The Song Hit Me Hard

Like a nova in my chest.

A painful sunburst of love, loss, longing.

I wanted to reach out so very much.

I didn’t.

I just sang along to the song in the car driving down Division Street.

Pushing up the hill between Valencia and Guerrero with flashes of sun piercing the July fog.

You there with me.

In the car, in the song, in the spaces between notes.

I managed.

All day.

To out run you.

Out write you.

Out manoeuver you.

I was not going to sit idle with the feelings.

No.

Not when I could drive them off with business and doing.

I am glad I was doing the doings.

And sad too.

I finished the big project, the internship application.

Remember two weeks ago today?

Remember sitting in the cemetery with me when I got the news?

I burst into tears.

Sitting in that green vibrant lushness that sprung from the brows of dead men.

My face.

Your voice sick with concern.

The tears falling without thought of being in public.

It’s a cemetery.

I’m sure there have been tears there before.

You said why don’t we just go home?

And I wanted to.

But there were places to go yet.

Rabbits to burn.

Bridges to cross.

So to turn round.

Two weeks, to the day, a project, another application, another launching of hope onto the sea, a small newspaper boat with a popsicle stick sail, all I wanted.

All I wanted.

Was to reach out and tell you.

I did it!

But you were not there to reach for.

So I moved.

I ran out into the day.

I did things to prepare.

I am going on a trip tomorrow.

I have zero excitement for it.

And it’s Paris.

I should be over the moon, in the tops of the trees, singing the soundtrack to Amelie.

Or something like that.

But it’s Paris.

Without you.

That makes me.

Well.

What rhymes with you?

Blue.

Yes.

That will work.

There is rain in the forecast.

And all I could think about was your eyes in the shower, how bright they are when you are sleek and wet, how much I wanted to fall against you.

Press into you.

Stay hidden.

And seen.

In the waterfall of warmth and never leave that small space.

I saw the weather for Paris.

Rain.

“I love Paris in the rain,” danced through my head.

I would love it more if you were there walking in the rain with me, eyes wet and full.

You weren’t with me last year when I was in Paris either.

Yet, you were.

I remember walking along the Left Bank, hurrying to find cover in a cafe before the rain hit.

Nestling into a corner in the back, connecting to wifi.

And voila.

There.

Your face on the small screen of my phone.

I won’t have even that this year.

In Paris.

I will be sad.

But it will be in Paris.

Which makes it prettier, sexier sadness.

But sadness nonetheless.

And now.

Now that I have stopped running.

The sadness swarms me and I recall you telling me how to run into the feelings.

Have them.

Just have them.

If I can’t have you.

I can at least have the feelings.

There are so many.

So many.

I can’t outrun them all.

As.

I can’t stop loving you.

Letting Myself Get Excited

I think today it finally sunk in that I am really going to go to Paris soon.

Like I fly out next Thursday.

It has a lot to do with the being done with my papers.

It also has to do with clearing up some housing issues and having all my places situated.

One of the spots I’ll be staying in is actually a place I have stayed in before.

Mama Shelter.

I stayed there when the hotel first opened in 2007.

I got a stellar deal on it since it was new and in a somewhat, not now, but at the time, dodgy neighborhood.

But it was perfect for me.

It reminded me a lot of the area of the Mission that I lived in, dodgy, but charming, easy to navigate and really not a tourist spot.

A bit off the beaten track.

But a very lovely part of off the beaten track.

109 Rue Bagnolet.

It’s in the 20th arrondissement, predominately still a very working class neighborhood.

Not really central, but two, three blocks, five-minute walk to the Metro line 2 and near Pere LaChaise and my very favorite books store Le Merle Moqueuer.

There’s also Le Chat Noir, where I have done open mics, and Rue Denoyez which has some fantastic graffiti and mural art.  I mean there’s some fantastic artists in the 20th, I have a lot of photographs of murals and graffiti from my many walks through the area.

