Wordjanitor Strikes Again

I went to an event last week where they handed out candy canes with words attached to them. The words, individual to each person, served as the night's conversation topic. My word was perfectionism. My first reaction was just that I was no longer a perfectionist. Too easy. Once upon a time, I was a perfectionist. Or, better stated, I was someone who strove to be perfect. I hadn't actually perfected perfectionism. If I couldn't be perfect, I could try to make everything I did perfect. For example, I worked as a magazine editor. I developed a high set of production standards and a microscopic eye for detail. If there was an error, whether typo, scratched film, misaligned color plate, or some other ant's-eye-view thing, I'd find it. Would anyone else notice? Maybe 1 in 500 people. Would that person care? Maybe a 1 in 500 chance. But it gave me a sense of control where life didn't allow it. It gave me something I could fix and a change I could see.

Chapter 1 About a week ago, @ was crying rather dramatically at bedtime. When I asked what was wrong, he said he was worried about me. I certainly didn't expect him to say that. I thought maybe it was because he knew I'd been sick. It wasn't. "Mommy, you're not married. You're all by yourself. You need someone to marry you." Wha huh? Bam, that was certainly out of the clear blue sky. Or maybe it was cloudy that day. I don't recall. Obviously the weather

I'm big on metaphors. Some might consider it an affliction. Maybe it's the lapsed writer/poet in me. Maybe it's because I consider words to be playthings. Sometimes it's definitely to make a point when people are so tied up in the context of a thing that they need to see it in an entirely different language. (I have a whole slide deck on chocolate chip cookies, pecans, and network switches...) In the moment, I don't always know why I do what I do. Other times, I know the symbolism exactly. I live the metaphor. The day I went to the courthouse to file the original dee-vorce papers, I next went to a park where I could look out over a big open field to the hills. I wanted to see uncluttered distance, undeveloped space leading into trees. It had to be organic, growing, uncontrolled. After another courthouse visit, I found myself in a shoe store . Mind you, I consider shoe stores as entertaining as dental offices. But I was taking more steps. You can't do that ...

If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it was, and always will be yours. If it never returns, it was never yours to begin with. If it just sits in your room, messes up your stuff, eats your food, uses your phone, takes your money, and never behaves as if you actually set it free in the first place, you either married it or gave birth to it. I didn't write it, but gee... I dunno.

I went to the courthouse today to file more paperwork related to my divorce. I stood in line with several other people, handed over the papers, got them stamped (ca-chunk, ca-chunk) by the clerk , and ta-da... yet another step in the process is now complete. It's a rather clinical. Then... I went shoe shopping. I had to laugh at myself. Multiple times. Oh look, here I am indulging in an oh-so-cliche form of retail therapy. How weird does this feel? Oh so very weird! Oh so very funny. Then I thought, where would a guy in the same situation go? A Corvette dealership? P.S. Yes, I bought more than one pair. :-) P.P.S. Do a Google image search on "midlife crisis" -- amazing how many Corvette pix pop up! Or maybe not amazing at all.

Literal Bases After tonight's softball game, my son and I performed our ritual of running the bases together. He does this with a massive smile on his face, though he does tend to slow a bit between third and home. (Ah, but this gives me hope that he will actually sleep when we get home...) We played kickball in p.e. in first grade. I was on third base. They told me to go home! I did. All the way -- to my house. Apparently, it's not called fourth base. The first of many experiences along those lines. I spent a long time with a relatively abject fear of embarrassment. Now, strangely or not, I embrace it every week by playing softball. I'm not good at softball, which is exactly why I play. I play to prove to myself that it doesn't matter that I'm not good at it. I play to prove to myself that I can fail with an audience. I play to prove to myself that I have nothing to prove. (By the way, I did hit the ball today.) Not-So-Literal Bases Lately, everything seems like a ...