The Perfect Fit - A Psychic Romance, Laney's Past Life & Love by TY Gister Page B
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Authors: TY Gister
I know is in there somewhere. I have a thing about writing in pencil; I prefer it to a pen, well if I'm writing for myself. But I'm obsessive about it being a sharp pencil, so I always have a sharpener with me. This one came from a Christmas cracker. It made a pleasant change from the usual mini screwdriver and nail clippers. My trusty sharpener goes everywhere and before I start writing I have to do a couple of twists, it's as if it signals something in my brain; coaxing it into 'OK let's get going' mode.
Opening my journal, I find the words are easily spilling out already.
"Here I am, alone again, living pretty much as a recluse. Yeh, I might come to the town and sit where people sit, even go to the odd social event but it's all surface stuff. I can't remember the last deep and meaningful conversation I had. I don't stick around long enough for people to get close. I manage to keep them at a distance or pick safe ones that don't pose a threat. I don't do any of this consciously as such; I mean I've never sat down and thought I want to keep people away.
I'm polite, I'm funny, I'm stupidly talkative but only about the weather or what people are doing, and how are they today? I let people talk about their lives, they seem glad of having a willing pair of ears to unleash their worries and concerns. People confide very quickly if you're prepared to listen and the amount of intimate details regarding illness and disease I've heard over the years is enough to make anyone want to live more healthily.
But just thinking about the people I do engage with, they're of the safe variety; they don't pose any threat to me. Typically married couples, the young or the elderly, sharing the kind of surface, polite conversations we have every day. Where the hell did I pick up that habit?
Thinking about it, that was probably the shop. In my married existence we ran an antique shop, we expanded year on year and what started out as a tiny concern, ended up the size of a small superstore. I suppose I developed a 'retail personality'; polite, efficient, helpful and friendly. Great for customer service but not so great for anything deep and meaningful. Plus I'm a good listener and it's not like I don't like listening to people, I don't begrudge it, people are interesting but their lives seem so much easier to sort out than my own. I listen but I rarely talk about me.
The stupid thing is, people have often said that they would love to be me; they think I'm so lucky. I'm attractive (still getting my head round that one, it's not easy for me to write but at least I haven't scribbled it out). I'm intelligent, not the rocket scientist type intelligence, just quick witted; I pay attention and pick things up quickly.
I'm nice, I'm funny and genuine. Then why the bloody hell do I feel like I've failed, that there's something wrong with me?
I started salsa dancing a few years ago, my eldest daughter dragged me along when she wanted to go. I love the music and I do like to dance but I've never liked being the centre of attention, the bit I hate is when in the natural rotation of the class I end up with the instructor in the middle. Four years on and I still blush when I'm there in the centre. This blushing is a relatively new thing, I'm sure I never used to; it's as if I'm getting more sensitive.
Marcos at Salsa has been the rare someone I
can
talk to. He and his wife are good dancers, they still enjoy coming to class, more as a means of being sociable than a need to learn anything new. He reckons I have a large and polished V sign on my forehead. I was really shocked when he told me that, I thought I was really approachable but apparently not.
I don't remember ever sitting down and making the decision to be alone, to stay single. It's not as if I hate men, I get on with men much better than women. I can't do girly small talk very well, only if I'm listening to it. I can't deliver it, so I end up bizarrely mute. With guys, they tend to be quite happy
Opening my journal, I find the words are easily spilling out already.
"Here I am, alone again, living pretty much as a recluse. Yeh, I might come to the town and sit where people sit, even go to the odd social event but it's all surface stuff. I can't remember the last deep and meaningful conversation I had. I don't stick around long enough for people to get close. I manage to keep them at a distance or pick safe ones that don't pose a threat. I don't do any of this consciously as such; I mean I've never sat down and thought I want to keep people away.
I'm polite, I'm funny, I'm stupidly talkative but only about the weather or what people are doing, and how are they today? I let people talk about their lives, they seem glad of having a willing pair of ears to unleash their worries and concerns. People confide very quickly if you're prepared to listen and the amount of intimate details regarding illness and disease I've heard over the years is enough to make anyone want to live more healthily.
But just thinking about the people I do engage with, they're of the safe variety; they don't pose any threat to me. Typically married couples, the young or the elderly, sharing the kind of surface, polite conversations we have every day. Where the hell did I pick up that habit?
Thinking about it, that was probably the shop. In my married existence we ran an antique shop, we expanded year on year and what started out as a tiny concern, ended up the size of a small superstore. I suppose I developed a 'retail personality'; polite, efficient, helpful and friendly. Great for customer service but not so great for anything deep and meaningful. Plus I'm a good listener and it's not like I don't like listening to people, I don't begrudge it, people are interesting but their lives seem so much easier to sort out than my own. I listen but I rarely talk about me.
The stupid thing is, people have often said that they would love to be me; they think I'm so lucky. I'm attractive (still getting my head round that one, it's not easy for me to write but at least I haven't scribbled it out). I'm intelligent, not the rocket scientist type intelligence, just quick witted; I pay attention and pick things up quickly.
I'm nice, I'm funny and genuine. Then why the bloody hell do I feel like I've failed, that there's something wrong with me?
I started salsa dancing a few years ago, my eldest daughter dragged me along when she wanted to go. I love the music and I do like to dance but I've never liked being the centre of attention, the bit I hate is when in the natural rotation of the class I end up with the instructor in the middle. Four years on and I still blush when I'm there in the centre. This blushing is a relatively new thing, I'm sure I never used to; it's as if I'm getting more sensitive.
Marcos at Salsa has been the rare someone I
can
talk to. He and his wife are good dancers, they still enjoy coming to class, more as a means of being sociable than a need to learn anything new. He reckons I have a large and polished V sign on my forehead. I was really shocked when he told me that, I thought I was really approachable but apparently not.
I don't remember ever sitting down and making the decision to be alone, to stay single. It's not as if I hate men, I get on with men much better than women. I can't do girly small talk very well, only if I'm listening to it. I can't deliver it, so I end up bizarrely mute. With guys, they tend to be quite happy