I’m only there one night, though, then staying with a friend in a more central location.

So I’ll get my gritty “real” Paris feel for my first night and rendezvous with my old haunts and cafes and libriaries  before heading toward central Paris for the rest of the trip.

I am so excited.

I was talking about my trip today with my therapist and how it came about and challenges I have had in the past with female friendships and how excited it was to have planned this trip with my French friend in the cohort, how happy I am to have her as a friend and how I have a tough time saying what I need in relationships with women.

I didn’t exactly have the best modeling around female relationships.

We talked about how important my friendships are and how I often feel a bit lonely, so many of my friends have moved out of San Francisco and I have said goodbye to many precious ladies.

I will say good-bye to more as the school year wraps up this weekend and I won’t see some faces until next fall.

And.

Some faces I won’t see at all.

I am sad for that, I will be crushed when my dear friend moves back to Paris, but then again, what a fabulous excuse to get me to go back.

I assure you I will be visiting her a lot.

We have already tentatively talked about next May and I am sure there will be many other trips to Paris to see her sweet face.

And there will be this trip to Paris.

I decided to even let myself do the super uber touristy thing.

Something I have disdained from doing, but um, actually sort of want.

A Paris black zip hoodie.

My friend that I lived with in Paris had one and I secretly loved it but I couldn’t ever bring myself to buy one, somehow it just felt too hokey.

But I realize.

I want one.

So.

Heh.

Expect to see some photograph of me in the near future sporting a black, zip hoodie with Paris emblazoned across the chest.

Fuck it.

I’m only going to live once.

I have also gotten an idea of what I want for my Paris tattoo.

Anticonformiste. 

In script on my left forearm.

I definitely am not someone who conforms much.

Whether physically, emotionally, or spiritually.

I often find myself doing things differently.

I am also smitten with a monologue on the Bon Entendeur music app that I have on my phone which has actors speaking about moments in their lives, scripts, films, revealing moments, then it’s woven into the tracks, deep house, chill, electro, and one of my favorites that I have been listening to a lot is Astier, Anticonformisme.

The track list is so good.

Astier starts out talking, in French, about how his mother was always drawn to certain people, neither rich or poor, of a certain temperament, that tend to buck the system, to be artists, lovers, musicians, humans, and how he admired this trait in his mother and how she brought him up to appreciate the creative.

I love the monologue and the music is just so good, I’ve been listening to it a lot to have French in my head for the trip.

I will probably queue up Amelie as well as Je t’aime Paris, soon, they are sort of my go to movies to get my ears back into French.

I digress.

Back to my tattoo.

I just thought, what a fucking awesome idea for a tattoo, which is anti-conformist thing to do, getting a tattoo, and it speaks to me, speaks to me of my love for French house music and electro, of being an artist, of doing things outside the box.

I am pretty sure that’s what I am going to get, but I’ll leave it open.

I am going to get a tattoo though.

And yes.

Ha.

My sweatshirt.

Hey, I live in the Outer Sunset, often a land of heavy chilly fogs, I need another hoodie.

I only have three.

Heh.

Oh Paris.

All the things we shall do together.

I am counting down the days.

I am watching the weather forecast.

I am planning my outfits.

I am greedy for you, my love.

I shall be seeing you soon.

Oh.

So.

Soon.

Yes.

 

Rainy Day

Mood music.

It rained.

It rained a lot.

I have listened to scads of French music today.

San Francisco in the rain reminds me of Paris.

I love that I can listen to music at work.

I was home, at the home of my employers, again, all day.

The little lady was sick again.

And much sicker than earlier in the week.

She had such little energy.

Most of the time was sat and snuggled on the couch.

I got her lunch, which was actually my lunch, and she wrestled a promise out of me that I would make spaghetti for dinner.

That did not happen and she was mad, oh lordy was she mad, when she realized I was leaving for the night and there was no spaghetti dinner.

