I Thought It Was Guilt

Guilty:  Responsible for a dishonest act; having a sense of guilt.

Interesting word: guilty.  I would have thought there was some wiggle room there, that guilt was an emotion, rather than a hard, cold fact.  If you're guilty, you're responsible for behaving badly.

I've been analyzing and re-analyzing and re-evaluating and agonizing over the decision to move.  I never let well enough alone.  I'm sure that I'm making the Wrong Decision, selfishly pursuing my own selfish desires at the expense of everyone else.  I'm sure god is luring me on, egging me sealing my own doom.  I'm a guy who will never pass up an opportunity to be miserable.

Guilt.  I love guilt, or I thought I did.  I guess I don't feel guilty.  I guess what I'm feeling is unsure or conflicted.  I guess what I feel is afraid.  It all comes down to fear, to me being afraid that I'm not going to get something that I want or that I'm going to lose something that I already have.

When I walked back into my home group at Vacation Town I got a big, old warm reception.  I got a lot of hugs.  People swarmed around me, if by "swarmed around" you mean "nodded distractedly in my general direction from across the room."  They seemed to remember me - at least they pretended to with some convince-ability, which is all I really care about.  Back in The New City there was a whole lot of Meh, topped off by the occasional "oh, were you out of town?"

I don't mean this to sound critical of one place and not of the other.  They're both wonderful cities and I've made a lot of good friends everywhere I've been.  It's just that Vacation Town is a better fit for my statistics.  I've been a football player in full football regalia sitting in a baseball dugout, wondering why I'm not getting along with all of the other baseball players.  The problem isn't with the baseball part - it's with the Little Stevie Seaweed part.

"What the hell is that linebacker doing in the bullpen?" they're asking each other.  "Is he going to throw long relief in all of that equipment?"

There's a very quiet, very reserved man in my new home group.  He has my schmucky, sarcastic sense of humor but I haven't had the time to develop much of a close relationship with him yet, mostly because of his reticence to be social.  I greeted him warmly, shouldered past his proffered handshake, and gave him a big hug, which is what I do, man or woman or beast of the field, and told him how much I missed him, to no great effect.

Later that day, wondering around my hotel room, battling some mild moving dis-ease, my phone rings.

"Seaweed,"  he said.  "I wanted to call and tell you how much I appreciated those nice things you said.  I didn't want you to take any offense at my reaction - I struggle to be social most of the time."

Made my day.  Made me feel like I had indeed made the right decision.  Made the fear go away . . . er, subside a bit . . . for like 20 minutes, which is 100 years in Seaweed time.