Scars

Dude called this afternoon. Said he liked today's post. Affirming. I live for that. I told him I didn't understand his profound comment to said post. That Google Translate didn't work well on Latin, and the only Latin I understood was "Carpe Diem." Which I think was apropos. Somehow. He explained, but it's beyond me. Damn, I hate it when a guy is smarter than me. Luckily, that doesn't happen often.

Funny thing is that he called right when I flushed the toilet. After the whole Blue Moon Poot thing, I decided I should answer. The bloom is off. No illusions. WYSIWYG. Or, in the immortal words of my favorite philosopher, Popeye the Sailor Man, I yam what I yam.

Hey, I just realized how poetic "Blue Moon Poot" sounds. If I were going to start a band, that's what I'd call it. But I'm sure it's already been done. Wait - Google search didn't yield a single BMP result! Lotsa Blue Moon Pools, but no Poots. Wow. I had an original idea. I should buy the URL. Or not. My DellHell.com thing didn't pay off. No more speculating in clever URLs for me.

But I should give credit to FF. There's this crazy energy with him. Not to be confused with "chemistry." That stupid idea is just another way of saying someone looks hot. As in, "Yea, dude, she was dead behind the eyes on the phone, but when I saw her rack, there was major chemistry."

Energy. Once, someone told me I had good energy. I took that as a major compliment. She was some 12 year-old hippie-wanna-be, but still. Affirmation. I live for it.

And if Mr. Man ever figures that out, save the day. Actually, don't. We won't be sending "Save the Day" cards or bridal shower or wedding invitations. He's decisive. I am, too. About big things. Not little things. Don't ask me if I want mustard on my cheeseburger. That's impossible to decide. Let me get a divorce, send my one and only kiddo to college, lose my mother and move my daddy in with me within the course of five months, and I'm good.

So here's the deal. He's amazing. I'm still head over heels. Shouldn't it be heels over head, though? I've been wrong before. More than once. So here's my plan.

Let Dude figure out what he wants. If he thinks it's me, be sure he understands what that involves. Refrain from any persuasive techniques, like being coy or elusive or traditional. I'm terrible at those anyway.

Be sure I can overpower him physically. Or at least, wriggle out of his goofy wrestling moves. Set him straight on a few basics. Like opening the car door for me. Pretending he doesn't hear me poot. Letting me do stuff wrong and waiting until I ask for help before rescuing me from myself.

I'm not in a list-making mood, but if I were, I think his plusses might outweigh his minuses. Hate to admit he's not perfect, but since I think perfection is boring, that's a good thing. Which brings me back to the point of this post. Scars.

I'm proud of mine. Each one has a story. The ones on my chin and shoulder and knee from my face plant on the Green Line last August. More recently, the nip from friends' dog on my leg. The major hematoma on my shin from trying to climb onto the boat out of the cleansing sandboil after the visqueena-eradicating exercise. An unidentified one on my inner thigh. Probably from wriggling out of some silly wrestling maneuver.

But the most beautiful scars belong to the manatee. Three perfectly parallel lines. I imagined her swimming along, living in the moment, when the rigid metal propellers sliced into her back. How painful that must have been. But it made her more special. Recognizeable. Unique. And strong.

I take The D for a blood test every other week or so. It checks his clotting factor. Which is a way of measuring his ability to heal. We adjust his medicine accordingly and somehow, it all balances out. I wonder what the results would be if there were a test for my ability to heal. I have a feeling it wouldn't be far from that beautiful manatee's.