Monday, Monday

I'm picking up my pet rats tonight, finally. I'm really excited but I'm nervous, too. It's a big commitment, something to take care of. I know it pales in comparison to having a newborn baby (like Heidi and James) or even a lovable puppy, but it's still more responsibility and obligation than I've had in a long time.

But that's part of why I wanted to get these little rats. If I'm ever going to commit to something—or someone, for that matter—I need to start practicing so I don't hyperventilate at the mere thought of being needed.

I've gone out of my way in my adult life to make sure I'm not needed by anyone or anything. I flake out just enough to keep people wary of fully relying on me. But at the end of that road lies ... well, not much. Not much of what I really think I do want in my life, at least eventually.

I'm currently reading Lay of the Land by Richard Ford, and I'm loving it. It's the third in a series of books about Frank Bascombe, middle-aged and wondering what it's All About. Ford is a master in capturing that feeling of examining a life half lived, wondering if it's ever enough, or if you're even justified in hoping for more for yourself or the world. It's not pessimistic, but it's realistic enough that I really identify with it. Good things happen, but so do bad things. And no one is either fully good or thoroughly evil. The other books in the series, The Sportswriter and Independence Day, are just as filled with authenticity and earnest introspection. I highly recommend them.

It's Monday and it's dark and gray outside. But two little rats might just be the spot of warmth I'm looking for.

Sometimes Allen would gaze off into the horizon and wonder Why.