Journey

I'm trying to write a piece on the evils of eating too much sugar-an evil I know way too well. The sunlit yard calls, the birds cavort under the apple tree, the cat sleeps on my bed, complying sleepily as I pick her up and rub my face in her fur. Meanwhile, Maroon 5's "Back at Your Door" spills through my speakers, yanking my train of thought-well, off right off the track.

"No need to cry about it, I may just die without it, every time I wind up back at your door."

I think back to the days I'd crank up the car stereo when some go-for-the-cheap -pathos song was on the radio-a little Journey, anyone? I used to get jazzed on the adrenaline of emotion even when I wasn't dreaming of the next crush.

Now I'm soo much saner. I add so many qualifiers, possiblies and maybe's to nascent correspondence with a potential suitor that I sometimes think I'm constructing a law school course rather than a relationship. Rarely do I allow myself to be disappointed when someone flees-after all, its all part of the game, isn't it? I am so good at domesticating guys, subtly turning them into friends without letting them get too close.

I still know terror, the grip of love, and the white flag of a surrendered heart-every time I see my son walking across a parking lot on his own, or my daughter walking up our driveway after she gets off the school bus.

But I think I'm ready to let down my guard a little when it comes to men. After all, what is life without a little ecstacy, a tincture of hope, a return to youthful passion?

Now all I have to do is recognize him when he strolls, or stumbles, or walks into my life-and be ready to uncross my arms and let him in.