Against the rules. Cheating. Rupture in the time-space continuum. But isn’t that the true definition of being a grown up, when you comprehend you don’t get any do-overs?
Fine, how about some duck tape?
Duck tape for a cracked life. Because you can’t really undo what’s been done or start over. But there are people out there who seem as if they can fix just about anything, create just about anything, with a roll or ten of tape.
Others get stuck staring at the crack. First they pretend it isn’t there, then they can’t look away. They touch it, push on it a bit, whip out the tape measure and chart its progress, and finally, run their tongues over it and curse the fact that their tongue is bleeding. How about a little duck tape for use as a bandaid?
Over the last year, I got tired of swallowing iron. Unfortunately, I hate the feel of sticky fingers. Seriously, even the thought of syrup on pancakes makes me shudder, because I hate the stick factor. Which leads me to think about my unnatural and unhealthy love of butter. It’s smooth, it’s comforting, it’s easy. But I’ve gained ten pounds this year, and it hasn’t fixed a damned thing.
My knee jerk avoidance reaction is to say I need spiritual duck tape. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Appropriately obscure, everyone can project whatever they’d like into it. I think Mrs Fringe has been this for me–and God knows I project whatever I want onto these pages. Soon enough I’ll be hitting my one year blogoversary. It’s been great, and I hope it will continue to be a cyberaddress of fun and navel gazing for a long time to come. Not enough though.
I think women, in particular mothers-of-a-certain-age, tend to stop right here. It’s ok, dear, a little spiritual crazy glue is all I want. And if it isn’t all I want that’s ok, it’s all I need. See? My fingers don’t move, my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my lips are sealed shut.
It’s time to figure out how to use the damned duck tape for more than adhering myself to the same old shit.