When is enough enough, and when is just too damn much?

Feelings got me stretched thin,
pulled tight in this direction and that.
Stuck in limbo with nowhere to go
but round and round.
He played me like a yo-yo—
up, down, dangling from a string.
String’s frayed,
but I’m still dangling.
Only just.
Swore he wouldn’t break my heart;
so why am I sittin here trying to piece it back together?
Now we’re friends—
just friends.
Leastways those are his words.
Other words—all actions—
say otherwise.
Round and round we go.
Stuck in limbo.

I think I’ve finally found the strength to snip that fraying string. It’s gonna be hard. Real hard. But the truth is, it’s just gotta be, and I’ll deal with the hard. I deserve someone who won’t keep me dangling, who won’t pull me close then let me fall back down, away from him. He keeps me there because he needs me—I don’t know if wanting, one way or the other, is even a part of it. Like he needs that liquor to roll outta bed, to get him through the day, to waltz him into the forgetting blackness of sleep, he needs me. So he keeps me hooked, shows me that he needs me (maybe doesn’t want me, maybe never did). He knows that if he mentions the bottle, comes to work late and smelling of bourbon, hints that he’s going for another bottle (just a little, he says, nothing substantial), that I’ll come running. Knows that I’ll worry and fret. That I’ll show concern. That I’ll care. Doesn’t he know that I’d care for him just because? Oh, well. Doesn’t matter anymore how much I’d care for him. How much I’d love him if he’d let me. Because what could be isn’t what is, and it never will be. No matter how good we could be, the two of us. That frayed string is worn thin, exhausted, haggard, carrying more weight than it’s meant to hold (than it should ever have to hold). I can’t be everything and nothing anymore. So I’ve gotta cut that string. But it won’t be me that falls. Enough was enough a while ago, but I held on, justifying it with one reason and another, and another. The string is exhausted. And now, it’s just too damn much.

And Buddha said, “Let us procrastinate.” And it was so.

Have you ever found yourself pulling into the parking lot at work or school and not being able to recall the actual getting there? And for a fraction of a second, you wonder if you’ve finally been able to apparate, or if Scotty beamed you up and dropped you off. We have all lost small stretches of time to this mysterious black hole, probably more often than we’d like to think about. I can’t recall how many mornings my alarm clock has pulled me, disgruntled, from the depths of my blankets, and the moment my feet hit the floor I enter the zombie state. It’s that mindless, almost robotic, state with which we approach the overly familiar, the routine. We walk through small chunks of our lives with blank minds and eyes more glazed over than a Crispy Crème Donut.

Or, when the mind behind the eyes is actually in drive, we aren’t focused in the present, but constantly planning, scheming, preparing for, and racing toward the future. Like a horse pulling a carriage, we sprint through each day with blinders on, vision narrowly focused on tomorrow, or the next day, next week, next month, next year. In a society that stresses progress, profit, and upward mobility, we are programmed to race to what’s next.

The result is little rips in your own personal space-time continuum—little spaces of time you lose forever. Going, going, gone. We don’t live consciously, with awareness, and we are so focused on tomorrow that we forget to live in the present.

I love the saying, “today is yesterday’s tomorrow,” because it is a simple truth, and a powerful one. Tomorrow will never come, and if you spend your life racing toward it, you will never truly live. So, I challenge you, reader (if there’s even one of you out there), to live with a conscious awareness of what you are doing—even the smallest of tasks. When you are washing dishes, just wash dishes. When you sit to drink a cup of tea or coffee, just drink. Take pleasure in the simple things in life, and experience them fully. Try it—I’ll bet that cup of tea will be the best tasting cup of tea you’ve ever had, or those dishes the most pleasurable washing of dishes you’ve ever experienced. When we immerse ourselves in everything we do, rather than treating it as a necessity or a chore or what must be done before you can do X, then we are truly living. So, let’s scrape the donut glaze from our eyes, take stock in the present, and let tomorrow worry over itself.

See, even the Buddha saw the value in procrastination.

Holy matrimony, Batman!

Recently, I was on a shopping trip with one of my closest friends (who, like everyone else I know in the world, is busily and happily planning her summer wedding). Amidst talk of flower arrangements, color swatches, up-do’s and down-do’s, I spot a Magic 8 Ball sitting misplaced at the end of the aisle of holy matrimony. Appreciating the irony of the various questions someone strolling through this specific aisle might be desperately seeking answers to, I lift the ball from the shelf whilst nodding and mmhmming my way through a string of wedding-related commentary. I look down at this tool of divination, raise an eyebrow, and give the crystal ball a good shaking while thinking, “Oh, Magic 8 Ball, will I ever get married?” The blue haze swirls and begins to clear; my answer presses itself against the triangular glass window of fortune: Outlook Fuzzy.

Let’s face it: we’ve all been there, and it’s not a pretty place to be. You know that place—when it seems as though every last person you know is gettin’ hitched, jumping the broom, tying the knot, and you are literally the last single human being in the known universe, left to trudge out your existence in mocking solitude. There’s nothing like the sound of amassed wedding bells to set the arms of your biological clock spinning so absurdly fast they achieve liftoff. You find yourself suddenly plagued by a vision of yourself as an ancient, bitter old woman who has more or less transformed into a Gollum-like creature, never leaving the recesses of her darkened tomb of a house or the company of her 27 cats.

I jest. But only slightly. There’s that wall of panic that rushes upward when we feel as though we are being left behind, choking on the dust of those who have raced ahead of us into marital bliss. Will it ever happen for me? Will I ever find someone? Will I end up alone with 27 cats?! While I’m diligently avoiding pet stores and animal shelters (just in case, ya know?), I have to stop myself from guffawing at the absurdity of this line of thinking I myself I am so often guilty of (perhaps plagued by is a better phrase). I’m almost 23–TWENTY-THREE!!—and THIS is what I’m spazzing over?!

Ladies, I propose something—a challenge, if you will. I propose that we rid ourselves of this obsessive seeking, seeking, seeking for Mr. Right and stop ourselves from worrying over if/when we ourselves will take that trip down the middle of our mama’s church. I propose, instead, that we start living. This is the time in your life to do for yourself, to chase after those dreams we were told to be “practical” about, to pack up and move out of state, across country, around the world! Seize this time. Life is the adventure you make it. You have to live the changes you want to see in the world. Live for, love, and be happy with yourself (single or otherwise).

And if, by chance, fifty years from now finds me an ancient recluse with 27 cats, I can promise you I will fully embrace the character and be the most bizarre and talked about resident of the neighborhood. I will sit in my wildly overgrown garden penning story after story, and creating ghosts and tales that will reside in this neighborhood long after I’ve taken my leave. And passerby will quicken their steps when they pass my house, though they couldn’t really say why.

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