Barton Springs, finally.

This entry has nothing to do with the pool in Austin.

I always swear that I’m not going to that place again, unless they pay me. But twenty years-and-a-month ago (roughly), I reconnected with a friend.  A good friend.  An epic, life changing friend.  My Epic EX Thing.  I just popped up out of the water like a dolphin, rubbed pool out of my eyes, and there he was.  Wow.

This is the sort of friend that turns you into the person that talks in paragraphs when one sentence really would have sufficed.   Because you’re trying to soft pedal what you really mean so you don’t look like a psychopath.  Or someone who is squinky on your ex-whatever.  Or whatever.  Social conventions suck.

I always knew what was going to happen, from the beginning.  He was always very distracted and looking for something better – a better situation or social group or whatever.  We’d sit in Kerby Lane for example (back when all the waitstaff was polite and that was a job requirement – and the nachos didn’t look like a Jenga board and the queso didn’t run off your chip and onto your shirt) … we’d sit and then he’d scan the resturant for fame and fortune and Classmates and Spaces and Missed Connections.  This was before these things were even invented.

We would ponder things together.  The kind of things that don’t matter but that do matter so very, very much.  Would my car make the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs?  How far away was the music building from the Tavern?  Analogous to the Kessel Run?  Which one of us was which – was he Stimpy and me Ren?  Which member of the Lennon/McCartney songwriting team were we the most like (that one was totally easy!).   Why are the lyrics to Paradise City so lame and yet they are so very important (actually, I may have talked about that one with my brothers)?  But it was stuff like that.  At the end though, as your heart is breaking and you review the relationship in your mind – you understand that you were kind of sitting there trying to get someone who thought they were much cooler than you … to hang with you.  Only they were not cooler than you … maybe not even as cool as you – sadly.

My sad feeding of the situation only gave it more power though, and I did not make myself very attractive to him, his people, or other people.  So really – this all ended up great.  It doesn’t feel great … but it’s better for me.

I’m going to totally turn over a new leaf today.  I know that I always say that.  But I have to start somewhere.  And I have to be honest about it.  And I have to do it.

I canceled a rehearsal today.  I said that I was sick.  What I really did was get to that point.  Which made me too sick in my head to understand what to do about The Gear Problem.  Which is always when I start panicking.  Then I turn on my computer.  Which is never a good idea.  Then I start getting nostalgic.

Holy crap! I think.  He could totally help me do this!  I can get this under control! I don’t even really have anything specific to do … just the constant realization that time is tick-tick-ticking away and if I don’t get it together I’m going to be a sixty old woman and it will all have just SHOT BY.

This is what happens when you have to be a self-motivator.  You have to learn to explain your nebulous plans … uh … less nebulously – and you have to get your dumb-ass back on track.  You have to pretend that your embarrassing life that you COMPLETELY bought into and structured much of your reality around didn’t completely fall apart.  And you have to do the lion’s (ha, ha) share of your mourning in secret; because you should have dealt with this MANY, MANY years ago.  But seeing as you are such a forgiving person and all – you are still hanging on, nice and peachy or whatever.

You = me by the way, in this little scenario.  This is what happens when I am trying to distance me from … uh … me.

Mourning about stuff I can’t control is distracting me from my work – which is distracting me from the fact that when I’m on a computer I get frustrated because I am aimless and directionless.  I used to have my ass sewn together in a neat little list – compartmentalized into neat little boxes and it was all under control.

Control is everything PRIORITIZED.  And me not freaking out.  Control is me understanding the advice I am given from totally cool people that come over during the husband’s Formula One extravaganza on Sunday night.  I totally put up with the high pitched buzzing noise because there was breakfast – and my boss/friend most awesomely helped me get out of half my shift at the El Job by interfacing with Jay (I am a fan of boss/friend right now completely-sorta).  Jay worked half the shift and is basically dealing with Cigar Girl because even though I don’t maintain blogs – I am a professional blog creator and then leaver-alone-er.  It’s ridiculous.  After this I am going to go to the OTHER blog and make some other goals … maybe goals like …

1.  Finish a freaking project.

This is what happens when you are In Mourning.  And I’m in mourning for so many things.  Many stupid things that lead up to more significant things that lead up to legitimate things that lead up to huge things that are subtantial but lame, already.  Leading up to the big doozy of a mourn that will last forever and ever amen.

That I don’t talk about because you’re either in the real mourning club or you’re not.  And there’s no way to talk about that because there’s no way to describe it.  And I think I use other drama in my life to avoid stuff I really need to get to.  That distracts me from my work, ultimately.

If you get to the deep seated issues that you are trying to avoid … it will make you a more productive person.  For the good reasons.

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Barton Springs, finally.

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