I was going to cancel. I was going to let the past dictate the present, and ultimately the future. I was going to renege on plans. I was going to make up an excuse–something original like, something came up. I’m pretty sure that was a Brady Brunch episode. I didn’t trust that I knew what to do.
My ex’s kid was involved, and that made all the difference.
Would he have cared, or given it a second thought, if I didn’t show up? I didn’t know and it didn’t matter. It wasn’t the point. I said I was going to be there. Period. Any bullshit remnants from the past wasn’t coming to the high school football field with me.
Over the last couple of weeks, something shifted. Maybe it was healing, like when a gash (god I love that word) starts to scab. I felt strong, confident, and grown up. I was also bored of the bullshit. I was exhausted rolling over the questions in my head; was this ok? What does it mean? Is it the right thing? When it came to the kids, nothing happened until I sufficiently contorted myself like a, well, like a contortionist.
I didn’t cancel. What was unknown driving down to that football field would soon be known. And despite the wrong turn I took, and getting lost in the dark, parking far away from the football field, and having to go to the bathroom something fierce, I made it in time for the singing of the national anthem.
I excitedly watched my ex’s son, wearing bright orange cleats, kick off to the Woodbridge Barrons.
I can’t imagine having missed that.