Memories

My excuse for neglecting my blog has been, "At work I write all day. The last thing I want to do is come home, stare at a computer screen and write some more." (Side note: I'm beginning to question the virtue that you should turn your hobby into a job.)

The truth, however, is that I do not write. I blog.

I use too many corny phrases (that my boss just eats up by the way), and post too many exclamation marks that even I'm beginning to cringe.

Usually I come home, numbingly exercise, talk about this and that, eat some kind of dinner and sleep.

Sadly, there's not enough quit and inactivity for blissful reflection. That is until tonight.

Right now I should be on mile 2 of my 3 mile run. Instead I took a bath and ate tortilla chips -- alone.

It was in my solitude and delinquent revelry that I began to think. It was rich, deep and comforting. At first it was superficial thoughts: what should I make for dinner? Is that another hang nail just waiting to happen? I should trim it, but instead I think I'm just going to bite it. Then my hands dropped into the water and I sat back. I closed my eyes, and broke the dam of pent up thoughts. I let them rush over me, cover me, warm me and then be acknowledge by me.

I picked one up. I wondered a little and dropped it. I picked up another thought. This time it stuck. I wondered, do people think of me as often as I do of them? Am I some freak? Some anomaly that hangs onto people, memories and feelings longer than others -- or perhaps longer than I should? Is it wrong to look back and think often on the men and women who I may never see again, but who are forever in my heart? Is it inappropriate to waste time wondering what they're doing, and if -- at that very moment, even -- they're wondering about me too?

Maybe.

But maybe not. Perhaps the people who have left a mark on me, also have a mark FROM me. And when they see an outrageously funny seinfield episode they'll think of me. Or when they drink herbal tea, they'll wonder what I'm up to. Or when they hear something about women's rights, they'll wish they could share their nugget of information with me. Better yet, when they decide to drop the tv remote and pick up a book, they'll wish I had seen the act of brilliance and that I could applaud them for it.

Hopefully I am right and that I'm not alone. I think we could all use a little more of our memory to actually REMEMBER the people, places and times that are bunched together in our hearts, brains, personality and experiences.

A shout out to my man, Oscar Wilde, seems appropriate, "Memory...is the diary that we all carry about with us." I am obsessed with books and addicted to reading. It's no wonder, therefore, that I love my memories too.

Thank you, Oscar.