I frequently use the word magnet to describe my attraction and/or repulsion to places, things and people. The word magnet even reminds me of how I sometimes repel them in my mind, but deep down have an attraction, or vice versa. I call this the third phenomenon of magnetism, where two magnets spin, being drawn together and repelled intermittently, kind of like a yo-yo effect. Where the magnets end up (which force wins out), one will eventually see.
Nothing keeps me from wanting to plant that kiss on my husband’s lips the moment he comes home. Sometimes those lips are so magnetic that they’re even hard to pull away, like crazy glue. He doesn’t want to, and neither do I. If only we could stay like that, but we have to eat and drink, and a few other things. Imagine dancing through the house, lips attached in a waltz. Falling asleep arm and arm in a long kiss.
When I’m feeling well, a sunny day and nature call my name. I feel the breeze colliding with me. The birds fly around me and their calls fill my ears. I feel the weight of my feet pressing on the grass or woodland trail. Crunching noises announce that interaction. Nature’s delight.
The moment I wake up, throughout the day, and just before I sleep, I can’t resist my laptop, or at least my phone. That urge for connection with others is intensely strong, even my love for tapping on my keyboard. Recording my thoughts and feelings provides a relief and release. How can I resist that?
There’s a certain man we all know with an orange face and nasty smirk. Each time I see him on TV my blood pressure rises. If ever I saw him in person I’d feel afraid he would push me aside with contempt, or if I seemed attractive, smile at me as if I was a shiny golden token to be spent.
Every night I look forward to my husband’s return from work. I yearn for time with him to talk and connect. Instead, he puts that same blasted TV show on night after night. Even if we miss it, he records it. It’s become a ritual for him that he likes, and one he’s hell bent on me joining him for. If only that show would end, but there’s no sign it ever will. At least couldn’t that show’s host retire? No he’ll probably keep on going until he’s 110.
I love classical music, and so does my spouse. Sometimes we even go to New York City for performances. Mostly I love the pieces, but once there was one that repulsed me beyond belief! I can’t even begin to describe the level of painful agitation I experienced when listening to Han Pfizner’s Palestrina. Every minute of it was torture. I remember even the first bars of music turned me off. I asked to leave, and my husband got angry. It got so bad that I left on my own and waited outside until it ended. How can I describe it other than nails scratching a chalkboard? I guess what’s one person’s Beethoven is another person’s car alarm concerto.
I shouldn’t have it, but maybe I will? Or not?
Oh, how some things are temptations! I know I deep down want them so badly, but know they aren’t good for me. In a certain local bakery they sit on the shelf lined up in glory. Long confectioner’s sugar coated yeast devils filled with vanilla whipped cream. Vanilla cream oozing out on all sides. They call to me. I know I should resist. Each one is probably 700 calories, and would raise my cholesterol and triglycerides on the spot. But occasionally I succumb to the urge and bag one. I don’t even make it home before the sucker enters my mouth. I sit in my driver’s seat making sure no one is around. The confectioner sugar lines my mouth and sprinkles on my lap and floor. The vanilla cream oozes out and I lick the excess from the sides. The sucker is big, but it disappears before my eyes. I then have to step out of my car and slap the sugar off my jeans. I wipe my mouth, and make sure the donut bag is disposed discretely. Temptation won.