Even If I Wanted To

by

I couldn’t change how I do it.

Which means this.

My dear friend has just left, astride his motorcycle out into the brisk air of San Francisco in November, the ever-present scent of wood smoke in the Sunset to whisk him back to the Mission, and I, well I, am making a cup of tea.

I have already had some.

Following a delicious bowl of hot and sour soup from Thai Cottage at 46th and Judah, but I still have to have another cup.

I am a creature of certain habits, this blog being one of them and it does not matter that you don’t care if I write this or go to sleep.

I care.

I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

The only thing that stops this lady from doing her nightly writing is a little activity I like to call sex.

“I am assuming,” my friend said to me in a text a few weeks back, “that because there was no blog last night you got some.”

“Details please,” end text.

Uh yeah.

I find that it is difficult with the readership being what it is.

Hi mom, sister, aunty, friend, possible employer, that it becomes increasingly a challenge to write about that.

Although you may find me waxing nostalgic when there isn’t any.

So, hot second cup of tea in hand I apply my efforts to the keyboard in a rush of words to splat out what the day was like, what happened, and what I am like now.

Every 24 hours has got to have an epiphany, or else, what shall I write about.

Sometimes the run down of the day really is quite enough to fuel the blog, sometimes I have to elaborate, weave in thoughts, ideas, stories from other places and times.

Paris.

Madison.

Southern Florida.

Wherever I have travelled, thought, or seen, all the little memories that stick in my head and will pop out and tie into a nice segue with a moment.

The flood of wind over my face as I clasp my hands around his middle, recalling a similar, but not same ride.

Put me on a motorcycle and I am a happy woman.

Something about clinging to another person and just holding on, not having to pay attention to the road, but being one with it.

Jesus God.

That is good.

I remember the first time I went off on a cycle ride with him and I remember thinking, “Thank you God.”

Partially because I had crush on said friend, but mostly, well, damn it, I love being on a cycle.

The air, the many other times, the reckless abandonment, the knowledge that should I let go, better not, better squeeze just a little tighter, huddle just a little closer.

The whicking by of the trees, the smells that rush by, the air, yes cold, but invigorating, the turning of the body as the bike corners and the oneness of being on the machine.

My thoughts gone and just in perpetual motion.

Which my friend caught me doing, being in perpetual motion and just about kicked me, and thankfully did bring up while we were having dinner.

“What the fuck were you thinking saying yes to that?” He asked, he knows me.

Shit, I know me, even when I was saying yes to doing something I knew I was supposed to be saying no.

Or at least saying, “let me get back to you about that.”

I am trying to leave spare time not get myself so booked and I just walked into the trap door mindset that I have been advised against doing.

And the plans that it was suggested to make for Thanksgiving did not include the ones I said yes to.

“I know,” I said, as we looked over the menu, I felt sheepish, and I knew as soon as I was doing it I should have stopped.

However, I was able to rectify the situation.

I made a quick phone call, made an apology, I spoke too soon, I am not actually available that day, can I help you out the following week?

Yes.

And done.

Hang up the phone.

Thank God I have friends who can catch me out and thank god for this blog, this habit, this perpetual sitting down, getting honest, putting it out there.

Thank God for the accountability of the words.

I write and I follow through often times because I write.

For instance, I went to the doctor today.

I could not stand to be the type of person who would complain about something, have a course of action suggested, write about it, then not do it.

I am not a hypocrite.

Or at least I try not to be.

“Classic rhomboid muscle strain,” my doctor said to me.

And, “Oh, I am sorry, but wow, that’s some pretty underwear,” she said coming into the room.

The nurse said strip down to the waist and my doctor came in while I was doing that, I did not have my little paper gown on yet.

I smiled.

It was good to see her again.

Grateful I was able to go back to my physician and grateful that she examined me and set me up with a phone appointment with the physical therapy department.

Who basically said the same that she did–roller massage, foam roller on the floor, and tennis balls, either on a wall or on the floor, no more using the baby carrier and pushing the stroller at the same time, and no surfing, swimming, or really strenuous exercise for at least another week.

Ibuprofen for the inflammation.

Hot and cold.

Rest.

Ok.

She also sent me down to the lab to have some tests done since the last time I saw her I was so anemic.

“I ate a kale salad for lunch today,” I smiled at her, “with raw broccoli!”

“Good, but make sure you cut it with some vitamin C so that you are absorbing all the iron and you’re not off the hook, I still want to run some blood work.”

Ok.

So four vials of blood later and some peeing in a cup.

Then out the door.

Quick.

Easy.

Virtually pain-free.

There is still some pain in my shoulder.

But it has not been as bad as the last week was, though, let’s be observant here, I also did not work the last two days, so there is that fact.

I will be taking it easier at work and the next week I won’t have a nanny share at all.

Just one charge per day.

That should help too.

No huge damage, a muscle strain.

Tension and stress and it got over used and I have to be gentle and tender with it.

Just like I have to be gentle and tender in general with myself.

Hold some space.

Eat some soup.

Drink tea with my dear friend till past my “blog time” and still do this.

Because this is a joy and a gift and an outlet that connects me that I cannot fathom being without.

Unless I am getting laid.

But I would probably still write a follow-up piece.

Besides, truth be told, ack truth.

I want to be in a relationship more than I want to be in cahoots.

Even when I don’t want to admit that.

Even when I just want to wear the hair down and be sexy.

When I write, I always put my hair up.

I let it down when I finish editing.

Even if I wanted to do it differently.

I still sit.

And that is good for me.

I can change.

But I don’t want to change this.

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