Friday, November 03, 2006


I'm a big fan of John Mayer's writing. Have been for years now. (I liked him long, long before Your Body is a Wonderland hit the airwaves, dear friends.) There's just something about the way he puts his thoughts together that is witty and hilarious and perfectly colloquial yet incredibly talented that I just love. ...and, truth be told, am pretty envious of.

Needless to say, I check his blog quite regularly.

I can't get over what he posted last Sunday.

And, at the same time, I can't quite wrap my head around it.

I've been entertaining the idea of printing it out. Highlighting. Writing in the margins.

But, quite honestly, I'm somewhat afraid of what I'll write.

Stomping on the accelerator can be a daunting task.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

I've been thinking about something lately.

Imagine this:

You're on an airplane, sleeping with your head against the window, your heart set on being home this time three hours from now. All of a sudden, something goes very wrong. The plane stops moving across the air and instead starts falling through it. The lights are flickering and the movie is skipping. The plane dips hundreds of feet in seconds, and the yellow cups fall from the ceiling. They're a brighter shade of yellow than you remember, because unlike the demonstration, these cups have never been handled before. "Flight attendants take your seats now", you hear, the pilot's voice trembling over a cacophony of alert tones. You get that smell in the bridge of your nose like you've just been hit with a football. That's what the fear smells like. The plane is going down.

Four more drastic drops in under a minute. People are crying. For all the folklore about how your life flashes before your eyes, you're remarkably fixed on one vision - your parents. They're sleeping at this very moment, in a bedroom so quiet they can hear the clock in the kitchen. And you can see them, clear as can be. You wish you could see a playground or a first kiss, but all you can see is your parents sleeping. Huh. Well, that's that.

Several long minutes go by. Then, all at once, the lights come back on and the plane somehow rights itself. Some people cheer, but most people cry harder. The plane lands about an hour later, and as soon as you feel that touch down - hell, even when you were within 50 feet of the ground and could still technically survive a fall - you realize that however you brokered the deal between you and God worked; you've just been granted life in overtime.

Here's the question: what do you change? Whom do you call that you haven't spoken to in years? Whom do you realize has been toxic to your heart and drop with surprising ease? What trips do you cancel, and what trips do you book? What can't you be bothered with anymore? What's the new you like?

Think about that, and then ask one more question. Why not just change it all right now?

(Working on it...)

I'm glad I didn't write this.

Ending with (Thinking about it...) would've ruined it.


Amy said...

Ooh I do so like this. I went through ideas similar to this a few years ago and broke off a horrid relationship with a toxic boyfriend, ended another dead-end sort of relationship, didn't respond when an old friend wanted to get back in touch (I just knew better than to invite in the drama) and have been much happier (albeit more alone) ever since. What a good point he makes here. Every day is a gift.

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