Posts Tagged ‘courage’

Almost Got It

June 10, 2017

I thought I was social media dark on my blog last night when I posted.

Except.

Ha.

I was still linked to Twitter.

Figured it out pretty quick, went and deleted off Twitter, and it didn’t link to Facecrack and now, well, I’ve disconnected any sharing on the blog.

It’s just you and me and a couple of friends.

Shhhh.

Part of me want to let out some big scary secret.

But there’s no big scary thing to let out of the bag.

I am a pretty happy lady.

I had today off.

What?

I know.

A Friday.

Off.

My family that I work for is still super sick and I got the message last night after I logged off my blog that they thought it better for me to take off today as well and they’d see me Monday.

I have to say I was sorry for them, but also so grateful, I really don’t know what I would have done had I gotten a severe flu bug.

I hate vomiting.

I mean really bad.

So I’ll happily take my pass and take the day off.

I didn’t sleep in, I got up and went to an early yoga class.

But after that I did take a really mellow day for myself.

I balanced the check book, paid the phone bill, did lots of writing, got in some laundry.

Then I scooted over to Nordstrom Rack and spent a lot of time trying on clothes that didn’t work for me.

I had some high hopes, but the retail therapy was not to be had.

Then again, it wasn’t a total loss, I got a bra, two tank tops, two pairs of panties, some body lotion and some mascara.

It was worth the trip, just to pick up a couple of staples.

Sure.

I had hoped for a new summery dress or maybe a pair of pretty shoes, but fact is, I have bought myself some nice things recently and I don’t really need to do more shopping.

I was looking for something to keep my brain occupied.

It turns out that a woman I have been working with for the past three and a half years is no longer available to work with me and we had a long talk on the phone as I stood by my scooter in the parking lot at Nordstrom Rack.

The blue sky coming through the sky light, the cars parking, the sound of a shopping cart going by and someone who loves me saying, I have loved working with you but it’s time for you to find someone else.

I have never been let go quite like this.

In fact.

I have never been let go.

I have always been the one to find another person to work with.

It was definitely an experience.

Now.

The funny thing is, not funny haha, but interesting, odd, is it odd?

Or God?

I think.

Well.

I believe.

It was God.

As I have prayed a lot over the last week about the relationship.

Something was said to me last week when we met that hurt my feelings deeply and though there was some repair in the moment when she realized how hurt I was, there was still an underlying wounding that I carried with me for days.

I just didn’t know what to make of it.

It came out in my therapy session Tuesday morning.

And.

Well.

Yes.

As a matter of fact.

I bawled my damn eyes out.

Then I worked through it.

Then.

Later that day when I was checking in with someone else.

I got mad.

I mean.

ANGRY.

I was yelling cunt in a church courtyard, so yeah, maybe livid might even be an emotional marker.

I did calm down.

I did write a lot of inventory.

Then I sat on it for a couple of days and really just let myself calm the fuck down.

Thank God for getting to yoga three times in a row this week.

Totally took the edge off.

That praying and writing and more writing and then I did it.

I called, left a message, said what I was feeling and let go of the results.

The results?

I was let go.

And I have no regrets.

Not a one.

I was honest and I know that there was no bitterness in the parting and I’m grateful for the time we got to work together and I’m grateful that I get to have a new experience with another person.

Before it was happening I had felt this dread and sadness and overwhelm, how the fuck am I going to find another person to work with?

I’m too busy.

But.

When it happened.

I knew that it was right.

And I knew that I wasn’t being dropped.

If anything it was God doing for me what I could not do for myself.

I get to have a new experience with a new person and I will get to grow and find out new things and have a new perspective and until that person comes into my life, I’m held by my community and I am not worried.

I am loved.

I am enough.

And I learned a lot.

Some of which I can’t share here as it’s just not my place.

But.

Suffice to say there was deep learning here.

And a deep gratitude for my community and for the people I talked to over the last few days and today and for feeling held and loved and having that love reflected back to me.

I know that I’m still going to have some feelings.

Abandonment.

Not lovable.

Not enough.

Yada, yada, yada.

Victim.

Martyr.

But.

They will pass.

And I will come out the other side stronger and better and more graceful.

Whenever God has “taken” something or someone from me I have been given the gift that he was waiting to put into my hands but I was too busy holding onto something that didn’t work out of some misplaced idea that I could fix it and make it better.

Not realizing God had the solution right in front of me.

