Sir Cures Grumpiness
How about that grumpy posting yesterday, huh? What's up with that.
And I woke up grumpy. I went to work grumpy. Grumpy grumpy grumpy.
During lunch, as I sat in my jeep (Grumpy!) grumpily eating my sandwich. Grumpy.
And I had this thought: "Dang. I need my Sir."
Had I not been comfortably seated on the leather upholstery of the 2002 Jeep Liberty, I would have fallen over at that one.
I need my Sir.
When was the last time I needed someone.
Uh... rapid analysis of the situation says... Never.
'Twere this a session with my therapist, I would relate the following...
My mother died on the eve of my eleventh birthday. My sister, thirteen years my senior, did her best to jump to the fore. She was twenty four and an absolute babe. Men in New Hope were chasing her up and down Main Street hoping for a date. And every Friday night, she'd say, "Sorry. Can't. Taking my little brother to see Bedknobs and Broomsticks." Or bowling or roller skating or on a hayride or to Friendly's until I had so many Fribbles that I'd be dancing the fandango across the ceiling from all the sugar.
My sister, being an early twentysomething, was unreliable, as early twentysomethings can be. So sometimes, she and I would make plans, and she wouldn't show. Wouldn't show. Wouldn't call. Nada. Maybe the next day I'd get an explanation. Car trouble. Whatever.
There was a song at the time, by Pat Benatar maybe. A portion of the lyrics resonated: "Standing on the corner, waiting in the rain, I swore I'd never never wait again."
But wait I would. Again and again and again. Because I needed my sister. But I resolved, firmly, that I wouldn't be in this situation again. Never need another fallible human being.
But this feels okay. With my Sir, I mean.
It feels fine to need my Sir. Even though my Sir is in San Francisco, even though it's not happening that I'm coming home to spend some time sitting between my Sir's boots, saying, "This hardware stuff is driving me nuts! I swear, I'm wrestling with these cabinets! I get everything line up and clamped down, but when I drill the damn doors on they're out of whack. I hate this, Sir!"
And my Sir would stroke my neck. Let me vent. Give me some perspective. Help me to laugh at it.
What a Sir does.
And I need that. Yeah, I need that. I need my Sir.
And that's okay by me.