Corey would rocket to the moon tomorrow if he could. If he could purchase a budget pass on a sketchy-as-hell orbit rocket with a dubious safety record and the potential for a once in a lifetime thrill, he’d be all over it, scoping out rad space suits with zero hesitation.
He thrives on newness, challenge, the thrill of impossibility morphing into reality.
“Let’s move to Zimbabwe, we can work from anywhere.”
“Write your book, dammit, we can live in a box while you do it.”
“Let’s do it now and figure it out later.”
“Mediocrity is for the boring.”
It’s part of the reason I love him so much, the exact precise reason why he terrifies me. I’ve never possessed that abandon, and prefer almost always to walk the known, familiar yellow dotted line than to veer over to the candy stripes and moon rock. I have always believed that I’ll get ahead in life via dogged hard work and relentless loyalty, not because I’ve taken a whim flight to the moon to pocket never touched rocks. I’ve never been OK with the idea of living in a box, and slightly elevated mediocrity is not the worst thing in the world, right?
But this last week, something snapped, and my neat little neat house of false stability teetered, collapsed, and started pouring blood all over everything. It’s a long story, and one that’s not ready to be told just yet. But I was shocked, and shaken, and later in the day, when Jude ran by in his laser kitten onesie, brandishing a stinky doggie, giant belly leading his way, I started crying, because god, these kids. My boys. My years of chugging and plodding and choosing the dotted yellow line of the familiar highway — that was for the boys. Wasn’t it?
“The sooner you cut the crap and stop lying to yourself about what you love, the happier we’ll all be,” said Corey.
My ears welled up.
“You’re an artist. Write your goddamned book.”
He didn’t mention the box.