It Hurts So Good
Good Morning Galveston!
(Actually it’s afternoon, but "good morning" just sounds better, doesn’t it? Besides, it feels like morning)
There is a crisp, constant breeze blowing in from the gulf, whipping all around the beachcombers and me…who is decidedly not a beachcomber or tourist, but more of a beach-observer.
Weather is always a big factor for me and although it is sunny (almost blindingly so) it’s much too chilly for walking around pants-rolled on the beach. So I’m sitting in a rocking chair up on the observation deck of one of the myriad souvenir shops/beach bars scattered along the coast…wrapped up in a Ramada bath towel and an overpriced Galveston Island sweatshirt (courtesy of aforementioned souvenir shop) watching the waves and, periodically, shivering like crazy.
This is the price I must pay for relaxation.
Aside from being "cold-blooded", I’m also a glutton for punishment. If it doesn’t involve sacrifice (even some measure of discomfort or inconvenience), it must not be worthwhile. Don’t ask me where I got this notion. I’m not sure. But I am sure that it’s pretty deeply ingrained. My satisfaction with what I’ve accomplished is at least relatively proportionate to the self-martyrdom required to get there.
Sounds a bit masochistic, doesn’t it? (shrugs)
One could reasonably conclude that I chose to be a single mother because it’s hard. Because the calls of "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" in the middle of the night can only be answered by me. Because even though I get all of the hugs, I get all of the tears, too.
Maybe I chose to be a teacher of "economically disadvantaged" teens because I want to be overworked, under-appreciated and inarguably under-paid. A regular public school wasn’t good enough. I needed a school that insisted I spend my days making copies, transparencies, quizzes, tests and miracles…mediating, meeting, listening and understanding, and teaching like the future of the world depended on it. Then spend my nights grading never-ending piles of papers and planning how to do it all again tomorrow.
And perhaps there is a reason why I have given myself wholly to a relationship which defies definition, strains towards tradition while demanding the freedom to form and reform itself at will. It is based on a love both simple and puzzling…a connection both natural and complicated. A paradox if there ever was one.
But I wouldn’t dare give it (him) up…not for all the IBM’s (Ideal Black Men) that Hollywood, romance novels and black mamas insist are out there.
And, yes, it would be safe to assume that I am a writer because it sucks. Because most of the time my Muse (that bitch) won’t come. Because I’m a horrible procrastinator and deadlines make me sick. Because it’s hardly prestigious and only occasionally lucrative. Or even because I’m too sensitive about my work, and Lord knows a real writer can’t afford to be. But this…this thing I have about writing makes me want to do it anyway. It turns my self-inflicted suffering into a thing of beauty.
But I wouldn’t trade any of this for an "easier" life. My life is a tug-of-war…pain tied inextricably to pleasure…and it hurts so good.
It’s better that it hurts
It’s better that it feel this way to me
I can’t be to comfortable
Cause loving you is not my destiny
Floetry
"Ms. Stress"
AFH
3/19/2008
