And So We Press On

I’m not sure what it means when a man sends a woman a picture of his dining room table. 

I guess it could mean any number of things. He’s a loon. He’s off beat and quirky. He’s a loon. He’s funny. The list is near endless. I can’t say I know with any certainty what it means. I will say, its left me a bit baffled. 

In response, I did what any intelligent, eccentric woman would do. I took a picture of my dining room table and sent it back to him, and asked that he introduce the two. It seemed like the right thing to do.

I can’t say I’m ready for a relationship. Yes - I know, its been three years since giving my ex the boot, and if anyone’s deserving, its me. That’s not quite what I mean by ready. I find myself getting set in my ways. Never once do I have to consider the feelings of another (not in the, where would you like to eat dinner, sort of way). I do my thing, when and how I choose. Occasional loneliness aside, this is a wonderful thing. 

Of course, if these photos are an indication of how drastically the dance of attraction has changed over the last decade - I’m hardly skilled or equipped to be on the dance floor. I sat for some time, staring at the picture of the dining room table. During which, numerous thoughts spun through my mind. What the hell, being the first. But then there were more. The obvious one being that he chose not to send another photo of himself. I have to wonder why. This is a friendship we are forging. We are not auditioning for a cover spread in Vanity Fair magazine.

I hate to think that this exchange of emails, and spattering of peculiar photos has distracted me from editing my sequel, but it has. I have yet to find an editor that is in synch with me. Having said that, over the last week I have been repairing my work. It’s much like having one’s child go in for surgery, wherein they entered only to have a few moles removed, yet returned with their vocal cords stripped and replaced with a robotic voice, their limbs mangled; no longer do they resemble what you knew and loved. But because they’re your child, your creation - your love and devotion is steadfast and true. You sit with clenched teeth and a heavy heart working to meticulously repair them, word for word, until once again your creation is that of your own. With its original voice, and its original rhythm. 

I’m pleased to say that after much work, I’m beginning to see the familiar twinkle shining bright from the eye of my creation. It’s breathing on its own; singing again with its natural tempo. It may not be a rhythm that appeals to all, but no - one thing - does. We are all unique, and that which we create is unique. Therein lies its beauty. 

On that note, and in closing, I will leave you with this thought: never change who you are. Never shift your voice to sound like another. When you look down at your body, smile; its uniquely yours, and it is beautiful. It’s perfection is decided by you and you alone. When you look within your mind, be proud, you are special and valued as such. At least by me. And if you work to create something, anything, never squeeze your creation into someone else’s mold - make your own.

PS, Over the next few days I hope to receive a picture of a staircase or refrigerator. Oddly enough, a part of me, is charmed by this. 

Sane