Alisha Out Loud

I’m in a rush. Always. Anyway, I’m in a rush and it’s one of those things where you get out of your apartment and then you lock the door and you realize you’re not wearing your shoes and so you have to unlock the door and go back in and find the right sneakers and put your feet in them without falling over and go back out the door and lock it again.

So now you get that I’m rushing.

I’m doing a summer speed walk - Winnipeg Beach ladies in the early morning style - with a full tilt to the front. I’ve even got the arm pump going. Anyway I go full throttle into the stairwell door, even cocking my left shoulder up a bit to push the door with greater force - only to be greeted with beautiful hardwoods and a side entrance table with junk mail and keys on it.

Turns out that wasn’t the doorway to the stairs after all, it was my neighbours apartment.

The confused word: “Hello?” later and I bolt back down the hall, pulling the door shut with me. Crying and laughing down four flights of stairs I promise not to breath a word of this to anyone out of shock and embarrassment.

But that was clearly a lie.

Anyway, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I’ve come to the conclusion that happy might be more of a marathon than a sprint. And we can’t be too hard on ourselves when happy is harder than we thought.

So I’ve been checking out my emotional baggage. And I’d say it’s a moderate size: Don’t have to head to the separate line for over sized luggage just yet. And I’ve been trying to give it a title, or a label. I wonder if that’s too revealing?

I’m calling it heartache. I know that doesn’t sound like baggage, it sounds more like a symptom. But I carry it, and it gets in the way, and it’s just plain heavy some days and it’s most definitely awkward.

This post is like me calling a pocket in pool, or pointing across the field in baseball - Babe Ruth style. I’m coming for you happy. I’m coming.

And if you want to tell me what your baggage is called - I’d be happy to hear it.