Change is good- we like change. Cramming a bunch of changes into 14 days keeps us snazzy.
We finally found a new car. JB had the last new car, it seemed only fair that I get this one.
The car’s so clean– pristine was the word our mechanic used. I apologized to her in advance for the dirty shoes, the crumbs, and the spilled drinks.
Tomorrow Zach will leave this house a carefree youth, and come back an indoctrinated cog in The Machine. I don’t say this out loud, of course. At least not often, and hopefully always well out of earshot. And I mostly don’t think it will actually go down that way– with him.
The following week another first, another classroom, another child deposited into someone else’s influence when Elliot starts preschool.
My thoughts ping in color; my emotions a varied blend of tone and shade.
The slightly chagrined, admittedly self-absorbed pure joy at the thought of 6 hours of weekly freedom is louder than anything else. For tonight, at least.
It hurts me to consider that they might have a clue at how happy I am to get a few hours away. When they are teenagers they’ll know that I understand how cloying the absolute need of another person feels to the one trying to escape. The roles, they will reverse.
Future Me, she may remember–but won’t understand– why solitude seemed so shiny.
All that swirling of emotional color making it difficult for me to pin down words long enough to make sense of them. Maybe tomorrow.
A few weeks ago I chattered with my friend Kia over dinner. I’m glad I dragged myself out that night, because that conversation made me think.
My inner voice is being rather snotty about how I need a personality makeover. And that is nothing on what she thinks of my wardrobe….
…oh, shit. Five days a week, I’m going to have to be dressed and in a car by 8:40 am.
Inner voice wants me to pierce my nose (maybe) and cover up the horrible tattoo (definitely). She wants me to cut my damn hair. She wants me to buy a real bra. She wants me to stop talking about it and go get that shit done.
She’s a demanding bitch even while her points are valid. To that end, my upcoming freedom comes with a responsibility.
While the mother in me might look back with regret at the passing time; the woman will not.
I have big, bedazzled plans revolving around three newly registered domain names. Yet, for all that those plans do indeed glitter, not a single one involves breaking that pink, hand-crafted, DIY-hacked glass ceiling.
I don’t care about having Moves Like Jagger, but I’d dig having Words Like Zappa. And never, ever want to have anything I do resemble Nickelback. I also recognize the value in backing my words with actions so: