The Walk of Life

I was talking to a friend the other night (last) and I made her laugh so hard she had to hang up to go throw up.  She says it has nothing to do with the margarita she had a dinner.  Sure.  At least she thought enough of me to give my ego some way to roll with the punch she had thrown in its direction.  Thanks, sweetie! ;)
 
After she called back, we were able to actually carry a fairly serious conversation -which was really a testament to our friendship.  Having a serious conversation with someone after something like that is kind of like arguing apologetics with someone in clown shoes.
 
So we were talking about some of my blogs lately.  I admitted to "being in love with the idea of being in love".  She expressed that might be a dangerous thing.
 
Oh contrare mon frere.  It's nothing I'm ashamed of.  I wouldn't wish to be different.  "Being in love with the idea of being in love" is kind of like having one foot larger than the other.  It's something of which I must be aware.  And its only really dangerous if I forget when going up some stairs... I'll let you draw whatever conclusions from that declaration/analogy you might.  (Knock yourself out, slugger.)
 
I realize now that I am indeed ready to feel with authenticity.
 
Everything in my life is showing this.  I'm no longer waiting to be ready to be ready.  I'm just simply ready.  Damn ready.
 
I'm not in a hurry.  Just ready.  I'm ready in the way that Michael Jordan was always ready to be the go-to guy.  He wasn't itching to take that last shot.  He just knew that when it was time, he'd be able to pull the trigger.
 
Prepared.  Yeah, that's a better way of putting it.
 
Every day I'm feeling more like myself.  The Lord has blessed my heart and helped me to power-spray off the mud and crud placed there by reckless hearts being reckless to my own.  It was a choice I made.  And I've been blessed with resilience.
 
Just because people have hurt you, doesn't mean you deserved to be hurt.
 
But yeah, I've got a few quirks.  I'm becoming my parents in some real ways.  I'm constantly cleaning, like my mother.  I caught myself yelling "God bless America" the other day, ala my Pappacho.
 
Sometimes I leave the stove on.  I have to have the bed made.  I'm obsessed with Spider Man and the Cubs.  (If that's news to you, I'll give you a hammer for you to use upon the side of your skull).  I sometimes forget that non-stick pots shouldn't be machine-washed.  I'm not perfect at all.
 
I do these stupid things.  And yet, I'm kind of proud of them.  I know that I should work on my imperfections, and yes, if I forget to turn off the stove I guess the place could burn down.  But I'm proud of my stupid little idiosyncrasies because those are the things that make me... well, ME.  Those are the things that are going to make some woman fall deeply and madly in love with me.  -Or rather, not because of these things, but despite these things.
 
You see, I've realized a thing or two about life.  I no longer care how the average Baylor girl sees me.  I realize that on the surface, I'm a pudgy, cheeky, perpetually middle-class, smart mouth with an obsession with a loser baseball team and his own prose.  But you know what?  That's what I am.
 
And being exactly what I appear to be has become so very liberating.  What you see with me, is what you get.  I love with everything I have.  And somebody, someday, is going to find my particular kind of crazy something she can't live without.
 
Why do I want love so badly?  Its because that is why we were meant to be.  When we fell, we lost our ability to know exactly how to love the Lord.  That's why we have each other.  Every time my Mom sends me a random text message telling me: "I'm so proud of you! I love you up to the sky and back!" for no other reason than she's in Colorado and thinking of me, I know a little bit better what it is to know God.
 
When I smoke a pipe with my roommate, Dave, I know a little better how God wants me to be happy.
 
I imagine that someday, when I'm telling my wife to lay down and I'll feed the colicky baby -when I see the face of that wriggling little miracle in my own hands, I'll get it, if only for an instant, why it is that we are meant to be.
 
I'm sorry I can't say this as well as my heart knows.  My words fumble.  If I was Michelangelo, I'd create a sculpture to express myself.  If I was a musician, I'd get Dire Straits to write a song with me about it. 
 
I guess I'll just have to be okay with screaming from my own little soapbox while others shuffle along the walks of their lives.
 
Insert the Keyboard riff...

PS, Charlotte, I'm not that funny, hot-stuff.  You need to get out more.  Maybe you should make a call to Lubbock? ;)