Her parents had ordered pizza since she had missed her pizza party at school.

She was not so easily mollified.

She had fallen asleep on me at one point this afternoon and had fever dreams and big coughing fits.

I just spent most of the day on the couch rubbing her back and brushing the hair off her hot forehead while she slept, and drooled a bit, on my lap.

Such a sweet little lady.

Although she wakes up really hard and was a screaming crying mess.

I have never seen a child wake so hard.

She does not like waking up.

But before that I had hours and hours of contemplating the rain falling and listening to the Amelie soundtrack by Yann Tiersen, which really is such perfect rainy day music.

I had taken care of my household duties and really the only thing was to sit and be still and let the little girl rest against me.

I know that though she woke up hard and wanted her mother, that I had been a calming, loving, kind presence for her, she totally cuddles with me now and it’s become a very sweet relationship.

I am very glad for it.

I never felt restless, but I was ready for the day to wrap and excited for my first day off in two weeks.

The alarm is set.

Yeah.

Like that.

I’m not sleeping in.

I’m going to yoga, which will do me more good than trying to squeeze in some extra sleep.

And if I need a nap in the afternoon, I can take it.

Not that I will.

I’ll probably roast a chicken.

Yoga.

Shower, breakfast, hope for a break in the rain so that I can scooter up to 7th and Irving and go to Tart to Tart and do some work with my person.

A mani/pedi after.

Then home.

That’s sort of the plan, cook, sort through homework and reading.

Then go see some fellows and do the deal in the evening.

Sunday will be another round of yoga, I’m only getting into the studio on the weekends, but I’m trying to stay with it and not drop back out of it, it’s too easy to let it slide, even when I feel like what’s the point, I do inevitably feel better, and my brain is much quieter when I do it.

Tattoo touch up on Sunday at 1:30 p.m.

No other plans.

A few tentative feelers out there from friends, but no solid plans.

I told on myself today in a phone message about trying to leave some room open on the weekends so that I socialize and see people and don’t completely isolate into homework land.

Fingers crossed that can be achieved.

It will be.

And maybe some clothes shopping, but I’ll probably leave that until next weekend, I have a big coupon to redeem at Gap from when I bought my “casual interview” clothes, and it needs to get used by next weekend.

Maybe I play some pinball this weekend.

I have had this urge to make things happen all day, I realize, as I was just looking at a text from a friend who was wondering what I’m up to.

I want to know.

I want to be solid.

I wanted to text back and say, book time with me, or don’t, but let me know.

I have three people in that boat with me at the moment.

What are you doing this weekend?

Let’s get together.

I’ll text.

Part of me wants to throw a temper tantrum, I want to know definitively so I can prepare myself, it’s a protection thing, I recognize that, and I can let it go.

I have faith that even if every person who said let’s meet wasn’t able to, that my weekend will be just fine anyway.

I mean it’s begun, I’m not working tomorrow and I signed up for a yoga class and I have a coffee date with my person to do some work, I can lightly hold what happens the rest of the day and see what makes me the happiest to do.

A friend suggested I get a mani/pedi and a massage.

Mani/pedi is definitely on the list.

Massage sounds good too, but I don’t think that it would work tomorrow.

I’ll keep that in my back pocket.

I don’t often get massages, they are nice, but I am not often compelled to get one.

I always feel like my money is better spent elsewhere.

But a mani/pedi I can totally get behind.

Not that my toes will be seeing the light of day any time soon, more rain in the forecast, but it is a delicious splurge and I always appreciate my toes when they are done up.

Anyway.

I ramble.

Rainy day French music soundtrack lends me to a meander with my words.

Bon nuit mes amies.

A demain.

 

God Damn

You are sexy.

Thanks.

I needed to hear that.

And now it is time to listen to some French music.

Frenchies are sexy.

I like being sexy.

