I thus apologize early on then for what you're about to fall victim to. My cyclical and unremitting (and verbose) state of blog can easily be summed up with June 29, 2008's previously dictated emotion. Like Elizabeth, I hope you're not offended, but history does indeed repeat itself until your lesson's learned. So here we go again:
I went rock climbing on Friday evening with some teens dubbed "at risk," and as I drove one family home, a young woman gasped with surprise about how much her hands stung. This comment cued my heroic tales of gymnastics and the persistent pain my gym mates and I endured. I told her of calluses and all that they're good for, and all that they're not, then I cautiously looked at my own hands on the dark evening road, spot lighted by the horizon's full moon. The skin was pealing, once again, on the pads of my joints, and I hummed a quick "hm" at the affinity of my told-again story and my broken record life. I'm ripping again...
Is it every full moon that I'm required to "dust it off, wrap it up, and grow some thicker skin" or is it just by coincidence that my melodic cries repeat themselves in a monthly pattern out of sync with even my hormones?
I think at one point my thick skin got tired of rejuvenating on something else's time line, be it nature's, biology's, or God's. And at that point, when bad things - or even just slightly lame things happened, my callouses just began to strip away, layer by ceaseless layer.
These days of great independence, I feel nothing but naked. I'm still on my own after nearly 3 years in this town. I'm on my 4th apartment, I'm on my 5th job, and in this wee bit of time, if you add it all up, I believe I'm on my 9th life. My thick-skinned armor and pride has apparently been quietly pealing away like so many other things, perhaps in the shower.
In my car, on my phone, on a Monday, I spoke to another dear friend named Allison. I explained that in a multi-hundred mile radius, I don't know anyone who could give me a hug; not just a hug, I guess, because I'm sure I could find someone to uncomfortably put their arms around me, but a powerful bear hug, with deep, thoughtful, consoling intention... THAT I don't know where to find. It occurred to me then that the thing required for strength and endurance, for pride and protection is not thick skin, it's not money, it's not a promotion, it's not my ego, and it's not long runner legs. It's not necessarily a successful relationship, though I don't think having one would hurt. It's not even knowing I have two hand fulls of friends in this town to call homies - which I don't.
A hug is the armor I'm missing the most. It seems like the only thing that will protect me from the dangers of reality, and the only thing that can positively ward off typical to toxic misfortunes. It's my constitution, damn it! I have a right to protection - and all the warmth and safety two arms could possibly provide.
If I have to say it a thousand... a million more times from this moment forward, I will not be ashamed. Be not offended: the truest way to achieve a winning state is exercise one's right to Bear Arms.
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