You Never Know What You're Gonna Get

Sometimes, my brain hurts.  It's not a physical sensation at all.  It just gets muddled, and my thoughts move like ping-pong balls served and returned by Forrest Gump in the world ping-pong championship; and by the end of a day at work, after lobbing thoughts and ideas and answers back and forth, I just want to close my eyes and let my brain stop pulsating, bend at the waist, and breathe.  Breathe.

"Life is a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get."  There are days when I get the white, sugary kind, that taste like stale Reeboks, and then there are other days, I get a piece that tastes like filet mignon and mashed potatoes (I'm not much of a chocolate eater. . .  but oh, if there was chocolate that tasted like filet mignon and mashed potatoes, I sure would be).

Good days, bad days, happy days, sad days. . . 'tis the season, I suppose.

Last week, I was without the kids for the entire Thanksgiving break.  It ended up being six full days of no blankets left on the kitchen floor, no stacks of books left on the bathroom floor, no strewn clothes thrown on every floor, no name-calling, no popcorn throwing at Enzo, no giggles, no cuddles, no softness, no kisses. . . and it was sad.  And I was lonesome without the blankets, and books, and clothes, and insults, and popcorn, and giggles and cuddles and softness and kisses.

And I thought, - - - every time my phone rang, throughout every single one of those days, with a FaceTime call from Paige and Tony - - - "I'm taking this call."  It didn't matter if I had just gotten out of bed, out of the shower, was blow-drying my hair, was reviewing a contract at work, was in the middle of a meeting at work, I answered.  We would talk about crazy things like words or the weather, or the dogs, or the sky when it was pink or blue or purple. 

I was eating the stale Reeboks that, at times, tasted like filet mignon and mashed potatoes.

It seems that there are moments in every day, after my brain stops hurting, where I can see the pink or blue or purple. . . and it seems that there are moments in every day where I can see the clothes strewn about the house as well.

And I realize that Forrest Gump was not only a good ping-pong player, he was also wise.

Tomorrow, I just might get a piece of chocolate that tastes like a meatball.