There are few things sweeter than when people, places and things meet my expectations. I make the plans and sit back, waiting for the universe to meet my deadlines. When they aren't met, it can be crushing. Sometimes things work out better than I had planned. Trying to predetermine what they will be, is a mistake.
My mind races. My melon becomes the Daytona 500 of anticipation. I picture myself taking the victory lap, before I have even gotten in the car. I know I only need to make left turns, put the pedal to the metal and wait for the glory. Ah, There's the rub. I can't control the race, only my driving.
My expectations are that everything will go EXACTLY as I want it to. I know I have everything carefully mapped out. I wait with confidence that the players in my model will do what I want. Each new day illustrates the futility experienced when predetermining that plan A is a sure thing.
When it comes to relationships, I often have the dialogue written before I have even met the actor. I am certain that the plot is intriguing. I know that I have carefully considered the blocking, and action that should be followed. I am filled with wonderful intentions, then POW! On cue the actors and action in my grand productions deviate from the script.
Have you ever seen a person at a stop light yelling and they are not on the phone? That's me. I have arguments with people, who aren't even there. That is because I'm rehearsing my lines for the face to face meeting that waits for me down the road. I have even gotten into loud expletive filled rants with myself when things don't meet my...expectations.
One night I planned a surprise romantic dinner for Squeaky. I went to the store and got some steaks and the biggest baked potatoes I could find. I was giddy with ANTICIPATION, delighted by the thoughts of what the magical evening had in store. There were candles on the table set in a center piece that would make Martha Stewart swoon. I made a CD of romantic music, and had placed the player on the counter just a few feet from the mood lighting.
I would lay in wait, with ears tuned in for the familiar sound of the garage door lurching its way up. When Squeaky walked through the door I would light the candles with one hand, and perform a yoga like move to hit play on the music box. It was a scene right out of a Julia Roberts, Hugh Grant film. I could have taken a picture of it for Lifestyle magazine. The caveman would prove, once and for all, that he was full of mush and cuddly stuff.
She would walk in ravaged by her day at the office. When she passed through the doorway of our lower level she would be greeted with sweet smells and the sounds of Frank and Deano lilting into her tired ears. Her anxieties would melt away. I was dressed in big boy clothes, confident that I was dressed to kill. Everything was just right.
I finished cooking and had considered every detail. As she stepped into the family room I would whisk her off her feet. There would be the sweet, dove like coo's of mutual adoration. I would say, "You look amazing." She would smile and return an equally flattering remark. As the aroma and music overtook her, I would gently take her by the hand and lead her to the Queen's chair. I would become Benson, sans the sarcastic remarks.
I waited, and waited some more. The traffic must have been heavier than usual. I turned down the heat on the oven, to prevent overcooking the culinary delights. I could hardly contain myself as I scanned the grand scene before me. There must have been an accident on the Stevenson. No problem I will sit patiently. The payoff would be worth the few moments of uncomfortable anticipation.
My cell rang. I dashed across the kitchen, scooping up the phone and hitting the answer button with graceful assurance. It was my wife. I had a secret I wasn't going to spill on the call. Tee Hee! In that moment, I was the Don Juan of suburbia. She began the conversation with a tired greeting. "I have got a migraine, a real pounder," she groaned.
As each word spilled from her lips I was suddenly thrown into Charlie Brown's body. All I could hear was the slow motion, "whah, whah, whah," that rang in Charlie's ears as he listened to the teacher drone on. I was a shrinking violet. "I forgot about your appointment," I whimpered meekly. "If your headache is that bad, maybe you should come home." My expectations would soon be dashed, then smashed to pieces.
"I have a hair appointment. Courtney doesn't work any other nights this week. I can't reschedule." She droned on, with a tinge of regret, that she had to honor her commitment. "Well, I'll have something ready to eat for you when you get home," I meekly replied. I was moving in to plan B. "No thanks, one of the vendors brought in subs and I ate at the office. Between that, and this headache, when I get home I'm going to take a shower and go to bed."
"I hope you feel better," I chimed with sincerity mixed with disappointment. I heard her words fade into the distance as she finished our chat with a sweet knock out blow."I'll talk to you later cannoli. I love you." I muttered an I love you and laid my phone on the counter shocked at what I had just experienced. I felt as if I had just learned that they were placing a ban on chocolate ice cream.
I sat down with my steak, and wrinkled baked potatoes. I'm surprised I was able to get food past my puckered out boo boo lip. I chewed slowly. I turned on the music that was meant to melt my girl's heart. Sinatra songs can be interpreted as happy or sad, depending on the moment. "All the Way," tormented me as I chewed my cud. How could this have happened?
I cleaned up the table of plates and circuses, and went up to bed. Soon, I heard the dogs barking as Squeaky pulled herself up the stairs, hair perfectly quaffed. I asked her how her headache was. It had not lessened. She washed up and fell into bed. She remarked that the house smelled good. I told her I had made steak. She returned a weak smile and half attentive nod, then was out like a light.
I stared at the ceiling, as I listened to the lift and fall of her breathing pull her deeper into sleep. Where had I gone wrong? The plan was perfect! The execution was performed with precision. There was nothing left to chance...except life on life's terms. I had failed to figure uncertainty and reality into my grandiose vision.
I could have looked at the calendar on the fridge. She had told me about the hair appointment a few days earlier. I had forgotten which night it was. I could have called her and asked if she would be home on time. Nope. I only counted on my plans and outcomes. I did not consider hers.
I slowly faded into a slumber understanding that I had made the miscalculations. There would be no freeze out the next morning as we drank coffee. Self pity morphed into an understanding of the pains that come with assuming the world is going to do things my way. I was glad she could sleep her headache away. There was a delicious lunch sitting in the fridge. It would be alright. Stupid hair salons....
