I'm debating about how honest I'm going to be with this blog. I've really gotten into The Bloggess, and her sassy humor, and I think, I could do that. I've actually been compared to her, albeit by someone I consider a 10 on the sassy scale of 1 being "are you dead?" and 10 being, "get the fuck out, no, really, GET.THE.FUCK.OUT!"But then, there's that sweet side of me.
Really, there is a sweet side of me. The inside. (Awwww. See?)
But, I really don't like being all "these are life lessons" and shit. I'm really not the kind of person to want to connect my writing to greater works of art, by writers much more brilliant than myself like Rumi, or Coehlo, or, maybe, God. I just want to write, and write about the things that matter right now. And I've heard enough over the past couple of months to really tell you something, and have you agree with me. And that is, at 40, we just don't have our shit together. And if you think you do, and you like to read other people's Facebook posts and have a good chuckle at their lack of got-shit-togetherness, well, f-off. This isn't the place for you.
I will tell you this- I've finally at least gotten all my shit piled up in the same general area. That's a lot to claim, considering a few months ago I thought I was going to lose my mind. You know that feeling that you're living the wrong life, and that you need that chord that says "STOP THIS THING NOW!" so you can apologize to those around you as you try not to crush their toes as you go screaming to the doors to get out? Yeh. That was me.
And now I'm in this place that seems way too good to be true. I had to ask my sister on the phone tonight if I'd actually died, and people were just too nice to actually tell me this little tidbit of info. This seems like the place I'd go in between eternity and life's burdens. It's actually the perfect place to sit with a cigarette you really don't want to smoke in the first place but feel like you should, because you're finally alone on the patio with a bottle of wine and that's when ciggies are the best. But then, you realize, you now feel sick to your stomach and really REALLY don't want to be smoking, and it makes you wonder, who am I trying to be now anyway?
So that's really the question. At 40, are we still allowed to ask that question? Are we still allowed to be figuring things out, like what kind of glasses we really want to wear and what kind of food do we like to eat, or should that have been determined in our 20s? Because I'm pretty sure in my 20s I was asking the same questions, and then, I guess, just got distracted. For about 15 years.
But now I find myself a little disgusted with myself for not knowing that I am not, once and for all, even a casual once-in-a-few-months smoker, even when it seems like it would be the cool thing to do.
So, I've decided that I want to at least be honest if I'm going to keep up blogging. I'm going to use words like "fuck" and "shit," for sure, because I use them almost on a daily basis anyway. And I'm going to ask really tough questions, like, "what's this smell coming from the fishtank, and where is the fish, anyway?" (more on Moby some other time, but he's definately blogging material).
And if no one ends up reading it, then that's ok. And if people get offended, then I'd have to wonder how you made it all the way to this part of my blog in the first place if you are (or actually, how it is you even know me). And so it is. The new Intrepid Educator.
Boldly going where actually, quite a few women have gone before, and are still going, in order to express their actual honest opinions that divorce can be liberating, the world is a divine creation with endless things to catch your imagination, and smoking on your patio at night with a bottle of wine is way.way.way overrated.
