By Cheryl Oreglia
It's Independence Day, we're up at the lake, and I'm listening to Blake belt out Your lips taste like sangria (go ahead, click on it). Just for the hell of it I lick my lips. Nothing. Nada. They taste a little like chapstick and peanut butter. I won't be falling into a wild warm kiss any time soon. Story of my life. And then as if I were able to materialize my own desires, a tub of sangria walks right through the front door, and lands on our laden counter. Well the tub didn't actually walk into the house on its own, it was carried by Cole and Ned, but I'm fairly certain my lips will soon taste like sangria.
It's Independence Day, we're up at the lake, and I'm listening to Blake belt out Your lips taste like sangria (go ahead, click on it). Just for the hell of it I lick my lips. Nothing. Nada. They taste a little like chapstick and peanut butter. I won't be falling into a wild warm kiss any time soon. Story of my life. And then as if I were able to materialize my own desires, a tub of sangria walks right through the front door, and lands on our laden counter. Well the tub didn't actually walk into the house on its own, it was carried by Cole and Ned, but I'm fairly certain my lips will soon taste like sangria.
On the morning of the fourth we cheer on the participants of the time-honored neighborhood parade, Rachel and Craig pass out Bloody Mary's in dixie cups, and we dress in red, white, and blue sporting miniature flags. We're smitten with America. It's tradition and we look forward to this weekend every year.
All good things must come to an end. The last car pulls out of the drive, flags waving from the back of Rosie as the train exits Kono Tayee, horns a honking. I decide to stay back and indulge in some light house keeping. I spent the day putzing around, eight loads of laundry, three blessed toilets (for which we are thankful), miles of sticky floors (sangria much), and a pantry that has gone completely insane. I listen to pandora as I work, until that magical song comes on, "Your lips taste like sangria," and I take that as a sign. Time to wipe the sweat from my face, put down the toilet brush, and go in search of a fruity beverage. Plant a flag because I found a pitcher of leftover sangria in the fridge! I pour a glass and dump my weary ass in a lounge chair on the back deck. Everything is quiet and calm. The vacationers have pulled out, #Clearit. I love this quiet and I embrace it like a lover.
Seth Godin says, "All of us have a narrative. It's the story we tell ourselves about how we got here, what we're building, what our urgencies are. And within that narrative, we act in a way that seems reasonable. To be clear, the narrative isn't true. It's merely our version, our self-talk about what's going on. It's the excuses, perceptions and history we've woven together to get through the world. It's our grievances and our perception of privilege, our grudges, and our loves."This is why we celebrate our independence or freedom of thought. As we build our lives we get to decide who fits into our narrative and who doesn't. I think that might be our only true freedom. I realize it is difficult to understand each other, mostly because #frontallobing has become a national obsession, and we certainly don't want to make the difficult journey, one if by land, two if by sea, to empathize with each other. Your thoughts are as foreign to me as mine are to you. But here's the newsflash. We occupy the same territory in glory or defeat. I am so happy to run through the streets yelling, "the regulars are coming." The people in my life who show up, brandishing the wine, and are thrilled (or at least reconciled) about ending up in my damn narrative. Life is a privilege, friends a rare blessing, and now my lips taste like sangria.
A penny for your thoughts?
When I'm not writing for Across the Board, I'm Living in the Gap, drop by anytime!
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