It’s no
secret that yesterday was a hard day for me.
If I could have called off of work, I would have. Four am found me bleary eyes and not
pleased. I managed to get through the
day; work, a sweat and a new tattoo. All
good things, but my heart was heavy and mind was racing.
I tried
to find some sense of solace in lifting.
Did a rigorous and intense kettlebell session that left me more pissed
off than relieved. I was training
fasted, which is usually really good for me, but yesterday, it made every lift
that much harder. I know it was a
combination of lack of sleep, the pressure of this decision weighing on me, and
the fact that some days are just off days at the gym.
I came
home and had a nap. It was short and
lackluster, but gave me just enough energy to finish out the day. Sitting to pages with a glass of wine, I reached
out to my friend Z. Told him what was
going on and how I was feeling.
Explained the pain of dealing with something like this. Z is a writer at heart, and a talented hip
hop artist by trade. Not only did he
understand what I was going through, but he offered me a bit of insight,
suggesting that letting the light be taken from me was as bad as having to live
through it all again. I felt somewhat
relieved, but still went to sleep upset.
This
morning, I woke at four, and moved some things around in my lab. Got a message from Z around nine, which is
really early for him since he’s hours behind the Ohio time. He asked me if how close some street was to
where I live. I mapped it and told him
it was six miles away. Went about my
errands, forgot my phone in the car, but came back to a message from him asking
if I could be at this random address at 1030 sharp. I told him I had to be across town at 11 for my
nephews basketball game; he said 1015 would be fine – go and give my name, but
not to google the location.
Now. I’m all for a good surprise. I mean, I love them. The thoughtfulness that goes into offering
another human something unexpected is paramount in my book. Obviously, Z knows this. So. I finished
my errands and went off in search of some random street in Blue Ash. I saw the sign for a florist shop and put it
together.
At the
desk, I gave my name, and the woman at the counter smiled broadly. “So you’re Jessica,” she said. “You have a good friend out there.” Handing me an armful of roses in a vase, she
wished me a happy Valentine’s Day. My
smile stretched ear to ear.
Z sent
me flowers. All the way from far
away. When I got to my car, I messaged
him, expressing my sincere surprise and absolute amazement at his
thoughtfulness. He told me that he knew
how down I was yesterday, and he hoped the flowers would help. The card on the bouquet read, “Beautiful
flowers for a beautiful woman.” Thanks, Z. Today, I'm reminded that even if the midst of pain and bullshit, there are humans in this world who do the right thing, want what's best for their fellow artists, and live life right. Big ups, kid.
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