Do you know what we are doing?

We are, over text, playing imaginary poker with Evil Genius Plot Devices.

He raised my evil laugh with a diabolical hand wringing.  I raised him a dramatic thunderclap.  He raised me ten henchmen.  I raised him an overly elaborate doomsday device.

We make me laugh.

Seriously, if he can amuse me half this much in person (and, given the kind of options for amusement available in person, it seems likely), then I am quite pleased indeed.

I mean, seriously!

There is so much communication!  And maybe it's because he lives in Davenport and works second shift so there's nothing we can do right now besides talk.  But, damn, we've been talking a lot.  The "this is what I like to do and have done to me and how do you feel about that?" kind of talk. Even the "I've never done this but it sounds exciting and I'd like to try it with you," kind of talk. Which, let me tell you, is not something I do easily. I asked. He will. (Hell, yes, he said.)

Nevermind.

Oh, and I name-changed this blog again.  Hopefully anyone who actually followed me will be able to follow me back?  Sorry for all the mess.

I think I might change my OK Cupid name instead.

And again...

What you want is to continue this discussion. You are interested in it; you are interested in my opinion.  That's flattering, and appreciated.  I'm impressed with your willingness to ask.  

The thing is, I am not enjoying this discussion.  It makes my day worse when it shows up in my inbox.  These are things I push at, deal with, all the time, and it's exhausting.  I do not want to seek out more.  I'm sorry if I wasn't clear before, but I am ending this discussion.

He didn't manage to leave without some "wisdom to empart," (his words).  Something about being in charge of my own happiness.  *eyeroll*  Every time I think, maybe there's something there, he goes and tries to mansplain happiness to me. 

Dear Happiness Expert: Yup.  That's exactly what I'm doing.

I actually sent this one.

 Slightly toned down from the previous version:

I don't feel attacked. However, I feel that the fact that you refer to my views as "radical," says a lot about what you consider "normal." You refer to feminist views as being opposed to humanist or scientific (as in, rational, logical, and evidence-based) views, as if feminism were something that hinders rational thought rather than something that stems from it. It shows both a deep misunderstanding of the concept, and a lot of condescension, and I'm not interested in wading through the latter so I can try to address the former. If you are actually interested in opposing viewpoints, and are willing to accept that people who have them are just as rational and logical as you are, I suggest you start here: http://finallyfeminism101.wordpress.com/purpose/ 

It pisses me off that I will probably be another example of women who Just Won't Listen in his mind.  That I will probably do more to enforce his shitty world view than I will to improve it.  I hate that. 

Red Banner Guy (due to popular response, he got an upgrade) reminds me that people change.  And maybe this guy will.  But I'm so cynical these days.  I can't even try.

I found my awesome. Now what?

He says he'd better learn to ballroom dance.  He says he's told me a lot of things he doesn't usually talk about.  He says that in January he might be able to switch to first shift.

And I feel like it's all happening again.  Like it already means too much.  I feel like I shouldn't have made out with him like a horny teenager and it kind of pisses me off because I shouldn't have to pick between NOTHING and EVERYTHING.

It was good.  I'd do it again.  But I also know I'll be moving on.

I wish I remembered what I'm looking for.  I know I had it once.  I know it isn't fair to expect it right away.  But I look at them and think, I'm not done looking.

New Crush

It's hard, sometimes, to look at today and believe, really believe, in tomorrow.  To eat a giant meal and believe that I will ever be hungry again.  I know it, of course, but despite all past evidence, it just doesn't seem possible.  I look at this blog where I have four years of impossibilities logged down, events I couldn't live through, feelings I couldn't ever lose, and even with all this laid out in front of me, I can't shake the feeling that tomorrow will be just like today.

I did live through those events, and each feeling has run its course.  Tomorrow is not today.

I know that.  But this time—this time it's different.

10 of these 12 notes are about dancing

1.  Red Flag guy continues to be charming.  I continue to squee. 

2.  I have been noticing a particular problem when I lead.  It's going to sound like braggery, but hear me out:  when I dance with beginning dancers, I have a really hard time being in charge of where we go.  I keep finding myself spiraling inwards away from the circle of dance, and I try to steer us back, and I can't.  I would be tempted to say that it's my partner's fault, except that I see other leads dance with them without that problem.  So other leads don't have that problem with newcomers, and I don't have that problem with advanced dancers.  So it could be because I'm doing it right, and so it works with someone who knows what to do, or it's because I'm doing it wrong, and the advanced dancers are compensating for me.  But if I'm doing it right, then why doesn't it work for me when I see it work for other people?

