Writing is More Than Words
(Thats Zander at the Seattle Humane Society. I guarentee he will be amazing.)
Over the past several weeks, I have begun to really fall in love with writing. I have no idea if I am good at it, but I enjoy it. So I have decided to try and write something very often and post it unedited. I am back using 750words, and writing about random things. Like this. Its about my morning. Feel free to give me suggestions and thoughts.
I’m not sure if it was the alarm or my Taylor’s familiar bark that woke me. It could have been the lawn equipment that fired up across the street, or even my cat settling into my hip, in the exact spot where her comfort outstripped mine.
As I often do each morning, I took measure of every muscle and joint, trying to pin point the exact spots that were going to hurt no matter how much stretching or how hot I turned the shower.
The pain in my neck has become almost like the comfortable pressure of my dog nestled against my back as we slept, except it lived just below the bump at the base of my neck and did it’s best to remind me that I no longer had dominion over my own strength.
While I often describe it as matching the dull pain of the day after the day you worked out, it was more than that. It sat directly between my shoulders just out of reach of my reach and just close enough to my fingers as a simple fuck you to my well-being.
My back seemed to be quiet this morning. My legs the same. I could feel the dullness of my right thigh and calf, but that has been with my for more than a decade, and I often forgot about it. I stretched my toes. My right foot tingled. I waited. It didn’t go away. I grunted.
Taking a deep breath, I flung the down comforter across my body, covering the dog. I am pretty sure that she has no interest in waking up, and I have no interest in waking her. I swing both feet towards the ground, trying to control my feet and have them touch the carpet simultaionously. As always, my left foot wins. I sigh.
Slowly, I steady myself with each hand equidistant on my sides. I shake my head and my voice, which always seems higher than I remember, yells at my continued fatness and the reality that most of my problems I carry around with me every day on my waist.
“Shut up,” I implore. “Just shut up. Today, I will be better.”
As I stand, I open my eyes. I look around the darkened room. I check the clock, still before 7 am. What the fuck am I doing awake? Billie comes barrelling out of her room in the back and while I pet her head, she swings her butt into my legs. I sit back down and massage her back legs. And as she twists and moans in distinct pleasure, I wonder if I will ever feel that way, even if just for a moment.
“Let’s get you guys fed.” I tell the room, which now includes Calin, who I tossed from my hip crying about how her hunger is the only thing that matters. I find a pair of shorts that haven’t been washed in days, and pull them on, along with a shirt that I am unsure if it’s on inside or right side out. I open the curtians and welcome the warmth. I pick up my phone and turn on Howard Stern on Sonos and throw the phone onto the bed.
“The world won’t end if I don’t check my email.” A simple, but effective reminder.
I walk into the kitchen and open the door that leads to the backyard. Taylor hits top speed before she reaches the top step. I smile. Billie walks about ten feet and then turns around to check on me. I grin. “It’s okay,” I tell her every morning. “Go potty.” She nods and bounds after Taylor.
Calin accompanies me on my walk to the garage, telling me all the way what she wants to have for breakfast. I nod, and collect her food dish, along with Max and Winston’s. I look for Max, he is curled up in my clean clothes. I move to pet him. He runs away. Shrugging, I walk back to the kitchen. Calin runs ahead to ensure I am getting the right food.
As the fridge opens, Taylor comes back inside. She sticks her head in the fridge and then dutifully runs to the living room where she lies down and and a look of pure starvation grows across her face. A minute later, Billie comes in and checks the garage door to see if its open, so she can help the cats finish their breakfast.
I spend the next few minutes making the dogs their breakfast. As I open the container of raw turkey, Taylor comes into the kitchen. She sits next to the sink and watches everything I do. Raw turkey, chopped frozen kale, supplements and water. Bowls on the ground.
Shower started. Shower taken. Teeth brushed. Tees searched for a clean one. Only one pair of shorts. Sniff for cleanliness. Flip flops. Howard Stern. Laughs.
Taylor comes to remind me that the garage door is closed, and it is highly likely that the cats were finished eating. I open the garage door. Taylor goes to explore; Billie stays and gets a treat. Cats have disappeared as only cats can. Keys on the counter. I grab my phone and skim the email. No one dead. Put my wallet in my pocket and head to the door.
Taylor and Billie follow as if to remind me that they don’t approve of my choice to leave. “I gotta go, girls.” I tell them. “Billie, you are in charge.” She heads to my bedroom so she can watch me leave through the window.
I close the door. Take a deep breath, and head down the stairs.
In the car, Howard Stern on the radio, bluetooth in my ear. I pull out, and I get a Dropcam notification that there is activity around the fridge. “Locked it, sucka!” Taylor will have to wait to eat. So will I.
(Listened to Glen Hansard while writing)