mid-1990s and woke up.
I cannot be what I am not. Or I can be what I was not but then I’m not what I was.
Finally, for the first time in years, I sat down in the leather office chair to start writing this blog entry and was able to push myself back against the upright portion of the chair, thanks to the months and years of dance training by Joe, with more recent massage work by Abi, with dance instruction by her and by Jenn.
I don’t know how lucky I am. I really don’t.
I wish I knew that people are as delicate and needful as I am for social interaction, rather than assuming I am the only one who’s afraid to speak my thoughts because I might sound weird and uninteresting to the uninitiated.
How, then, do I reconcile the difference between my wanting to say out loud that a particular piece of art or the artist’s work in general is not interesting to me because I have no connection to the style or message, and my fear that everyone will say the same thing to me at once and I will feel more alone, completely lonely, than ever?
Thoughts to ponder on a Monday morning!