Fed & Now, Fired Up

Got home this evening with the strongest desire to shut my mouth, fondle the remote and just quietly shut down each one of my stimulus switches one after the next. Turn off the senseless chatter. The “can I help you?” grin. The self imposed newsletter stresses. The head full of splintered plans for the rest of the week. The tightness in my shoulders and the sharp deep breaths that have been reminding me that I don’t do anxiety well. Feels like I’ve yet to come up for air since the beginning of the month, been spinning in this twister of visits, celebrations, long hours at work, travel, dinners, marketing for the store, emails, text messages, facebook statuses and the million tiny catnaps that stood in where the illusive sleep should have been. Crazy, not bad crazy, but crazy still.

Silently buzzed around my kitchen, scrapping plates and stuffing leftovers away in storage containers, wasn’t until the dishwasher was loaded that I noticed that the glass of wine….the one I had poured to drink with dinner, was still full, sitting in a puddle of its own sweat, generated while the cold liquid waited for me to notice it was there. Damn, even wine seems too much to manage right now….how freaking sad is that?

Bone tired, head weary and completely exhausted, this is not how a normal person should feel after a month that has essentially been The Summer of Sam, which is to say that I have been positively showered with affection, adoration and people coming just to visit with me. I don’t do this center of attention shit very well. That or the combination of that with a very short staff, (that is to say we don’t have enough people, not that we are tiny people or anything) and the reality that is this market right now…..busting your ass three times as hard for less return, has left me feeling spent but mostly, I’ve felt like something was missing.

Fully intended on writing a post, not so much that I fear folks are waiting to hear whatever insignificant drivel I wish to yank on about as much as I miss, painfully miss the process of staring at my screen and watching a piece of….maybe pile is a better word, of something come together as my fingers fly and letters dart across the page. I used to secretly think that I wrote to get a response, to please all three of you but I am beginning to see, I write to feed. Feed my soul, my mind, my security, sometimes my insecurity, to feel engaged, relevant, connected to my own voice….vibrant and alive. To dial it in, just show up for work and dinners, to feel so stretched that I fear any second that I might snap, that is never going to be me. If I have to work until my voice is raw and my fingers bleed, stay out late reveling and carrying on, flirt my way in and out of trouble to keep up…well then, I shall. But….something has been missing.

Words failing, much like my eyelids, (lazy fuckers) I went to the bathroom to wash my face of the day that was closing in on me. Face washed clean, little beads of water dripping from my freshly washed chin on to my pajama top I just stood still for a second. Looked at my skin, my eyes, the laugh lines, the sun damage, the patches of discoloration, the arch of my top lip, my teeth cinched down on the bottom one. I spread my fingers apart and ran them through the blonde hair that lies flat across my temples, pulled it all back away from my face, shoulders and head pointed at the wall behind me…back firm and strong. I looked back in the mirror, the way my top was framing and hugging my breasts, the indentations where the fabric was resting upon my waist, the way the bottom of my top widened and settled on my hips. My body, my imperfect but very female body, naked face with all of my life showing upon it, me, the me that I almost never see. I began to shake a bit as I was spellbound by my own curves, full mouth and green eyes, wrinkles and all…….for the very first time, in my entire life, I felt beautiful. 

For all the craziness, through all the nights crashed on the couch, the mornings after and long hours I had been feeding the part of me that aches to be loved but forgetting to feed the part that I am in love with….my passion. My passion for wine, stories, rants, to be touched, to touch back. My passion for being a woman and all the wild and expressive want that being one, unafraid in her own skin can inspire. Something has indeed been missing and after spending a few moments getting reacquainted with the curve of my hips and weight of my breasts, the way my gaze lowers and takes on an almost evil twinkle when my passion begins digging into my spine again….well I am so fucking ready to feed myself again. Thank you all for keeping me full, for making me so exhausted with trust, love and adoration that I had to crash in order to find my desire to devour with unabashed ferocity….I’m back and I want, more than ever before.