I was going to say that returning to blogging must be like returning to the gym after a really long lay out. I say that I was going to say that, but it is nothing like returning to the gym. If I skip the gym enough days in a row, then it takes everything I have to drag my fat ass back into there. I do it because I know I have to do it. And that is nothing like how I am feeling now.
Instead, I think returning to blogging again must be like having sex again after one really long dry spell. I want too. I really want too. I know what goes where. I am dripping wet with excitement. But I feel incredibly awkward and self-conscious about my every move (in this case, every word I write . . . or do not write).
Where have I been? Those are stories to tell some other nights.
In deference to my anxiety and feelings of awkwardness, let me start slow, kind of like foreplay. I promise to warm up and share better tales.
A few weeks ago, I went to visit Mom and Dad. Mom was cooking something and Dad was watching football. Dad was unusually talkative, which may have had something to do with the beer he was drinking, and I sat in the living with him for most of the time. Thank God for football. My parents and I went through a pretty rough patch for a while when I was in my teens. It may have been only days, but I swear it felt like there were years we could barely speak without fighting. But, no matter how tense things were, I could always talk football with Dad. Those games are some of my fondest memories. Okay, I am sure that is boring information for you, but it is part of the memory for me. Daddy must have been feeling really comfortable. He offers me a beer - something he never has done before. I needed the beer to not get frustrated with him and that damned flicker. We are watching the game, but he keeps flicking channels. What is it with you men! Mostly, he kept flicking between the game and this auto auction. Every now and then, he would mention having owned one of those cars and fussing that they were now selling for obscene amounts of money. A Ford F100 rolled across and Daddy told me how this was his first car (okay, truck) ever. I remember this for two reasons. First, it was important to me because he told me how it was his first car. Second, and this might be the real reason, he proceeds to tell me how this is the car he was driving when he met my mother. Memorable enough on its own. But he tells me about their first date. He picks up her at Granddaddy's house, opens her door, and he described how she slid all the way over to sit beside him. He told me how she was the first girl to ever slide over to sit next to him. I thought that was so sweet and romantic. Daddy said that bucket seats were the worst thing ever to happen to cars. I was still thinking how it was all romantic about a girl sitting next to her date when I went into the kitchen to get us each another beer. Mom said to me that she agreed with Daddy. Smiling, she whispered, "more room". Right then I needed that beer to medicate the images flitting through my head. But later on, I kind of smiled at the thought of my Mom and Dad having fun in his truck.