Yesterday, I ran 5 miles.
I started at my apartment on Poli and ran toward Seward. Music against my ear drums, blood throbbing through my veins, and junk–good and bad–going through my head. I stomped those sidewalks, nodding to other pavement smashers who breezed by. I passed Ventura High School and then the County Medical Center, I made an S through the Ventura College Campus, and I skidded to a stop when I arrived at Bryn Mawr.
This is where my friend Ventura Dude lives. The run was nuts, and I felt exhausted like fresh-squeezed turds, so I text and asked if he could drive me home. He said he would.
Ventura Dude is a bad ass. Too bad I’m recently broken.
Up.
We dated briefly last year, and when there was no mutual love connection we stopped talking. No hard feelings. Then, out of the Hueneme grey, he called me. It’s like what Reggie said: somehow, they know.
When I arrived at his doorstep, he said, “You look like shit.”
I thanked him.
He grabbed his keys. Being in his Benz again sparked memories of an earring I lost during our brief dating stint. It looked bohemian, made of gold, with golden webbing across the center.
He opened his center console, and replied, “If it’s here, it’s probably stuck to used condoms.”
I had poker face.
He frowned, and said, “Jees, I thought that would at least get a response.”
Then I saw a twinkle. It was buried alive, but not stuck to rubbers. As he moved more stuff, I recognized the netting. It looked tarnished, but there it was!
I screeched, pushed past his hands like Charlie Sheen pushing through porn stars for the Vodka bottle, and pulled my earring to safety.
I held it to my cheek and sang Reunited by Peaches and Herb, then I gave it air-kisses. Little miracles.
And my run, well, that was a little miracle, too. Last year, while dancing at an 80s club in Hollywood, I did a stage dive in heels; when I landed, I heard a *crunch* in my right knee cap. The doctor said there was no permanent tear or break, but like anything badly hurt, it would take time to heal.
I used to run 15k’s, and this is the farthest and least painful run I’ve had since the injury.
Hear that?
There’s always hope for healing, it just takes time.
You would think I was hinting about the healing over my recent break-up, but this is where the story takes a Palm Street dip.
You see, last week I screwed up big time; and at the same time, someone screwed up on me me pretty bad.
My dad has a bad joke for every occasion. And this joke just fits right now:
“Did you hear about Sam and Kathy Wong and their new white baby?”
“No, Dad.”
“Yeah, everyone is saying two Wongs can’t make a White.”
I can’t tell you what my screwing up was, but I definitely caused pain to another being.
Badly.
And though I forgive others when they wrong me, I never expect to let others down, especially in such a way that is mean without question, or hurtful, or causes heart break.
The fault I feel for opening this Pandora’s box is the most regret-filled feeling in this world. And regret is like an envelope that smothers you, and you can’t breath for a while, and you feel like the world’s biggest butthole. I advise my friends to live without regret, because you own your actions and you should always act knowingly and purposefully. Advice that I was forced to swallow that on the night I totally F’d up.
So enveloping was this feeling, that I couldn’t see through the haze of my own screw up to remember how badly I was fucked over.
But I realized today, after Yoga, after I breathed an Om with the rest of the class and felt their energy radiate through me, and I was filled with this euphoric calm, that forgiveness isn’t just about pardoning the other person, it is about pardoning yourself, too. If you can’t even forgive the person you love most–you–you can’t possibly begin to forgive another.
Why is it important to forgive another person who hurts us?
I realized, during my drive home from Yoga, as my little Honda was hugging the curves of PCH and I was seeing the stretch of the Pacific–this open space that has seen and holds so many secrets, that exists and will exist much longer than my time on this earth–that anger, grudges, and that cruel handshaking is worthless.
You are not a robot.
If you can get to this point of universal forgiveness, and you can see Love and feel it from the inside and then 360 degrees around you, then you are a supreme being because you are an all loving being.
But lets be smart about it, too, and remember: forgiving and forgetting are two completely different ideas.
And maybe all this sounds corny to you because you came to Date Night to laugh, but instead you got a message from my spirit to yours. Well so be it. Stephen King does it all the time, after all. And, honestly, one of my favorite Stephen King quotes applies:
“I still believe in the resilience of the human heart and the essential validity of love; I still believe that connections between people can be made and the spirits which inhabit us sometimes touch. I still believe the cost of those connections is horribly, outrageously high, and I still believe the value far outweighs the price which must be paid. They are old fashioned concerns and beliefs, but I would be a liar if did not admit that I still own them… and that they still own me.”
A couple of nights ago while out on a monogamous date with Ventura Dude, and before my epiphany, I said, “I’m an asshole.”
Ventura Dude strained his fingers out in front of him, and he said, “Are you an asshole or a Bitch? Because you called yourself a Bitch 5 minutes ago, and you can’t be both.”
“I’m an asshole,” I said, shaking my head.
“Good. You’re an asshole. Now shut up so we can find a place to eat.”
Ah, Love that is rough is the best love to have.
I’m not really too much of an asshole, but I’m also not a robot.
Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/
No comments:
Post a Comment