My hands are empty.

I am now able to receive.

My heart is ready.

I will walk through this.

I have to.

There is not another choice.

There is only the present.

And all the gifts inherent.

I am loved.

And that is enough.

It always is.

Fear Of The Apple People

April 12, 2015

Part Deux (The original Fear of the Apple People was one of my first blogs on this site about five and a half years ago–maybe I should call this a “reprise” instead).

The fear is not as bad as it used to be, once upon a time, but the fear is still there.

God forbid I look stupid.

I can’t call a help desk.

What if they find out I am an idiot?

What are they going to do, Martines, take away your laptop?

REALLY?

Fear of not knowing what I am doing will stop me in my tracks all the time.

Every time.

But, what I have learned, and I have learned so much since I first became a proud owner of my first, slightly used, refurbished MacBook, is that I may be stopped momentarily with fear, it does not get the best of me.

“Men of faith have courage.”

Courage is walking through fear.

It is not the lack of fear, I’m always going to have fear.

Fear is a part of the human experience, it just is.

However, I have a disease of perception and of over blown fears.

My fears are irrational and unconstituted in fact.

They are baseless, groundless, little mindless animals, voles, shrews, grommets.

I know, a grommet is not an animal.

However, doesn’t that sound like what a little fear animal is–small brown tatty fur, sharp little teeth, scrappy claws, yellowish beady eyes, nocturnal–a grommet.

“Sorry honey, I didn’t mean to snap at you, too many grommets attacking my brain today.”

I have had my new laptop for about a week and I am thrilled.

Thrilled.

The battery last like forever and the receptivity from the key board really does make it feel like I am thinking the words and they are just popping up on the screen.

Lovely.

It’s light, easily a quarter of the weight my old laptop is, that old brick.

But, for what ever reason.

Well, I suspect the not so hot internet connection I have in my little studio by the sea has something to do with it.

The migration of my files on the old laptop to the new MacBook Air took over 24 hours and when it finally happened, something glitchy happened.

The MacBook Air and the old laptop both tell me the same thing–that the files have transferred, but I can’t seem to locate them.

I would like to locate them.

All my music files.

10,000 plus photographs.

Who knew I was so prolific?

Well, you might.

Considering I have been writing this blog on a fair daily basis for the last five years and each blog is on average 1,000 words.

Prolific is not an issue for me.

It has taken me a week, however, to acknowledge that I can’t figure it out.

“Figure it out is not a slogan,” he would say to me brusquely on the phone, and depending on where I was I would burst into tears.

But I want to figure it out!

Damn it man.

God forbid, I repeat, that you find out that I don’t know what I am doing.

I have no clue what I am doing, in case you had any thoughts to the contrary.

I’m following the fault line down the mountain, the path of least resistance, to my heart, to my knees, to my soul.

“If you’re falling down the hill, you’re in God’s will,” she told me at a cafe in Paris, it might have been the Lizard Lounge in the Marais when she first imparted this wisdom upon me.

She then told me about how a snow ball rolling down the mountain takes the path of least resistance, equating it to, if it’s simple it’s the choice, if it’s convoluted and means double back tracking and going around that tree and uprooting that other one, and moving the snow fences, then maybe it’s not meant to be.

I try to figure it out all the time.

Then I remember.

I can’t.

I don’t need to.

And.

Yes.

I can ask for help.

So, I finally got my butt on the Apple site and booked a phone call help session for tomorrow a half hour before my first lady bug of the day flits her way to my doorstep for tea and singleness of purpose.

I can’t imagine it will take more than a half hour to resolve the situation.

If not fifteen minutes.

Probably only five.

That’s the thing.

I often will be given the solution in a nice tidy compact package, but I have to fret for a while.

It’s not as bad as it used to be and I count that as progress.

And bravery.

I am a brave person.

I showed up for a blind date today and I have another tomorrow.

I’m not thrilled to be doing this.

“Geez you sound so excited,” she giggled at me last night when I described going on a date in Golden Gate Park for a picnic on the lawn somewhere.

Yeah.

Not excited.

Not because I didn’t have some rapport with the man, I obviously wouldn’t have accepted the date if there was nothing to talk about.

Which there was nothing to talk about with another guy that tried to contact me today.

Dude.

Did you even read the profile?

And please, I can’t promise I won’t break your heart, no one is responsible for breaking your heart, you break your own heart, so don’t even bother to ask me that.

There are no victims, only volunteers.

