Your Turn

We’ve all done it. We sit around with friends or family. Maybe it’s around a dinner table. Maybe it’s around a fire with a few cocktails in hand. Maybe it’s in a bar with more than a few cocktails in hand. Yes, my friends and I really enjoy cocktails. But we sit with others and share stories. One story leads to another. That one leads to another.

If your friends or family are like my own, these stories often provoke laughter or thoughtfulness.

I’m a writer. I’m a story teller. My friends are very aware of this. Most of my stories and anecdotes have never and will never make it to this blog. Most of my friends have heard those stories and anecdotes a hundred times. I know this because I have heard even more times, “Oh, I know this one. You’re ridiculous.” And yet those friends stay for it because I’m telling it to someone new. The friends who have heard it sometimes even chime in. They have become part of the narrative.

That’s the elegant thing about telling stories. We can share them with the world and so the world then shares them with us.

The act of humanity’s story-telling has existed as far back as we have. Long before the written word, stories were passed down from generation to generation, whether it be through spoken word, song, or hieroglyphics.

The goal with my writing has always been to share a part of myself with the world. And the aim in that is to make others laugh or think deeply, if even for just a moment.

I think that is imperative for humanity to thrive.

The last few months have been a barrage of stories told through news outlets and social media. These stories include natural disasters, celebrity deaths, mass shootings, racial tension, and angry talk of posture during sporting events. Bitter words have been thrown around. Friendships have been ended. Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness have abounded. So, this week’s piece is going to be a little different.

I want you to tell me a story. Whether you follow me on WordPress or Facebook, I want you to tell me a story. Comment with that story. I only ask that it be positive. Make me laugh. Make me think. Make me smile. Tell me about the funniest thing that ever happened to you. Tell me about the first time you fell in love. Tell me about the happiest you’ve ever been. Tell me about your family. Tell me about your friends.

I’ll read your story. Perhaps you’ll inspire me to tell another of my own. Maybe other readers will be reminded of theirs. Feel free to share this piece. That’s what story-telling is all about.

Pull up a chair. Grab a drink. It’s story time.

As is tradition, someone needs to start:

When I was 19, I moved into the first apartment I felt was really mine. I’d lived on my own in dorm rooms and other apartments, but I had never even bothered to decorate them to any extent. Sure, this apartment was in the “hood” and it was merely an efficiency, but it was mine. It was the first place I regularly shared my bed with a woman. Anna had a couple hours in the morning between classes at her community college. On those mornings, she would come into my apartment while I slept and slide under the covers next to me in just her underwear. Although there was sexual tension, we didn’t make love. Her body pulled back against mine, the feel of her skin against my chest, and the smell of her hair in my face felt more than comfortable. It felt right. In those hours those mornings, I became an adult. While she would breathe lazily against me before she dozed off, I began to understand marriage and love and companionship in a way I had never previously done. Existential realizations don’t always strike us like lightning. Often, they ease into us like oxygen.

Much later, in that same apartment, I was sharing my bed with a different woman. The goings-on were much more adult-oriented. There was no underwear. The apartment building belonged to my father. Thus, it was a lot like living at home, except Dad had a little further to go. He had a key and would often use it after a quick double-rap on the door with his knuckles. Immediately following my adult-oriented activities with Jill, as we lied in all our glory in the afterglow, my father keyed his way in after his quick knock. Jill, not a shy girl, merely looked at him and said “hello” while I lunged for the blankets to cover her. I never reached them before my father had mumbled a squeaky apology, exited the apartment, dove down a flight of stairs, and driven a block away. He and I have never since spoken of that day. I still have no idea why he came in the first place. However, he never did key his way in without a lot of knocks and an abnormally long pause. And I now know what my father’s face looks like when he dies a little inside from embarrassment.

Your turn…

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