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Posts Tagged ‘Adele’

Trust me?

I worked like a dog today. Do dogs really work that hard? I know mine doesn’t! (What is that quote about anyway?) But I did. I didn’t sit down all dang day, stopping only to have intermittent bites of the banana I chose as a quick, convenient (not all that satisfying) lunch. (Well, I could’ve had potato chips, so stop looking at me like that)

Yes…as soon as I got in from a leisurely, hang out till you can’t hang no more breakfast, I worked hard.

Oh. Now I’ve lost your trust. Okay, I did go for breakfast, but I swear, when I got home, I did a week’s worth of work over the next nine hours.

I cleaned bathrooms, vacuumed carpets, washed floors, built a piece of furniture, gutted kid’s rooms, disemboweled a (very constipated) closet, ran eight loads of laundry (amazingly easy to accumulate that amount at my house), sorted paperwork (also stupefyingly effortless to accrue here and, hands down, my most dreaded chore), let pets in and out of what they believe is a never locked, always available revolving door and I, the doorman at the Hilton. (If only this were the Hilton – Hawaii, take me away)

Am I winning you back yet? Trust me. I worked and I worked. It paid off too. Now, I’m only slightly behind for tomorrow as opposed to flailing moat deep like I would’ve been if I’d have, say, gone out for lunch today as well. Tempting, but no.

I watched Love Actually the other (much more appealing) night (the luxury is a distant memory), and I have to admit, I envied (cursed) Colin Firth as he hired a ‘house girl’ to look after his needs. (No, not like that. Well, at least not right away anyway) He sat at his typewriter, gazing out at the calm, Willow-brushed water, writing his latest, greatest novel while she cooked, cleaned and ran his errands. (I may have to stomp my feet for just a minute)

As I type this, I lay propped on several pillows, a heating pad scorching the undercarriage of my torso and a pillow supporting my screaming knees. Ahh, it hurts so good, or should that be bad? I’m delirious.

All right, I’ve had my fun. My rant has come to an end. An end yes, but not a bitter one.

I’m counting my blessings; I own a heating pad, I have a bed to lie on, there is a (brand new cedar) roof over my head that I am grateful for (even though it will take the next ten years to pay for), my children lay sleeping in their beds, I own a laptop, not a typewriter (Take that, Colin), I was able to bang out a post that I never thought possible today and…wait for it…I got to listen to Adele for nine hours straight. Who could ask for anything more?

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I am overly emotional today, so I feel that a post with an Adele reference is in order.

Don’t worry – we can still get along. I’m sure we can agree that the woman’s got pipes, regardless of how we may feel about her personally.

So, yes…Adele. She’s got pipes, but it doesn’t end there. The girl’s got guts. She has the backbone it takes to write down her deepest, most private thoughts and feelings and send them off into the universe for all to enjoy…and judge. Oh, guts I tell you.

I’ve probably listened to way too much of her and don’t lie; you have too. We’ve all done the Rolling in the Deep” sixty times in one day, thing. I won’t force concordance; I will simply overlook any denial. (If I weren’t such a professional, I might insert a winky face here with a dash of LOL)

I stumbled upon a snippet of her ‘live in concert’ last night as I was heading to the dinner table. Of course I’ve seen it before, but last night, this particular part stopped me in my tracks.

There she was, black dress, sixties hair, lashed to the extreme, (lovely, but extreme) the spotlight drifting down in waves, powdering her with stardust. Either that, or she was about to be hoovered up into the mother ship, although in Adele’s case, I’m pretty sure it was stardust.

However, I digress. This particular part halted me. She was singing Someone Like You. Yes, a torrid, gut-wrenching song at the best of times, but towards the end, she stopped and let the crowd sing. Now, I know she wrote this song out of heartache and heartbreak, so melancholy is an expected response, however, considering she’s sung it a bazillion times, one can only assume the wound has, at the very least, scabbed over.

No…her emotion seemed to stem from the crowd singing her song; more specifically, the crowd knowing her words. Words she probably wrote on soggy, tear-stained scraps at 3am, alone in the bleak of her grotty little flat, while she contemplated quietly slitting her wrists. But there it was; her painful story dripping off the tongues of strangers, emblazoned onto their hearts and now suspended in the rafters of the Royal Albert Hall.

(It all goes down here. Stick around till the end for the good stuff)

And, it made me think. It would be extraordinary to have people know us that way or, at least that version of us. We can give them all or we can give them bits, we can give them realities or we can give them adaptations. Whatever we’re serving, they want it. They wanna sit at our table and watch us eat, stand there as we have coffee in our robes and brush our teeth. They want to walk in our shoes. They crave our pain and desire our joy. It’s ours to give. We can hand it over. It just takes an iron gut.

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