Photos from the 3rd Street Playground, Prospect Park
A film crew shooting a scene in the street outside our door
This picture cracks me up. One of the things we talked about prior to our move was how many television shows and movies are filmed in New York City, and how none are filmed in Highlands Ranch. How we could really make that mean something about how objectively interesting the two places are, or something. Then last Saturday I was walking home (from independent outing #2) and saw this film crew and their gear taking up most of the block, with police re-routing traffic away from our little street. I came up and told Justin, who rushed to the window and began praying it was a martial arts film with a wicked fight scene. But alas, we simply watched this girl in the tan coat walk to the middle of the street and stop in surprise about twenty times, then they turned around to shoot the other side of the scene in which a car pulls up and stops, I think just before hitting her.
This morning I caught myself in a familiar mentality: trying to survive the day until Justin can be home for the weekend. My body has these ways of telling me my strength has run out and it is operating in a state of fragility. Then I get resentful that no one is taking care of me. Resentful that mothers don't have a mother to tell them to get in bed when they are sick and bring them hot tea and chicken soup. Resentful that wives don't have a wife to cook and clean up for them. Then the weekend hits and it's all too easy to get resentful that it's not much easier when Justin is here. My knight in shining armor doesn't make the leap from fantasy to reality.
These fantasies of being rescued never pan out because what I most need salvation from is my inner slave driver, the voice in my head that is merciless, never satisfied. The only one who can give her the loudspeaker and the whip--or take it away from her--is me. As I drank my coffee and filled my body with my best prescriptive Ayurvedic foods (oatmeal with local honey, potatoes cooked in olive oil), I imagined how my girlfriends would treat me. I could just hear Sue telling me to give myself a little credit (she's on my mind a lot this week) and I could see the compassion in her eyes when she looks at me, and suddenly I felt like I could trust the good friend voice in my head and let her drive for the day. I remember my counselor telling me as I struggled into adulthood that to be an adult is to learn to be your own good parent and your own best friend. I'm nearly thirty now and I'm still looking outside myself for those things--what's that about?
As he left for work this morning, Justin kissed me and handed me a Starbucks gift card he won at work and was giving to me. That's some good taking-care-of from the outside, now the head stuff is up to me.