I did not volunteer myself to go on a date with said man.

Let some other woman break his heart, I’m too busy breaking my own.

“I’m so over internet dating I told my friend,” my date was running late and I was hungry and boohoo’ing in my coffee.

“Honey, have a snack, I’m sure there’s good reason and he’s making an effort and a MUNI is MUNI, and don’t delete your profile until after you have eaten,” she admonished me.

Yup.

So I’ll be off to try another tomorrow.

Coffee at Java Beach and a walk on said beach, Ocean Beach, with his dog.

I can be afraid of not being enough.

Pretty enough.

Young enough.

Smart enough.

Blah, blah, blah.

Or I can walk through these silly fears too and keep on going.

Every time I take a little leap forward the fear is dispelled a tiny bit and the faith grows larger and larger.

One day this will all be laughable and I won’t worry about calling the help desk and asking them to fax me over a ream of paper and I’ll be ok with looking silly and I’ll keep wearing flowers in my hair and glitter on my face, turning it toward the sun, the blue skies, and the birds flying over head in the park.

“Look, there,” I stopped him, the picnic in the park date, and the story he was telling, “red tail hawk.”

I watched it silently as it circled lazy on the wind and sun, the music of a guitar drifting from the bandshell by the DeYoung, a little boy on roller skates tumble bumbling by, the grass green under my bare feet, I breathed in and closed my eyes to the sun, soaking it up and relishing being exactly who I am in the exact place I am supposed to be.

I think that’s called acceptance.

Face it.

I live in San Francisco.

By the beach.

With a MacBook Air under my fingers, Cat Stevens on my stereo, and nice food in my fridge.

I have nothing to fear.

But yes.

Fear itself.

And even I know that there really is nothing behind that too.

Just another opportunity to grow.

Graceful.

Beautiful.

Loved.

On The Road Again

October 19, 2014

Honey, I just can’t wait to get on the road again.

Baby.

Ooh.

Yeah.

That’s right.

I got back in the saddle, I hopped back on the horse and I rode her all over town.

My Vespa that is.

Yes, my Vespa, not his Vespa, my Vespa.

Because a lady can change her mind and that’s ok.

There was a time, and not too long ago where I would have said ok, I said I’m going to sell it, I’m selling it, or whatever it was I was doing or thinking about doing, even though I had some doubts, because I said I would, I would.

I wasn’t allowed to change my mind.

Which meant I wasn’t allowed to make mistakes.

Which means I have to be perfect.

And man.

I tell ya, perfect is a hard state to achieve and maintain.

Having neither achieved or maintained said state ever, I should know.

Having tried to maintain that state of perfection all my life, I should really know.

I was unsettled this morning about the scooter when I woke up.  I prayed.  Yeah, I do that, weird huh, but it works and I’m not about to change the efficacy of something when it works, do it.  So I asked for some direction and did some writing and then I did a sitting meditation on top of it.

What did I need to do to get the scooter ready?

I should put air in the tires, I should dust her off, she’s basically been at a stand still since June 4th when I sprained my ankle trying to kick-start it, I should maybe, if I can get it started, top of the gas in the tank.

Then I sat.

There were two things bothering me at the edge of my brain.

One of them had to do with a piece of mail I had gotten the day before yesterday.

The other was that I sort of wanted to ride my scooter.

I mean, I was sort of jealous of the dude that was coming to buy it.

I was also concerned that the whole plan to sell the scooter, turn around, put a down payment on another and then transfer the title, get new insurance for the new scooter, pay extra taxes for a new scooter, and the getting my scooter dealt with, felt all too complicated.

That knowledge coupled with the piece of mail I received, which was an offer for a credit card, sat with me.

Now.

I haven’t gotten an offer for a credit card in a long time.

Like, oh, seven years to be exact.

I picked up the VISA pre-approved credit card application and smiled, I had forgotten, though not truly forgotten, about my bankruptcy filing that I did, yes, you guessed it, seven years ago this month.

October 15th, to be exact.

I filed for and was granted a Chapter 7 Bankruptcy.

I did some stupid things, drinking a lot and doing a lot of cocaine fueled those stupid things, and I had to pay for them when I first got into recovery.

But I did not.

I did not for about a year.

I was really destitute my first year of recovery, I am still uncertain how the hell I got through, but I did, I was graced and I got through and after that first year I had to start cleaning up the wreckage of my financial history.

