Monday, November 21, 2011

Adjective of Emily's

CONFUSED, bewildered, lost at sea, adrift, off-course, having lost one’s bearings; 
INFORMAL not knowing whether one is coming or going. 

It’s not a permanent thing (oh please.) Just a germ that some folks pick up at stressful times in their lives; a condition that Hallmark can easily spin into a sympathy card. “Heard you’ve been disoriented, get well soon!” 
The pill I keep popping in my mouth is full of “Emily, you’re going to be okay. You’re gonna be okay. You can make it.” (If you ever need a pep talk, hit me up.) See, I’ve come down with an unpleasant strain. Get well soon Emily, for your sake– but mostly for the people around you. 

The story in this story: 
The last few days I have somehow ended up on the wrong end of the hallway 
        taken the wrong right 
        at the top of the wrong stairs
        and barged into the wrong apartment. 

Picture this with me; 

Hear the door BLAST OPEN. Enter Emily: a juggernaut, a wrecking ball.  Foolish grin on her face (funny– it wasn’t foolish before she walked into the room. Why do nice things work like that?-- Joy. Laughter. Love. That is beautiful, empowering stuff.  Flip the coin. Nothing sours as fast as a precious moment. Makes your bones heavy with broken glass and shameheaps of shame..) A still second. Take in the unfamiliar scene. It just starts to register. Then the faces of the girls sitting on their couches, startled, wide-eyed, baffled, who-is-this-idiot. Staring at her staring at them: not her apartment mates. The grin melts into a perfect ‘O’ (oh crap), a halo around fumbling apologies. Retreat! 

The door snaps shut behind me. It’s over. They’re on one side and I’m on the other, maladroit moron. (Close the door. Reset.) Everything falls back the way it ought to be, except not the way it was. Something happened.

I lost my bearings. By the time I crawl back to my place, I don’t remember that two of the girls were my friends. I forget that they graciously (after they finished laughing at me) offered me tea. That, as I scampered out, they told me to barge in anytime (for comic relief), That we, to say the least, made a memory. Because after the door shuts my memory course corrects around everything that went wrong. It's all bad.   
It’s not all bad. Disoriented. It's just a germ. Point me in the right direction. Send a ‘get well’ card. I’ll be better soon. 

 There is a story in this story. Sharing this with you, I unwrapped some things about myself like:
It is in me to barge into strange places. 
It is not in me to gracefully escape. 
Illuminating moments, even if it took crawling over hot coals to hold them, are precious. 
The status quo 

There is no pure reset button. And if you find one, smash it.