Saturday, February 2, 2013

I Like 'Em Big and Fat

Journals, that is.

What the heck did you think I was talking about? Donuts? Well, yes, that would work, too. I like the way you think.

I haven't been writing lately because I've been working on a huge merger. The husband and I decided to try this absolutely insane, ridiculous thing married people do that makes no sense whatsoever: we moved in together.

A Republican and a Democrat are now under one roof. It's sort of like Washington, except unlike Congress, we occasionally unite on certain issues. You know what I'm talkin' about, Willis. Donuts. (What else could it be? We're married now.)

The past few weeks, we've sustained ourselves on a diet of pastries, Red Velvet PopTarts (omg!) and wine while moving two houses back-to-back and deciding whose stuff most belongs at Goodwill. We're a mess of neon beer signs (his) and an insane number of frilly throw pillows (also his). We've fought over closet and dresser space (please keep your shoe-shine stuff out of my undies drawer, dude) and who gets the better nightstand (I won! I won!). It's crazy up in the hizzle.

The good news is that we've emptied enough boxes to see that yes, we actually have floors.

That brings me to the point of this post. And you thought I didn't have one.

While emptying a box in my new office, I discovered a dusty, big, fat journal from the mostly pre-Internet days, when people actually wrote their deepest, darkest secrets in diaries instead of sharing them on Facebook. Can you imagine? Needless to say, I spent the next couple of hours sprawled in a sunbeam, getting reacquainted with myself. Any excuse to get out of unpacking will do.

At one time, embarrassed by my own thoughts, I seriously considered throwing the journal away. Yesterday, I was so very glad that I had shoved it into a box in the attic instead. I learned quite a bit about where I am now and why I am here. If only I could talk to my younger self and reassure her. Still, I was thankful that she could talk to me.

I'll share page one with you. Somehow, I will resist the urge to edit that younger writer, who really liked exclamation points!!!

June, 6, 2000

Welcome home!

When I saw you on the shelf, the writer within stirred, and I once again yearned to keep a journal - a task I've failed miserably at in years past. But you, my friend, were different.

I spied you on the shelf, so big, so plump and juicy, begging for my secrets, my whimsy. But $23.95 for what is no more than a spiral-bound notebook? No! I couldn't! I wouldn't! I shant!

Oh, you tricky, flirtatious mass of recycled pulp! You wouldn't allow me to deny you. I found myself craving you, craving a daily dose of soul-spilling! I HAD TO HAVE YOU!

Finally, my friend, we are joined. I sit cross-legged on an old, iron bed, you on my lap, hoping to carry through this time around. You promised me you would be different. You would be "the ONE."

So let's embark on our journey of the trivial, the mundane, the passions, the tears, the joys, the nonsense, the blahs, the rahs.

Here's to us, friend. I know you are hungry, starving, begging to be fed, to be full.

Perhaps 'tis no coincidence: we are to fill each other.



You know what I think, looking back at that first page?

I think I wasn't getting a lot of action in June, 2000. Seriously. It's like journal porn.

All that big, plump, juicy talk of being filled makes me yearn for something else:


Please bring some and meet me at Goodwill. I need some help unloading those beer signs.

No comments:

Post a Comment