I’m not a prude, but I think a lot of people would be surprised to hear me curse. For some reason, I come across as socially conservative, especially in regard to colorful words. I’m certainly not opposed to them; in fact, I think there are times when they are very useful, but there are other times when they are not appropriate.
My viewpoint is not informed by any specific religious dogma. I simply have respect for the power of curse words, and I don’t like to dilute that power through overuse.
Unlike just about everyone on reality television, evidently.
I’m sitting in a bathroom stall and some guy comes in, talking on his Bluetooth headset. Not a care in the world, he keeps talking while he does his business.
Is he going to flush? I wonder. That would totally clue in the person on the other end.
He flushes and continues his conversation, bypassing the sink on his way out.
Ick, I think. He must really know the person on the other end. Either that, or neither of them have a sense of propriety.
Oh … pardon me, but I have to set the smartphone down. Time to flush.
My wife is amazing. She was forced out of work due to fibromyalgia. She spent most of a year in bed, dealing with the fallout of missed commitments, eroding friendships, and guilt about not contributing to the household income.
Then she submitted an essay to the National Fibromyalgia Association and won a scholarship to their International Leaders Against Pain conference. Empowered, she founded the Colorado Fibromyalgia Network, a grass-roots support group, which has now been chosen to host an educational event for several hundred people, one of only ten such events nationwide.
She’s found her calling, and she’s loving it.
The story about the stabbing came in my RSS feed, with no picture. They described the the attacker as being tall and heavyset, unshaven, with brown hair. The description matches my first stepson (or at least it did the last time I saw him.) I read further and find that the name is the same, too.
No, it wasn’t him, but it does set me to wondering. This year, he turns the same age I was when I first met his mother.
There’s bad blood; I don’t really want to know how he his. Yet, I can’t help but wonder.
We went out to watch the Perseids last night, an activity I’ve long done with my kids. Last night was the first time my wife joined us, though. We leaned back and watched the sky, holding each other, overwhelmed.
There’s something about being out under the summer sky, with a breeze blowing and earthgrazers leaving streaks between the stars, that draws people together. Maybe it’s the feeling of comfort we get from connecting with another against the vastness of the universe. Maybe it calls up ancestral memories of pristine skies, kicking in primal instincts.
Whatever it is, it’s downright erotic.