When I woke up this morning I assumed the weather person led me astray on last night's newscast. I was freezing. After (begrudgingly) getting out of bed and opening all the windows it began to warm up. The cats were more confused by the hot weather than I, one who saw the news, of course. They laid against the walls like sloths. There was even food left in their bowls after dinnertime.
We assumed once we moved into a (much) bigger place the cats would go off exploring, sleeping, attacking, and whatever else cats do on their own. We talked about not being able to find them and "adjusting" to not seeing them so often anymore.
Yeah. About that.
Right now Porkchop is sitting on a piece of furniture next to me stretched out and sleepy. I'm guessing Io is sleeping on the bed with her Mommy. Oh, we also said there would be a strict No Cats in the Bedroom rule. You try listening to cats crying as if they were stuck in the vet's office for hours while sticking the pillow as far into your ears as possible and praying that they don't scratch up the rug completely. A wise woman (my girlfriend's sister) once said they are this way because we coddle them. Okay, it's true. But I think we coddle Io in fear. She's mean to everyone else but us and tends to do bad things on the floor when she doesn't get her way. But (for the most part) as long as they are fed and have clean litter (and clean water, but that's another story for another day) they are very nice cats. Oh, and Porkchop is afraid of everything. If you came and visited us you wouldn't see him and at the vet he pretends he doesn't have any bones. Comical.
I didn't intend on writing about my cats when I logged in. It's the lack of knowing what to write about that led me here. Is that how people become crazy cat ladies? I mean the really crazy ones with 30 cats that leave all their possessions and money to them in their Will. Does something finally snap inside them from years of not knowing what to do? In what, you might ask? I don't know, anything. In life, in the supermarket, hopefully not in the bathroom.
I wonder if people think too much about what they should be doing and get buried under their own expectations. It's hard to give yourself permission to be happy. It's always about pleasing others and never about pleasing yourself. Let me try and take this one step further. You've gotten into a routine for years, and years, and years and something finally changes that routine. Like for instance, you lose your job, you lose your spouse, or even a kid goes to college. What do you do when you finally can mold your life into what you want? Panic.
Why is it so hard for us to move on? My mother is a perfect example. She insists on keeping everything that belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother and using them for what they were meant to be used. The woman has THREE dressers and both of their licenses. She does things in their memory, but not in the normal way. I'm not insinuating that if you do something in memory of a loved one it's weird. I just think there comes a point in our lives that we have to live for us, do things for us, and let ourselves be happy.
My intense love for music bubbled to the surface recently. I've done a good job at keeping it down for years. I even toyed with selling my trumpet. But one day I came up to the office, took out my old guitar, and laid on the floor with it. The calluses are gone on my fingers but I played anyway. A few days later I checked around the internet for a new guitar. Eventually I will buy a new one. Yesterday I took out my massive book of CDs and put Greatest Hits - Trumpent and Classic Wynton Marsalis on my laptop. Before listening to anything else I skipped to the three movements of the Hummel Trumpet Concerto. I was a senior in high school and determined to play all three movements at my recital. I'd been playing the Hummel for some time, probably even performing the first or the second movement. But never all three at once. I was going I do it. I was ready.
And on the day we auditioned for my music teacher, the third movement, Rondo, fell apart. I couldn't play it anymore. The consensus was I tried too hard and practiced too long and my body just couldn't keep up. I was devastated. I don't think I ever told anyone and just went on with it. It's been at least 8 years since I played and listening to it again brought back happiness. Not memories, just happiness. I was the kid listening to classical music sans words and singing along. Something my right hand phantom plays the fingerings.
It's along the lines of the Catholic Church when they mentor sinners: Let God into your heart. Maybe I need to let the music pour into my heart. Perhaps that's what I've needed all along.
