Mostly what I remember of that wedding is how I brought two outdoor chairs wrapped—unstylishly, awkwardly, ugli-ly wrapped—in plastic bags. Not smooth, Matt. But, eh, it’s clearly not what I was thinking about at that time.
Just start reading through your journals from 20 years ago? In order? Is it possible that, if I can look past my awkwardness, my embarrassment of my past self, that the writing was decent? Not all of my writings from then, of course, but …
I’m not so sure I want to go to this reunion, this 20th high school reunion. I mean, sh!t, last night I started thinking how the people who don’t see Rochelle every day, how they might be eager to come back, but me, eh. I was starting last night to think those thoughts, the same ones as before: That I should’ve left Rochelle, that these others’ lives are better than my own, etc.
But then I caught myself and said to self, you don’t have to come up with these “I hate my life”-type excuses. Your life is what it is; you are not in control, you’re following the life you’ve been given, learning who you are (as I say in less-negative moments). So, I don’t want to dwell on those thoughts—though it seems easy to do, especially lately—and instead I can just say (I was writing the last couple of lines with kitty on my lap. He purred, then leapt off. Before that, he’d been play—and is now again—playing inside my shirt that’s hanging over back of chair) instead (I paused here to hold Sam from barking at meter-reader lady), you can just say, “eh, maybe I just don’t feel excited about the reunion.” You don’t have to justify or build on/from those feelings.
[From journal of Fri., 3 August 2012, Journal 163, page 94-5]
MonkeyMoonMachine 