Do you remember a time when your heart was broken? When it was so broken that you believed it couldn’t be repaired? The pieces so small, that nothing could be salvaged with the human eye? The pieces merely specs of tissue and once thriving blood? Were you ever young and felt like a loss or love unreciprocated would settle into your bloodstream and never make it’s way out, even through a puncture or a gash? That you would never recover? No sutures strong enough to put you back together?
There are rare times that a musical or movie takes me back to moments where I felt like the wind was knocked out of me, but my breath would never be recaptured.
When I was a kid and we would go on road trips, I was too impatient to reach our destination. I would tug on my father’s sleeve every 5 minutes and ask how much longer until we reached our vacation home, a motel with an over-chlorinated swimming pool. I would beg him to tell me how many more miles, until we could exit our hotbox of flatulence and sweat.
We would often drive 10 hours in one day. Even with the windows open, the atmosphere and scent would grow stale after the first 2 hours. I could sense my father’s annoyance with my constant “how much longer?” or “how many more miles?” questions, but I persevered.
I woke up in a cold sweat on Friday morning. Not because I had endured something that would, directly, haunt my soul and taint my blood for the rest of my life. Not because I was a victim of THE horrific event…but because I was hungover from my husband’s work, Christmas party.
“Let’s turn on the TV and just melt into ‘indiocracy’ for a few minutes before we have to head back home,” I thought.
“Let’s wait until the Tylenol kicks in before we pick up Babyface and re-enter normalcy and our life post-child,” I thought.
We had shut ourselves out of the real world, overnight, for the first time in a year.
Karen over at Baking in a Tornado has started a Secret Subject Swap that I’m delighted to join this month with 15 brave bloggers.
My secret subject, “How do you stay connected to what truly matters during the holiday madness?” was submitted by Love Art Baby. Here is my response:
I pretend I live in a cottage in a small town without a name. Once inside my cottage, I’m like Laura Ingalls Wilder, except I have an outside connection through my landline and cable modem. I choose to connect when I want to and disconnect when I need to shut off the “noise” from outside my four walls.
Last year, I fell in love with football because of your passion to drive a near-dead team to the NFC Championship game. It was like you had found an antidote for a team of zombies, recharged their racing hearts and restored their pulses. You were sort of a hero in my book. My husband has wanted me to become a fan of the game for years and watching your revival of the 49ers sparked the football, die-hard junkie in me.
I didn’t know what I was missing, until I watched you coach your team to the NFC Championship game last year.
I’m discovering that the criteria for purchasing a fake tree are probably pretty similar to searching for a new set of knockers. My entire life, I have always decorated a real tree on Christmas. I’ve been an all-natural kind of girl. I’ve always loved the smell. I’ve always loved the act of picking one out. It was a wonderful end of year ritual that signified happiness. After all, Christmas trees are each year’s beautiful, happy ending (keep your mind out of the gutter, please); right before I make a list of resolutions that I almost never keep.
My resolutions are like a list to Santa, after my name is already tattooed on the naughty side.
I am in awe of a reality TV show. A reality TV treasure, to be exact. I am in awe of a 13-year-old musical prodigy. I am in awe of a little girl and her version of Beyonce’s I’m just a Boy or just about anything else she sings.
Carly Rose of the XFactor was blessed with the gift to sing with perfect pitch and a pure heart. It’s like her young soul leaves her and she’s transformed to fit any song, better than the original singer could belt out. Ten notches higher, than the first recorder. I’m sure she challenges each original, music maker.
I first became privy to the case of the West Memphis Three thanks to boredom. I like to watch documentaries and there was nothing on real-time TV that I felt was worth watching. Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills on HBO On Demand might be interesting, I thought. It was the case of three young teenagers, who were “possibly” wrongfully accused. They were suspects based on the long interrogation of one of them, Jesse Misskelley, who stated they had all murdered three boys. It took him HOURS to be CONVINCED of his own guilt. And the town’s rally to convict them wasn’t far from a new rendition of the Salem Witch Trials.
Hubs and I used to go to the movies every week, pre-child. We would grab a cocktail before the main event, pay $20 for popcorn (okay, it’s a slight exaggeration) and sometimes sneak into a second show to make it a double feature (Did I just admit to the movie-theater equivalent of shoplifting?)
It was one of our favorite pastimes (going to the movies, not shoplifting). We had a small TV at home and enjoyed watching flicks on the big screen right after they were released, for the graphics, sound and to avoid being subjected to spoilers. Not to mention, we loved the experience.
I’m posting over at The Epistolarians today. We’re a group of kick a$$ women, that share a love for writing. Stop by and check out my post, Bribery For Validation.