There are no wrong decisions.
Somehow I’ve managed to get to my 22nd year in this life and no one ever told me this.
There are no wrong decisions after your tears have blended with the water in the shower as your head is flooded with thoughts between the alternatives, your knees are as raw as your eyelids from falling on the floor and begging God – or the universe, whoever responds first – for an answer, when you’ve typed and printed and dated your resignation letter and hung it on your fridge so you can see it everyday.
When you’ve reached that point, there are no wrong decisions.
Of all the things my mother taught me how to do, taking care of myself was never one of them. I never realized how important it was to actually love the body where your soul resides. And now, as I tilt my head and listen to the muscle knots crunch over each other, I wonder how long it would take for the neglect to catch up with me if I hadn’t noticed the decay when I did. The bags under my eyelids are not designer, my friends. But I can remember the last time I felt well-rested!
Tuesday. Two short days ago when I had a day off work. It was the first morning I can remember when I told my husband good morning before coffee.
I’ve never done that before.
I also notice the pain in my fingertips as a type from nails whittled down to nibs, ripped cuticles wearing drops of blood like ruby necklaces, and the flaking, onion-like layers of the nail itself floating across the keys.
If it were anyone else, I’d scoop them up and wrap like a burrito in a blanket, hand them a cup of homemade hot chocolate (made using my tiramisu truffles from Italy – what else?) and stroke their hair as I convinced them to quit their job – or anything else that made them so dreadfully unhappy.
And knowing that, I have to ask:
Why can’t I do that for myself?