“We must lose our fear of creditors no matter how far we have to go, for we are liable to drink if we are afraid to face them,” she quoted to me as we sat and drank coffee in the kitchen of her house.

Fuck me.

I owe a lot.

I was scared.

It was hard.

I made a lot of phone calls with a script I had help writing, I made amends and repaid what I could when I could where I could.  I repaid my best friend $1100 for rent.  I paid off the IRS.  I paid of Victoria Secrets (the pair of jeans and the bra that I had bought on my credit card for $128 eventually cost me $785 after not paying on the Victoria Secrets card I had taken out right before I got sober, but I paid it off–said pair of jeans, fyi, I sold to Buffalo Exchange for a whopping $15 store credit, or $8 cash, I took the cash and bought some groceries).

I made payments to VISA and MasterCard and another card I had, maybe another separate VISA account?  Not even sure, but I made payments.

Sometimes five dollars a month.

Sometimes twenty.

I finally, after a year of doing this, maybe a year and a half, took the advice of a room-mate, saw the free lawyer at the San Francisco Public Library, who told me to file bankruptcy, and I set the wheels in motion.

It cost me $1500.

It cleared me of over $68,000 in debt.

Most of it interest.

The original debt might have been around $12,000 or $13,000, I’m hazy on the numbers.

Anyway.

The only thing I owed on was my student loans, which they won’t absolve, and I have spent the last 9 1/2 years paying my way in cash with very few exceptions.

The plane ticket back from Paris.

And this scooter.

That’s what got me.

When I saw that piece of mail saying I was pre-approved, my first thought was, now I can buy a new scooter and get on this thing.

Then I thought.

Wait.

What?

Why go into debt when I am almost completely done paying off the Vespa?

I have two payments left, I could probably pay it off right now if I wanted to, why go into debt buying a new one?

And then.

It’s so cute, my Vespa, that is.

I sat.

I meditated.

I got quiet.

I thought, felt, asked, listened.

It seemed to be that it was not the prudent thing to do.

I sought further instruction.

I rode my bicycle to 7th and Irving and sat at Tart to Tart and did some reading and spent some time talking about where I am in my life and what’s happening and dating and work and then I rode home on my bicycle.

I was beginning to feel, honest, in my gut, that I was not supposed to sell the Vespa.

I made lunch.

I sat on the back patio and flipped through a Vogue and watched the sky and then I went and got the keys to the scooter.

Act as if.

I pulled it out.

I dusted her off.

I wiped her down, put air in the tires, and decided I would try to start her up and take her to the gas station down the street.

I used my right foot, not my left.

Guess what happened?

No, really guess.

Ha.

She started on the second kick.

The engine-turned over, I gave her some gas and then I let her sit and warm up.

I went inside, put on a jacket, grabbed my helmet, my messenger bag and my wallet.

I hopped on my scooter.

I had not forgotten how to ride it.

I knew within a minute, less probably, of being on the scooter, I knew by the first stop sign I reached at 46th and Irving, that I was keeping her.

I was grinning ear to ear.

I took her to the gas station, topped off the tank, for a whopping $3, and rode her back to the house.

I parked in front of the garage and called the man who wanted to buy her and said, I apologize for the late notice, but I have decided to not sell my Vespa.  I hope you understand and I am sorry if I have inconvenienced your schedule in any way.

He was super sweet about it and that was that.

I rode her to the grocery store, just to get a little more comfortable on her, through the park, and then back to the house to unload my bag.

I rode her up Lincoln to Cole Valley, then to 17th Street, up and over the hill, god damn the view, then up and over Diamond Street to St. Phillips in Noe Valley.

And like that.

I’m back in the saddle again.

It was a bit rocky at points.

I killed it twice.

But I restarted her without a hitch and breathed through the entire thing and whooped with joy more than once.

Grateful that I am allowed to not be perfect, to make mistakes, to learn from them, and to literally get my butt back in the saddle.

I have to say.

I am more than a little proud of myself for doing it.

Walking through some fear.

It does a girl good.

Note to self.

Remember that tomorrow on your date!

Which I will enjoy, no matter what, because I will know that I have a gorgeous little scooter waiting to take me for a ride when it’s done.

Vroom!

Vroom!

Uh, I Am Not Very Good At This

March 1, 2014

But.

I think you’re cute.

And if you ever want to go grab a cup of coffee, here’s my number, give me a call.

Then I walked away.

Killed that fantasy.

