October 30, 2014 - Do You Have That?

Truth be told, I've been feeling fairly miserable. Miserable is maybe a stretch..more so an isolation or disconnect from the rest of you. Partly to blame was the holed up sequestration to a, mind you, beautiful white sofa for almost two weeks encompassing a confinement to the grey walls and oaked hard woods of my contemporary dwelling. It's a lovely place to be as there is no place like home. But even home doesn't heal all wounds. In part was the mental isolation that comes with any event that holds you stationary while the rest of the world comes and goes from interactions of every day life. The cards of encouragement and texts of "how do you do?" kept a strand of connectivity, but the strand was thin and frayed by design, and instead I fell prey to the loneliness of physical and emotional isolation. And the groggy fog that plagued me much longer than need be did little to help the goal. The newly improved reconstructed boob was no consolation prize. It was starting to feel a little like a sentence. And I do what I tend to do. Embrace the isolation more.  All of those in one big bucket, and I was not the happy go lucky sunny disposition of my usual state. Reconstruction, while imperative from my perspective, is a bear. These impostors were taking it's toll.

I am craving interactions and in need of connectivity to pull me out of my slump. I went back to work, and hoped that would suffice, but work isn't a place for soul healing as we all move around in our hustle and bustle dealing with needs much greater than my own. It's a start, but not a finish. I needed time with women who knew me for what I was the good, the bad, the ugly, and still chose to do life with me along the way. And women who didn't care if my boobs were fresh off of a plastic surgeon's to-do list. It's powerful how much you need and rely on genuine interactions. We as a creation crave true judgement-free connectivity. We long for acceptance regardless of current state. We are a being of relationships. Relationships that matter. Do you have that? Am I that for you? Oh I hope that I am to someone.

So tonight we planned an outing to do some organized painting. People swear it's stress free (it's not, I'm a perfectionist). People swear the outcome will be display worthy (it's not, I'm a perfectionist). People vouch it's a girl's night worth planning (it most certainly is even if you are a perfectionist), particularly with the right people who know how to laugh just because you can when you are recovering from mastectomy surgery. Women who make your cheeks hurt on the drive home because they've been stretched into displays of utter hilarity for 2 solid hours. Women who laugh at themselves because that's simply just worth doing. You walk into the room and you know exactly what you are going to get, and it never disappoints. You feel you have nothing to bring to the table, you pale in comparison in your frumpy frock and disheveled can't-bring-yourself to offer much of anything demeanor. But you find you don't even care because they immediately envelope you in their cocoon of goodness. These women make life worth doing well. And these women make you gasp for air in belly derived chuckles when life has a hiccup. I needed these women more than I realized in foresight, but which became positively concrete in hindsight.

If you don't have such gals in your realm, go and get some stat! (And if you can't find any look me up. I volunteer.) You can do life without them, but that would be a shame and an uphill battle. You need them when you suddenly decide to choose the crazy path. You need them again when you find that the crazy path brings unexpected. And you will need them once again when you find your breast implant at your kneecap, because that's just hysterical and you need someone to laugh at that with you. And when you start to feel the isolation that may follow the hysterical sneak into your oak-floored dwelling, you need them to pick you back up and remind you that frumpy is stylish, disheveled "intoxication" can be laughed at, and droopy boob surgery is nothing like spilled milk.

Bet you can guess which one is mine. I tend to go off road juts a tad when given the option.