I Am NOT That Friend...

I spent two hours this morning trying to get out of bed.  Today it was not the ankles, leg pain, or fatigue that it has been for the last year or so, nor was it the result of an overindulgence in sugar or tequila the night before.  The latest inconvenience is the fireworks inside me that hopefully will be resolved after a strong consultation tomorrow with a new, better informed, doctor.  I did drag my booty out of bed, despite Youngest's faint whispers of "starving to death", but mostly because I know better.  Having had this issue for 20 years, I know the worst thing for me is to crawl up into a ball and sleep it off.  I must walk.  So I did.  Slowly.  Around the kitchen, holding the counter top until the Advil laced breakfast kicked in.  When the sharp pains were reduced to a heavy ache and the shaking hands had stopped, I headed to the grocery store walking though the store, slowly,  holding the shopping cart for support.

I came home, made tuna for Youngest, yelled at Oldest to get off the fecking computer, and started prepping the coating for the chicken tonight.  I threw in the spices, the gluten free flour, smelled the bag.  "Smelled the bag," because Skippy told me to, she makes me laugh. Somehow, I don't think I'll ever get it to smell like hers, and that's okay. I'll smell the bag anyway.  And laugh.

Every day we wake up and are given the choice of how we will be that day.  Most days I choose to be awesome.  Today was not one of those days.  Today, I dialed it in.  I ran through the motions on auto pilot, enjoying the moments, but managing them in a clinical, ordinary way.  Later, I invited myself and the boys to meet up with a friend after dinner at one of the local ponds.  We sat and talked about what had been going on as of late, deaths, symptoms, kids, husbands.  The normal.  When we were leaving she said to me "One day we are going to get together and talk about something other than feeling old."

Sitting here tonight I realized that will never happen.  Why?  Because I get it.  I get it all. You tell me your stuff and I not only understand, but chances are I'm going through it, know someone going through it, or can Google how to fix it. People somehow know this and gravitate to me.  I love this.  It gives me a purpose.  People know that they can count on me, that I will do anything and everything to help them feel less alone.  They depend on me.

But I am not a squish ball of comfort.  I can offer no solace, no warm and fuzzies, no empty, empathetic "I'm sorry".  Let's face it, we all have plenty of people who can give us that, both sincere and not so sincere. Quite simply, I am NOT that friend.  I can't candy coat it.  If your life sucks, I'll agree with you. I'll tell you that you should never wear shiny red shorts from 1985 to the grocery store, especially if they've been bedazzled. I might even forbid you to go and hide the shorts when you're not looking.  If your kids are throwing rocks, I'll yell at them for you.  And if mine are throwing rocks... the whole playground will hear it... and know we are going home if it happens again. I'm depressed, and yet I'll drag your depressed ass to that playground for some good old fashioned venting.  I'll convince you to go to the doctor for the same symptoms I have, and when you're diagnosed before me, I'll compare test results and look for holistic options. I'm an all in kind of girl, completely vested in the outcome of my friendships, be they real, imaginary, long distance, or next door. And while I can not even seem to make my own days awesome lately, I will try my damnedest to make yours a little bit easier.

Even if all I have to give is fried chicken.

Which by the way, was delicious.