I remember when I was in a little bistro up in Potrero Hill, I think it might have been Chez Papa, but I am not 100% sure and I had just had my hair done, colored so that it was as close to my natural color as possible.

No more hot pink.

No purples or magentas.

No blues.

Just a rich, lustrous, dark brown.

And it was blown out.

I remember having the hamburger with an egg on it and Gruyère cheese.

To die for.

No bun, thank you.

Just a little green salad.

And after my friends and I were paying the check and leaving out the front door, saying good night to the owner, he waved, got up and came to see us out.

I let my friends go ahead of me and as I was walking out.

The owner leaned in, just a tiny bit into my personal space, but not too much into my space, just enough to know it was deliberate.

“Bye bye, sexy,” he said with a smile, his heavy Paris accent a lyrical whisper in my ear, and opened the door for me.

“Oh!” My friend said and giggled, “I heard that!  Do you want to go back and get his number, he’s single.”

I laughed, “um, DIane, the reason I was at the salon today was to get my hair ready for Paris, since I’m leaving in four days, probably no the best time to set up a date with a guy, but I think the hair is a hands down success.”

Heh.

It was a sexy hair do.

And I am feeling sexy tonight.

Just.

Well.

Because.

Suffice to say I know I am, but sometimes when someone you like says it to you, it makes all the difference.

Especially after a full day of being a nanny, running around, doing errands, going to the market, stripping beds and doing laundry, cleaning up little boy messes, filling the dog bowl with water, putting away groceries, wiping little runny noses and re-filling milk cups.

Of course.

There are moments too.

Oh, when the littlest guy, says, “pick me! pick me!”

He means, “pick me up.”

And I do.

And we dance around the kitchen and he throws back his head and smiles like a Cheshire cat and we sway to the music and I feel so much love and his little stuffed kitten is squashed between his arms and I have the best job in the world.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I told him as I snuggled him on my lap, “you’re my favorite three-year old in the world.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” he whispered, then said, “STAR WARS, Carmen, STAR WARS.”

So I put on the John Williams score and he does this crazy little interpretive dance and just melts my heart.

“He’s going to be a lady-killer,” a friend of mine said when I showed the video I took of him dancing.

It was just something else.

My job.

It is a good one.

I am grateful to have it.

Grateful to have not been priced out of the city and able to afford my rent.

Grateful for everything.

Hearing about a friend who is out there and can’t make it back really brought it home to me today and I was tender about it.

I remember the last time I saw him.

I have a picture of him, sitting in the sun on my back porch in the little tiny in-law I lived in on 23rd and Folsom Street.

He was all smiles and handsome and lit up by the sun.

We’d gone on a date or two, but never had anything come of it.

Just that we were friends.

And yes, there was some attraction there, but hey I was going to be traveling, leaving on a jet plane, jumping out of the country, getting the heck out of Dodge, and I was telling him about my decision to get up and go.

He reminded me of the time we had spent together with other friends, almost two years!  Doing the Artist Way, all the adventures we had, the group waxing and waning, but he, and five or six of the others of us, met weekly on Wednesdays for an hour, then we would all go up the hill and hang out in a church basement and drink crappy coffee and hang out after and fellowship some more.

We were tight.

We all were tight together and it was every day it seemed that I called one of those friends or saw them around the Mission.

Until I didn’t.

Until time passed.

And people change.

And not always for the better.

Sometimes for the worse.

I remember my friend leaning over and saying, “and I’ll bet you’re going to do it, too, you always do, you do what you say you are going to do, look at that first time you went to Paris, you just up and went and look at how many people you inspired in that group, you inspired me.”

“You’re going to love it, and you’ll be ok, you know you will,” he ended, leaned back, rocked back in the chair, the high Juniper trees of the next door neighbor waving behind him, “send postcards.”

I did send a lot of postcards.

I send them to lots of friends.

But.

I am not certain I sent him one.

He asked after me though, today, sent a hello out into the Universe via a mutual friend, and my heart broke reading the message and seeing how hard a time he was having of it.

