Red Rover (aka self fulfilling prophecy)

March 19, 2015


Do we ever progress past the playground? Childhood games beget adult relationships.

Indulge me… jungle gyms turn into hearts, to climb and conquer, king of the castle. Tetherballs, arguments swatted back and forth until one side prevails (or the ball hits you in the face or the bell rings).The park grass becomes our beds, trees houses, places to play. Swing-sets parallel reward versus effort, I fell once, got as high as I ever have and fell, knocked the wind out of me. Never forget that sensation of trying to scream, but you can’t.

Teeter totter, a lovely balancing act of taking turns lifting each other up, and sometimes coming down too hard and knocking the other one off. That isn’t a metaphor, I actually did that, got a particularly good bump in once and hurt my best friend. So it’s a metaphorical memory, is this a thing?

Monkey bars, the act of reaching for a new relationship whilst gripping the last one, not letting go until your fingers are wrapped tightly around the next. That used to be my favorite game. The concrete was supposed to be lava. It ain’t, its independence, long denied now much enjoyed.

Leap-frog, pushing off of one to propel you onto the next,not really looking down to see what you are jumping over. When is a game of leap-frog not a game of leap-frog? When he wraps his fingers in your hair in that way that you really like and you get dragged along for the ride. Skinned knees are the best case scenario.

Worst case scenario, oh Jesus have I been there. I got out weighing 96 pounds, with a sister-wife and a bad case of the crazies. Thought I had left it behind, I even wrote a piece called “ex pat”, a starry-eyed bit of drivel about being monogamous to a polygamous partner. Just now realized that can’t happen when there is love, your own or theirs, for someone else.

Here we go yet again, recess spent on the merry go round,perpetual motion without going anywhere. So fucking dizzy. This one is pretty. All I have is foresight, I know how this ends. I also know my worth (this time), how spectacular, nurturing, sexy, beautiful, sweet, weird and wise I am. What I cannot figure out is why y’all have to leave me and then realize I am irreplaceable.

I stopped starting things with one foot out the door.

Seriously, this shit isn’t funny anymore. Stop, I want off now.

Could I win? Abso-fucking-lutely.

But it’s rather hard to play touch-football when all the flags are red. Who do you tackle, who do you protect, and where the fuck is my end zone?

Do I even play at all?

Red rover, red rover…ahhh fuck it I am good over here with the hands I am holding.

(I wrote this in October, I should have fought harder.)

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  • John March 19, 2015 at 10:28 pm

    Sarah… This piece of yours is my favorite… It rolls, flows and rocks. Keep it up, dear.

    • sexloveandgrace March 20, 2015 at 12:32 pm

      thank you darlin’. can’t wait to see what i end up writing sitting on that magical porch of yours. the countdown is on.

  • Mr. Clark March 20, 2015 at 1:53 am

    Every time after we’ve hung out on the phone I have vivid flashes of my own remembered moments of RDS (in the halls of the long disused RDHS!) or highschool. We were such kind, estranged friends: but friends. That’s how I remember it.
    I think it’s fitting that you ‘published’ this playground analogy the day after we spoke. You left out Murder Ball, The Bar (do you remember that?) AND the unavoidable reality of wondering if Ms. Grubb was really a boy who’s dad had wanted just one daughter to love.

    • sexloveandgrace March 20, 2015 at 12:31 pm

      the best part of most of my days back then was talking with you. still true.

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