Making changes in my life has resulted in some of my own personal realizations. Maybe all of the exercise has cleared some cobwebbed section of my brain. Maybe more fruits and vegetables stimulate some sort of “get over it” personality trait that hides behind a wall of stored sugar. Either way, I feel like I just stepped through a NyQuil fog and I’m headed for a RedBull buzz.
In my late teens and early twenties, I was a helluva lot of fun. I did ridiculous things for no reason. I didn’t care what people thought of how I acted. I was still polite and cared about people, but I always had the attitude that if I wasn’t having fun, what was the point? I was the first one on a dance floor. I played basketball in any store that had the huge cage of kids bouncy balls. I did stand up comedy in a coffee house on a whim. I sang on an intercom in highway traffic that was at a standstill. (And I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.)
Years pass and I find myself laid off, doing housework and suffering from terrible stomachaches. What happened to that girl? It seems like I had my son ten years ago and wore the “mom” label like chain mail. And with the title of “wife” added and another child, a coat of armor was added. So, when my health started to cause some concern, I decided I had to shed it all and start over.
Through writing, I’m starting to find my voice again. The problem is, it’s a slow process and while I was finding my voice, I wasn’t really finding me. Lying in bed last night, I realized, with the changes I’ve been making, I’ve been finding myself happier, even without a job. Laughing more, joking more, and more smartass remarks like the old me.
The person I used to be is starting to come back, slowly but surely. I think I saw her the other night when she stole the remote from her husband and ran. Maybe I’ll have to find him, too, he didn’t chase me down to get it back.