Got it bad
This Tuesday was a Monday.
Not a bad day, not by a long shot. But not a great day either, in terms of smoothness. In terms of how I like my days to go. In terms of how they usually go.
The day was irritating.
I stress out at work. Blow my deadline. Get stuff done still, but way late. I tell the boss I’m pouring a whiskey. He says pour enough that it trickles his way. I add it to my mostly empty 44 ouncer. The ice is melted, but the semi-flat soda is still a vehicle for the Crown Royal. I take it to leave, and my truck grinds for a moment. Like its starving for fuel. I had forgotten to feed a few gallons when I was out for lunch. I drove to Short Stop. Got gas. Decided while I was there to go ahead and get a new 44 ouncer. I’d have the leftovers finished in about 20 minutes. I’d have a fresh cup (because my cup was breaking down, too) full for supper back at the office. I filled the cup, got back in the truck. I turned the corner off the highway, and the cup makes a plunge for the passenger floor. Belly flops. Ejected everything.
The day was irritating.
Got to the shop. The first bike we were building was missing parts. I brought my mostly empty 44 ouncer in, to finish while I worked. Progress was much slower than I expected. Michael and I talked about irritating days, and about what we want versus what the Lord wants. We talked about greed, and generosity and what’s in it for me. …and how the Lord uses our circumstances to drive us in new directions. I left when closing time arrived, intent to go back to the office and finish my required paperwork and finish my mostly empty 44 ouncer. Which I had left INSIDE the shop.
The day was irritating!
Irritation, abrasion. It can expose nerves in our sensory organs, making us more sensitive. Often this drives us to try new and different things to remove the irritation.
I decided I’d go get another NEW drink.
What I’m leaving out is, as I finished turning in my work, and stress had me feeling beside myself, foreign, a little voice in my head said call on her. No, I thought. I don’t want to use her as a panacea, plus, really, being social is so rarely my idea of a good time. I blew off the notion as my trying to – I don’t know – put the moves on her?
I admit, I had been thinking about her since Friday night. Her hair. That spark. About her. Her.
I kept dismissing the idea. After all, this could be dangerous. I didn’t want to lose her. Her. And I didn’t want to experience another loss. I think in reality I simply didn’t trust. Trust the circumstances. Trust the Universe. I trust God, but I couldn’t tell if this was from him. Yet the voice persisted in its small way.
I arrive back at Short Stop. Before I go in, I text her: “Hey, can I get you anything from Short Stop? I’m here, and thought I’d ask.” I can’t tell you how many times I deleted, how many times I rewrote that in my head, before pressing send.
“Sure,” she replied.
WTH?
I brought you your drink. You entertained me with your children. There was laughter. Ash had tears. There was eventually quiet. Then we sat on the floor in the corner of the family room. You showed me your shelf-elves. You showed me your albums.
You showed me you. This was you.
I don’t know if you noticed how I watched your face. Your eyes. Kept trying to see your eyes behind your glasses. Kept looking to see your soul.
You impressed me. (you always manage to do so)
I left after four hours. I couldn’t tell if you were too polite to kick me out, but when I had tried to dismiss myself earlier, you always drew me back in. Even now, we kept talking even as I held your screen door open. I didn’t want it to end – did you? Was it sleep or something else?
I walk down your sidewalk, and as I cross the street toward my truck, I think: I’ve got to s l o w my r o l l .
On my way home, I’m thinking how I’d like to open up and share something of me with you, like you did me.
But I don’t have anything. I have systematically lightened my load. I don’t have any toys anymore. I don’t collect anything that I value anymore. I am the keeper of my family’s material heritage, a kind of museum curator. But it’s not a reflection of me. Maybe my books? But again they are a collection of things – yes, my preference for many of them does say something about me, but the books aren’t me. They’re just things.
You live simply. And you’re proud of it. And you do it well – you should be! And I’m thinking, I live for experience. Travel, new foods – great foods – new, and profound experiences. But I’m jaded. I’ve been in two different hemispheres from North America. I’ve experienced my share of wonder, great and small. And I have imagination, and I’ve stitched together so many imaginary wonders… real life finds it difficult to compete anymore.
And then I caught myself… My gosh! Look at me going on about you in my head! This is beginning to feel like passion. Just a brushing of it. I begin to think of my other lives, other eras. The things I valued at other places, other times.
As I pull up in front of the office, it hits me.
The scent of Arizona rain. A tease, a reminder.
I find you there. In the scent of Arizona rain.
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I wrote this as soon as I came into the office, to get these thoughts down. Because I realize a gift of myself can be my writing. Maybe someday I will deliver these you in a bundle, as an engagement present, or just because. Because you are there, and we are ready for you to read this.
And then I wonder… and I see an image of us, standing together, outside in Arizona, as it begins to rain. And you smell it, you turn to face me, to ask me, “Is this it? Is this the smell?” and you are excited, and I’m excited at your excitement. And we stand there, maybe we touch hands, both a little crazy, standing outside and letting it rain on us. And the drops are big, and you are fully committing yourself to the scent. To the rain. To something you read, something I shared with you some time before. To me. And you begin to laugh out loud as you are quickly becoming drenched. Your hair begins to mat down with the damp, and I lift your glasses from your face, and we lean into each other and begin to kiss.
And I stop imagining. I let the image go at that moment.
Because I want to experience all of it, for the first time, with you.