Leah Farmer

Personal perspectives on faith, literature, and life.

Walking alone…

As I walked up the neighborhood street behind a group of strangers that were laughing and talking loudly, and in front of two men having an odd conversation about lead paint…I felt very alone.

I was also sick. As in…my head is so congested that I can’t breathe, or even really think straight.

Sick and walking alone while supposedly part of the party is a strange feeling. It’s the holidays and all I wanted was to try something new, with some new people, and feel young and free. I had expectations of them. I had expectations of myself.

Instead my state of mind was such that all I could feel was homesick and lonely for my best friends. For the women and men who know me better than I know myself most of the time. For the quiet that can be exchanged between my very best friend and I as we read our books or go for a walk. For the familiar touch of the last man I loved. For…the familiar.

Don’t get me wrong. These lovely young, energetic people make me smile and are welcoming. It’s just that I can’t keep up. With their energy. With their long legs. With their expectations.

Perhaps I’m not their kind of fun. Perhaps I am and it’s just that I can’t breathe through my nose or taste the beer I’m drinking with them. Perhaps I should have kept my ass at home and not taken the risk of meeting new people. Perhaps.

In the end, I take myself home.

I walk across the street, sit at a table in a bar and have another beer I can’t taste, text with my best friend, and call the uber.

And in the end, I’m equally sorry I couldn’t roll with the new folks and grateful that I know what is best for sick and alone me tonight.

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