Stopping to smell the flowers - or not
Talking with Nathan yesterday, he told me, "You don't know how to just be lazy any more."
My first thought was: "What do you do to be lazy?" But I realized how ridiculous that sounded in about .5 seconds - you don't have to do anything to be lazy, that's the point, you stupid woman - so I said, "I don't?" I'm not sure if it really sounded like a question.
I knew he was right. Of course, I didn't want to admit it. I wanted to think that I'd learned how to relax again while my life was falling apart at the end of last year. I knew it was a dirty lie. Those moments when I did relax were precious because they were relatively few. I learned how to relax only in relation to a workaholic; I spent my weeks in a flurry of activity, most of my weekends working, but I stole some hours for myself for the first time in years.
"No, you don't," he said. "It's one of the things we used to have in common. Do you remember when you were at G.C.C. and you would lay in the grass all day?"
"I did that?" I asked. That was a question.
Green and yellow memories drifted to the fore. I recalled a number of leisurely hours during my junior college years, sure, but only a few whole days. Afternoons in the park across the street or at the McDonald's down the way. Sitting at the tables we frequented while people smoked and played card games. One day toward the end of my time there, some of the younger and newer folks around our group brought music to our corner. Although we had a number of creative folks who whiled away the time between classes at our haunts, few of our regulars brought instruments or a radio. But that day, one of these gorgeous kids had a guitar and started singing "Don't Fear the Reaper" with all of the gentleness and youth the song deserves. And everyone joined in while the sun painted everything golden, and while I sang I could feel myself soaking it in. Storing it in the memory banks for the far future. I've held it with me ever since, like a coveted picture of home that you bring out and view with a wistful smile.
"Not all the time, but yeah," he answered. "You freaked out when you got to Cal State L.A. because of the hectic pace. Remember, I met you when you were still at G.C.C."
And it struck me that yes, we met about eight years ago, and things were very different for me then. I'm not sure if I was entirely a different person, but different enough. I knew how to unplug then, how to stretch out with the hours, luxuriously and aimlessly, how to sprawl like a cat. I had ample opportunity for it. And although I would like to rediscover the art of relaxation, I don't expect to be that girl. Whatever I will be, I will be something else.
My first thought was: "What do you do to be lazy?" But I realized how ridiculous that sounded in about .5 seconds - you don't have to do anything to be lazy, that's the point, you stupid woman - so I said, "I don't?" I'm not sure if it really sounded like a question.
I knew he was right. Of course, I didn't want to admit it. I wanted to think that I'd learned how to relax again while my life was falling apart at the end of last year. I knew it was a dirty lie. Those moments when I did relax were precious because they were relatively few. I learned how to relax only in relation to a workaholic; I spent my weeks in a flurry of activity, most of my weekends working, but I stole some hours for myself for the first time in years.
"No, you don't," he said. "It's one of the things we used to have in common. Do you remember when you were at G.C.C. and you would lay in the grass all day?"
"I did that?" I asked. That was a question.
Green and yellow memories drifted to the fore. I recalled a number of leisurely hours during my junior college years, sure, but only a few whole days. Afternoons in the park across the street or at the McDonald's down the way. Sitting at the tables we frequented while people smoked and played card games. One day toward the end of my time there, some of the younger and newer folks around our group brought music to our corner. Although we had a number of creative folks who whiled away the time between classes at our haunts, few of our regulars brought instruments or a radio. But that day, one of these gorgeous kids had a guitar and started singing "Don't Fear the Reaper" with all of the gentleness and youth the song deserves. And everyone joined in while the sun painted everything golden, and while I sang I could feel myself soaking it in. Storing it in the memory banks for the far future. I've held it with me ever since, like a coveted picture of home that you bring out and view with a wistful smile.
"Not all the time, but yeah," he answered. "You freaked out when you got to Cal State L.A. because of the hectic pace. Remember, I met you when you were still at G.C.C."
And it struck me that yes, we met about eight years ago, and things were very different for me then. I'm not sure if I was entirely a different person, but different enough. I knew how to unplug then, how to stretch out with the hours, luxuriously and aimlessly, how to sprawl like a cat. I had ample opportunity for it. And although I would like to rediscover the art of relaxation, I don't expect to be that girl. Whatever I will be, I will be something else.