Sexy is sad too.

Sexy is of the world.

I have experienced love and loss and sorrow and pain.

And that is what makes the living, the life I lead, the love I give so much more valuable.

it is tempered by that pain and explodes with sexiness.

“What’s up sexy?”

My friend said to me tonight as I sat down on a wobbly folding chair next to him in a dimly lit room.

We hugged.

“Nice hair cut!” I said and ruffled his hair.

“My girlfriend did it on the front step of my house with a set of fabric shears,” he replied, turning his head and giving me profile.

“That is hella hot,” I said.

“I know,” he said and we laughed.

Life.

A simple.

Full.

Graced life.

Sweet and round.

Limned in music.

Bursting with light from a glowing globe lantern.

The soft plink of piano keys.

The mystery of being on the top of the steps in the Montmartre.

Not knowing where I was going, just walking down those cold steps.

The stars so low in the velvet sky.

The air so cold.

It would snow the next day.

The silence of the city a soothing balm on my soul.

My little morose soul as it wandered the streets around Sacre Coeur.

Allowing one more experience to be impressed upon my soul.

The drift of wind, the muffler pulled tighter around my face.

A tear slipped down my face.

Then I thought.

There is no one else in the world at this time in this place.

Not another soul on this cold mid-week late evening stroll in the heart of Paris.

I am special.

And.

Just a little sexy.

Although I did not realize it at the time.

I am reminded of it now and I look forward to only growing.

Sexier.

With time.

My life.

It just gets bigger and grander.

The best.

Truly.

Is still to come.

And.

That.

Is.

Sexy.

Stair way in the Montmartre

Things That Are Taboo

Wanting to have sex with your ex boyfriend.

Or maybe, you know, just um, cuddle.

Yeah.

That.

My motives are shit right now and I know it and so I won’t be seeing my ex boyfriend any time soon.

It’s just in the air, the fog, the mist, the shiny, slippery streets–it’s so foggy out there that when I left the Sunset Youth Services a few moments ago I thought at first that it was raining.

But no.

Fog.

It’s lovely though and put me in the mood for snuggling.

I choose to snuggle with myself this evening.

Being in communication with my ex has been interesting and I have done some more work around me and how I respond and feelings and all that and why, gosh, it just turns out that I am human.

“You obviously had a strong bond,” he said to me over tea at the Church Street Cafe, “girl, you too were electric, there was chemistry there.”

“And that doesn’t necessarily go away, connection is connection, it’s when the instinct gets blown out of whack, that’s the problem.”

Yup.

So.

No calling up the ex, not inviting him over for a late night cup of tea.

If I were to see him it would best be in daylight across a table in a busy cafe.

No touching.

Ahem.

God.

I miss being touched.

I met someone tonight who I have seen around a little and we recognized one another from a different part of town.

He shook my hand and I just stood there.

Human contact.

Such a small thing and yet, so necessary.

I think about the failure to thrive orphanage video I watched in psychology class years and years and years ago, about the babies that had everything they needed, food, nutrition, a bed to sleep in, clothes, but no love.

And what happens?

They die.

I mean.

That’s serious.

I’m not there.

And I love myself enough to know that I won’t let myself get there.

But I can still get caught up in the what to wear thing and the being attractive thing and I was going to head out this evening after work and go straight to my place and do the deal in my pajamas after coming home from a long day at work and taking a smashing hot shower, but I got it in my head I would bump into the ex and boy, I better look cute.

Thanks brain.

Now I need to wash off the makeup.

But.

In reality, it helped, I like looking cute and you never know who you might run into, who might take your hand and squeeze it tight.

Of course.

I don’t remember his name, but the kind eyes were bright and the hand was strong and the arm covered in tattoos.

I like all of these things.

I like that he said he was in the neighborhood too, 48th and Kirkham.

I like that my brain also wondered, is he gay?

