I know I’m a genius. Why doesn’t everyone else know I’m a genius? This has been an ongoing problem in my life. Basically, if everyone would just listen to me and do what I say, my life would be a lot easier.
I am really feeling that way.
Maybe because I woke up from a dream in which my friend Don Foley opened his eyes and turned into a small boy. He was wide awake and full of mischief and he pulled his hands out from under the sheet and he had three of them. He waved them all at me. “Look!” he said, completely happy.
Then he stood up and walked across the hospital room, shedding blankets and bulk as he went.
And I was outside the room trying to convince his mother that he really had woken up.
I don’t care if he has three hands or ten, really.
It just sucks that I can’t order reality around right now. Even if I am a genius. At certain things.
Even if I am so tired I can’t decide if I can really put off everything and go to the gym before I go to the hospital. I want to work out so hard that my endorphin high alleviates the sadness and fear.
And may I just say that the mindbody program with its endless writing exercises about emotions I either didn’t know I had or knew but didn’t want to deal with is incredibly helpful right now?
Truth is, being a genius doesn’t mean much. It’s really about letting people in, if they are not dangerous and only moderately insane, which is a very large catagory.
I am now going to make garbanzo burgers, which my partner will probably not eat.
As if that’s my biggest problem.