Addiction

"I have a problem," I admitted to my husband last night, eyes cast downward, shame seething from my eyeballs. "I really love it. I love it so much," I mumbled, cradling my new iphone against my chest.

He burst out laughing--kind-heartedly, course--and then gave me a hug.

"That was so genuine," he told me, as I strained my eyes in the darkness, attempting to play "just one more game of 'jewels' and one more game of 'words with friends'" before I turned in for the night. Logic very much in place, I knew how utterly ridiculous it was for me to prop up my head and play games in the darkness. Nevertheless, I didn't want to pull my fingers away from the touchscreen--I wanted to beat my previous score; I wanted to find the perfect word. As logic edged out desire, I attached the charger and relinquished my prize, setting it beside my bed....then I thought about it for the next thirty miserable minutes, desiring just one more...anything.

The addiction happened quickly--much quicker than I expected. I figured it would occur gradually over an extended period of time; however, I readily admit that in a very short span of time--two days to be exact--I have grown utterly and completely consumed by my desire for this brilliant piece of metal. I thought loved my Blackberry, but I'm quite convinced that I didn't fully comprehend, or whole-heartedly feel, phone love until the iphone 4S became mine and Siri entered my life.

As I sit and write, I see my husband with his iphone; I yearn to be in his place. I yearn to tangle letters and match colors and ask the computer ridiculous questions about anything I desire. I yearn to find the perfect application, one that will help me cure cancer, end the oil crisis and crush tyrannous dictators. I yearn to stop working and simply play.

Then I look again, tracing my eyes from the beast in his fingers to the smile on his face. I know he's smiling about the baseball game, but I pretend he's thinking about me. I pretend we didn't spend the evening side by side in silence, sans a few growls and scowls and "darn-its" here and there. And I decide that as much as I love my phone, I'd rather hang out with him...

After I make my Words With Friends move, of course.

Sit

PROMPT: Grab the closest book. Think of your favorite number. Turn to that page and write the first full sentence you see. Write the story that comes next.

The Help; Page 9

“She got this way a clearing her throat real delicate-like that get everybody’s attention without they even knowing she made em do it.”

Alice turned her head. When no one could see her face, the edges of her lips bent up slightly. Thomas had her pinned. He was the only one who seemed to catch on to her antics. The rest of the table moved on, squinting their eyes and carrying on about their business.

Even though she got caught, it was nice to be understood. It was nice to have someone know you inside and out, even the bad stuff.

Thomas changed the game. He barreled into her life, propping everything she ever wanted on his back. The weight encumbered him some—enough to stop and catch his breath sometimes—but never too much to greet her with a smile.

****

This little morning diversion offered me a strange woman and a strange man whose sole purpose was to get me thinking about love. Love in the sense of real. Love in the sense of understanding. Love in the sense of accountability. Love in the sense of one who can see into us.

I woke up late to write this morning—on day one. Scrambling around the kitchen, making coffee and throwing together lunches, I bounded frantically around my exceptionally small kitchen--not small, of course, for New York standards, but microscopic for Midwest ones. My husband emerged from the shower, noticed my flurrying, and inquired about the cause.

“I’m not going to be able to write on day one. Day one,” I mumbled irritated, boasting the very tone I hoped my writing would minimize.

“Just start right now. Don’t cheat by writing for longer than you said you would. Sit down and just write.”

He pointed in the most loving way possible; I sat. Then I opened my laptop, I picked a prompt and I attempted to summon the Muses. My faucet of inspiration seemed to be as empty as my coffee cup. And so I stopped. I refilled and I decided that part of journaling is being okay with whatever comes--or doesn't come.

Today when my husband reached for my shoulders and told me to just write, I realized that he could see into me in a way no else quite can; he was my Thomas. As strange as my blogging commitment might seem to him, he knows it means a lot to me, and so because he loves me, he keeps me accountable. He helps me to accept being real. And at the end of the day, even when my hair is messy and I’m scattered and disappointed in myself, he understands. Even if I didn’t get off to a perfect start, I will start my day remembering that I’m loved. I’m not sure I could devise a better beginning.