Life as an Extreme Sport

Six and Three

Do you ever get the idea that the universe is trying to tell you something, and it finally gets *so* frustrated with you, it just wants to smack you upside the head?

I’ve been writing a lot today, on other bulletin board systems. Things about lost loves, first loves, what makes you cry. Add to that a rather wrenching conversation yesterday with The Swede about a past ‘relationship’ – I’ve been feeling drained, drawn out and blue today.

This was really intensified when I went to type out a post about what makes me cry – you can read it here, if you’re really curious. Anyhow, I was doing the math, counting on my fingers (yes, counting on my fingers, I suggest you shush), and I realized that it’s only been six months since Mars left his ring on the dining room table.

Six months. Can that be right? It doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t feel right. It feels so much longer; Sept – Oct, 1. Oct – Nov, 2. Nov – Dec, 3. Jan – Feb, 4. Feb – Mar, 5. Mar – Apr, 6.

It’s only been three months since we stopped speaking.

Six and three.

And I have company coming in precisely 15 days. And this company is not coming in any sort of platonic sense, and everyone who knows is aware of that.

Am I ready? Six and three.

So I sit here, a bit down and blue. A bit confused and puzzled. And I pull out the music, and start listening to down, blue, confused and puzzled songs; music to match my mood. I put in the Strictly Ballroom soundtrack, and skip to song 7 – Time After Time, remade by Mark Wiliams and Tara Morice as a duet. A beautiful, sad song.

I mope, I count (six and three, chanting in the back of my head all the while I listen to music, six and three, six and three), I play the song on repeat. I doubt myself, my intentions, my abilities. Fairies whisper to me, too soon, too soon, you’re only going to end up hurt, hurting him. Danger echos in my mind, and I feel the need to run and flee. Six and three, six and three.

Someone asks what song I’m listening to, and I look down to see the names of the singers.

Except, instead, I see this:

A life lived in fear is a life half lived.

I think the universe just smacked me upside the head.