Self-Fulfilling Broccoli

I thought about something for a good portion of the weekend, most of yesterday, and then again today.

As is so often the case in Schnooville, this thought permeated my brain and trickled out into the real world, where a fabulous singer performed a song she had written on this exact topic at a fund raising event that I attended last night. I’m pretty sure she was singing it for me.

I am irresistibly, undeniably drawn to brilliant, talented men who are almost always completely emotionally unavailable.

Like a determined primate, I get my hands on these coconuts and poke and prod and bang away to try to get at the fruity pulp. Sometimes I can manage a trickle of sweet gooey inner juice, but usually I end up with bloody knuckles and pure frustration. And an empty belly…

Why am I programmed this way? Is it merely bad luck? Have I just not met the artist who is highly skilled when it comes to the emotional medium? Is there some masochistic satisfaction in being the sole confidante and supporter for said brilliant mind? Am I addicted to the morbid romance of the tortured artist as suitable companion to the bohemian mama I fancy myself to be?

Why do we so crave what we know is just bad for us?

I fantasize about a life filled with passion, and fire, and creativity, and parties, and love, and feasting, and fat babies who are most certainly precocious. In this imaginary world, my partner in crime has always been and artist. A creator. A maker of something wonderful. Sometimes moody, sometimes complicated, but able to reveal their vulnerability to me. There is no room anymore in this fantasy for narcissism. It is a fairly balanced existence, and there is no illusion of perfection, but a real solid sense of happiness permeates everything. I have about five good years left before I give up on this dream.

Life now is all about making healthier choices. Heart-friendly decisions.

A boy who rode trains once told me to imagine what you want, and you will achieve it.
I think I’ve got the imagining down. But something is wrong here. Maybe wrong is a poor choice of words. Something is not working. Also a poor selection. I am not quite there yet. I am not ready for this imaginary scenario to be made real. Do you feel ready when it’s supposed to happen? Do you wake up in the morning and say “O.k. here we go…my heart is open, and I’m going to share it with…”?

How do you get back on track?

For the first time, possibly ever, I have learned to love being alone. I’m just starting to really like it on these shores. Even though the sand still sticks to my damp skin in a most unpleasant fashion, I’m suddenly aware of how delicious it feels between my toes, and now I can’t stop making foot-fists. I want to stand on this beach and clench my digits and smell the salty air. When I look behind me, down the path I’m walking, that second set of footprints in the sand still belongs to my imaginary friend Jesus.

It’s gonna take some pretty big feet to fill those.

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