I’ve not written in a while. Admittedly, it’s because I’ve been all sorts of wacked out with crazy emotions. Trying to find an even keeled mind to write on with emotions fluttering around as free as butterflies is quite difficult. It’s almost like being a small child in an open field chasing down lightening bugs. You’re so eager to catch a lightning bug that you squash it leaving your hands glowing with lightning bug butt juice all over you. With all the summer imagery you’d imagine that summer is my favorite time of year – it’s not, but that’s neither here nor there.
That’s how my mind has been working lately; it’s been a disastrous sea of untamed emotions flowing back and for with its perniciousness longing for simplicity. Sometimes I wish my brain came with an “off” button. It would be beautiful – the idea of turning off all the craziness that stirs indefinitely. The idea of quieting the voices, the thoughts, the circles that I run myself in daily. Wouldn’t that be nice? Honestly, I cannot wait to have my easel back with all of my paint brushes. I cannot wait to paint again.
I’m angry. Or, irritated, or something…I’m not quite sure. Everything sounds so trite. Don’t let my fluffiness fool you. As a disclaimer, I love my Mom and Dad, but they are still, after twenty seven years of marriage, stuck in that romantic, puppy love stage. This is commonly referred to “The Honeymoon Phase”. They haven’t left it, not even once. There have been numerous times that I have came home to them laughing and dancing in the kitchen while making dinner together; spinning around, catching a kiss from each other as they pass from one side of the kitchen to the other. Yup, these are my parents.
Their sickening love parade could only be more complete if they were throwing flour in each others faces laughing and giggling like teenagers. I also love to hear how my Dad bought my Mom “the managers special.” You’re thinking dirty thoughts – don’t – think ridiculously sappy, romantic comedy love story. It simply means that my Dad stopped by the grocery store on the way home and bought the “managers special” bouquet of flowers – the cheap ones, but flowers none-the-less. My Mom loves fresh flowers in the house.
I was on the phone with my Mom this past Sunday while heading to watch ultimate at the fields down by the airport. I always talk to my Mom when I’m driving about the city. This drive gave me thirty minutes to spend yacking to my Mom about this or that, but the conversation rapidly turned into how she was very excited that she had Dad to herself all weekend. Lately, my “uncle” John has been frequently visiting the house for the summer to use the pool in the backyard and hang with my Dad, but my Mom claimed a “house closed” weekend from everyone. She just wanted time with my Dad. Now, yes, you can think dirty (gross, isn’t it?) Moving on – in the midst of the conversation, or really just listening to my Mom babble on like that of a young girl madly in love with her new boyfriend, she stops and apologizes. She says to me, “Samantha, maybe I shouldn’t go on about how much I love your Dad, but I really do. I love him more than my luggage. I love him more than money, more than my house, more than anything in this whole world. Without your Dad, I don’t think I could survive. Selfishly, I hope I die before him, because I don’t want to know what it would be like to live with out him.”
And then she pauses.
“I think you’ll find that one day. Every rose has its thorn, or some crap like that…”
I sighed, apathetically, and probably did that eye roll where my right eye closes haphazardly and my left is the only one that really rolls. This was probably coupled with the slanted mouth while blowing the hair out of my face. I told my Mom that having the two of them as “role models of love” was tedious and unfair. While I love them and find the love that the two of them share to be sacred and beautiful, the jaded, bitter, callous bitch in me says that they are just ridiculously blessed by some unknown, unprecedented force. Somewhere, in some galaxy, the stars aligned and for one brief moment in time, everything worked out perfectly and they found each other. However, statistically speaking, I am a statistic. Most marriages end up in divorce. This can be attested to the fact that most people live longer than they did 100 years ago. Most people were widowed well before they got sick of each other. There are other reasons, yes I am aware, but I like to think of this one more than the others. It makes me seem less vile. Really, I guess.
I don’t think that Mr. Right is out there, I think there are Mr. 1000000 wrongs, but what I do know is that I’m not going to stop looking, I’m just going to let myself be happy, because that’s all that really matters.
So I told my mom, after I listened to her ramble on a little longer, “Mom, I’m happy where I am and with what I’ve got.”
and she asks, “What do you have?”
I paused. I thought. I smiled and then replied, “Mom, I have love from everywhere.”