It’s hard to pinpoint that exact moment that I stopped recognizing myself. Was it when I foolishly granted someone that full-access, meet-and-greet pass to my soul? Surely, I wouldn’t have done that. Not in a million years. I never give anyone that much power over me. What a foolish thing to do, and I’m not a silly girl.
Or perhaps was it because someone was just that smart that he just figured everything out? No, that’s definitely not it. I’m not saying he’s an idiot, but, well, I mean, if the shoe fits, right? I jest. Of course I do. Have you met me?
Anyway, I believe this whole situation occurred by accident or perhaps a combination of the two. Maybe I gave a bit too much information—by some fluke, some stroke of luck, some divine accident—he managed to figure out more than a few things. Either way—however it happened—it happened, and now I’m stuck with part of me desperately trying to collect the rest—wherever it may be.
This entire situation really pisses me off because I’m not usually one to have regrets in my life. Maybe a few minor ones like that sports team tattoo I got covered up years ago or that whole second-marriage thing, but, generally, I embrace my bad choices because they make me who I am today and, largely, I like who I am today.
Not lately though. Not much at all, in fact. I’ve been making some decisions that I would advise others against. Vehemently.
It is, indeed, challenging to traverse down a road that begins like the yellow brick one leading you to a wonderful emerald green Oz future where evil witches melt, ponies change the colors of the rainbow, everyone is singing, and awesome beauty parlors keep everyone fresh and pretty but somehow morphs into a pothole-ridden, tortuous and torturous, barren landscaped byway where you have to change a flat tire every five minutes. Without a jack. How’s that for a metaphor?
And to make matters worse, there was no signage warning of the impending shit yet to come so you’re just completely blindsided. Just a big ole sucker punch announcing, “Ready or not, I’m here, and there’s nothing you can do about it!” Gee, thanks.
So, where was I? Oh yeah, not recognizing—or truly even liking—myself anymore. Insert gasp here.
“But why?” everyone asks. “You’re so smart and pretty and funny and such a great writer and all that.”
Well, yes, all that’s true, but there’s a lot more to life. And happiness, apparently. But since I’m not a generally happy person, I’m not sure what that is.
And you know what? I don’t have to be happy. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, but where is it written that I have to be happy? Everyone tells me to accept others for who they are, but what about accepting me for who I am? Grumpy, grouchy, oftentimes angry, yet always charming. Well, sometimes charming. When I’m not in a “mood.” Which is kind of frequent. Okay, okay, very frequent. But only lately.
So, let’s look at this as part one—a preface, if you will—of a longer short story to be continued. Or not. We shall see.
“The first recipe for happiness is: avoid too lengthy meditation on the past.” ~ Andre Maurois