On The Road

The guy that plays the banjo keeps on handin' me the Old Crow, which multiplies my sorrow - I can't take it anymore...

I know someone - a good friend that I nonetheless don't know very well (i.e. she's more Janelle's friend) - who is constantly urging one of us to "just treat yourself," which cracks me up. It cracks me up because it's impossible for me to do so. Perhaps there is a "treat yourself" gene that I lack.

What she suggests is "buy yourself come chocolate" or "get a massage," etc. Again, these are well-intended suggestions, and I'd probably follow through if it was at all possible for me to "treat" myself. For some reason, though, whenever I try, a thin veneer of self-consciousness inevitably slips into the slipstreams of my mind, crippling my ability to just relax and enjoy the self-care: "This is not a spontaneous moment of self-nurturing. It's manufactured, fake, self-indulgent."

Pure relaxation moments are therefore rarities for the Jon-Dog. There's always something I should be doing, someplace I should be driving. Commitments out the yin-yang. But sometimes, a strong lightning bolt of "I AM Here, Now" cracks into my business and I'm all of a sudden on my side with the fact of pure acceptance of all life's measures and vicissitudes and the moment - not me, the moment is swelling with electrical tranquility. It passes within seconds, but those few seconds are generally sweeter than all my attempts to manufacture some state of "self-care." Quickly, it passes. And if I chase after it, it seems to run faster. I've learned to let it go, ease back into my vat of chaos, grab another gear and put both eyes back on the road.

Speaking of which, in about 45 minutes, I shall pierce the bubble of Atlanta's perimeter, I-285, and swoop down on my gals like a friendly hawk of yore. I've missed them. On the ride home, Janelle will ask me if I ordered Indian takeout while she was out of town. I'll tell her the truth: "Naw. Indian food just ain't as good when yr not around."