Something feels off this week, and I’m doing my best to get back on.
Some crazy person is trying to infiltrate my blog with the most personal, heinous attacks. His IP address is in Denmark. Stop it. Do you hear me?
I’m doing the best I can to shake it off.
In the meantime, A. has asked me not to blog about him. (I’ve been doing well, haven’t I?)
But I can’t hold it inside anymore. This is my blog, isn’t it?
Not long after our dinner date, A. was off to the hospital to have surgery on his shoulder (it had been scheduled a while back).
He was going to be laid out for a while. How could I see him again? Another date was out of the question, while he was healing.
But why couldn’t I just wait, patiently, for him to get back on his feet?
I could have called him. I could have sent him a card.
I can be so damn impatient. So, I offered to make him dinner.
This was not just about feeding him.
I wanted to deliver more than just food. So, I poured myself into the first-ever dairy-free lasagna I’d ever made. (He doesn’t eat dairy, which you might recall.)
It came out kind of funky with soy mozzarella cheese — I even cut little hearts out of the noodles.
My heart pounded as I drove to his house. I hadn’t been here for six years. It felt oddly familiar.
Still, I knew this wasn’t about offering dinner. This was about offering myself.
“Here, have me–”
Hold on, what about my intention to be virtuous with myself?
Please, let me stay conscious and aware.
During our brief re-encounters so far, A. has been so flattering and kind — but something about him seems unconscious. He has much unfinished business. Be careful, I tell myself. My walls are down. His are up.
So, I parked and got the lasagna out of the back seat. He heard me coming up the steps.
“Come in!” he said. “The door is open.”
I let myself in, and his home looked exactly how I’d remembered: there were photos of his kids on every wall, his living room was immaculate. (I wish I could say that my home had everything in its place!).
“Back here!” he yelled. “Keep coming around.”
I put the lasagna in the kitchen. But I was lost. His room wasn’t where I’d remembered, just off the kitchen.
“Keep coming!” he yelled, and I wandered down the hall.
There he was, laid out in his bed, with his right arm up in a sling. With his one useful hand, he paused the movie he was watching.
He looked vulnerable. He had a fat lip, from the tube the doctors had stuck up his mouth during surgery.
I stood at the edge of his bed. Why was I feeling so vulnerable, too?
We joked about the fact that I could take advantage of him, in his injured state — and then blog about it. Ha ha. After a good laugh, I said I was leaving.
When I got home, there was an email:
I don’t know what words would be appropriate so please allow me to
make an attempt:
Scrumptious; delicious; delectable; insatiably devour-able,
satisfying, and every other adjective applicable to a meal worth its
weight in culinary gold.
Please tell me: How do you keep it together when you’re feeling vulnerable?
I haven’t felt this wide open in a long time. It’s very uncomfortable.
P.S. Speaking of vulnerable, Depot Dad starts his radiation today, and he needs all the support he can get, online and in person. Send him some, okay?
Photo from coniferine
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