First page of the googly eyes archive.
on why a small component of my present reality is dumb while most of it remains awesome.
Posted by jessica on Jul 20, 2009 with No Comments
in I Lift My Eyes Up, Loved Ones, Thoughts and Feelings
as bed, cartoon style, degree fever, drew, Drew Copeland, Elvis, fact, family, Fern Gully, full tilt boogie, God, googly eyes, home, Joseph Pilates, sentimental/inspiration, sick, text, time
in I Lift My Eyes Up, Loved Ones, Thoughts and Feelings
as bed, cartoon style, degree fever, drew, Drew Copeland, Elvis, fact, family, Fern Gully, full tilt boogie, God, googly eyes, home, Joseph Pilates, sentimental/inspiration, sick, text, time
This is dumb.
I’ve been looking forward to coming home for this glorious stretch of three weeks that have nothing whatsoever to do with a leotard or heels or a 5, 6, 7, 8! and well, the fact that I am now laying in bed with a 100 degree fever, all hot and heavy and sporting a case of under-the-weather-edness that makes my limbs feel like more than I could ever lift and my body all achy is just plain dumb.
And I guess the fact that I just taught an hour long Pilates class didn’t exactly help, either; but hey, if I have to feel feverish right now, at least my abs are feeling flatter at the same time, so thank you for that, Joseph Pilates.
Because abs are what you care about most when you’re laying in bed, flicking off imaginary spiders, your skin is crawling so much.
But the fact that I have been feeling progressively worse throughout the day cannot take away some of the simple and lovely things that remind me why I love home.
The husband who sleeps beside me, and sends me a text first thing in the morning instead of, you know, actually using his voice and speaking to the person who is literally inches away from him. And not just any text, either: googly eyes. Cartoon-style. With a question mark following, his way of asking me if I am, in fact, awake.
My text back?
Zzz
Because no, Drew Copeland, I was not awake yet; my eyes were firmly and contentedly shut–at least they were until I was forced to open them and gaze upon the googly eyes you just sent my way. Oh, and if Journey blares from your alarm clock one more time, well then, let’s just say that anyway you want it will not be happening for you any time soon.
My three year old nephew, running at full-tilt-boogie on chubby sneakers that are delightfully called froggies and that house even chubbier feet as they cross the distance from his momma into my arms.
A gaggle of nieces, all hilarious and pretty and full of a wonder I hope they never lose, enfolding me in a group hug, causing all of our brown eyes to light up.
Another nephew sitting close beside me as we watch Fern Gully; I am now forever grateful that acid rain does not, to my knowledge, actually take the form of some shadowy Elvis impersonator and wreak havoc on our lives.
Working through another song with Drew, his fingers finding the chords on the guitar that keep pace with my melody and lyrics.
My parents. Always ready and happy to see me, to welcome me home, to keep me assured of the things that matter most like family, love, humor, God, green things growing, dogs that look like magical creatures, and cherry tomatoes (or so my pop would say).
And of course, throw in some brothers and some gorgeous sisters, and really, it doesn’t get much better than this, as homecomings go.
Okay, well maybe it would be better if I weren’t feeling sick as a dog, but still. I’m home…which outweighs anything else at the moment.
talking about it
in I Lift My Eyes Up, Loved Ones, Thoughts and Feelings
as controversial comments, God, googly eyes, life, linear story, nice, nobody, something, teen mom, time, toast, uproar
Tonight was a good reminder about simplicity.
The main event didn’t cost any money. It didn’t even involve going anywhere, really. And mmmmm, there was definitely toast involved. Nice crunchy, perfectly buttered toast for which you mourn the last bite but pretend not to because who gets sad over that?
Okay, so a few of us do, but who admits it?
Okay, so I do: I really like toast and it makes me sad when I finish it. There. Now that I’ve bared my soul, do you feel close to me? Because my affinity for toast is definitely the deepest thing I’ve shared here lately. Can’t wait to see the controversial comments that this garners.
But other than the toast, the thing that struck me is the way that conversation can fill a room and make life better than television. And although I like to watch Teen Mom just as much as the next person, there’s something about digging deep within yourself and then dumping it out before a trusted friend and vice versa.
And something else: it’s really empowering to tell my story. And though I hope to God that I don’t ever become a person who drones on and on about the rotten hand she was dealt back in ’09, there’s freedom that comes in talking about what’s happened. Even in relating the memories, describing the images that crowd my mind at night.
The first time I met with my counselor about all this hullabaloo (I realize that word sounds like something involving lots of brightly colored cartoons and maybe even a pair of googly eyes, but actually it can mean something quite serious. Like an upheaval. Disturbance. Uproar. So yeah, I’m gonna stick with hullabaloo), but the first time I met with my counselor, I talked for three hours straight.
He started out the session with a notepad and pen, poised and ready for action, but after about the first hour of me just describing the events that had recently darkened my sun he slowly put down his pen and simply let me talk. He’d stop me only to clarify something, since I am not always the most linear story teller, but other than that he just got out of the way as the dam within me finally began to give.
Once three hours had gone by I realized I was exhausted and I also realized something else: I had not yet been able to tell anybody what had happened in my life. This was the first time and it actually felt good. And then there was the fact that he didn’t look at me as if my life is over, that he kept telling me over and over again that God has a plan for my life and even a good one at that.
Whoa.
Okay.
But, whoa.
And so tonight my friend and I talked. We talked like words were in season and nobody was gonna run out of them anytime soon because there was always the cellar and all the extra jars of it that were stored down there; we were lavish and generous with our conversation and even managed to make fun of some of the things that suck so much.
After we cried about them first, of course.
And there we were, either in the living room or the kitchen, and nobody was bored and nobody was wondering what it was we were going to do. Because we were already doing it.
We were talking and God, it was good.