This is a question to bring to class, I think.  I actually miss taking classes at Dance New York.  They're smaller, and there's more interaction with other students and the teachers, and even though I still don't feel totally integrated, I don't feel like the kid sister. 

3.  I think I mentioned this before, but I checked the competition rules again, and I can dance in the Newcomer category for ever and ever.  Because female leads always qualify as a Newcomer.

4.  I hate not looking at my partner.  I didn't do the correct pose before, but now they're getting at me to do it right, which means looking into the air above and to the left, while my partner looks to the air above and to my right and it feels so rude.  Especially when things are not going well, I want to look at them, and smile, and be friendly and maybe even a little conspiratorial, hey look we're doing this thing together.

5. Dances I love: east coast swing (duh), hustle (all the fun parts of swing without the footwork), waltz, foxtrot.

6.  Dances I like okay: salsa & mambo, cha-cha, nightclub two-step, country two-step, west coast swing, cumbia.

7.  Dances I avoid: tango, merengue, bachata, rumba.

8.  So, basically, I dance like a white girl. 

9.  Two people who didn't know asked me if I'd lost weight.

10.  Do you know how the ballroom club picks partners for competition?  I didn't know until yesterday.  They give everyone a sheet with the possible categories (newcomer rhythm, bronze smooth, etc.) and then everyone goes around and finds people to partner with.  You're supposed to pick someone at your level, because good dancers should dance with other good dancers to maximize the potential for winning.  Which means you need to know how good other people think you are.  And THEN, after what seems like a miserable social activity, sort of like finding eight dates to eight different proms, you submit your sheets to the team leadership who will take your choices into advisement.  Which means that there is NO reason to make choices public.  There is NO reason that choices need to be agreed upon if they are only personal preferences and not actual decisions. 

Asking people to dance is hard.  It's hard and it's scary and it sometimes it takes more emotional strength than I have available.  Every time we pair up in a circle, I find a place and stand there and eventually someone, usually last, picks me.  And maybe that's because I'm just standing there, avoiding eye contact, and maybe it's because they would rather dance with someone else.  But most of the time I can't bring myself to try to pick someone because I wouldn't want to impose.  I wouldn't want to assume that they want to dance with me.  Even for sixteen counts, before we switch.

This self-selection of partners makes me want to curl up and hide and I could understand it if that was how we made decisions.  But it's not.  We're probably going to be overruled anyway. 

11.  The combination of #2 and #10 on this list scares me.  I don't mind dancing with someone I need to keep it simple for.  I've been the lowest common denominator.  I'm scared of competing with a partner that I feel as if I'm fighting with. 

12.  This is depressing.  I have a date on Saturday.  We are going to get lunch to go and take it with us to Hickory Hill where we will walk and eat lunch and then get a movie and watch it on my extravagant TV.  I am going to wear a flouncy skirt and sweater and nylons and boots and I will channel ALL my awesome and he will be blown away.  Just, y'know, not too blown away because I don't want more declarations of love, I just want declarations of awesome.

It will be AWESOME.  So there.

In happier news

I have a date on Saturday.  An actual, declared, date.  Activity still to be determined.  He's used the phrase "hands off," but I'm pretty sure I'm going to nix that part of the plan.

Radical Feminist

Dear Anti-Feminist.

The fact that you refer to my views as "radical" is a very good indication of what you consider to be "normal."  Because I haven't expressed anything beyond the belief that 1) sex for fun is okay and doesn't make anyone less of a good person, 2) both women and men are responsible for their sexual decisions, 3) women and men don't need to decide their relationship dynamics based on gender.  These beliefs are apparently far and beyond off the spectrum from yours.  If I were less biased by my radical prejudices, so you say, I would understand you.

And, in a way, you're right.  If I were a moralizing, anti-feminist, prude, I would understand your views.  

