superbeck
Shelter in the storm. Doesn't mean the storm stops. Just means that you can have a place to catch your breath, warm up, dry off, gather your wits about you, reformulate your plan, sleep, be nourished. Rest. And become brave enough to re-enter the storm for a time.
Automatic Negative Thoughts. These come up faster and wreak more havoc than any trickle-then-swarm of ants that march onto dirty-dishes-covered kitchen counters.
How I've longed to drive a car that can give me the same rush of power felt when in a Boeing 767 as it accelerates, pressing into the wind, pushing to be airborne. I like power. I like flying. I like runways because they mean liftoff.
It's all I want, when I wake up. I have it already but it's just beyond me. My brain stands in the way. So I'm captive still, for a bit longer. Usually by afternoon I'm free and life is easier again. Until the next morning.
My grandpa played one.
I like bacon almost burned. Crisp and crunchy. With orange juice. And then more bacon. I'm pretty sure I could eat a breakfast consisting entirely of crispy bacon and orange juice.
When cooking for my husband though, this can be problematic, as his bacon preference is chewy.
It's fortunate for him I rarely end up with what I set out to make because most of the time when I try to make crispy bacon, it turns out chewy, much to his delight.
That, or burned. I need more practice. And more orange juice.
I can't taste food when my sinuses are clogged with infectious gunk. It's all the same. Textures vary, a bit, my memory tries to conjure up how the food should taste, but it's all just bland.
My friend Michelle was the first I knew, to do it, carry calla lillies down the aisle at her wedding. She was also the first I knew to incorporate another color (gold) as a main part of her wedding dress. A gold-ish champagne sash around her waist that, in some of the pictures, made you do a double take because at first glance it looked as though she was wearing a two piece wedding dress.
I tried washing my face with oil. The people on acne.com lauded it's ironic virtue. Success stories were enticing. I tried washing my face with oil. I did it wrong, or my skin is wrong, or the people who praised it were wrong. All I got was more oil on my face that needed to be washed off.
Oil was slick in the rain. Before he knew it, he was down, the bike half-crushing his left leg and knee. Helmet slammed, saw stars, prayed for safety, still trying to wrestle the machine out of the way of fellow travelers. Rain fell harder, now.