I may seem like I always know exactly how I feel or what I think. Or that I am really well acquainted with the path I am supposed to be on. But the truth is, I ain’t. Like many, I am constantly conflicted.
Perhaps this is an occupational hazard – maybe it’s a you know, writer-thang. I suppose it’s feasible, we deal in imagination and make believe a lot so I guess it’s easy to get confused about what I want to be when I grow up. Of course, there is that proviso that I have to grow up. And maybe that is where the conflict arises – I don’t want to grow up.
Mom used to tell me when I was a little kid that I was born 40. I didn’t really understand what it meant, but I did know it was kind of an insult. Perhaps I wasn’t chipper enough as a child, or because I preferred to sit in the apple tree and read rather than play with dolls that made me a non-user-friendly kid. Who knows? But my point is, I’ve already been an adult. I was an adult when I was a kid – so now I want to be a kid. Never mind the fact that each day I am greeted with some new ache, pain or bizarre loss of flexibility. Never mind that Miss Clairol isn’t covering those little ‘ultra blonde’ hairs as well as it used to. Never mind that my ass isn’t defying gravity with the same gusto of days past. I still want to be a kid.
I want to tell bad jokes, laugh at my stupid behavior and be unabashedly honest no matter who it makes uncomfortable.
All fine and well you might say, ‘be a kid.’ There’s only one hitch…I know that I really, truly can’t. I know that bills have to paid, laundry has to be done, savings have to saved, teeth have to be cleaned and all the other many things that go with being a responsible adult.
I have always chosen the responsible path. I wanted to stay home and write and live on mac and cheese and be a bohemian. But did I? Nope, I got a job, paid my bills and acted responsibly. I wanted to read and paint and dance. But instead I took the car in for a tune up, paid more bills, worked a 40 hour a week job and punched in and out. Always too exhausted to do a damn thing by the time I got home.
All the great, fresh ideas and plans that rumbled through my head during the day while I was ‘working’ magically disappeared during the drive home. Was it because as soon as I arrived I had doggies that needed to be fed, mail that needed to be opened, dinner cooked, obligatory conversations with roomie? I dunno. All I know is that they vanish into thin air and don’t return until there isn’t a damn thing I can do about them.
And it’s not fair and I guess I could pout about it for the rest of my life. But I’ve already pouted about it for more years than I care to admit and it’s gotten me no closer to where I want to be. Let’s be honest, being a victim isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it sucks.
So, somehow thanks to this blog, and those who (I am so grateful) read it plus a little help from my fwends’ I am managing to pursue a tiny little piece of my dream in the most childish manner I can muster. I have been emboldened by having this blog. By having the happily unexpected response of regular readers. My writing has improved – my mental clarity has increased and I am so much more aware of life and people and all the many things that are happening around me.
I’m still conflicted and perhaps always will be. I was raised in a blue collar family and working hard for everything is a way of life. So, if I don’t feel like I’m working a part of me doesn’t feel like I deserve success. And I have to tell you, blogging isn’t work to me. It’s fun. It’s defying my age, my upbringing, my public persona and it’s totally freeing. Conflict be damned! I’m not sure I could ever stop blogging. I know I definitely don’t want to.
And so dear readers – though I may never best my conflict – and possibly never reach the totality of my dream – I thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me just the tiniest, shiniest part of it.