The Slippery Rock of Love

Yesterday, my son persuaded me to visit a small river in town. Really it was more like a creek. But, whatever. I navigated several steep cement stairs (maybe 2 feet high per stair) with flip flops. I was steady, cautious, and deliberate with every move. The possibility of falling was right in my face.

At the bottom, I stood on the river bank and recalled stories of playing in waterways like that one when I was young. Sounding like an old, wise parent I was proud of myself for passing down my history. Next thing I knew I took a step and lost my footing. The muddy, slippery rocks had set me up and I was down!

Thankfully I had enough time to extend an arm and kind of slow down my fall. But I still ended up on the ground, flat on my back, wondering if I was hurt. Fear tears burst out and I laid there in the mud knowing good and well my favorite swimming shorts were ruined. I was right.

I wanted to holler, "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!" Instead, stupid thoughts barraged my brain like "I should have known better" and "My son will think I'm a liar about my time in creeks and rivers." But he proved me wrong as he leapt into action. My son, the newly graduated EMS student, was too busy checking me for broken bones and getting me up to my feet.

Love can be as dangerous as that slippery rock. But after all of these years, divorce, dating, and breakups, I keep stepping on the rock. Why? Like I said in another post, I'm a foregone conclusion. A hopeless romantic who believes one day, I will step on that rock and it won't take me down. But if it does, I'll have the right man beside me to lovingly guide me back to my feet.

Here's to future possibilities. Or as the Irish say, "Slainte" (to your health)!