Took two weeks.

I won’t say should, would, or could, but I was kicking myself two weeks ago Friday for not doing exactly what I did tonight, then.  But hey, its progress.

Stuff like that would have terrorized me for months if not years, you think I kid.

And I am not very good at this, but the only way to go through, is through.

I need to do this sort of stuff as I am changing by changing.  I mean, I won’t change by doing the same things I have always done.  Which looks a bit like, crush out on someone and never say anything unless they are moving away or I am.

I still almost did not do it.

I stood, re-arranging my bag, checking my phone, chatting to the person standing next to me, watching him.

He passed me, I caught his eye, I smiled, he smiled, then he walked by.

D’oh!

What am I doing?

I can do this.

I walked out.

I walked away.

I walked past.

I did not collect $200.

I did not pass Go.

Grr.

I stood outside on the sidewalk and as I was standing next to John Ater who was inquiring if I was coming out to dinner or not, I realized I could not stand the talking to I would get if I told him what I had just done.

Sometimes people pleasing does work for me.

I turned around and went back inside to use the bathroom.

I saw him again and walked by.

GOD DAMN IT.

Ok.

I can do this.

I went pee and looked myself firm in the eye, sack up, lady pants, you got this.

Besides, I looked stupid cute.

You should have seen me this morning trying to juggle what I was going to wear.

I can’t remember being so flummoxed by my wardrobe in sometime and it was because I knew I would see the guy tonight and I would need to pull the trigger.

Have to pull it.

I can’t stand the being in fantasy part any longer.

Get it over with, ask and find out, then move on.

That’s the only way I am going to find out, since I haven’t been asked out of late and I want that to change.  I want to go on a date, I got to let people know I am available and I need to let the guys know whom I am attracted to.

Otherwise it’s all just a story in my head.

I walked out of the bathroom and he was standing with his back towards me speaking with someone who needed some help and it was the moment.

I knew it.

I rummaged in my bag (I am not the confident girl who demands the phone from the guy and then plugs her number into it, that’s movie stuff as far as I am concerned) and pulled out a little notebook.

I wrote my name.

I wrote my number.

I folded it in half.

I looked up and he was walking my way.

“Hi Carmen,” he said and smiled and headed to the bathroom.

Oh my god, I am about to do it again.

I could feel myself shrinking back and about to stick the piece of folded up paper in my pocket.

I have done this a number of times too–gotten really close to asking someone out or saying something and then letting the moment go right on by–and then spent the rest of the week kicking myself.

I am so tired of kicking myself when I am down.

“Hey ________,” I almost shouted, but not quite.

He stopped, turned, cocked his head, paused.

Oh stupid, you are stupid, damn it, and whoa, he’s cute, he’s cute.

“Uh, I am not very good at this,” I blurted out, “but, I think you’re really cute (oh heaven’s to Betsy, did I just say that?  Am I in high-school?) and if you ever want to grab a coffee, give me a call.”

I handed him the folded up piece of paper and bolted.

I did not wait for a response.

I think I smiled.

I am not certain if he was heading to the bathroom or going to say something to me or what, I cannot tell, I was not present to gauge his reaction.

I know he took the piece of paper.

And.

Sweet fucking relief.

I am not fantasizing any more.

As soon as I was outside, I could feel it lift.

Followed by a rush of adrenalin that was not as bad as I have had it before.

I stood outside, waited for John, then walked down to Haight Street with him and a few other folks for some dinner at a nearby cafe.

By the time I had finished dinner and swapped numbers with a new women whom I had met recently but not had a chance to chat with, I had forgotten all about it.

It was only when I went to check my phone to see when the next N-Judah was going to be running that I remembered.

Because there was not a text or a call on it.

So be it.

There could be later or not.

I don’t have to worry about it.

I did the action.

I got some relief.

That’s what it’s about really.

I don’t have control over how any of this stuff works, but I do find that when I take the suggestions I feel better.  I don’t know who I am going to date next, only that I will, because I am willing to take action.

Willingness without action is fantasy.

Shot the fantasy in the foot tonight.

Even if what it looked like was that I just stuck my foot in my mouth.

Action was taken.

Done is done.

Next.

I Am Not A Coward

November 20, 2013

I said to myself this morning as I once again was having a conversation about justifying my needs, my rates, my time and the compensation of said worth.

Oh for fuck, sake, I thought, just do it.