‘Cause I can pick ’em like that.

I like that he said, my class is done, I’ll be back here on Wednesday nights again.

Good.

So.

Something, someone to look forward to.

That’s been the other thing.

With the exception of someone from absolute left field who as it turns out, though attracted to me, though someone who has had a crush on me (!) reached out to me, he’s not available and I haven’t had anyone that I have been crushing on.

I haven’t had any zing.

Anything or anyone that makes me get all a quiver and excited.

I miss that feeling too.

That nice shiver of anticipation.

And kissing.

Oh.

I miss kissing.

I need to be kissed.

For reals.

It’s been four and a half months since the breakup.

There’s been no kissing, no sex, no snuggling, no cuddling, no nothing.

My bicycle seat’s been getting all the action.

And I look, good damn it.

In fact, I look better than when I was with my ex.

I dropped about five pounds and tightened up a bit, all the extra bicycle riding, went down a dress size, got my hair shaped up, and colored a fabulous pink, and I haven’t gotten any play.

Granted.

I could have.

That whole trying Tinder for a day was enough to let me know there are plenty of guys out there who have no interested in whether or not I can read a sentence in a book or carry a conversation, as long as I can bend over and lift my skirt.

Please.

You have to try a little harder.

I ride by Good Vibrations every day on my way back to my house, the one on Valencia at 17th, and I keep finding myself wondering if it’s just time for a new vibrator.

Sigh.

Nothing wrong with a new sex toy.

Let’s be adults here folks.

But my dildo can’t kiss the back of my neck while I play the soundtrack to Amelie and listen to the whisper of the fog horns off the coast herald the misty night swathing the neighborhood.

I wonder then if it’s time to climb back into the dating websites or if I just hold steady for a while yet.

See what happens when I’m not looking, just keep going about my day and my life and someone will notice, step forward, and say, yes, let me kiss you in the door way, press you against the orange painted gate of your house and run my hands though your wild pink hair.

I will here Yann Tiernan in my head and sigh and melt into the air and the fog will swirl my heart away out over the ocean.

I don’t want sex.

That’s the real taboo thing.

I can talk sex all day long, and I do want sex, don’t let my words mislead.

But I want the courtship first, the date, I want to pick up a book and hold his head in my lap and read to him and I want to be wrapped, tucked tight, really, in the crook of a man’s arm and held, guided, led through the mists out to the beach, where the love smashes itself on the sand and the electric blue jellyfish flay themselves on the sand, melting into the tide line like mermaid tears.

That’s what is taboo.

Wanting love.

To be loved.

To want romance.

That is the real deal breaker.

I wait for it.

The carousel will stop turning and I will grab the brass ring and sail around the perimeter of the square, while accordions play and the sun sprays on my face a calliope of desire and love.

Until then.

Another cup of tea.

A few more words on this page.

I open my heart to give and receive love.

I shall start with me.

Blessed, Supported, Loved

Taken care of.

I could increase the list ad infinitum.

I was blown away by the generosity of my friends, family, fellows, this past twenty-four hours.

So many sweet thoughts and gifts, it makes me want to crawl under my bed and hide.

The I don’t deserve this police are trying to knock down my door, but I keep telling them I’ve moved.

And I have.

Some place into a kind of humility.

A sweet place of grace where I can actually allow myself the afternoon to sit and bask in some sunshine as it comes through the back door of my studio.

To snuggle into my bed, a bed I made again today!

That is progress, making the bed.

To get into that made bed, unmake it a little, and put the soundtrack to Amelie of Montmartre on my laptop and drift off into daydreams of Paris and scenes in the Metro, to actually being asleep, cozy and cared for.

Now, I can also get antsy as fuck and I don’t know how many of these “idyllic” afternoons I can take without running around the house in a panic, but though I am slow to surrender, surrender I am.

