With Skippy as my loyal companion
most nights, I’d be deep in thought with a pencil in my right hand scrawling a
Marketing Proposal or a short story for a creative writing class. Double
dipping mindlessly with my left.
It had been my style for years; the
way I wrote best. Always during the stillness of night while 60 other girls
slept. Usually cramming because I procrastinated more than a little.
As the earliest risers drifted in for
breakfast, I’d be putting the final touches on papers. Maggie, my best friend,
would sit for a moment, grab my spoon and dig into to her competition
completely grossing everyone out.
After graduation, Skippy and I
job-hopped for a few years trying to find the happiest fit. Settling on a
traveling sales job, Skippy held down the fort at the office, spoon resting by "his" side, while I flew from city to city selling my wares.
While I was away, “he” had plenty of
time to ponder my fascination with him. “It’s like she's obsessed.”, he’d
think. “She digs in mostly when she’s stressed saying my silky smoothness
calmed her.”
It was true, I was obsessed and I
loved “his” taste often licking my lips in delight! Anyone close by could hear
an audible, “Mmmmmmmmm!!!” from my office.
“He” gave me energy to keep up the
frantic pace required to write a million RFP’s (Request For Proposals), it
seemed. Typing on a word processor instead of writing by hand this time around.
Spoon still dangling from my mouth as my fingers crazily worked the keyboard.
Co-workers expressed the need to
know, “What’s with you and that jar?” I'd respond, “It’s how I think.
It’s a multi-sensory thing.” It was the only thing I could think of that sounded
halfway reasonable or intelligent.
I still think best this way and still
loyal to my one and only Skippy. Though I’d be remiss if I failed to admit I
cheated on him once. With Jif. But that was a long time ago and very
short-lived. It just wasn’t the same.
If you were a “Peeping Tom” today,
looking into my study, you’d see us both sitting at the desk right in front of
the computer. Spoon clenched in my left hand, overloaded with peanut butter, my
eyes gazing into space searching for my inspiration to write.
And in case of emergencies, there’s
always a backup jar in my pantry.
