Purge

I have talked about the clogged pore on my back and the need to have my husband pick at it.

But I won’t mention it again.

It makes my friend Heidi gag…..sorry Heidi.

Every once in a while, just like my back, I need to do an emotional purge. I tend to feel a bit clogged and the crap needs to come out. It isn’t pretty, in fact I can be a tad ugly.

Once, in the hospital, I kicked a chair (aimed at my husband) across the room and found myself huddled in a ball at the chapel.

Others may recall the time I left Children’s and found myself in Downieville getting a $.05 cup of coffee.

On Thursday evening, I found myself in the same predicament; so full of grief and sadness and anger, I didn’t know quite what to do with myself.

I howled at the moon.

I threw my car keys in the garden at 11:00 at night.

My sane self told my crazy self I might need those keys at some point.

I told my sane self to go to hell and plopped down among my new baby tomatoes to have a good, long cry.

The tough part about sitting in the new-baby-tomatoes-while-grieving-at-11:00-at-night is that I get cold. And my bum gets wet. And sooner or later I dry my eyes and think I might be a bit more comfortable inside. Darn it.

And I wonder what I did with my keys but realize I throw like the proverbial girl and find them among my baby zucchinis.

Going into the house, I don’t say a word

I don’t look in the mirror. I know my face is swollen and tear stained.

But cuddling up to hubby on the couch, I feel 20 pounds lighter.

“Better?” he says as I steal the comforter.

“For now,” I say.

He sneaks a hand down the back of my shirt and picks at that annoying little pore. “There’s nothing left,” I say and sigh into his chest. “I left it all with the tomatoes.”