The thoughts danced about this evening as I was listening to another share her experience with life and humility, getting right sized, and a small, very small, epiphany–how long I have taken care of others, from the ripe age of three, four, to two weeks ago when I left my last nanny shift since the accident.

Today marks two weeks since I have worked.

So much, and so little (moving), has happened in those two weeks, the GoFundMe (which is still surreal and I am glad I don’t have a hand in doing it or running it, it does freak me out a bit to ask for that level of care), the folks who have consistently picked me up and carted me around town, the new friends I am making, the old friends that I am getting to actually see, the number of people who have come over to my house to hang out, do work, or just sit in a chair and shoot the shit with me, it’s almost overwhelming.

As some one astutely put on my fund-raising platform,

Sit your ass down and heal. Your friends love you.

My God.

I am loved.

I feel a little Sally about it, “you really love me, you really do!”

But so taken care of.

So taken care of, I wonder, well, shoot, what do I have to worry about now?

Just that, sit your ass down and heal.

That is the directive.

Healing takes time and like the crazy person I am, I don’t have time for that, but I have heard, oh too many of them over the last two weeks, horror stories of folks trying to get back to sports, athletics, daily living, or what have you, work, before an injury has healed and done themselves worse and re-injured themselves.

I cannot afford to do that.

I will lose my mind.

So, yes, I will nap.

And yes, I will sit, sitting now, elevating, icing, compressing.

I will also cook soup.

Made a pinto bean and rice stew with purple and gold carrots, chicken, cauliflower, and yes, kale (if I sneak it in with all the tastiness I can’t tell it’s kale, I just feel good about getting some greenery in me), plus brown rice, today.

Made my bed today.

Well, it was made for a minute.

Worked on some data entry.

I will not be continuing forward with it once I have finished doing the service, not my thing, not.

I can do an hour, then my brain feels like it’s gotten a sprain.

Which is great information.

Should I be so inclined to not want to go back to being a nanny, which is not the case, mind you, I know that my career path is NOT data entry.

“Oh goodness,” I told her, on the way to the Inner Sunset, “I have tried so many things, and I am really glad that I have tried going after my crazy ideas, helped kill the fantasy, and get out of the obsession that something, a job, was going to fix me.”

Anyone remember when I was going to be an accountant?

bwhahahahaha.

Oof.

So sorry, I actually have two very dear people in my life who are accountants, and they are amazing, but you know, it’s not the job for me.

Or retail.

I got offered a retail position yesterday.

“You’d be great!  And you don’t have to move around too much,” she said, “and if you need more time to heal, the shop would be willing to wait for you.”

Again, amazing how people are so kind, generous, helpful, but that’s not the fit either.

I do like to move around, which is why the nanny thing is a good fit too.

“Are you going to be ready for the great nanny share-off that week in July?”

One of my families sent me a message today to check in and remind me that I had agreed to do a three family share for the week of July 15th-18th.

I think I am.

As long as I am not trying to do jumping jacks before then.

I will also have had one week back at work, fingers crossed, and will be able to gauge it.

The ankle is healing.

I can tell it is, the swelling is slowly going down, I don’t look like I have fat sausage toes most of the time.

My foot doesn’t look like a dead thing hanging from my leg.

Serious.

There have been a few times when I felt like I was carrying around a rotting dead part of my body.

I kept having these horrid flashbacks to when my family dog got hit by a car and instead of doing an amputation on the front leg, we attempted to try to keep it, but it didn’t heal.

In fact.

It started to rot.

That is a smell I can never, ever, erase from my memory.

Looking down at my foot a few times was like seeing that dead limb on my dog.

It doesn’t look like that today.

Thank God.

And if I follow directions, sit still, let my body heal, and love myself as much as I can, which really means having some humility and accepting the love that is being showered upon me instead of shying away from it, then I know I will come out of this with not only a healthy ankle, but an amazing community of friends, family, and fellows, with whom I get to continue sharing this crazy journey.

The best of both worlds.

Love is the master principle.