The funny thing is that almost all of these are things that I remember from my childhood that didn't
Now normally when I come home from a day of work, I get home around 8pm (keeping in mind that I left between 6 and 6:30am). This is usually just enough time to eat something if I haven't already, packed up the bag for the next day, wash my face, and crawl into bed. Despite there being several books on my nightstand, the last thing that I want to do is read. The truth of the matter is, I've been reading emails or work for the majority of the day and I'm probably going to fall asleep within ten minutes and not remember what I read anyway.
But today? Oh, today was different. You see, today...I had the day off. This is my first day off since August 12 when we started school. Weekends don't count...everybody has those (and I usually put in 12-16 hours of school work anyway). And any additional time off has been filled with teacher conferences or meetings of some sort. But today? Today was different. I didn't have to be at school for any meetings. I knew I wouldn't get called into school as tech support because there wasn't anything else going on. Today was mine.
The Storyteller. (Sidenote: Although intense sometimes, I'd highly recommend, especially if you have any interest in the Holocaust.)
There was a part of the book that really struck me as I was reading it. Two of the characters, Leo and Sage, are not a couple, though they keep getting approached and treated as one by a variety of people from the small town that the two of them are visiting.
*The following passage is from an excerpt from Jodi Piccoult's book The Storyteller. I do not own the content. Copyright 2013 Jodi Picoult
Twice more we are approached and asked if we've just moved here. The first time, Leo says that we were going to go to the movies but something was playing so we came to temple instead. The second time, he replies that he is a federal agent and I'm helping him crack a case. The man who's been chatting with us laughs. "Good one," he says.
"You'd be surprised how hard it is to get people to believe the truth," Leo tells me later, as we walk across the parking lot.
But I'm not surprised. Look at how hard I fought Josef, when he tried to tell me who he used to be. "I guess that's because most of the time we don't want to admit it to ourselves."
"That's true," Leo says thoughtfully. "It's amazing what you can convince yourself of, if you buy into the lie."
You can believe, for example, that a dead-end job is a career. You can blame our ugliness for keeping people at bay, when in reality you're crippled by the thought of letting another person close enough to potentially scar you even more deeply. You can tell yourself that it's safer to love someone who will never really love you back, because you can't lose someone you never had."
Do you remember the movie Along Came Polly? If you haven't seen it or have forgotten, here's a little reminder...
Risk is scary. It means that there is the possibility for loss. But it also means that you have something or the potential for something that is worth losing. And I don't know about you, but I don't like to live with "what ifs." Sometimes you just need to try...jump in head first. I think of this every time I get into the pool at the gym. I know the first minute is going to be a little uncomfortable or shocking to my system. But I know the reward (in this case, sexy toned arms) are going to worth the risk. I think the same is true for lots of things in life, but especially in relationships. Sometimes you just need to jump in. Try it. Challenge yourself. Yes, there is the potential for loss. Or hurt. Or heartbreak. But these are the experiences that make us who we are...and who we are becoming. They are the experiences that are preparing us for the reward. And sometimes? Sometimes the reward far outweighs the risk.
Live. Laugh. Love.