I avoid the phone like it’s a muddy puddle on the sidewalk, like it’s a mess waiting to happen.

I avoid the neediness of it, as though I fear it makes me a crying child. Notice me, now.  Stop, whatever you’re doing, as I’m buzzing and ringing in your personal space. Talk to me. Now.

I don’t want to disturb you, or anyone, not even the hostess taking orders at the local Thai food place. I’ll just order online, thankyouverymuch.

I’ll take writing an email or a blog, or sending a (probably annoyingly long winded) text, over potentially catching someone off-guard and actually attempting to verbalize what needs to be said, without seeing their face, without knowing if they’re shifting their weight in impatience, as I babble, desperately trying to remember what was so easy and eloquent when I typed it out (ten times, before dialing.)

But, that’s just (slightly off-center, not-quite-normal, maybe sort-of-odd) me.

It’s who I am.

This has been a week of rain and work, contemplation and coffee and catharsis.

And it was week when I, meek as the phone makes me, made a phone call that had to be made.

Because, some relationships are worth bending for.

Some people are worth the puddle jumping messiness.

 

This morning, I’m thinking about my marriage, about how we fit together after twelve plus years of navigating two personalities living one life. Twelve years of not always getting the big, lingering, hug that I want in public, but yet, getting sappy love songs posted to my Facebook wall. Twelve years of him encouraging my whimsy, even though it means my nights are now spent editing during DVR’d TV and he needs to re-explain entire plot lines to me during commercial breaks. Twelve years of him helping with the dishes at midnight, because he knows the clutter stresses me out, (but also knowing that I’m mostly the cause of it all.)

Still, it took me eight years to relinquish the drudgery of bills from my disorganized pile of stress, and into his hands. He had a spreadsheet up in a day. He sent it to me a couple times. I can’t honestly say that I ever really looked at it. I’m allergic to Excel. He doesn’t seem to mind.

But that’s just how we work.

I never really need to puddle jump much for him, because, he lays down coats over the puddles between us.

It’s just who he is.

He is the peace keeper, life organizer, and I am daydreamer, clutter-maker, write-something-pretty-to-smooth-it-all-out girl.

And so, when earlier this week, he came home and told me that the only way we could have peace in a certain situation, was if I picked up my phone (or if he picked it up, with me) and we spoke, like, a spontaneous conversation with someone we care about on the other end of the line…my heart sank.

But, I jumped.

I also cried and mumbled and completely lost track of anything I wanted to express. My hands shook. My heart vibrated with the buzz of the ringing on the line.

 

And, it all turned out fine.

In a week where friends and I spent hours discussing different personality types (thank you interwebs and a rainy Wednesday afternoon) it was fitting that I was forced to not only recognize only my weaknesses, but to face them.

I puddle jumped, for my relationships. For my husband.

And it made big ‘ol, worth-every-muddy-drop-of-it, splashy mess. Tears. Snot. In-eloquent babbling.

But, I did it.

I’m thinking this morning of how easy it is to stay safe and dry and clean, in the comfort of what we know and trust or to say, well, this is just who I am, take it or leave it.

But, sometimes, hard and wet and messy and pushing yourself out of what you know and trust, and saying, well, this isn’t who I am at all, but for you, I will…is good for the soul too.

Some comfort zones are meant to be left.

Some puddles are just begging to be jumped.