Small choices… another essay

It’s 6:20 and I’m in bed, hunkered down under my cotton throw with a belly full of protein shake. It beats the chips and banana cream pie slices I’ve been indulging in for dinner all week, and I had two other “sensible” meals today. I guess you gotta start somewhere… or maybe it’s sometime.

Steve says I’ll make an awful empty nester. Maybe so, judging by these summer training sessions. Maybe by the time it happens for real I’ll have gotten the hang of it, gotten a life pulled together that revolves around no one but myself.

But I’ve always been a communal sort. Odd, really, as this is juxtaposed right next to my natural tendency at introverted solitude, and quiet withdrawal. So much so that people mistake my quietude for snobbery and attitude. Until I smile.

Yet communal interaction doesn’t require a constant thread of communication. Sometimes more can be said by sitting silently together and sharing a meal. Giving up the mouth as the primary tool for communication to the task of biting and chewing, it is the hair and the eyes and the shoulders that speak, carrying on their secret conversations. Arm hairs bristling like morse code.

But I like quiet. I like sitting, side-by-side on a comfy couch, legs outstretched and intertwined, feet turned toward the fireplace, like sunflowers to the sun.

So as the day wanes, I’ll read a bit, until my eyelids droop as though they weigh their weight in gold and resolutely refuse to lift until the day starts anew.

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