An Inventory of Things That Might Mean Nothing

I don't want to be the type of person who can only be inspired when I'm sad, hurt, or angry. I'd like to feel that same fire when things are good, calm, or when I'm just riding the waves. You know, where I am right now.

It's not always easy to ride the wave and not care what shore it washes up on. Matter of fact, I'm failing. Maybe not failing. Struggling. Fighting. Trying to just ride and not care where it ends up.

It's stupid little things.

Like, I made a big step. A big step for me, at least.

I texted someone from the neighborhood.

Met up with her for ice cream.

Talked too much. Mostly about me.

I needed it, though. No regrets. YOLO, right?

I needed to talk, and talk I did, I guess. We talked about her too. She even gave me a book—an extra copy she had of one she thought I'd like.

And I was bolder. She texted me afterward, and I sent her my Instagram. You know, in case she wanted to follow me. I don't add people. Not often. I'm not exactly a private-private person. That would, in my opinion, be someone without social media. But I am selective. Guarded. About who gets access, and even about what I share.

She requested to follow me. I approved.

So, of course, I requested to follow her back.

She didn't approve my follow request.

It felt like a breach of the social contract. 

I approve you, you approve me. 

We're sharing together.

Maybe not.

Maybe she looked through my pictures.

Saw the stupid collages I make.

The flowers from the backyard.

A couple of shots of the cats.

Decided she'd seen enough.

Or maybe she just forgot.

Maybe she just didn't open the app after she requested. 
Doesn't even know I approved.

I keep flipping to the same greyed out "Requested" button. 

The 134 followers (I'm one of them) 

and the 274 following (of which I am not a member.)

And the 210 posts not for me.

I made myself visible, and I don't know what happened next.

Last night, I couldn't sleep. That was abnormal for me. Hours awake.

This morning I texted her: "Thank you for listening. I didn't realize how much I needed to talk. I'm excited for the book."

Still no answer.

No follow approval either.

God.

I'm becoming something I don't like.

Overthinking stupid little things.

Like—

I'd asked her what she did for pet care when she goes on vacation. She takes the dogs with her. Unhelpful. She gave lots of suggestions. None of them were really a good fit. To be frank, I already had a Plan B. I was just hoping she had a better option.

She didn't.

She said the woman one house over does house-sitting.

Ugh.

No.

Don't mix business with the neighborhood.

After all, if it goes badly, we have to live one house over.

But even if it doesn't go badly, we'd be inviting someone from the neighborhood into our home. To see our daily schedule. Entrusting them with our lives. The dirt. The smells. The leftovers in the back of the fridge.

What's to stop them from walking around the block, pointing at the house I've grown to hate, and saying, "You should hear these crazy people's pet-care instructions," while pulling out the five-page document I spent hours typing, reading, updating, rereading, editing, and printing?

I guess there's some world, some alternate universe, some Sliding Doors moment where I wouldn't care.

I'm moving anyway.

Fuck all these bitches.

I'm getting out of here.

But the wave.

I'm riding it.

Nothing in life is guaranteed. A move can seem imminent and still take another couple of years.

Forever might just be a couple of months.

We don't know a thing.

Not really.

Nothing's a done deal till it's done.

Thanks for the book.

I've been listening to positive affirmations. 

One of them says, "Everyone feels insecure sometimes. It's normal."

But I need a house-sitter so we can go look at houses in another state. And this girl, over Twix Chunk ice cream in a cone, looked me in the eye and said, "Selfishly, I have to ask... do you have to move?"

I thought for a moment...

Maybe not.

As I ate my raspberry and green apple sorbet.

And I thought maybe these people aren't that bad.

And maybe we've just been too guarded.

I should connect with her on Instagram.

And maybe she's just busy.

Maybe she isn't on the 'gram like I am.

I don't fucking know.

I don't know anything.

And that's not a poor me, poor me, I don't know shit kind of thing.

It's just the God's honest truth.

I have no clue which way my life is going, and I'm trying to go with the flow.

She probably felt insecure too. About this loud girl who talked so much about herself and poo-pooed all her ideas.

(But for real—boarding two dogs and four cats before just finding another sitter on Rover? Come on.)

And my horoscope says:

"The lessons embedded in your current circumstances might be most accessible when you approach them with genuine curiosity rather than a desire to move past them quickly."

Okay.

I've been curious. I've been patient. I've been like, Ooooh, what's the lesson? What's the little prize at the bottom of this Raisin Bran box?

I've been like that for months, it seems.

Yet all I keep finding is that I am all the things I tell other people not to be.

Oh, don't overthink it.

Don't make it a big deal.

My own voice, sour fucking cold sorbet in my mouth on a hot day.

And those walls I built up—the ones that felt like good boundaries, the ones that kept me from being vulnerable and getting hurt—were just ways to pretend, for years, that I'm not insecure as fuck.

How long do I wait to start this fucking book?