So, no, I didn't read the next 1,061 words you wrote.  The ones beginning with "You grew up in a world that..." and ending with "if you could look at it from a non-feminist viewpoint, and instead look at it from a more human or scientific viewpoint..."  Because maybe someone could explain to you that "feminist" and "human" are not opposing concepts, that women are equally capable of logical reasoning.  But it's not going to be me.  Get yourself a book. Get yourself a good blog.  Get yourself some fucking eyes and empathy and some of that reason you're so proud of.  Or go back to looking for a damsel to rescue. 

Just don't come to me.

Without rehashing the 1000+ word message I didn't read much of, I'll just say that Probation Guy will not be a Person of Interest.

I texted Red Flag Guy and asked if he knew any bad jokes.

I vented to Ms. W while waiting for my bagel.

Red Flag Guy said:  Lucifer, Poncius Pilate, and Judas buy a drink at a bar.  When it comes time to pay the tab, Lucifer swears in some ancient languages, and disappears in a puff of sulfur.  Poncius Pilate says, "I TOTALLY wash my hands of that," and so the bartender looks at Judas.  Judas shrugs and says, "That's okay.  I just got paid anyway.  Do you take silver?"

Ms. W, who has a slight Carolina drawl, and a smile so wide and warm it nearly runs out of room, suggested I write this letter.

Raining

It was genuinely and literally pouring this morning.  Also, someone, a new someone, told me that my profile was "edgy, daring, honest, funny, and good natured."  He has a funny story about getting on probation.  So if he needs a name it will probably be Probation Boy.

The new chart isn't as pretty as the old one, but I can edit from my iPad which is important.

I think I'll be seeing Red Flag Guy on Saturday.  The squee is strong with this one.

NAME CHANGE

I think I would like to separate this blog address from my internet name.  It may not help much, given two years of cache, but it can't hurt. 

So anyone who is here, and would like to stay here, please reset your dials to

www.thingsiwontforget.blogspot.com

I'll move at the end of the week.

Could it be the weather

I am a little disappointed in myself to see just how much of my affection was simply a reaction to being wanted.  I mean, everyone wants to be wanted, everyone finds that an attractive trait in other people, but this was a rather drastic change.  One day I was reminding myself that I can't text him, because I can't risk slipping back into such tempting arms.  Two days later, I am exasperated to see his name on my phone.   His desire, now that I have another source, is an inconvenience.  Please, put that away, I don't want to see it. 

Because, oh god, this is so much fun.

Red Flag Guy asks: If teenage zombie you came back from the dead, what word or phrase would she wander the countryside mumbling?

My answer: Teenage zombie me would try to sing Tori Amos to express her teenage zombie angst but probably would only manage, "oh god could it be the weather"

Person of Interest

There is a new Person of Interest.  There are red flags.  Even I can see them.  And because I know that he needs to be named NOW or risk becoming another generic pronoun, which is about to get really confusing, I am hereby declaring this Red Flag Guy.

Red Flag Guy and I texted all afternoon.  I, of course, am not concerned about the flags.

Friday

Part 1:  Temptation

I can't get it out of my head: the echo of his passionate plea.  So dramatic, so perfectly scripted, and I was the smart and beautiful and interesting and funny and sexy woman in his story.  He was proud to be my boyfriend.

It's so enticing, his image of me.  Oh, it's sweetly dangerous.  It would be so easy to have it again.

This is why we can't be friends.  Not yet.


Part 2: Habits

I am trying to identify and restrict my personal writing clichés: the word desperately.  The run on sentences, and the sentence fragments.  Not every subject really wants to grow up and marry an object, and some nouns are really happy alone.  But when they become my clichés they become shorthand for what I really mean.  They become the easy way out.  When every time I want to communicate urgency I say desperate, the word loses the very importance that I want to communicate.  Like awesome, which no longer bears any connection to the feeling of awe.

And I think I do okay at restricting standard clichés, because they teach us that in writing classes, but these are only cliché when I use them.  So listen up blog: I'm watching you.


Part 3: Ohio

I can't compete in Ohio.  Or rather, I can't compete for less than an $1,800 investment, which is essentially the same thing.  I was surprised at the strength of my disappointment.  Even though, at the dress rehearsal, I felt shabby and unprepared, not in a "how I'm dressed," or "how I am today," but in an "essential quality" kind of way.  And when the dancers processed grandly onto the floor, arms wide and palms up, following rules that no one had ever told me, I thought it looked terrifying, but I still wanted to go.

