It's my first week in the wild and thrilling metropolis of Clovis, New Mexico. Mind you, Eastern New Mexico doesn't quite display the visual grandeur of Western or North Central New Mexico and I'm pretty sure the people are a bit more wind-blown and eroded (if you will?), but I find it kind of nice.
This morning I was out for an easy yog and am pretty sure I found the world headquarters for the speed walking brigade. Visors with spiky pony tails, oversized T-shirts, stark white sneakers and ankle socks. Yes please. I felt a little out of place in my tank top, running shorts and aviators . . . should I have gone for the visor instead? I'm thinking yes. Tomorrow could be my day. Although . . . it might be advisable for the sake of my social rapport to ease into such things. First, I'll start off with a few cheery "Good Morning!"-s (which I've already started), then I might move into the question stage: "Excuse me, could you tell me how to get back onto Fairway Terrace?" (knowing full-well where Fairway is), then a very polite "Thank you, I really appreciate it . . . my name is . . . I just moved here from Denver . . ." and let the magic begin.
More to come.
8/11/11
8/2/11
morning trauma.
What's the most gut-wrenching thing you've ever experienced? Think about it. Thiiiink abooouuut iiiiittttt . . . got it? Good. With that in mind, try this on for size: For the past several months, I've faced mine every single day.
No I'm not talking about an indellible sadness cascading like a dark waterfall over my head . . . or a traumatic, nearly life-ending event . . . or bearing witness to a horrific criminal act that deals with two people and only one walks away. No. Mine is more along the lines of an emotional plea for sanctuary and a desperate need for affection.
(Omigosh, what is she talking about?) -you ask
George, the cat. Every morning George and Stella-girl follow me around like little puppies (kitties, rather), mimicking my every move, darting underfoot just in time for me to nearly step on them and nearly break my neck trying to avoid stepping on them (it's a vicious cycle, really), meowing at the top of their tiny lungs and poking me in the face for their morning meal. It's not a glamorous routine by any stretch of even the most mundane of imaginations, but it's mine and I secretly love it. But what has gotten me so emotionally distraught over this routine? Well, I'll tell you.
When I go to leave . . . every morning, mind you . . . George the cat is at the door, waiting to go with me. I've gotten my timing down to an art so that when he marches a certain point past the door, I can sneak out as stealthily as possible without him skirting out with me. But then. THEN. As I'm turning my key in the locks, I see it: his little paws jut out from under the door, reaching toward me in romantic desperation. MOOOOMMMMMM! I hear him say, as if he's begging to come with me. All jokes aside, it's about the worst feeling imaginable (ohhh I can't wait until I have "actual kids"). So I give his paw a little squeeze and tell him to "be good" as if he has a damn clue what that means, then as I turn to walk up the stairs, I square my shoulders and a single tear runs down my cheek.
Did I mention this happens every morning? Horrible. Awful. Miserable. Agonizing. Pain.
OK . . . I might be exaggerating a little bit, but goodbyes never really were my thing.
No I'm not talking about an indellible sadness cascading like a dark waterfall over my head . . . or a traumatic, nearly life-ending event . . . or bearing witness to a horrific criminal act that deals with two people and only one walks away. No. Mine is more along the lines of an emotional plea for sanctuary and a desperate need for affection.
(Omigosh, what is she talking about?) -you ask
George, the cat. Every morning George and Stella-girl follow me around like little puppies (kitties, rather), mimicking my every move, darting underfoot just in time for me to nearly step on them and nearly break my neck trying to avoid stepping on them (it's a vicious cycle, really), meowing at the top of their tiny lungs and poking me in the face for their morning meal. It's not a glamorous routine by any stretch of even the most mundane of imaginations, but it's mine and I secretly love it. But what has gotten me so emotionally distraught over this routine? Well, I'll tell you.
When I go to leave . . . every morning, mind you . . . George the cat is at the door, waiting to go with me. I've gotten my timing down to an art so that when he marches a certain point past the door, I can sneak out as stealthily as possible without him skirting out with me. But then. THEN. As I'm turning my key in the locks, I see it: his little paws jut out from under the door, reaching toward me in romantic desperation. MOOOOMMMMMM! I hear him say, as if he's begging to come with me. All jokes aside, it's about the worst feeling imaginable (ohhh I can't wait until I have "actual kids"). So I give his paw a little squeeze and tell him to "be good" as if he has a damn clue what that means, then as I turn to walk up the stairs, I square my shoulders and a single tear runs down my cheek.
Did I mention this happens every morning? Horrible. Awful. Miserable. Agonizing. Pain.
OK . . . I might be exaggerating a little bit, but goodbyes never really were my thing.
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