Very few people move me to action. Start my motor, always in neutral. Get me going, planning, setting that 10-year goal. Actualize my checks and balances.
I knew a beautiful, ambitious, multi-skilled woman who made me laugh so hard I split my pants — in the front row of Sunday church, no less, during a sermon.
She broke my heart when I couldn’t fulfill her ideal, when I fell short, and endured her rain. She was the living embodiment of the Sara Bareilles’ song, “Gravity.”
I will always love her, gravitate toward that rabble-rousing, worship leader voice, able to move many mountains but trembling my inner child, like the monster under the bed.
Like everyone else, she’s doing podcasts for her business. I listen, transformed. Suddenly, I believe I can leap tall buildings in a single bound, maybe do my own podcast with my own co-host, about something. Find something, be just like her. Be better. Compete.
But I just sit here staring at the computer, fat and unhappy, listening to modern modal jazz, straining to get somewhere — one pointless note at a time.
I think I’ll have another piece of strawberry shortcake in March.