Odd things happen in the mysterious 10-minute distance of the snooze alarm. This morning I was doggedly pursued by Dane Cook through a Mexican hotel, where instead of zipping around on a moped or Vespa I rode a mechanical cat. Yes, I rode my pussy all over town. Then I hung out with the cast of One Day At a Time.
Soon realized this all occurred in an hour and 12 minutes between snooze and awake. Good thing my schedule is somewhat bendy. I also had the old school “trying to find my way back home” dream earlier this week. I want to lie on a couch and have that one pulled apart. It’s chaotic and sad and makes me feel lost, unwanted. Don’t need a dream to convey that message.
Yesterday 29 people visited, maybe some stayed to read. No comments, just an e-mail from a man I'm not entirely sure is seeking something from me, and I don't mind I just don't understand it yet. I never was one to ask for comfort, let alone shout it through clear words. I ask now.
Today I’ll brush it away, work again at the coffee shop where there's music and lovely smells and the occasional smile or hello, showered and with my long red hair washed and smelling clean, and dressed in a cute new black lace long tunic/short dress that I'll wear over capri leggings with flats. Then lunch with a lovely woman who asked ME out to catch up and chat over a brilliant film I saw last week, alone in the dark, that her son had a hand in making, and I hope to come away more inspired than envious of dreams just beginning. Then probably back home to the needs of the J-O-B that’s boring me more and more, then 6:15 candlelight yoga. Haven't done yoga twice in one week, never been to this instructor, but feel the need the hug myself from the inside out. Then home, a hot bath and bed.
Too available. Too much information. Too much blurring of the line between emotional connection and daily existence.
Don’t know if I’ll keep doing this.