Mr. Intrigue and I were supposed to meet for the first time tomorrow. We had it all beautifully planned out a couple of weeks ago. But life and schedules did what life and schedules do and everyone knows what’s said about the best laid plans. So tomorrow I will not be kissing him for the first time. Or doing a good many other things for the first time for that matter. Instead I will get up, get dressed, get in the car and go to work.
I’m feeling that all too familiar ache in my chest, the one that squeezes at my lungs. The one that bring my tears to the surface. The one that lets me know I’ve gone too far. I care too much. At least if I want to play it safe I do.
He texted me from a bar across the country… sweet, but distracted little messages. And here I sit, at my kitchen table. Alone. Writing a whiny blog post. I feel pathetic. I’m stronger than this. There has to be a way to resolve the fierce, leonine side of me with the open-hearted, shatterable side. There must be. I can’t keep wanting to love, being proud of the way I love and then becoming livid with my own fragility because I love. This just won’t do.
So here’s where I stop. Here’s where I let the writing do it’s work and calm me. Here’s where I say, “Chin up, girl!” and claim the ever true promise that tomorrow is indeed another day.