An imaginary conversation about curling up in a ball

What? I don’t get it. You feel like curling up in a ball?  Why would you need to curl up in a ball?

It’s a metaphorical ball. Not a real one.

Any kind if ball. Real or imagined. 

Protection? Self defense? Surrender? To sulk?

None of those things sound much like you. 

Not even the sulking?

You spend more time saying you’re going to sulk than actually sulking. 

I don’t really feel like sulking right now. 

What do you feel like?

I already told you. I feel like curling up in a ball and pulling the covers over my head. 

But why?



I don’t know. 

You don’t know?



Stop it. 

You do know. Or you have some idea. 

I’m tired. 

Tired? So take a nap. Go to bed early. 

Mentally. Emotionally. If I curl up in a ball, maybe it would be like an emotional nap. 

Do you need a hug?

Definitely. The biggest one ever. 

How come?


Don’t make me use physical force…

Because I feel really awful about myself, and I know I shouldn’t and I know there isn anything wrong with me and a lot of things are very right about me and I feel awful about myself anyway and I feel guilty and stupid about feeling this useless and stupid anyway and I am tired of feeling all the time. 

Take a breath. What is going on?

I keep ending up with bruises real bruises and just bruised feelings and i’m tired of physical damage lasting longer than the relationship. 


I’m sorry. 

Why are you apologizing to me? You haven’t done anything to me. I just can’t figure out what you’re saying?

I’m being a baby. 

You’re having a shitty day. It’s OK. 

No it isn’t. 

No? You don’t get to have bad days?

No. Yes. I mean, I should be able to handle it better. 

Should you?




You don’t even really know, do you?

Because I am not four. I should be a grownup. 

Don’t grownups have shitty days?

Of course, but they don’ whine and carry on about it like I do. 

You do have a certain flair. 

You’re mean. I’m having a bad day. You should be nice. 



Please don’t really start crying. 

I won’t. I can’t cry when you aren’t being nice to me. 


Well, if you were really being mean to me, I’d cry. But you’re only being mean to me because you know it makes me cry when people are nice to me. 

You could tell?

Yes, because you’re never mean to me really. 

I could start any time I want to. 

You don’t want to though. 

No, I really don’t. I want you to be happy. 

Because you’re awesome. 

No, because you are. 

I told you not to be nice to me!

Noooo oh god, don’t cry. 

Stop being nice to me!

Oh, go curl up in a ball somewhere you dork. 

Thank you. 


Don’t over do it. 

Sunday, we ride

So, I have a bicycle. A nice one, even. A Trek. It’s a girl bike. Black, with pretty scroll work on it. A pannier for carrying all my stuff. A bell. Lots of gears. Nice cushy handlebar grips. A comfortable saddle. It’s set up so it doesn’t hurt to ride it. 

I’ve ridden it about five times in all the years I have had it. 


I have no idea. I enjoyed it when I did ride it. I just never got into it. 

The other day, I pumped up the tires and cleaned it. Not for any particular reason. I happened to mention it to a guy on OKCupid who had messaged me, along with the fact that I’d never really learned how to shift it and stuff, and he said “now that it’s clean, do you want to ride it tomorrow?”

Without thinking about it, I agreed. 

Then I realized that I was insane, but I didn’t call it off. 

It was fun. Except for the part where I crashed in the parking lot because I couldn’t get my foot out of the toe clip. I think maybe I will not feel so good tomorrow. There are bruises popping up in some interesting places on my body. 

He turned out to be a nice guy. Smart, funny and way too athletic for me.  I think I need to see if my tall, thin, hiking/biking/running/paddling friend would like him. He thinks running shoes are sexy!

What I do with my days

So what do I do with my days, he asked.
I put my Internet devices away so I am not distracted.
I decide to watch a movie.
In the movie, there is a song playing in the background.
The song is completely unimportant to the plot of the movie.
I almost but not quite recognize it.
I start humming along, but most of the words escape me.
The song has long since stopped playing in the movie.
I stop paying attention to the movie.
I will die if I can’t figure out what the fucking song is.
I want to figure it out myself like I would have before the Internet.
i don’t want to skip to the credits.
i want to know now.
I think I remember hearing someone performing it at the Lane County Fair when I was a kid.
It was not the same artist that performed it in the movie.
I hum and sing.
I ask the cat if he knows.
I turn the movie off and make tea.
I wander around the house.
I swear.
I kick a cat toy.
I go and get my phone and type the snippet of a lyric that i caught into Google.
OK then.
Tom T. Hall.
“I love,” aka the little baby duck song.
The version in the movie was done by Jason Mraz
I drink the tea.
I turn the movie back on.

That is what I do with my days.
Then I write it all down.