Shoelaces for Josie

I’m really good at the comparison game. Or really bad, depending on your view. I’m really good at it, because I compare a lot which is really bad. Physical attributes, cake-baking skills, house-cleaning habits, getting up from spills, hits on the funny meter, being neater, perhaps even a little sweeter. That’s just a short list – made infinitely shorter from the out-of-nowhere urge to rhyme.

I was born into the comparison game. I was not born with things like a set of bodacious ta-tas, an insatiable urge to clean my house twice a week or the gift of sitting around the campfire and telling funny stories. Which is fine, most of the time. Until I run into a situation where I find myself glancing down at my chest and wondering what it might be like to have Hells Canyon-type cleavage or wishing I could use my windows as a mirror for flossing my teeth or being able to wring laughs out of a group with no more effort than taking a breath. (Depending on who you are with that last one. If you’re a dead guy, then taking a breath is probably an almighty big effort. And with the second, if you have no teeth, then you probably don’t want a mirror-like window. And for the first, if you’re a man…I personally don’t think you should be desiring Hells Canyon cleavage.)

The comparison game is depressing for me. Rarely do I ever compare myself with someone where I might “win”. Which, if I did, I’d struggle with admitting that anyway, because who wants to be friends with someone who picks on the little guy while he’s down? You don’t step on people like that. Unless you accidentally don’t see them, because they just tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and you were too busy talking on your cell phone to notice. Hands-free is the way to be!

But also, who wants to be friends with the person who sets themselves up to lose? ALL the time. I just as well walk around with my finger and thumb in the shape of an L on my forehead (Song, anyone? Anyone??) Because you see, I never choose to compare something I’m okay with. I always pick something that I’m staggering along the cliff of insecurity with.

Comparisons are ridiculous. I always fall short, and I’m already quite short enough, thank you. I think it is human nature to compare. Our looks, our possessions, our families, our personalities – we compare, because of that whole keeping-up-with-the-Jones’ type thing.

Well. I don’t want to be like the Jones’. I want to be like me, all my imperfections and shortcomings to boot. So I’m not turning heads and I don’t have a clean house and I’m not stand-up comedian funny? Okay, that’s cool, I can deal. What I can’t deal with is feeling like I’m trying to mold myself into someone’s skin and doing things and pursuing ideals that don’t fit me simply because I came up short when I played the comparison game.

These words…they echo in the far reaches of my memory, never fading into silence. Resembling fireflies caught in a mason jar, glowing in pain, glowing in tears, glowing when they shouldn’t be at all. Are they coming, or are they going? Always coming, never going. Round ‘em up! Circle ‘em! Shove ‘em through the gate! The gate…where’s the gate?

These words…they live in the bottom of a bottle, the windows of a car, the tiles of a ceiling. Living on a steady stream of thoughts and emotions, memories and reality. They need to vacate the premises, be escorted to the door, thrown out on their scraggly behinds.

These words…I don’t have any more words for these words. These words have landed a one-two punch to the gut. These words have proven to be more difficult to wrangle than a wild mustang. These words have exposed nerve endings thought to be cauterized.

I glanced back up at the road and had one of those “Holy Santa of the Equator moments, what am I DOING!?” moments. White Flash was driving itself. I had both hands occupied with my coffee cup, and White Flash was taking itself down the road at 60 miles an hour. While it felt like entire minutes had elapsed during my attempt to figure out the slushy level of my coffee, it was likely a mere second or two. But at 60 miles an hours, that can be quite a substantial period of time.

I jammed the coffee cup back in the console and grabbed the wheel, of course, although White Flash was rolling just pert near center of my lane anyway. And then, because I’m me, I started thinking about the little series of events that had just taken place. It’s not the first time White Flash has driven itself. It’s really quite decent at staying where it’s supposed to. Probably because it’s a big fatty-mcfatterson. And because I like to keep equal pressure in all fire tours – excuse me, four tires.* Ahem, but after thinking about it, I’ve drawn one conclusion and one startling realization.

Conclusion: I can only educationally guess that the reason I took my hands off the wheel in such a casual manner is because I drive this particular road quite often. Like, EVERY DAY. I could drive this road while I was asleep. Heck, I bet I could drive it while asleep AND while wearing those beer goggle things!

Startling realization: It’s not the fact that I took my hands off the wheel that bothered me. It was the fact that I didn’t realize I’d done it. It was a “Look Ma, no hands!” type of situation minus one key ingredient: in order to tell your Ma to look, you’ve got to be aware that you’re going hands-free. Oh…oh my…oh dear…am I at that point in my life where I’m going to have to write a sign in bright orange Sharpie on my dash telling me to keep my hands on the wheel while the vehicle is in motion?

Last night, I stepped outside of my little Erica-world-box and went to a martial arts class. I had to sign this piece of paper that said if I died in the course of practicing that the gym and the class instructors weren’t to be held liable. I could trip over thin air tomorrow and break my neck; I signed the paper.

I went to a couple martial arts classes when I was in college. I forget which discipline it was – one of the many that place a great deal of importance on your foot being in a certain place and your knee at this exact angle. One of the many that require you to wear what appears to be a cross between pajamas and a bath robe while bowing and screeching “Hiiiiiya!”. Did I mention I only went to a couple classes?

This martial arts class I went to last night was not that. There were no white paja-robes or loud screams with boards breaking. It was just a bunch of people in normal gym-wear – mostly dudes, because apparently martial arts is a dude-ly thing to do (thank you Chuck Norris) – hitting and kicking things. Which is probably why this class is high on the to-do list for dudes. It’s a self-defense based class that focuses on real-life situations. Like, if someone is choking you, this is what you do to get out of it and combat simulations and boxing techniques – just the usual, ya know.

It’s going to be good though, I think – provided I go back. If my muscles rebound and my knuckles unswell. Especially if I can manage to listen and not make a complete knob-head of myself. When you hear “backwards run” instead of “back to a run”, you’re going to look just a little bit special. Just…I know what I’m talking about.

As humans, we build a lot of things. Buildings. Roads. Bridges. Houses.

And, as humans, we build a lot of things. Relationships. Careers. Families. Legacies. Traditions. Futures. Pasts.

Today, I bought a hammer to be prepared for anything I might need to build in the future.

• I’m glad he didn’t kill me. He had sociopathic tendencies, but for all the things he did, I’m incredibly grateful he didn’t murder me. I think that would have been particularly unpleasant.

• I am a woman who lives alone and travels alone (mostly). I am a vulnerable target. An easy target. I need to make a few changes to lessen that vulnerability, to know that should someone decide to make a target of me, I would have the capability to make their success far less attainable. Something like skills with a bo-staff and nun-chucks would probably be the most obvious choice.

• Think critically. Trust less easily, always question, decide for myself.