“We’re just afraid, period. Our fear is free floating. We’re afraid this isn’t the right relationship or we’re afraid it is. We’re afraid they won’t like us or afraid they will. We’re afraid of failure or we’re afraid of success. We’re afraid of dying young or we’re afraid of growing old. We’re more afraid of life than we are death.”—Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love (via quotewhore)
Last week, while baking up a storm, I burned myself in four different places on my hands and arms. My forearm caught the cookie sheet, my elbow decided to hug the muffin pan, my hand didn’t think the oven was as hot as she said she was. It hurts. With a massive bandage, it is too dramatic. Sans bandage, I look like the victim of domestic abuse. I’ve gone to work with and without the big beige patch that covers half my arm, and no one has been courageous enough to ask about it. Perhaps customers assume I’m a true G who was just initiated into a hip gang as I hand them their change. I don’t know. Anyhow, they are finally starting to scab, and will later leave a patch of skin the color of babies. Healing is good. But scars are terrible. Any scar I have is a warning, reminder, and a note-to-self regarding one of the many careless mistakes I make (and hardly ever attempt to correct). The dot on my arm: You’ve already had the chicken pox. Don’t trip. The line on my thigh: Maybe you should perfect your form before jumping any more hurdles with your spikes on. The nub on my finger: When mama tells you it’s hot, it’s really hot. And now my arms. These scars will forever remind me that I am not careful enough. That my oven hates me, that I suck at baking, and that trying to produce food will ultimately hurt me. But when I’m 80, old, and possibly bitter and lonely, it will also be a reminder that at one point in life I believed there were people who were worth the pain. And then scars will be a good thing.
Contrary to popular (/my personal) belief, my heart has apparently been nurturing little pellets of things called emotions. Without my brain’s acknowledgement. I don’t know what they’ve been feeding on lately, but they’re shooting my mood up and down. I dislike.
On a slightly happier note, I am learning about the presidents. James Madison was the shortest President at 5 feet 4 inches tall. He married a woman named Dolly. Isn’t that cute?