There has hardly been a day since I began to walk, or maybe slightly after that, like years after that, that I would not be in motion or going somewhere, dreaming of something, or sitting on the passenger side of my mom's car and throwing up into a blanket or dancing in the backseat with my brother and ducking and weaving to escape the slaps of my dad's fed-up arm from the driver's front seat. I'm a motion-y person, not necessarily the best kind, though. I'm not an athlete in the true sense but in my mind's eye that is how I see myself. It is sad really, because out of all my pursuits in life, the athletic part has been not very fulfilling. Injuries. Never having as pointy of toes as the next girl. Having a bad habit of spinning in the wrong direction while skating, or what have you. In my mind, I am a ballerina, a tap dancer, a swimmer and a roller skater extraordinaire.
In my mind's eye that is who I am. And my wish, my wish is, that whoever reads this will know that having a secret life is just about the best gift you could ever give yourself. So what if your toes don't point as well as the girl up there in the front? So what if you dreamed last night of a masterpiece you would paint but after hours of work and a couple of cocktails, it still looks like crap?
That is what I am telling myself tonight as I look back on my day and what I want tomorrow to be. I took off for the first time in about three months this morning. I took off out of my front door. This is something I did for years: I took off out the front door. But, this is alien to me now, taking off out the front door, but I did it anyway. I told myself, "two miles," and that is what I did, hip and all. But by the time I made it down the first hill and closing in on my friend's house, the one whose cousin plays guitar with his toes, I was hurting.
I neared her house and there she was, cleaning out her truck (she has a mobile dog grooming business). I said, "Hey Liz, come along with me. I'm walking two miles." And she said, "I haven't walked in years." And I said, "But you have to. We used to walk all the time way back when, and now it is time we walked together again! We don't have to walk the trails like we used to; instead, let's just wave to the trails and walk around the park!"
And so she went inside and got her shoes.
About a block later, she tripped and fell. Hard.
"My orthotic slipped." She said, as I pulled her up off the pavement.
Some days, I am convinced that I am way too ambitious...for all of us.
Okay, so here's the low-down on poor Rocko: He was a rescue dog. He was with his overly aggressive and protective brother for a year at various foster homes. The last foster family members carried him around everywhere. Since he's been with us, he has been getting more and more sad and sobby. We crate him when we leave, but it is bad news when we do that because he pants and drools so much that he is literally covered in spit when we finally take him out. I took him to the vet and he gave him a bit of doggy Prozac and a bit of Valium. Hmmmm. So far, so good. Since then, he's destroyed a Lite Brite toy (girlfriend should have put it away), a couple of shoes (they weren't that nice) and sucked on a Temari ball to the point of total saturation (but the threads are still perfectly aligned). Not sure how he got up on that tall table to get that Temari ball, but hey, at least he has stopped crying all the time.
But life is good. I have been making home-made bread nearly every other night ever since I got this book on making bread. Check out the pumpernickel, and weep, my friends.