Are You There, God? It's Me. Susan.

Are you there, God? It's me. Susan.

Don't worry, nothing's wrong. I'm not going through any crazy crisis. I'm not even here to ask for anything. Well, I'm not asking for stuff, anyway. I know this sounds strange, sort of coming-out-of-nowhere like, but we have some catching up to do. Even that sounds strange, since it's not like we never chat. But something's gone awry, I feel. Something's gone totally amiss.

I've been noticing this strange... distance? creeping up on me for maybe two or three years now. As if a slow moving sludge I didn't even recognise as something that could ever really affect me has been taking me some place that seems far from where I started. Far from you. Honestly, it's as if our relationship has somehow changed. Like you picked up and left. Or just stopped speaking.

I used to hear you so clearly, like we were two friends hanging out over coffee and there was a back and forth conversation going on between us. And then one day, not any particularly memorable day, I realized that conversation had stopped. Coffee break over, back to our separate desks -- you behind a large mahogany desk in the boss's office, me back to my cubicle and counting the minutes until lunch time.

I don't mean to complain, or sound like I'm blaming you for this feeling of quiet. I've heard all my life that it's not you, it's never you that steps away. It's always us.

But what if it isn't always us? What if, for some reason way beyond my comprehension, you in your infinite wisdom chose to test my faith by seeing if I'd follow you even if I couldn't hear you? I'm a little confused as to why you'd do this, but I'm pondering it as a possibility. After all, apparently most folks don't hear you like I did at one point, and they still follow. And I'm learning that "hearing you" is different than I once thought, anyway.

I guess I'm learning that. So if you're listening, it'd be cool if we could hang out again like old times. Even if it's not exactly like old times.

Sincerely, Susan

It Was All Yellow

It's no surprise to hear that I can be somewhat impulsive and that I tend to get restless at times. So when I painted the bathroom yellow... yes, yellow... well, maybe there's a point when one has to wonder what's going on. I mean, I painted the bathroom YELLOW. It seemed like a great idea at the time, as my sudden impulses always do, but after the impulse has been satisfied and the adrenalin wears off, I'm basically stuck standing around asking myself, "What the hell did I just do?"

That's basically where I've been for the past... I don't know how long. Please don't get me wrong. I'm appreciative of the life I have. I love my husband; he's my best friend. I enjoy my job and the cool folks I get to work with. I've got so many awesome friends, so many great opportunities for adventure - the hiking group, being able to travel from time to time, trying new things... But it's all only satisfying up to a point. Is this terribly wrong of me to say? Is it just wrong of me to say it out loud?

When I get to feeling like this, which does happen from time to time, I usually start up a new hobby that typically lasts perhaps a few weeks to a month (Irish dancing classes), or I'll get a wild hair and try to start a business re-selling clothes I've found at a thrift store (I broke even, not including the gas I used going from Crossroads to Free Trade to the other Crossroads...), or (when I was younger), taking spur-of-the-moment trips (like the time I foolishly drove to Berkeley with some guy I had just met at a party because he told me about "the best coffee house in the world. It's, like, way better than all that corporate business shit." And I turned the iPod on to Damien Rice and played the carefree passenger for about 20 minutes before having that "What the hell did I just do?" moment.)

Or I'll paint the bathroom yellow.

Honestly, I understand it when the man’s not entirely convinced when I really want something, because he knows there’s a possibility the desire won’t last for longer than a few weeks. That said…

How did the bathroom end up yellow, you ask? Well, the man was having a guy's night, and I was having a rum and coke. Now, now... I know what you're thinking. Did the man have any idea I was going to do this? Yes. While the story may be juicier to say no, the truth is that the man was very encouraging of my whim and even went with me to Home Depot to purchase the paint. And again, while it doesn't help my story to add this little detail, the bathroom actually looks pretty cool. I say all this now to let you, the mystical reader I'm assuming gives a shit about this blog because you continued to read this far, know that this isn't about me and the man. Nor is it about the bathroom. I don't write an interior designer blog -- check out Design Sponge for that. No, I write the emotion-driven sometimes funny, sometimes sad, mostly truthful, always honest blog about life and me in it.

And for those of you who are already offended at my use of the word, "shit", perhaps this blog isn't for you.

