Misadventures in the Dark

Fear, Satan’s most powerful tool, is the root of all evil. Fear itself is my greatest fear. It is. Fear, coupled with worry (a needless emotion,) robs us of time. It replaces joy with anxiety. As an “over-thinker,” it’s hard not to succumb to it this week. I will write this entry with a heavy heart and a head full of questions. On Saturday, October 25^th, we lost Anne Pressly. I note “we” because this loss has been profound and vast while affecting many. I did not know Anne personally, nor was I familiar with her from afar. I was asleep in my bed during the time in which Anne was on the air, but I still find I am enraged.

 

I pray of solace for her family, friends and co-workers. I know they are left with grief I cannot imagine or pretend to understand. Though I realize it offers superficial comfort, knowing she is with the absence of fear, pain, worry, and sadness should offer a bit of peace. Justice will eventually offer more.

 

Until recently, I lived a handful of blocks away from where Anne was attacked. It was not an uncommon occurrence for me to fall asleep with my back bedroom door ajar. I rarely locked my doors at all because I was delusional in believing it could not happen to me. To quote another, “Our sense of safety is a mirage.” False security I assume Anne harbored as well. My doors are now closed and locked and my eyes wide open. My commonsense no longer in hiding.

 

My best friend, Wes, was an acquaintance of Anne’s. He works mere feet from where the nightmare occurred. Wes is unable to leave for lunch, so I frequently visit him during my lunch breaks. I visited him today like I’ve done hundreds of times before and felt a foreign feeling in a familiar place. I can’t describe with complete accuracy but I felt uneasy, nervous, heavy yet empty. Wes and I made efforts to discuss anything other than the tragedy that has lurked in all of our minds, but we found ourselves engaged despite our best efforts. Wes said, “We are not hateful people. Neither one of us is capable of really hating and yet, we both genuinely loathe the person(s) capable of such shameless evil.” Like a domino effect, the hate I feel makes me hate more.

 

I can’t wrap my mind around it. I would purposely wreck my car to avoid hitting a squirrel. The idea of purposely harming another living being is beyond my comprehension. Just as I cannot fully grasp the concept of infinity, I cannot get my arms around the capability of such hurt. Continually thinking about it creates insanity. I have to remind myself people are mostly good. The good guys outweigh the bad guys. I cannot borrow worry from tomorrow because tomorrow isn’t promised or guaranteed. I can only love as much as possible and live as best I can. Otherwise, my thinking becomes a hamster in a wheel running in exhausting circles.

 

I am hurriedly walking my dog, calling my neighbor to smoke outside with me once night falls, literally startled by my own shadow. I’ve discovered a new fear and suddenly all my other fears seem trivial. This too, inspires anger. Like hate, the anger makes me angrier. Talking with Wes aided in making some of the fear subside. Baby steps…

 

Saturday, the 18^th, I spent the majority of the evening drinking wine and talking outside with my mom and stepdad. Ironically, we discussed the death of my grandmother (whom I lost 5+ years ago.) I miss her more as time passes. My mom asked if I eventually want children. I am still undecided, yet swayable either way. She elaborated: “If none of her grandkids have children, grandma’s memory dies. She becomes a picture in a photo album which eventually disappears. And if you don’t have children who have children and so on, your memory dies too.” How soon I learn this lacks truth. As mentioned, I didn’t have the fortune of knowing Anne, but she leaves a legacy. She will be remembered. Her light now burns elsewhere, but the memory of her light burns as a constant reminder.  She will always be missed by those who knew her and by those who wish they had known her.

If you live in the Central Arkansas vicinity and are between the age of 18 and 60, odds are you play or watch kickball on Sunday afternoons. If not, I encourage you to give it a shot in the spring. Last year, my good friends Marty and January asked if I’d be interested in joining their new kickball team, The Blue Balls. I agreed to play after some initial hesitation due to my lack of athletic ability. I did not know the majority of the players but grew to instantly love our team. We were an eclectic crew with varying interests and yet, it worked. The following season, last spring, we neglected to sign up for the novice league and as a result opted to accept the only opening remaining in the competitive league. Marty and I assumed the role of “captain” and “co-captain” while recruiting new players to join the “fun.” The competitive league was appropriately titled. We were quite literally “out of our league” and as a result, the passion for “kickball Sunday” diminished. Ultimately, Marty and I both formed new teams in the novice league enabling us to revive the good times.

