My sister texted me a “Hey, Sis, how ya doing?” message this morning. Being in the car, on the road, I couldn’t reply back with the usual “Fine, how are you?” message right away. And then, when I got to work, sitting in the parking lot about to type that message back to her, I paused.
I had to give the question some thought. How am I?
Oh, I didn’t have to give it thought. The sad truth is that most people aren’t looking for a real answer to that question, not even my sister, who I considered my closest friend at one point in my life. I’m probably not even looking for a real answer when I ask, although I like to think that if I was given a truthful reply, in which the respondent actually shared a little bit about their lives with me, I would be grateful, and interested.
But maybe not. Maybe, like 99% of the population, I am only interested in the surface of other people’s lives. I do recognize how tightly my world evolves around my world, what’s happening in my life… further, I recognize how little motivation I have to change that (sad) fact much.
Yes, that makes me sad, and disappointed in myself. I look around at all the people that seem so connected to each other, to their coworkers, their friends, their relatives, and suspect that I am a) not as good a person, and b) missing out on something vital. Something important. But every time I try to forge/renew those connections, it just feels…flat. Inauthentic. Like I am asking “How are you,” and pretending to care about the answer when really I just wanted to hear, “I’m fine, how are you?” Because anything more is more information than I really want to know. And truth be told, I really am fine with my little insulated circle of three being the center of my world, and just poking my head outside that circle to check in on the rest of the universe every once in awhile.
As, I think, my sister is. She doesn’t really want to hear that:
On the good side, I love the house, I love this process of renovation and of making it ours, making it a home. Much more than I ever thought I would, and with an enthusiasm I never expected to feel.
On the bad side, I am tired of the mess and chaos already, of the dust and dirt and tools everywhere. Of not having our big king size bed, clean floors (clean anything!), a house that is comfortable to live in yet. Also, sometimes, I want to just collapse on the couch and watch TV, or get dragged upstairs to have sex or get whipped, or go out to a movie, instead of having to go home to paint, plan, pack or prepare for the move.
She doesn’t want to know about my achy back, or the fact that being so busy with the house means I don’t have time or energy after work to exercise lately, and I miss it. That I can feel my meals beginning to layer on me like thick cream-cheese frosting, feel my hips and waistline expanding, feel my discomfort with my body, feel my lack of energy and motivation. That I miss being physical, I miss feeling strong and alive and healthy and active, and I miss all the good things exercise does for my mind and body.
But apparently not enough to get my lazy ass out of bed an hour earlier, or even a half hour, so I can do morning yoga, at least.
She doesn’t want to know that hearing W say “I like living together,” this morning as we got out of bed made my heart pound so hard with joy it actually felt painful. That coming home from work last night and walking in the door to find them both waiting for me, and kissing them each hello, felt surreal, like I’d walked into a television mock-up of my dream life – and that this is my life, from here on out (or until one of us decides it really isn’t their idea of living the dream.)
But that doesn’t mean it is a dream, where everything is easy and a happy ending is guaranteed. Making this dream a reality also means there will be adjustments, and discomforts, and a lot of getting-used-to each other and a different way of living, and sometimes that is daunting and exhausting, and sometimes it is thrilling.
She doesn’t want to know that I’ve been getting a few more whacks with a paddle or other implement here and there, a taste of what – I hope – is to come, and that I am trying to be patient and wait for it, but that patience isn’t always my strong suit. (~snerk~) Or that I have hopes that some day W and I will have a fullblown, for real, down and dirty, nasty, brutal, hot, furious, exhausting, exhilarating scene once again; or, barring that, at least some dirty talk in my ear while he fucks me; or, barring that, that I’ll have sex with both men again, right in that (too-small) queen-size bed, humping, fucking, sucking, biting, grasping, thrusting, shoving, panting and moaning; but that, sometimes, I wonder if any of those things ever will happen again. Because they aren’t, right now, and even though I know all the reasons (good ones!) it still haunts the edges of my thoughts, impinging on my “I’m fine,” just a bit, no matter how hard I try not think those thoughts, because then I feel incredibly selfish and ungrateful.
Or maybe, on second thought, that’s exactly what she does want to hear.
“I’m fine,” I type. “How are you?”