The lactose intolerant can go to Starbucks®

“People will always have opinions about your decision because they’re not courageous enough to take action on their opinion.”
― Steve Maraboli

I made the mistake of sharing my gelateria concept, should I ever get to that point, with my best friend and sisters on 4th of July.  In return, I received opinions, opinions, opinions.

“Well, then you have to serve coffee and become a full café.  What about all the lactose intolerant people who can’t eat gelato?  You need to have something for them.  There are so many people who can’t eat gelato. You can’t just serve gelato.”

It’s great that I surround myself with amazing women who have strong beliefs and are unafraid to speak their minds, but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could find a support system rather than a mob ready to mutilate my every hope, wish and dream, leaving them splayed and vivisected in the gutters of the street.

Fuck the lactose intolerant.

After the onslaught of comments, it’s been difficult for me to get back to the necessary preparatory work to make my dream  into a reality – my computer has sat, unused, on my kitchen table all week.  I know that I shouldn’t let this derail me.  There will always be the naysayers and detractors – the more negativity I hear, the more likely it is that I have a good concept.    But, the pessimism, especially from friends and family, deflates me like a balloon.

I don’t want to build this business in a bubble – I want opinions, but I need constructive opinions, opinions from experts who have been there and know what I’m talking about.  I want to ask a million questions of my restaurant-owning friends and of chef.  My sisters and friends, on the other hand, can tell me what they think of a flavor combination, once I’m fine tuning it, but, for now, I want them to keep their mouths shut.  Let me dream, let me research, let me explore, let me fine tune – and, unless you’re going to invest in it,  please keep your negative opinions to yourself.

Wrapped

Last weekend, in our chilly cabin in the woods, he would not let go of me as he slept.  We haven’t been so entwined since our first few nights together.  And back then, it was me (and not he) so wrapped (or rapt?).  His arm behind my head, his leg thrown over my thighs, a hand entwined, warm breath on my neck, I felt safe and wanted.

I woke to a bad dream this morning – a dream that left me rattled.  I needed those arms, that leg, his hand, his kiss of breath to soothe me, but my bed was empty.  I settled on a walk through the neighborhood to clear my head.  It helped just a little.

This dream has not left me, yet I’m afraid to say, “I need you tonight”, afraid to have him see me needy.  So I will wait until tomorrow, our usual night together, and wrap myself around him tighter still.

Bed

The last guy I dated, I couldn’t sleep next to him.  After sex, I’d doze for a bit, perhaps, but in the end, I’d find myself crawling from his arms to sleep on the couch.  I’d always find my way back between the sheets in the early dawn.  The real sleep, the vulnerable hours of my deepest dreaming, was spent elsewhere, away from him. On our vacation, I spent the dead of night in the bedroom next door. At the time,  I thought this was an ultimate consequence of a life spent in a single girl’s bed, the final straw.

But my new guy, I sleep with him just fine.  He’s worried that his snoring keeps me awake.  I assure him that his rhythmic breathing doesn’t bother me at all – and it really doesn’t.  That’s not snoring. I’m glad I own my tiny queen bed – no room for us to separate. I smile when he spoons me, feeling his warmth along my back.  I need his hand on my hip or my foot on his calf, a gentle reminder that he is there, and I sleep soundly, completely.

For Rent

The rain slides down the windshield as my car descends from the drive. My eyes are drawn to the sign on the house that reads, “For Rent. 4 Bedrooms plus Bonus Room.” My childhood home – described in seven words or less. This will be, perhaps, the last time I visit this house. I’m feeling melancholy, but I blame it on the rain. It cannot be the building. This house doesn’t contain my joyful childhood memories. Just the opposite – this edifice contains the memories of a child who felt unloved, a childhood of relative loneliness and much sadness; a childhood that spawned an adult who doesn’t feel whole. Strangely, it is, however, the house in my dreams. Twenty years after escaping it, it’s in my dreams when I dream of “home”. I’m not sure why I dream of this dwelling and not my current happy home– perhaps because my psyche, my baggage and my unhealed wounds were all born here, under this roof.

I wish the final closing of the front door and turning of the key could be a cleansing of sorts – a closing of a chapter. It isn’t – It’s all done so matter-of-factly. I don’t think twice as I walk away and yet, the sign catches my eye – my life, my childhood – for rent.