I was home on vicodin the night they signed up.  And the week after, I was home because I was tired and grumpy and didn't feel like it.  And, to be honest with myself, I probably wouldn't have signed up even if I could have.  But I feel bereft.  I feel exiled.  I am just close enough to liking these dancers, who are acquiring names and personalities, that I can enjoy watching them, I can admire them.  But I am not so close as to feel like I belong.  I still feel like the kid sister.

God, I always feel like the kid sister.  It was almost more fun when I despised them.


Part 4: Details

I have maintained a steady 195 pounds all week.  Given recent events, and the pie and cheese that I've treated myself with, I'm kind of amazed.  I think my body feels sorry for me and has decided to give me a break this week.

My gray pinstripe vest came in the mail.  It, sadly, will not match the gray slacks I already own.  It is also too big.  Not in a ridiculous kind of way, but a hiding kind of way.  It's what I would wear if I thought I were fat and kind of wanted to pretend I was a guy.  Rather than send it back and hope that the next size down will work, I'm going to take it in.  So it will be fitted, like actually tailored.  It will be the kind of thing I'd wear if I were feeling confident and sexy.  The kind of thing I wore when I kissed the sexiest woman I've ever seen, then or now.  She was full and lush and kissed me softly back.

Llama Limbo*

It has occurred to me recently that some of my standards are rather off the norm.  For example, I find myself dating a disproportionate number of fixer-uppers, people who are still getting over troubled pasts, people who trail hurt and disappointment behind them like a bouquet of deflated balloons.

I don't see warning signs the way other people do.  He used to shoot heroin?  That's interesting.  My Chicagofriend snorted cocaine once, through a hundred-dollar bill, off the breasts of his girlfriend, the porn star, the one he dumped to date me the second time.**  That's interesting, too.

And the thing is, Chicagofriend is someone I greatly admire.  He's got his shit together.  But he has stories.  He has a checkered past, legally, romantically, etc.  We went to high school together until the time he put a bomb on a school bus and got taken away in handcuffs.  And so when I meet someone with stories like that, I'm not alarmed.  I've known amazing people with stories.

The problem is that not everyone is Chicagofriend.  Some people are sad-balloon people, but I don't see it.  And when I start to see it I'm so busy understanding and not judging that I still don't see the balloons. 

When I tell people that I broke up with my boyfriend, they ask how he took it.  And I think, he's miserable.  But he didn't threaten me with a knife.  That's something, right?  Because my fiancée did that once.  I think he wanted to be someone who might do something drastic more than he actually wanted to hurt anyone.  But he had a knife and he was sobbing and hysterical and I was scared.  This is the standard I judge breakups by. 


*A real competition at the Iowa State Fair.
**And, by the way, he dumped a porn star to date me.  I should remember that more often.

Still Breaking Up: Snippets

I think I could have stayed, if he hadn't loved me.  If I could have been a girl, instead of The Girl.  I would have liked that.

I should probably clear out my text folder. 

When I get a text, even knowing it won't be him, I hope and dread that it is.  Because he shouldn't.  I don't want him to.  But I miss that little thrill. 

There are moments when I forget that this is happening.  Sometimes, it's something that has happened.

He changed his internet status (Facebook, OK Cupid) right away.  It seems healthy, which I like, and also it makes me look less eager when I change mine.  He has a new profile pic.  I look at it and want him all over again.

139

Words

Part 1: Love

He said it.  He said it explosively, he said it pleadingly, he drew it out slowly and then threw a dozen of them, quickly, one after the other.  He opened the floodgates of it, as if he were drowning in it by himself, he let it sweep out and over me, saying it again and again.

Part 2: Friendship

I live in a house with two of my friends.  We were friends before we were housemates.  And sometimes, I find myself telling a story and saying, housemate, and then thinking, should I have said, friend?  Have I just devalued their relationship to me?  Sometimes, it matters in the context of the story, but sometimes it really doesn't.

I dunno.  It's not a big deal, but it snags in my head sometimes.

Part 3: Friendship (again)

I searched for words.  What do I feel for him?  I am no longer smitten.  I don't have romance-feelings.  But I am not without feeling.  So I say, friend.  You feel like a friend.  Because it's the closest analogy I have.  Somewhere between I want you to be my Person, and I want you out of my life.

But now I have to say, I can't be your friend.  And he is bewildered, because I just said that I was.  And I don't know how to answer.  Explain.

