the amazing race

Yeah, well, I'll never be Carrie Bradshaw (she's a popular TV icon, right?). Good. I wasn't sure.


I just have to write. I've mentioned before that I don't care if anyone ever reads this. Occasionally, I willfully subject my roommate to my ramblings, and she listens as intently as possible, sips her wine quickly, and nods her head at the appropriate times. She usually hugs me afterward.


I am not an author, professedly. I doubt that after Kafka wrote "Metamorphosis" that anyone patted him on the back and told him it would all get better. Shakespeare certainly didn't have a secret confidante that hung out with him on the couch and re-analyzed his work over Franzia and rice crackers. And Carrie Bradshaw, aka Sarah Jessica Parker, has a mountain of amazing hair, so she could pretty much proclaim anything to be true and/or fascinating and the entire world, fictional and not, would soak up every word as authentic.


I don't particularly care.


If you have ever read anything by me, you know I ramble. Internally, and literally. I have so many thoughts, and figures and words running through my brain at the speed of light. Writing gives me a chance to slow down and backspace, and once in a while, erase a thought completely. It's the best form of medicine for an inundated soul.


On that note. Here we go again.


I just want to make it very clear; and I do mean crystal, transparent and uncomplicated. I am baffled as to why it is not already apparent.


I dislike, very strongly, aka HATE, the fact that I'm second best in your life, and quite possibly am dropping to 3rd or 4th runner up in this race. I wear the right shoes, and stretch the proper muscles daily. I've even invested in a timer to keep my pace steady.


I seem to be consistently falling behind.


I've come to look at this all from an outsider's perspective. From their standpoint, I am the runner whose legs are propelling the fastest with absolutely no gain. They too, are perplexed. I have experimented with flapping my arms at the same time as my feet move, but I still gain no ground. Instead, my motions resemble some sort of violent tap dance. It's really more pitiful than it is entertaining.


And you're always two laps ahead.


I've never been much of an mental athlete, and certainly not a woman who likes to play games. I know that in life, there are so-called rules to follow, certain etiquette to abide by, but I honestly do not play along. Not for very long, anyway.


I don't get how I'm supposed to catch up, if you don't let me. I can never gain ground if you are constantly galloping in the lead. I don't want to win, I just want to run beside you.


Slow down.


Maybe you like having the upper hand, maybe you've never been the one in control, and maybe you're unwilling to sacrifice the speed you're flying at for the sake of an opportunity. Maybe you'll keep running and glancing behind you, merry about the chase; just to see me run out of breath and finally give up. And while you're looking back at me that's when you'll stop. Because all this time you were running directly into a brick wall without watching your step. Maybe I was just trying to save you.


It could be you're running because you're petrified. You don't know where you're going but your unrelenting task is just to get The Hell Out Of Dodge.


Who knows. No really, who does, because frankly I'm all out of creative ways to say: STOP. BREATHE. LISTEN.  You're leaving me in your dust trail, buddy.


I'm tossing this issue to the wind, like ash from my cigarette.