Acceptance vs Disdain

 

She got up and left.  She drove away for 37 miles and then a few hours later, she drove back.  In the meantime, I just laid there, like nothing had happened.   

When she came home, did she come see me? No.  She had a bowl of cereal and watched the end of a football game.   By her exuberant cheering, I can only guess that it was an intensely close game with a dramatically victorious ending.  But how would I know…I was still just lying there, clearly not worthy of her attention. 

Wow.

I was there for her when no one else was.  Doesn’t that mean anything?  Doesn’t she remember all the time she wasted on those low-count imposters; duct taping their rips and tears, only for another one to materialize the next morning?

I was and am, what she needed, WHEN she needed it.  I remember the look on her face the first time I was laid out tight on her mattress and I know about the search words she used to get me there.  “Fitted. Deep. Queen.”

I’m 680 thread count, same daydelivery. But even if I won’t ever rip like her old linens…. there’s only so much I can do.  Even if I were a thousand, even if I were Egyptian cotton.  There’s only so much I can do.

I’m sorry.  I get it.  I really do understand.  You can duct tape a worn bedsheet, but you can’t duct tape a worn woman.

So, I lay there for 18 minutes while she tried to take those selfies.  I wanted it as much as she did. I liked how much she cared. It was endearingly pathetic.

I hoped, like she, that if she just twisted and turned that aged body enough, she would find that magic angle and make all those years disappear.  So I lay beneath her nakedness, supporting her the only way a bedsheet knows how.  She stretched to conceal the sags and writhed to disguise the rolls.     I cheered for her the same way she cheered for that football team.  Hoping she too could pull off an improbable win, late in her fourth quarter. This too was going to be a very close game, but instead of it being Chiefs vs Broncos, the contest would be Acceptance vs Disdain.  

Then, after all was said and done, I watched her delete, delete, delete.

We both just lay there wrinkled until she thought of trying one last pose.

Rolling on to her tummy and resting her chin on her fist.  She smirked the most beautiful smirk ever smirked, pressed the photo button one more time and captured perfection.  Then she got up, put on her pickleball clothes and left.

Now, another game is about to start on the TV and this time we will watch it together in bed.  Tonight we will rest and wake up to a bright tomorrow.

 

Hello!  It's me again.  

I've been gone for a while.  I stole the keys to my parents car and took it for a joy ride.  I did all kinds of grown-up things.  In fact, I thought I had actually grown-up.  

So, did you know cars run out of gas?   Yeah, neither did I.   It ran out of gas in the most inconvenient spot too, in an intersection.  The intersection of Mo Fo Interstate and Bad Ass Expressway, to be exact.

I'm still here and I don't quite know what to do.  I'm confused and scared and everyone seems mad at me.  I don't feel like a grown-up at all.  

That's as far as this metaphor goes.   Turns out metaphors run out of gas as well.