Please.  Just don't.

Don't ask.  I can't answer you.  I don't have the words.


Part 4: Someone Else's

I think you should read something else for a while.  You should read this.  Because someone I don't actually know very well but was in a writing class with, who I admire enough to cling to that connection—I was in a class with her once!—moved to Dallas, and instead of rolling her eyes like every jaded non-Texan I know, including myself, she decided to love it. 

And then, because I thought, it's a shame you can't see her other work on the blog, because there are so many amazing things to see and love, I googled her and found them.

She says: Tell me, as if I didn't know, about Love lost.

Here.

Part 5: Counting

In the course of two hours, I said (texted) "I need time" three times, and "I need space" twice.  I also said (texted) the word "can't" eight times, "friend" six times, and "friendship" once.  Sometimes I said (texted) "need," and sometimes I said (texted) "NEED," but together there were five of them.

Last night he said that he didn't want to just be another number.  Another first message in my project.  I didn't tell him that he already is a number, he always has been.  First he was his message number, and then a word count.  It wasn't really 504, even though I said it was, but it was over 500 and I couldn't remember the exact count.  504.  I was smitten with that number before we even met. 

Transcript, thoughts.

I said, I can't be your friend right now.  I need time to adjust.  You are not alone, but I can't be your person.

I said, Because this is a change.  From being "ex" to "friend."  One gets in the way of the other.  I can't be your friend with the relationship hanging over us.  I NEED time apart.

I think, am I leaving it still too open?  Am I only leading him along even longer, in a sort of half-life of waiting?  Do I want to be his friend, ever, and if not am I being cruel?

But I think that we could, maybe, be friends.  I might like to be.  Just not now.  Not like this.

Not tragic.

Sometimes I think that it will never happen, that through choices or chance I will never meet any of the people who could share with me the things I want to share.  Or I will meet these people after they have met someone else they can share them with.  (I don't believe in The One, singular.  I believe there are many different lives we can take, different ways to share ourselves, and no one person is the only way.)

And I think, would it be tragic?  No.  It would not be tragic.  But it would be sad.

Not Anymore

Lying in the bathtub at 12:30 in the morning, eyes closed against the dark.  I kept thinking, why aren't I crying?  I should be crying.  He deserves that much, at least.

...

I said, My feelings are changing.  I can't stay.  I said, I'm not your girlfriend.  Not anymore.

He crumpled.  Silent.  And when I didn't know what to do and said I should go, his hands flopped sadly up and down.  No.

He is good, and kind, and thoughtful, and curious.  He's like a heating pad for my heart; everything in me unclenches when I hold him.  And he cares about me so goddamn much. 

I remember lying with him and trying and discarding all my words to find something to say that wasn't love.  I couldn't say love, but care and want and like all fell so short, too quiet and timid to express the noise in my chest.  But that word, the word that isn't love, it's gone.  I don't not-love him anymore.

I said, I don't know why.  I said, I can't explain.

I said, It's over.  I'm leaving.

...

Except it's not over, not exactly, not yet, because he asked to see me tonight.  Because he was so tired last night.  Because it was so sudden. 

I said, I can come over tonight.  Let me know when you're home.

SUDDEN PANCAKES

A grocery store game: mentally replace "instant" with "sudden," in all packaging and ads.  It's as if the entire store begins to leap off the shelves, or it might, at any time.  Turn the wrong corner, and SUDDEN PANCAKES. 

Madison

I saw my mother in a bathroom mirror in Madison, Wisconsin.  The bar was called Mickey's Pub and it was filled with people I almost knew.  Madison was like that.  It was almost a place I'd been before, almost a place I'd seen out of the corner of my eye, filled with people who were not quite the people they seemed to be. 

It was the first time I'd seen the face to match the gray hairs that have been sneaking their way in with the black.  (I used to say, adamantly, brown, because I envied what I thought of as true black hair, but no one else has ever made that distinction.)  It was an old face, puffy and tired. 

And I knew that it would fade in a moment, a trick of bad sleep and worse lighting.  No one looks good in a bar bathroom.  But it haunts me, still, my mother's sad mouth in the mirror, like a bad fortune.  This is the face I will wear.  This is the woman I will become.

