as good as fucking

confession: i bought my first pair of reading glasses yesterday. i’ve needed reading glasses since last summer but squinted and held books at arm’s length because i’ve associated reading glasses with middle age and i wasn’t ready to accept that fate. i relented when i doubled my age and decided i’d be lucky to expire in that number of years, i don’t aspire to live longer than my age times two, and math is my faithful friend. math wins again! (also, reading glasses are miraculous. reading without eye strain is as pleasurable as napping, fucking, and writing well.)

confession: i accepted an invitation to a sold-out show in an executive box with catered food and stiff pouring bottles of liquor on saturday night. i sat through most of the first half before i had to get out of my seat because theatrical performances aren’t designed to be seen from above where box seats suspend from the ceiling. theatrical performances are best viewed closer to eye level from the floor. i spent as long as i could in the executive suite’s private bathroom to avoid the temptation of gourmet thick-sliced potato chips and whipped creamy onion dip. (the onion dip won.) at intermission the catering staff brought more food, fried and spiced and hot which ignited my stress sweating response.  i lurked in the corner gripping my drink waiting for the lights to dim and the second half of the performance to begin before my date and i split. i’m a commoner not an aristocrat in my participation with art. i want to be with the people who saved their money and bought tickets within their budget to watch the show, not hanging from the rafters with invitation-only guests exchanging favors to promote business.

confession: nihilism tunnels my vision six out of seven days a week. meaninglessness is meaningless, too.

confession: within the meaninglessness i look for what brings me pleasure without hurting anyone or anything (including the earth and remaining mindful of my carbon footprint) and doing my best to help others. recycling in any form lightens my darkness. i unloaded a donation at goodwill yesterday while wearing hand-me-down jeans from the tree goddess. every aspect of living in this world feels easier when i’m wearing clothes inherited from one who lifts me higher each time i see her.

confession: re-reading mary oliver’s  a poetry handbook for the eighth time, i notice my bad writing habits in their repeated, boring detail. i edit them, revise them, delete them and they persist.

confession: i was busy doing other stuff that mattered less and missed my favorite span of her young life. she turned three last week. i only saw her once between her second and third birthdays. the year between two and three never comes again. the years between every birthday pass faster and faster and i’m missing the best parts snagged by the meaninglessness of my futile existence. i remind myself each morning when i wake that i only get this next half, this second half of my own life to love well which means i got to show up and do it better today. i booked a flight for easter. i’ll twirl with her and her sister in our frilly dresses in a sunday morning dance party next month.

confession: i hope you’re happier than i am. march is the hardest month for me. every march has been heavy-laden since i was 12. the good news is that once may first arrives i will have forgotten how badly i feel in march. the mind and heart protect us by forgetting.

 

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About angel joy

love is an action verb. i live love in action.
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