Lately, I've grown attached to a few fellow journaler's. (is that a word?)
I find myself checking to see if they are getting sleep or how their date went or if people are being crass or if they are spilling the beans about certain television programs before I watch them.
It's not an addiction... I'm Mother Henning.
Now, it's not as if I'd wouldn't go out with any of these people and enjoy myself, waving smoke away from my face while I stood outside and laughed and talked. It's not as if I wouldn't drink and get that silly serious conversation you get into, where you know you solve the world's problems, then fall over laughing. It's not as if I wouldn't cook the best meatballs and red gravy they ever tasted if asked. I see them as potential friends.
I also see them as surrogate people for me to worry about. Not children...I have enough of those, and can barely remember their names. Sometimes, I can't remember what they look like, and have been known to walk past them at events... if you don't believe me, ask. More than once, I've walked into a crowded venue, scanning the rows, and will hear, "Ummm, Mom?", to find I've stepped past their seated or standing bodies in my search for them... sometimes saying, "Excuse me." as I did so.
Mother of the year, I'm not.
I am someone who worries, though. I am best at being concerned for people I care about. I like to make soup and say, "There, there" and mean it. I protect those who wiggle their way into my space. A friend of mine says I walk on the passenger car on the train of life, living in a private car where no one can touch me, but, worried about everyone else on the train.
They were right.
Here I am, in New York City....all my old worry about folk 1200 miles away... and I've got this empty space. I'm not all metal and glass... I'm too green for that. No, I'm not an earth mother...please, have you seen those shoes? I need someone to watch over.