I must tell you a secret: I am human. It's true, I breathe and am injured easily by large and fast moving heavy metal objects. I say the wrong thing (more often than the right one), am loud, need food and sleep more than I should.
I realize this condition plagues those around me, though somehow they seem to be better at acting perfecter (yes, that is now a word). Every move I make is a stumble, I stutter and make jokes that require others to know my odd thought process. My coworkers seem to have this whole "being-able-to-interact-with-the-unknown" better than I do, as though there was some sort of training that I skipped or doodled through (highly likely). Most people I meet seem to be able to interact with the world with a confidence they picked up while I was developing an addiction to diet pepsi or reading Ella Enchanted for the 17th time...or both. (Gail Carson Levine might have been worth it.)
All this seems to disappear when I get to see my three sisters/best friends/soul mates. This past weekend I got to witness the wedding of one of them (Callie!), the happiest day of her life (so far), and one of the best weekends of mine. When I'm with them, it seems like the world exists but it is brightened and saved because I know that if I fall, I'll be safe. A joke may fall flat but at least they'll lend me a spatula to scrape up my ego (and a smile for effort). I have no way of knowing absolutely whether or not other friendships run as deeply as ours (we've been friends since we were 11, and we've just continued to grow together mentally albeit far apart physically), but I know that I am able to feel loved because of who I am and that who I am is lovable because of them. We'll be 80 and still making poop jokes or bad puns or bad poop puns (actually, there is no such thing as a BAD poop pun), this I know.
I guess I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks Mary, Michelle and Callie.
I realize this condition plagues those around me, though somehow they seem to be better at acting perfecter (yes, that is now a word). Every move I make is a stumble, I stutter and make jokes that require others to know my odd thought process. My coworkers seem to have this whole "being-able-to-interact-with-the-unknown" better than I do, as though there was some sort of training that I skipped or doodled through (highly likely). Most people I meet seem to be able to interact with the world with a confidence they picked up while I was developing an addiction to diet pepsi or reading Ella Enchanted for the 17th time...or both. (Gail Carson Levine might have been worth it.)
All this seems to disappear when I get to see my three sisters/best friends/soul mates. This past weekend I got to witness the wedding of one of them (Callie!), the happiest day of her life (so far), and one of the best weekends of mine. When I'm with them, it seems like the world exists but it is brightened and saved because I know that if I fall, I'll be safe. A joke may fall flat but at least they'll lend me a spatula to scrape up my ego (and a smile for effort). I have no way of knowing absolutely whether or not other friendships run as deeply as ours (we've been friends since we were 11, and we've just continued to grow together mentally albeit far apart physically), but I know that I am able to feel loved because of who I am and that who I am is lovable because of them. We'll be 80 and still making poop jokes or bad puns or bad poop puns (actually, there is no such thing as a BAD poop pun), this I know.
I guess I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks Mary, Michelle and Callie.
Poop.......fish.
1 comment:
Love the slippers...and the writer!
Post a Comment