Crying dehydrates you. Alex, I’ll take Shit You Don’t Think About for $500, please.
But I’m working. Getting shit done and trying to rock my own proverbial suburbs as best I can. I feel like a jerk for looking at my calendar and seeing only a lunch on the books, which means the rest of the time, I have to myself. I can hide in my blanket cave. If I were really crafty, I’d find a way to weave this motherfucker so it extended to every room in the house. It’d be more like a blanket Habitrail system. But it would be warm. And I like warm.
So as it is “what we do,” yesterday I got back on the bike for the first time in over 3 weeks. I rebuilt my track bike, hauled my cookies over to Boulder and took in a workout with the group I’ve bailed on (understandably) for the past 2 weeks. Clipping in was terrifying. Breathing was – irregular and labored. And all I could think is that if I fuck this up, I (and likely someone else) was going to get very hurt. I mean, shit – people leave velodromes with broken pelvises, separated shoulders, broken collarbones and compressed vertebrae as de rigeur. And moreso, you never want to be “that asshole” who did something stupid and caused it.
But I did it. For an hour. And I kept up. And it hurt. And I sat in my car after, with the early winter snow misting, and cried. And I don’t even know why.
Barely over a year ago, I got on my first track bike ever as rehab for my shattered ankle. And today, it’s like I’m starting all over – learning to ride again. I wish this post were more witty, bitch-slappy or something very “Redhead,” but it sums up the cosmos that is Erika: body and mind, two universes spinning off-kilter in my orbit. Moments of laughter, the feeling of longing that runs so deep I can’t even rappel in, the facade that I am present and accounted for, bathing. Stopping the bullshit of wearing pajamas at 3pm. I cleaned my house. Folded laundry. Scooped up cat puke. Stepped in dog crap in the backyard. Cleaned the garage. No, I am not for hire.
I won’t bore you with the beyond ounces of metaphysical/supernatural that tells me Jason’s still hanging around (and for which, I’m very glad). It’s the one thing I’ll never write about – it’s too personal. Intimate. It protects me when I venture out of the blanket cave and into humanity. But I will tell you one thing: it’s beautiful. Whether you believe in the Eastern thought that’s ruled my life for the better part of a decade or not, you understand things that are truly beautiful. They’re beyond words, defy description and cheapened by attempts to describe. So here is where, as a writer, I say: no.
My breathing is less labored for the most part. I have good days and not-so. But beauty…ahhh. I have this indescribable beauty as a bright passenger, thanks to Jason. I thank him for so much…and I’ll never grow weary of sharing that.