Here, Have Some Stress

"Ow." I thought as I tripped over the sprinkler head that dark, Fourth of July evening, landing to my knees on the sidewalk.

"You alright?" Grandma asked as I stood and brushed myself off.

"Yeah." I said, running back into Aunt Janet's house. I'd needed the bathroom, not a face plant.

I was washing my hands when I looked down at my legs. Low and behold, there was a circle of raw skin, signifying the classic scraped knee. I was surprised to see it there; I felt totally fine, it didn't even hurt.

Immediately I was struck with intense pain.

Fast forward nine years.

"Hey girl," Ashley said, walking around my car after lunch. "What happened to your car?"

"What?" I asked, shocked, expecting some scratch mark from Hades.

I rounded my back bumper.

No worries, there's no scratch.



I couldn't believe myself. The only time I could figure this happening was the day before.

I'd been driving around for a day without noticing my baby was hurt.

I've always considered the MrazMobile as an extension of my arm. Its name suggests it's a boy, but I'm so in tune with it it just has to be a girl. I can't make up my mind, so I only ever call it by its name: MrazMobile.

I could not believe I hadn't seen, I hadn't felt that epic dent. I couldn't believe a part of me could be injured so terribly and not have demanded I know so. How could I have been so dumb? How could I not have walked around my car, at least once that day? Why didn't I move my car at lunch, or even after school?

I'm so protective of it, you think I would have at least scoped it out once I got outside. But I didn't. I left it in harms way and out of my mind until someone pointed it out.

And like the Fourth of July, somethings just don't hurt until we see them. And once they're noticed, they absolutely kill.

See me through his eyes

Perfect is in the perspective.

I used to be happy I was me, because then I didn't have to look at myself everyday.

I was imperfect.

I used to clam up and look awkwardly away near those random faces in my classes, because I didn't feel adult enough to actually speak.

My words were imperfect.

I used to sit and wonder why I wasn't thin like them because, let's face it, I wasn't thin like them.
My body was imperfect.

But now there's people saying

"You're just gorgeous"

"You're so cute"

"You're so funny"

"You're so thin"

"You have the perfect body"

The perfect body?

That's something that has escaped me since elementary...the perfect body... Me? Perfect? Me? Thin?

We got to talking Sunday in church about ura and omote, which are (if I'm remembering correctly) Japanese philosophical terms which simply mean "the internal view of self" (ura), and "the outside world or the way it's viewed" (omote). And out teacher asked,

"Which is more real?"

And the boy next to me responded, "Most people would say it's omote, but I disagree. The ura changes the omote."

We see the world in a different light. Each of us. Why? Because we each have our own ura, our own view of ourselves, and our view of selves affects our view of the world.

So why can they call me perfect and thin? Why can they tell me what I am sure I am not?

Their ura is not mine. Their omote is not mine.

Perfect is in the perspective.

Perhaps we should just change ours.

Better

Read Better (Live) Lyrics here.

I should have learned to never look up Jason Mraz youtube videos. Because this is one song I'll be singing for the next year and, as you may or may not be able to tell based on Jason's scrawny figure, over-sized clothes, and baseball hat, that this song will not be appearing on the next album.

Not even the next live album.

It's only getting better...

Books... Are so perfect. Even the books based on "Unfortunate Events" are perfect. Sometimes I look out the window at the summer green leaves on that tree and listen to this man sing and I ponder. If I was a book, what would be perfect that isn't right now? What would be "better"?

Is it a lack of motivation on my part? If I was flooring it, pedal to the metal, would I not have to sit and wonder? Would I know? Not saying I'm not satisfied with my life, no no. But on days like today: warm, sunny days with summer calling and Mraz singing... I get thinking. Jason Mraz followed some invisible drive inside him, something that kept pushing/pulling him on, and he found his way, scrawny and clad in over-sized clothes, to play his heart strings in Java Joe's, and from there the world. He found that perfect place common in books.

He found his "better".

And when I hear him sing on days like this, in moments like this, I feel like I'm tasting my "better". That feeling in my heart, in my soul even, is testament to that "better" that's waiting out there for me. I can feel fate at my door, but I'm unable to answer it yet. I know it's there, when Mraz sings I can feel it, but I can't come yet. I can't get "better" yet.

But I know it gets better. It only gets better.

I just don't know when or where my "better"'s coming.

It's just there. Waiting.

Well, I'm waiting for it too.

Maybe it's better this way.

Free Falling

I love snowglobes. I love to run my hands over the glass, to feel the cool smoothness of perfection. I love to peer at the innocent scene inside, that perfect little world, that little piece of happy. I love to gingerly pick it up and turn it over, every nerve on end praying I don't loose my grip. I love to quickly set it right, before my luck runs out and I drop it. I love to watch the snow fall, wondering what it's made of, and what it would feel like outside its watered dome.

I have my own snowglobe. I don't touch it much. The ciaos of snow is nice, but it's not worth the risk of shattering the glass. I keep it on my shelf. It's surrounded by other happy nik-knacks and random sentimental pictures. I keep it safe and upright. I keep it from falling.

She has a snowglobe too. I suppose if she could she'd glue it down; though, knowing her, she might shake it often, just for the reaction: just to watch the snow fall down. She likes ciaos. Or, this is possibly more accurate, she likes to pretend there's ciaos. She likes the brief fall of snow, and the instant peace and true calm that comes as it settles. Yes, she likes to shake the globe, she likes to make it snow; but she'd never drop it. Never.

But she doesn't work her own snowglobe. Its shelf isn't in her room. It's called her globe but it's not hers to shake.

And it's not hers to drop.

She stood there for a moment, watching them turn the globe on it's back, watching the snow start to fall. The plastic snow didn't make her smile. The stormy ciaos didn't bring thrill. They've done this before, many a time before, and though she'd shake the globe herself, the vision of them doing so is nauseating, not invigorating.

She watched them plunge her perfect world in snow.

And, in an unspoken agreement, they slowly relaxed their fingers.

It fell slowly to the ground, a moment where things truly stop and go in slow-motion. A moment where, if you were conscious enough, you could reach out and stop it from happening. But you never realize you could have caught it until it's already hit and time is regular once more.

She watched it fall.

She watched perfection break, perfection shatter, perfection flow in a microscopic river.

She saw her globe in pieces, her happiness broken on the floor.

And nothing is ever as captivating when mended with tape.