More Melodramatic

Back from Madison, feeling as ambiguous as ever.  Or rather, feeling unambiguously like I need out, but knowing that I will likely cave soon, and I will want to stay and this will happen again in another two weeks.  I have no reason to think that it will stop.  It has, in fact, been this way from the beginning.  I want, and then I don't, and I do and then I don't.  And I kept hoping that it would get better.  That the ambivalence would resolve itself. 

And in the meanwhile I am alone in a cold house and I don't know what to do with myself because I had thought I might be productive, I might go back to the radio essay about my mother because I have thoughts about it except I barely remember how to work it and the inspiration is gone and I tried to buy a book twice except it didn't work and now I'm trying to log on to Adobe, hoping that will solve the problem except that Adobe says my email address is already registered but when I ask for it to send me my password again, nothing happens.

I don't mind the cold, really.  But it makes it sound more melodramatic.

testbowl.max

I broke the mold we were using to test the thermoformer.  So we need a new one.  This is not the mold.  This is, in theory, what the finished product will look like.  This is a highly optimistic render.

This is another highly optimistic render of the second version.  I like this one better.

Also the scale said I weighed 194.6 pounds this morning.  I'm pretty sure that is also highly optimistic, but it was nice to see anyway.

They have dim sum in Madison.  I don't want to push too hard to go, since this is an us weekend, and not a me weekend, but it's worth casually mentioning, you know, there's dim sum in Madison...

Things I want to write about later

Social anxiety, pot lucks, and Katie Perry.

Cultural differences between swing dancers and ballroom dancers.

That wrong feeling, still.

196

I have a tooth.  I HAVE A TOOTH.

197.8

Good to know :)

Bad dreams

In the dream, I screw up. No one told me. I was sick that day. It wasn't my fault.

But no one listens. And someone is disappointed in me.

It always goes like this. The events change, as do the people. But the disappointment is always the same. I always wake up crying.

198 pounds

I spent all of Monday evening worrying that I might lose him.  I spent all of Tuesday waiting to see him.  And it was good.  The talking and the cuddling and the touching and the sex.  And then it comes back.  The feeling of wrongness, settling in like fog.

It is a vague and unsettling feeling.  It resists definition.  I try to poke at it, understand it, but there is nothing there.  I don't know what I mean by wrong.  I don't know why.  And so I ignore it, or try to.  I label it Future Problem, the kind that is Not To Be Borrowed. 

Instead I tell him I need more me time.  I probably don't say it well.  He worries.  Is he being too clingy?  Is there something wrong?  What do I mean and why?  And as much as I like that his response is so much like what mine would be—I get it, I do—I worry that he has too much at stake.  But I don't say so.  Not yet.  We made definite plans for Friday, and tentative plans for Thursday. 

scans I guess

I need a new start.

Iowa State Fair 2012

199.6

At 5:00 last night, I was worried that he might perhaps decide to google me again, or that he had already, and that would be a very unkind way to begin the conversation.  By 7:00, I was terrified that he had read this.  I was terrified that I had broken us.  Which is a very informative response.  Because, maybe, some of that was because I didn't want it to happen that way, and some of it because I wanted to be in control, but a significant part of my fear was fear of losing him.  So, apparently, I am afraid of losing him.  That is rather an important thing to know.

So my goal is to find a way back to my life, the one where I watch my weight and save money and play a lot of XBox and have a boyfriend and dance all the time and not worry so damn much.

With fire.

Un-drafted the previous post.  I had thoughts.  I may regret them, or at least un-think them, but I thought them once so they stay up.

I have since had other thoughts, thoughts like, wow I went quickly from "something isn't perfect" to "kill it with fire."  Thoughts like, maybe I should calm down, stop seeing Doom everywhere, and text him about my day like I want to.  Because I do want to.  Thoughts like, maybe he should be part of a decision making process.  

So, I am calming down.  I am reminding myself that all-or-nothing reasoning is a logical fallacy.  I am not freaking out.  I am going to continue to examine my feelings and ask for what I need, including space, and I am not going to turn away a good thing because I see Doom everywhere.

The other question.

I don't know.  I don't know.  I had a post full of questions and I re-set it to draft, because I am afraid to even ask the questions.  Which is partly because I don't like the questions, they are hard and make me sad, and partly because I never did answer the question about this space, and appropriate ways to use it.

I am sad, and I want him to make it better.  Because he does that.  I breathe him in and feel better.