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She sat there cross legged, almost as if imitating a childhood circletime pose might subconsciously bring her some form of peace or refuge from the stabbing reality of adulthood. Her present situation was much more reminiscent of a frantic dodgeball gym period rather than a peaceful-birds-chirping naptime. But, of course, with her as the only player who had suddenly stepped into a vat of quik-set-concrete and become the sole target of the red rubber ball each and every time. And with every sting of that undeniable rubber smell smacking her in the face, she was motionless. Frozen in time like a statue, crumbling at its edges, but still standing. This statue was one she knew all too well, a sculpted facade she'd skillfully created over the years, chiseling, carving, sanding and refining day after day until some edges were worn thin and nearly polished. They almost shone like the light of which she'd failed to catch a glimpse in over a decade.

The call was only a 47 second single-sided communication but in less than a minute her world had erupted into a forest of small fires that would never be put out. They would smolder for days, truly months to come. And that sweet smell of burning cinders would become a constant lullaby that begged her to sleep at night and a piercing alarm that would wake her up every next day. Not a blaze made of innocent camp fires and s'mores, charred slightly but still edible, but a seething infernal combustion that left untamed would undoubtedly consume everything in its path.

Thirty-five years she'd waited, anticipated, maybe feared, possibly even warded off this exact feeling of incertitude. A self-proclaimed Jill-of-all-trades and do-er she would never fall into the rabbit hole of unbridled wonder, at least not willingly. She'd have to be pushed forcefully and would likely break one of her bi-weekly manicured nails, riddled with chips and paint stains. These were the same nails that hid her chewed down, anxiety-releasing evidentiary clues. And yet, despite her most carefully designed and skillfully charted plans, here she was, one leg criss-cross-applesauced on top of the other, staring blankly into the face of the one confidant who would never disapprove, a 12 year old lab. Sadie, whose life also now hung on by a thread, a very weak, well worn and wiry thread stared at her blankly. In her masterfully designed studio apartment, complete with the ideally balanced quantity of odd numbered chachkis on each shelf of the live-cut wood shelves she built herself. Add to that the towers of contradictory book titles left half-read because it made her more comfortable to have something to look forward to, and stacks of leaning canvases left in rudimentary stages because they were experiencing an 'intermission' in her words. And now the voice she'd longed to hear say those words she'd worked for her entire short seemingly drawn out life on the other end. Hours over years spent self critiquing, self analyzing, over analyzing and over stimulating the million other thoughts that raced through her head as if there were a zombie outbreak on the rise and everything and everyone needed to evacuate the city of her mind.

It was always much easier to pretend, to be on the path towards, to be working on something instead of actually being there and living it. This was the very distinct and clear cut line between planning and doing. It's the difference between a very well thought out to-do list with brightly colored inks for each level of self-assigned importance, bullet points for sub-tasks, perhaps even time designations and a real live, actual checkmark perfectly angled and heavily stamped in that tiny little square box next to each line item eagerly awaiting its completion, its mark of consummation. Planner she was, do-er maybe not so much, at least not in the grand scheme of things. Commitment was a four letter word in her world at least it seemed. And this was not to her own fault or wishes. Termination, finality, conclusion were all words she couldn't speak, that she couldn't translate in her all too fluent synapses. They all meant an end, not a success. It was much easier, happier maybe, just more fulfilling to always be in the wings...waiting, preparing. That was reasonable and soft, relaxing. There was no pressure, nothing to finalize her deeds or confirm her apparent lack of self worth. To actually have to permanently carve that check mark in one of her goal boxes was daunting, terrifying, gut wrenching. Permanence was not a visitor in her waiting room.

Still she stared at her Sadie who by now had returned to her non-anxiety-ridden life of snoozing at 2 in the afternoon. And she so badly wanted her to open her eyes so she could talk this out, without acknowledging she was in fact talking to herself but she couldn't bear the thought of waking her. So she stood up, realizing her left leg had fallen asleep, much like the left side of her brain had done for the past 6 months since she'd so valiantly entered the gallery schmoozing her way to the owner and spouting her spiel about her revolutionary and lofty ideas. And as she always did, because despite having every app known to robotic man downloaded, she loathed her cell phone, she let the call go to voicemail. But now she had the ball in her court. A court covered in weeds and faded green that seemed chartreuse by this point. Not sure if she even wanted the ball, she decided to replay the message almost 24 times because 25 would have been obsessive.

An actual paid art showing at a well known gallery and all because she'd had a few ounces of liquid courage while strolling the halls filled with actual artists who were worthy of being stretched. She'd been inebriated just enough to squirrel away the ammo to approach who she thought was the gallery director and eventually turned out to be the showing artist and luckily the owner of the space as well. He'd seemed approachable or maybe that was the bubble of the rosé she'd guzzled down like mother's milk upon entering the show months ago. Regardless, his voice sounded like watermelon sugar dripping from a fountain of faith. Maybe she was in a sleep paralysis state in the middle of a nighttime dream or daytime fantasy, she couldn't be sure. But she was convincing herself by the minute that this was not happening. It couldn't be, it would be everything she'd wanted and yet everything she'd planned against.