Out of concern about the partner of a client feeling ganged up on (this happened previously to them in couples therapy), I wonder if I over-corrected and my client felt that way.
I hope not.
I am sweaty; not tears coming out of my pores sweaty, but a subtle “ooh, it’s humid out” kind. Slapping on the VR headset, I was transported to an open gym where large balls moved swiftly at my body, and successful jabs, uppercuts, hooks, and ducks shattered them and moved me up a leaderboard. It’s day two of a seven-day trial for the game (don’t worry, I set a reminder to cancel), and I’ll likely not renew. There are a lot of
fish exercise games left in the sea.
Rather than sliding off my tongue like an oiled pig down on a water slide, the confession coursed over my tongue like sandpaper. “I can’t compete against you anymore.”
The idea hit me after a resentful round in the game “Parks” while playing with my husband (I told you I was competitive). This is interesting because it’s a majestically beautiful game whose art of the US national parks. Anyway, we’re pivoting to collaborative games for a bit.
Sitting in the dimly lit bedroom, feet resting carefully on the coffee table so as not to disturb the board game, I’m listening to Dave lovingly spoon Hershey’s dark chocolate sauce-covered ice cream in his face. I asked him what kind and, in doing so, received a bite.
I tried being a vegan once back in college for three days. I wonder if it was ice cream that broke me?
Is it appropriate to talk about poop in a blog? Specifically, my own? If it isn’t, please turn back now. If it is, I don’t know what I was thinking. After a successful lay down in the bathroom at work, I left the scene like it was a hit-and-run. That’s right, no fan, no spray, no nothing. That I was the only one upstairs, I thought, meant it wouldn’t be a problem.
While happily typing an email, a waft of burning from the downstairs kitchen came into the room. But then, I wondered and quickly dismissed the idea that now is in your head too.
Believing it might be the latter, my face turned red hot with embarrassment before swinging into the action. But when I did, I saw that the fan was already on and smelled a hefty spray in the air. I sure hope it was a kitchen fire.
Crap – no pun intended – I need to pay my monthly rent. Maybe the building’s owner averted my gaze, not for the incident upstairs, but because it’s the third of the month.
I stalled reading “East of Eden.” I’m not into it, unfortunately. I should pivot to something else, like the new Michelle Obama book. I’ll do that.
Well, a good night to you all. Speaking of you all, I only started saying that a few years ago. Being around Dave’s Georgian roots, family, and friends, I’m no longer a staunch you guys kind of gal. Look at this old dog learning new tricks.