My book, SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon .com. Personalized copies bought through PAYPAL are available at tommyconnolly.com. Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.
My mind races. My melon becomes the Daytona 500 of anticipation. I picture myself taking the victory lap, before I have even gotten in the car. I know I only need to make left turns, put the pedal to the metal and wait for the glory. Ah, There's the rub. I can't control the race, only my driving.
My expectations are that everything will go EXACTLY as I want it to. I know I have everything carefully mapped out. I wait with confidence that the players in my model will do what I want. Each new day illustrates the futility experienced when predetermining that plan A is a sure thing.
When it comes to relationships, I often have the dialogue written before I have even met the actor. I am certain that the plot is intriguing. I know that I have carefully considered the blocking, and action that should be followed. I am filled with wonderful intentions, then POW! On cue the actors and action in my grand productions deviate from the script.
Have you ever seen a person at a stop light yelling and they are not on the phone? That's me. I have arguments with people, who aren't even there. That is because I'm rehearsing my lines for the face to face meeting that waits for me down the road. I have even gotten into loud expletive filled rants with myself when things don't meet my...expectations.
One night I planned a surprise romantic dinner for Squeaky. I went to the store and got some steaks and the biggest baked potatoes I could find. I was giddy with ANTICIPATION, delighted by the thoughts of what the magical evening had in store. There were candles on the table set in a center piece that would make Martha Stewart swoon. I made a CD of romantic music, and had placed the player on the counter just a few feet from the mood lighting.
I would lay in wait, with ears tuned in for the familiar sound of the garage door lurching its way up. When Squeaky walked through the door I would light the candles with one hand, and perform a yoga like move to hit play on the music box. It was a scene right out of a Julia Roberts, Hugh Grant film. I could have taken a picture of it for Lifestyle magazine. The caveman would prove, once and for all, that he was full of mush and cuddly stuff.
She would walk in ravaged by her day at the office. When she passed through the doorway of our lower level she would be greeted with sweet smells and the sounds of Frank and Deano lilting into her tired ears. Her anxieties would melt away. I was dressed in big boy clothes, confident that I was dressed to kill. Everything was just right.
I finished cooking and had considered every detail. As she stepped into the family room I would whisk her off her feet. There would be the sweet, dove like coo's of mutual adoration. I would say, "You look amazing." She would smile and return an equally flattering remark. As the aroma and music overtook her, I would gently take her by the hand and lead her to the Queen's chair. I would become Benson, sans the sarcastic remarks.
I waited, and waited some more. The traffic must have been heavier than usual. I turned down the heat on the oven, to prevent overcooking the culinary delights. I could hardly contain myself as I scanned the grand scene before me. There must have been an accident on the Stevenson. No problem I will sit patiently. The payoff would be worth the few moments of uncomfortable anticipation.
My cell rang. I dashed across the kitchen, scooping up the phone and hitting the answer button with graceful assurance. It was my wife. I had a secret I wasn't going to spill on the call. Tee Hee! In that moment, I was the Don Juan of suburbia. She began the conversation with a tired greeting. "I have got a migraine, a real pounder," she groaned.
As each word spilled from her lips I was suddenly thrown into Charlie Brown's body. All I could hear was the slow motion, "whah, whah, whah," that rang in Charlie's ears as he listened to the teacher drone on. I was a shrinking violet. "I forgot about your appointment," I whimpered meekly. "If your headache is that bad, maybe you should come home." My expectations would soon be dashed, then smashed to pieces.
"I have a hair appointment. Courtney doesn't work any other nights this week. I can't reschedule." She droned on, with a tinge of regret, that she had to honor her commitment. "Well, I'll have something ready to eat for you when you get home," I meekly replied. I was moving in to plan B. "No thanks, one of the vendors brought in subs and I ate at the office. Between that, and this headache, when I get home I'm going to take a shower and go to bed."
"I hope you feel better," I chimed with sincerity mixed with disappointment. I heard her words fade into the distance as she finished our chat with a sweet knock out blow."I'll talk to you later cannoli. I love you." I muttered an I love you and laid my phone on the counter shocked at what I had just experienced. I felt as if I had just learned that they were placing a ban on chocolate ice cream.
I sat down with my steak, and wrinkled baked potatoes. I'm surprised I was able to get food past my puckered out boo boo lip. I chewed slowly. I turned on the music that was meant to melt my girl's heart. Sinatra songs can be interpreted as happy or sad, depending on the moment. "All the Way," tormented me as I chewed my cud. How could this have happened?
I cleaned up the table of plates and circuses, and went up to bed. Soon, I heard the dogs barking as Squeaky pulled herself up the stairs, hair perfectly quaffed. I asked her how her headache was. It had not lessened. She washed up and fell into bed. She remarked that the house smelled good. I told her I had made steak. She returned a weak smile and half attentive nod, then was out like a light.
I stared at the ceiling, as I listened to the lift and fall of her breathing pull her deeper into sleep. Where had I gone wrong? The plan was perfect! The execution was performed with precision. There was nothing left to chance...except life on life's terms. I had failed to figure uncertainty and reality into my grandiose vision.
I could have looked at the calendar on the fridge. She had told me about the hair appointment a few days earlier. I had forgotten which night it was. I could have called her and asked if she would be home on time. Nope. I only counted on my plans and outcomes. I did not consider hers.
I slowly faded into a slumber understanding that I had made the miscalculations. There would be no freeze out the next morning as we drank coffee. Self pity morphed into an understanding of the pains that come with assuming the world is going to do things my way. I was glad she could sleep her headache away. There was a delicious lunch sitting in the fridge. It would be alright. Stupid hair salons....
My book, SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon .com. Personalized copies bought through PAYPAL are available at tommyconnolly.com. Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.
