I spend a lot of time thinking about myself. I don’t think it’s a vanity thing. I think it’s an identity thing. Truthfully, I think it stems from an identity crisis of sorts. Some time ago I wanted to impress someone to the point of oppressing my personality. He liked pancakes at 2am. I was an 8am egg girl, but I learned to make flapjacks his way, and worse, love them. His likes and dislikes became my own through tons of time pretending. I faked so much I forgot who I really was. Was I a girl who loved golf or one who couldn’t stand the game? Was I sweats and tee-shirt, stand at the fridge chugging milk from the carton, or was I white slacks and silk blouse sipping a mimosa? I was in conflict with who I really was but at the time, true to form, oblivious. Blind. Friends tried to warn me as I lost my name, but I was too busy booking my next tee time. Helpless in a sea of Helpfuls.
I do believe that everyone “gets” something from the people they come into contact with. Especially the long-time, intimate contacts. I’m not talking mono or an STD. I’m talking about personality shaped by connection. Particles of personality clinging to the psyche that is undeniably “you.” I have an affinity for grape soda, hot dog and green olive pizza, Enigma, and apples with cheddar cheese because of someone introducing them to me. I’m sure I would have discovered these things on my own because in the grand scheme of things they were destined to be “favorites” (regardless of how I got to them), but I’m grateful the direction that led me there that much sooner. I practice yoga because one of the most important people in my life showed me the way. I dont’ do it for her but I can honestly say it’s because of her. I carry my father’s way of answering mail. I mimic my mother’s mannerisms when meeting strangers. I’ve adopted things and made them my own. I think I can name a particle I’ve acquired from every boyfriend I’ve ever had, even the golf fanatic…despite the fact I’ve definitely dropped the game.
I’m declaring tonight Time Out Time. I cleared the schedule, cancelled Boston and called in my favors. Tonight it’s time to recharge the batteries. No. That’s not it. I’m not run down or worn out. Okay, maybe I’m a little tired since Dot came to town, but that’s not the half of it. I need me. I miss me. By nature I’m a solitary girl. I like being alone-alone. Me, Myself & Moi all hanging out, talking to ourselves. I want to do the laundry from start to finish. Not a wash here, four hours later a dry there. Folding five days later. And forget about putting it away. I still have piles of laundry sitting on the floor outside my closet – From Monday. I have piles of paperwork, begging to be sorted. I’ve lost track of what bills are due and which my husband quietly paid while I wasn’t paying attention. 
Distracted. I have been too distracted by work and things are starting to fray. Don’t get me wrong – having dinner with friends has been awesome and the catching up was way overdue. Monday night was the bomb because of the bond. Okay, the cheesecake was boss, too. Even on the way home I thought of things to babble. If only my cell phone wasn’t trapped in the pocket blocked by the seatbelt! Wednesday night was all about VentVentVent. Bending the ear of someone who has no clue. Not involved in any way, shape or form. Probably the best way I know to get unbiased help on IM, Podcasting, Second Life, VoIp, Domain names…you name it. Nice to not have to call the director on the carpet, but rather sweep her under the rug. I can’t think about that anymore, either. Like I said, frayed.
I want to whip up a girly mudmask to combat the zip that’s been hanging out on my cheek all week. I want to spend an hour in restorative poses while 
My husband becomes a devil this time of year. His eyes glint with mischief and he can barely contain a smirk as he struts around our apartment. It’s like he drags his feet on purpose, just because he can. It doesn’t hurt him, yet for us girls it’s torture. It’s almost as if he enjoys inflicting this pain on the women in his life. I’m talking about static electricity. My KISA doesn’t need to build up a charge before zapping us. It just happens. He will sit on the couch and distractedly pet the cat. Pat. Snap. I watch as she flinches before contact every single time. Pat. Snap. Pat. Snap. Her ears flatten or a second and I can hear the electric crackle from across the room. It doesn’t hurt her much but it makes me shudder. When it comes time for me to make contact with KISA I practically slug him across the face to defuse the shock. Nine times out of ten it doesn’t work. I get jolted anyway. I’m sure the neighbor can hear me scream…ten houses away. And. He. Laughs. How cruel is that? We are not a violent household, but it sure sounds like it in the winter. I let out yelps of pain so loud I’m just waiting for the day someone calls the cops on us. It’s so bad that I want to ban certain articles of clothing that snap and crackle when removed. I had a sweater that puts on a spectacular light show when taken off in the dark. I gave it Goodwill. Touching metal anything is torture. Getting in and out of my car is hell. File cabinets. Light switches. Door knobs. Desk drawers. Doing laundry – having to peel the nightgown from running pants. I have to resist the urge to OD on dryer sheets.
I like staring at the art on my walls. I’m not sure if it’s a sense of pride or a sense of person that keeps me standing still. If I don’t know the artist, I certainly know the image. In most cases I know both, for they are all portrayals, stills if you will, of my island life. Stories in frames. My home in intimate detail. My history in watercolor, oil and pencil. My memory lane matted and framed. Neimic, Stone (Jr. & Sr.), Barnes, Larson, Johnson, Bush, Tihansky, Caroll, Brooks, Wyeth, Drexler to name some. A little bit of everyone. The cliffs, the ocean, the harbor, the woods, in town, out of the way. Most of me is represented in art.
I started last night not knowing where I was going. When you’re on a treadmill you never know where you are going to end up. We are all gerbils going nowhere, but the emotional, mental end of the journey is a different story. Luckily for me it ended up being my best run in nine months. I rediscovered the elusive runners’ high. I was drowning in the electric buzz for hours afterwards.
Nick Bantock’s trilogy evokes very romantic feelings for me. Way before Book Lust the first offering in the trilogy, Griffin & Sabine was given to me by a secret lover. 23 years old, I was in lust/love with the bearer, and I think initially as a direct result, the book won my instant favor as well. Later, I determined it was an aphrodisiac for the mind as I repeatedly poured over each gloriously illustrated page (also by Bantock). I was as careful and as loving as a caress. The delicious unfolding, opening, and reading of letters and postcards was as tantalizing and seemingly illicit as my affair. Never mind the storyline of ill-fated lovers, destined to never be together, however passionately in love. That wasn’t only what excited me. The artwork drew me in and captivated me to no end. If candles, soft music, and wine stir passion through sight, sound and palate then Griffin & Sabine is for the artistic intellect.
I was wondering what I did on my birthday last year. Why didn’t I write about it? Where was I that I wouldn’t say something, anything? Florida. Tampa…no, Brandon, to be exact. That’s where I was. I remember now. I practiced five minutes of yoga and ran two miles in the morning. B made me breakfast. Humidity was fun for me. That same weekend J & I set sail for the Caribbean. Dave and Friends, Sunshine and sand. G. Love & funk. Buffets and booze. No wonder I didn’t write.
~*LunaSea*~ 