Alright, for those of you still with me -- much love for looking past the momentary profanity. I hope this post is worth wading through a culturally inappropriate word or two. I have no intention of being sanctimonious in any way, shape or form. You won't hear me curse on most days because I respect the company I'm with, and that typically includes folks who don’t care for that sort of language. I've also never really made a habit of it. But from time to time, I will indeed use a "foul" word or two. Why I feel I need to explain this, I'm not sure.

Anyway, back to the bathroom. I started really well, taping the edges of the baseboards, around the door -- all the appropriate precautions. I changed into painting clothes. I mean, I was serious about this. This was my project, and gosh darn it, I was going to do a good job!

That was all during my first drink. The second tasted just as good, and my hand still seemed as steady. The music was on; I was rocking out... good times all around. I felt empowered and the bathroom was getting more and more cheerful with every stroke of the brush. So was I, come to think of it. Poured myself Rum + Coke #3 and really hit my stride. Walls 1 and 2 were just about finished, and I started working my way around the wall/ceiling edge. Got a little on the ceiling I was able to wipe off, mostly, but hey -- what's a little character? Who'd notice, anyway?

I'm pretty sure I had one more, or close to one more drink. And the bathroom was finished. A new light fixture installed, two new towel rings, a hanging plant, yellow paint and a new outlook on life! It was beautiful, and I was so glad I had done it. I wiped down the counters, washed out the paintbrush and walked.. no, strutted back to the bathroom. Most of the buzz from the rum was gone by this time (I had done an extremely thorough cleaning). I stood in the threshold of the bathroom and admired my handiwork. So creative, so rewarding.

And that's when it hit me. What the hell did I just do. It really was a statement, too, and not a question.

"I do this all the time," I remember thinking to myself. I get restless and have to change the way my life looks. As if some layer of bright paint is going to change my life to some state of constant high. As if one more crazy, spur-of-the-moment adventure is going to fill some greater need. I guess I'm looking for an emotional-need filler.

I know very well that no one and no thing can do that. And when I analyze that thought, I guess deep down I'm not really expecting it to. Perhaps those bursts of energy that materialize themselves in the next hobby of the week are just time-fillers between here and the next. Or maybe I'm just being dramatic.

But who cares? Why not? Why not paint the bathroom yellow? Why not take a dance class, even if it's not something you'll stick to for very long? Why not try a new business endeavor, drive all night to Portland for a last-minute show, build a fort in the living room, start that novel you may never finish, dye your hair, get a tattoo? My goal is to be as free as I can, and to encourage others to do the same. My goal isn't to get hurt, to hurt others, to go into debt buying things, to suggest that starting and not finishing is "cool", or to be in scary situations for the sake of some adrenalin rush (I would NEVER encourage anyone to take a drive with some person they'd just met at a party, I don't care how free or special that person appears to be).

I want to love passionately and to be loved passionately. I don't want to "show" anybody, or prove some point. Maybe that’s what I’m fighting against. Some invisible cage that some invisible person has put me in.

(Side Note: Perhaps that would explain why I needed to justify my language earlier.)

So I break out in different ways, using different tools to cut through the bars. But I find I’m still tethered to an invisible chain clamped to an invisible stake in the ground.

Maybe I actually find comfort in the cage. Who knows – maybe it’s not a cage after all. Maybe it’s a mansion and I’m no longer impressed by the marble. Call it what you will. It doesn’t seem to be enough, whatever it is.

What happens when this life doesn’t satisfy, knowing that painting the bathroom is just a time-killer? When you can’t find the heart to try and convince someone to find satisfaction in the cage/mansion because you’re not really convinced of it yourself? God, that sounds so depressing.

But I’m tired of sanctimony. It’s just so stressful. And I’m tired of feeling bad about doing “crazy” things – things that aren’t actually that crazy anyway. I guess that’s the invisible chain – guilt. There are actually a lot of things I haven’t done because I’m afraid of feeling guilty about doing them. Ha! Isn’t that funny? I actually have moments of guilt before even doing that thing I think I *might* feel guilty about. How is that freedom? How is that living in the freedom I profess to live in?

I know I still have certain morals I choose to live by, and not out of guilt. But I also think there are some laws I’ve been living by that have been dictated by guilt and not conviction.

So now, after an evening of tea and cathartic writing, I guess I’ve decided to join a new club. It’s called Freedom. Hopefully my attendance will last longer than two weeks.

Anyone interested in painting?