Some might call this TMI.

I debated about writing this post.  After some thought it struck me that my hesitation was just another example of this silliness.  Although people normally don’t talk about this sort of thing in such a public manner, I would be fooling myself to think that this part of me is in any way secret… :)

A good friend recently had surgery -- the type that depends on the use of friendly intimate apparel during recovery.   On a search for something soft, supportive, and easy to put on I took her to Lady Grace,  a store that specializes in “intimate apparel”. 

As luck would have it, one of the store clerks on duty had had a similar surgery 5 years back.  As this woman offered advice about what garments to consider, she and my friend entered into a far more necessary conversation.  What was your experience like?  How did you respond to the treatment?  How do you feel now? Do you think I’ll be okay? …

To make more room for this discussion, I stepped back and began to browse.

Eventually, I made my way to the area where “my size” was located.  I flagged down a free, petite store clerk as she walked past and asked her if a style I liked was available in “my size”.

After a quick glance in my direction, she turned around and began walking away at a fast clip.  I stood there, dumbfounded.  Noticing that I hadn’t moved, she called out to me over her shoulder and demanded that I follow suit.  She marched me straight through the aisles, past the back of the store, and into the fitting room area.

“Knock knock!” she called out as she opened a fitting room door.  I stepped in after she motioned for me to do so and was a little surprised that she walked in right behind me and shut the door.

“Knock knock!” she called out again, standing squarely in front of me.

Once again I was dumbfounded.  Clearly she expected something from me, but I had no idea what that something was.

“Knock knock.” she repeated, nodding at me encouragingly.  Eventually she figured out that she needed to use more words to help me understand what she wanted.  I don’t think I would ever have been able to guess on my own that “knock knock” could also mean “please remove your shirt …. in front of a total stranger”.

 

Years ago I read that some huge percentage of women wear the wrong size.  As much as I did not want this to be true for me, deep down I knew that it was.  It had been years since I had last been measured.  There was no way that “my size” could still be accurate since I had gained plenty of weight since then.

As disheartening as it was to hear this woman practically recite the alphabet as she figured out my “correct size”, I have to admit that I walked out of that store a little perkier.

Is there a draft in here?

I may seem a little quiet to those of you who regularly follow this blog.  Although things I want to write are still swirling about in my head and my fingers are still capable of typing, a fraction of my brain has been given over to a slightly more pressing and urgent issue.  Which means that although my mind still works, less of it is available to tackle what the whole thing used to take care of before.

Lately, when I approach my computer to write, my awareness that it will take me longer than usual (which was already long) to form a coherent sentence has created an aversion to my keyboard.  Knowing that I will not finish even a first draft in one sitting has made me not want to sit.

I think that’s nuts. 

To work myself out of this, I am going to lean toward sharing half drafts with you.  Because of this, you will get likely get a glimpse of the skeletons my thoughts attach themselves to.  They may come in the form of an overheard snippet of conversation without commentary, a random image out of context, or a note to myself to explore a particular concept – who knows. 

It’s my hope that re-teaching myself that even the pieces are worth sharing will make the “getting down to business” side of me more likely to honor the process required to enable the whole to emerge.

Wish me luck!

Friday Fiction: "Start"

I found this tucked into my notes sometime back.  Perhaps a page was missing?  This will get some attention in the future, especially if you remind me.

Her father warned her this would happen.  Hair matted, clothing torn, she mustered her remaining strength to take in her surroundings. 

It was a world of concrete.  There was no dirt to be seen, only line after line of white markings.  A thread of rigs parked in a row gave the impression of a metallic wall -- but was it keeping her in or the others out?

A breeze washed over her, causing a chill and reminding her that her skin was damp.  Beyond the rigs, she could see a structure -- a rest stop?

As she struggled to her feet, she noticed a figure, close to the ground, running toward her.

Defeated, she sank back to her knees muttering to herself.  "Well, I hope it likes ketchup".

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