 

I have previously defined what I consider to be “fundamentals” or “essentials” when dating someone. I neglected to note what I refer to as “deal breakers.” These consist of the surface, quirky, and often times ridiculous little traits or actions leaving me running, top speed, for the door. Have you seen the movie “Singles” written and directed by Cameron Crowe? Written in 1992, it is a movie full of witty and truthful insight. I’m sad to say, I identify with the character Janet Livermore, played by Bridget Fonda. Some of her “deal breakers’ are eerily close to mine and they existed for me long before seeing this movie. I say "sadly" because she is a bit nutty. 'Course, I would like to think she and I are similar sans the craziness. For example, there is one scene in which Janet fakes a sneeze to gauge the reaction of her sorta-boyfriend, Cliff. His response is no response. She delivers yet another phony sneeze and Cliff responds with, “Hey babe, don’t get me sick.” She was looking for his recognition of her sneeze; a simple “bless you.” This is important to me. Why? It’s important because it offers a selfless moment of wishing me well. I bless complete strangers.

 

I am a sucker for good grammar and spelling. Men, in general, are usually stronger in areas dealing with numbers so it is rare and precious to find a man who knows the word “grammar” is spelled with an “a” rather than an “e.” Oddly, as I’m certain you’ve noticed, I am rather often guilty of grammatical (primarily surrounding punctuation) errors myself. In short, maybe it’s easier to see someone else’s flaws before seeing your own. I always forget words when typing. I see the word in my head but it doesn’t translate through my fingers to the page. I am a victim of my impatience. I should reread my writing more.  

 

Another irk is when a man (or person) enters a restroom, does their business, while returning to the table (or wherever) moments later. The effort it takes to spend an extra thirty seconds to wash your hands is really no effort at all when considering the overwhelming amount of funk you touch while in the restroom. I won’t get into details as it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.

 

The worst offense of all? Bad kissers. Chemistry is a factor, obviously, with every kiss. What I consider to be a “bad kiss” may very well be another person’s preference. This must be the case. To me, a good kiss should be progressive. In other words, do not jam your little lizard-like tongue down my throat at the raging speed of light. Slow, progressive. Passion is good. Messy, sloppy, kisses that hurt? Not good. There is some good news, however, there is bound to be another you. Find her ‘cause if you’re a bad kisser, I am not your girl.

 

A few years ago, one of my best friends, Jim, shared a few of his “deal breakers.” One has tattooed my brain and has become one of my peeves. He said “I have met some beautiful, intelligent, kind women and then discovered they bite their nails. Nail biting is a complete turnoff. Short nails are fine, but nubby, barely-there nails gross me out.” I was a nail biter at the time. It’s been a couple years but I completely kicked the nasty nail biting habit. Jim went on to say, “How you take care of your hands says a lot about you. Nail biting is a sign of stress and a lack of self-control.” I found that to be an excellent point and have since found myself taking note of fingernails as well. Plus, it is gross.

I am a sentimental girl and I save far too much. I save old pictures, love letters, clothes I’ll never wear again (because they remind me of a specific event,) and dried flower petals. I keep everything because to discard certain things feels as though I am discarding a part of myself. A couple of weeks ago, while in Manhattan, my old friend Michael and I went out for a couple of (overpriced) drinks. He and I have been friends many years so of course, we share many memories and “remember when” stories. My memory serves me well. I remember insignificant details—almost on a photographic level, a blessing and a curse. I am a force to be reckoned with in an argument. After wading in the nostalgia, Michael asked of why I’ve remained in Little Rock. I find myself tightly wedged between a rock and hard place. I wish I had the courage to live outside of Arkansas and yet, the idea of leaving my family and friends leaves me with a lump in my throat. When polling friends and acquaintances who’ve found the courage to uproot, I discovered most were nudged due to a career transfer or a significant other. Very rarely have I heard, “I just packed up and moved.” I know a handful who have and they are satisfied with their decision, yet the absence of reason tends to be uncommon.

 

My visit to New York stirred something unexpected in me. I had the notion I would enter the “big city” and feel an overwhelming sense of home. My grandparents were born and raised in Queens and Brooklyn, so I harbored this romantic fantasy of being cradled by the city. Instead, I felt anonymous. To quote my mother, “Manhattan is almost dehumanizing. No one cares. You are insignificant.” I was not a brick in the wall, I was I was a speck of dust in the brick. Chicago, on the other hand, entered my veins and allowed me to exhale. I assumed New York would be a magnified Chicago and learned the two cities are absolutely incomparable. It was great to visit with Michael and his wife Brooke, don’t get me wrong. They both bent over backwards to show me the city, plus conversation with both was always enjoyable. But the city itself? People exist like sardines in a bottomless can. Stench and all.