Just have the uncomfortable conversation so I can stop listening to the melee in my head.

And I did.

And I got the raise.

At least from mom number one.

She was so sweet.

So endearing.

And insisted that I actually start today with the wage increase.

Instead of waiting until December 1st like I had offered.

We also agreed to salary my position with her and how I really love her and her boy.

Do I.

I love both my boys.

Adore.

I usually fall for the kids, hazard of the job you could say, or I could say it is one of the perks of the job.

I don’t have a lot of bosses that I fall head over heels for, constantly snap photographs of and sing funny songs to.

I suspect that not a lot of my bosses would have been amused by that kind of behavior.

It was such a relief.

My head was quiet all day.

I mean fucking silent.

It just had nothing to chew on.

Thank God.

It did wind up a little bit on the way home, I knew I was going to have to bite the bullet and send an e-mail to the other mom who is out-of-town.

Not my preference, but it had to be done.

I just did that.

I have practiced it all week.

I cut and paste my revised twice e-mail that I had sent off to get approval elsewhere, added in a hope your time out-of-town is going well, love to the baby, and please let me know when you can.

I suspect her answer will be the same.

Then I can stop asking for rate changes as I will be current with market rate.

“I need  a goddamn team of people to support me,” I told my dear friend over soup at Sunflower Sunday night, “it takes a village is no fucking joke.”

I have talked with more than one friend who has advocated again and again and again that I raise my rates.

It only took a few months and some really uncomfortable work to get here, but get here I did.

And now I can stop.

Sigh.

Relief.

For the next day, then I need to tell my solo day family that my rates are going up too.  I am offering them the same explanation, keeping it simple, to the point, and hopefully without tears.

I doubt, actually that I will tear up, I am not as emotionally connected to their child, though I think she is an utter peach, plus I have only just gotten to know the family.

The mom I spoke with today has known me for over six years.

She was in the office at the Burning Man HQ when I started nannying there.

First temporarily, once a week for a board meeting, then for the retreat, then for the holiday party then for Juni and Reno, who good lord are both six.

Six.

I met her when she was six weeks.

Now she is six years.

Amazing.

How much I have grown in that time.

I remember her papa once looking at me and saying, “girl, you got to ask for what you need,” when I finally broke down and asked the family for a cost of living increase that I had needed for months but couldn’t bring myself to do.

I see a pattern.

Anyhow.

I am grateful to all the friends who have been in my corner saying all those positive things, I actually do believe them, but old habits, self-effacing ones especially, die-hard.

I am still nervous to hear back from the other mom, but I took the action, let go of the results and did the best I can do.

That’s really all I can do.

That and sit and write.

And do some stretches.

I received my e-mail from the Physical Therapy department at Kaiser, lot’s of stretching, lots of water, continue the ibuprofen, rest, hot and cold, and get a yoga roller.

Ok then.

It was also suggested that I need to get ergonomic with my desk.

Who told that it hurts to type?

Oh.

I did.

Sheesh.

The blog is the last thing I want to give up.

The mom showed me her set up in her private office.

As it turns out, she has a similar issue, which is why there are tennis balls scattered around the house–she uses them to work out muscle soreness.

I had never heard of this before, and it was recommended to me by the PT doc too, use a tennis ball and roll it over the sore spot.

I dug into it today at work while the baby was napping.

Lots of stretches, lots of rolling the ball around my shoulder, more stretching.

And yes, Virginia, I will get myself an ergonomic set up for my computer.

Along with some rain gear.

Wow.

That was a long, cold, wet ride home tonight.

It wasn’t bad to begin, the November rains began today, and despite holding me hostage in the house, fell soft, gentle, with a noise of hushing reassurance, and the entire world smelt fresh and dewy.

However, after an hour detour this evening at 7th and Irving, I came out into the night to find it down pouring.

Ah, damn.

I was soaked by the time I had gone five blocks.

Slow as slow could be.

All bike lights on, collapsible rear fender pulled out of my bag strapped onto the frame, and hood up on my sweatshirt.

I made it back, stripped down immediately, threw my clothes in the laundry and climbed into a hot, hot, hot shower.

Oooh.

The goodness that is a hot shower, especially after that kind of ride.

And a night-time shower, I don’t know why exactly, but it feels some how decadent.

I suppose because I am not in a rush to get out the door like I am in the morning, I can savor it.

Boy did I ever.

Tomorrow.

Rain gear.

I can afford it.

I got the raise!


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