I realized today on Facebook that I should blog more. You’re only allowed so many characters in your updates, and I usually exceed them. I’ll never forget a professor responding to a draft of my thesis with the phrase “turgid prose”. I had to look it up, and was pretty embarrassed, but I’ve been montioring my writing for swolleness ever since. The admonition from Strunk & White to “write actively” frequently comes to mind in this endeavor.
Something on my mind a lot is that a friend’s husband is dying; or at least has a pretty awful chronic disease (or three–the doctors genuinely have no clue what’s really going on). He’s being great about it on Facebook and Twitter, but he’s naturally scared, and I’ve seen him be scared, and take it out on my friend. I don’t think she minds, or at least, I think she understands and so forgives. I really can’t imagine what she’s going through. I’ll never have been married for over 35 years to the same person, or still be married to the father of my children, or still love the person I’m living with. And so I’ll never have the kind of grief she’s experiencing, but never have had the joys that leads to its depth, either. It’s very sad. I’m not able to connect, to be intimate with, the person I’m supposed to be the most intimate with. My therapist and I call it my bubble–the hard plastic shell I keep around me that evidently is only meant for my husbands.