And I’m home and in the same jammies I put on when I got in from a few hours at work late this morning….yes, I worked six straight days. I got in from work around noon, tossed back a few Unisom gel tabs and drifted off to sleep for several hours. It was needed. It was appreciated.
Then I woke up in the dark. I sat there for a few minutes gathering my diphenhydramine addled faculties for a second, then felt the need to do something I haven’t felt like doing in weeks— I wanted to write something in my blog.
You see, my real job is taking a lot out of me. My hours are ridiculous and I’m enduring that crazy, disruptive shift disorder syndrome thing that you hear medical personel and Joe Lunchbox from ‘down at the plant’ endure daily. Sleep has always been lacking in my life…even as a kid. And these days, it’s non-existent. My schedule and a few other things that have reared their heads are making me question what I’m doing and where I’m doing it. Make no mistake– I’m grateful for the opportunity to work. God knows, I’ve prayed and made Faustian deals in order to find suitable employment. Gratitude is even more in order considering I’ve spent most of the first 11 years of this century out of work and seemingly out of options. But God and The Fates decided to work together. This recent venture in broadcasting fell in my lap. That said, I love the theory of what I do (read into that whatever you choose) but the reality is, my life has changed in many ways–ways I’ve chosen not to share or make public. And when you have options, the decisions that you have to make (or not make) aren’t so weighty. I wish this for the world. Having options.
And then deciding which works best for who you are in that particular stage of your life.
Earlier, I had the 2012 Miss America pageant on to serve as white noise. It’s down to the Top Ten’s talent portion and I questioned some of these ladies’ choices. Considering the talent aspect of what amounts to legal flesh peddling is 30-percent of the overall vote, it seemed some of these dames scrambled to think of something to do. Singing sure isn’t a forte. Modern dance wasn’t wise for one contestant. Miss Texas had the most talent. She played the piano with an almost animated speed. If she made any mistakes, the orchestral accompaniment drowned it out which might have been on purpose. If so, good call.
That beckons the question: is a mistake made worse only when others know you made it?
Which beckons an answer—yes.
If Miss Texas hit a B sharp when she have played a plain ol’ B as the orchestra was in the middle of a crescendo, but only she knew it, she could live with that. At least I think she could, that is, unless she’s this over-the-top anal-retentive control freak who becomes one with every chair in which she sits.
I used to be Teflon coated like this. I would even laugh at my mistakes and shrug them off and go on my merry way, but lately, I’m haunted by recurring memories. I keep thinking of the silly things I’ve done; the stupid caprices of youth and I am mortified by my actions some 34 years after the fact. And these memories flood my gray matter all the time–while standing in line at the check-out counter of Insert Store Name Here; as I drive, as I work; in the shower; in the middle of a meeting….as I balance my checkbook. These memories are for a lack of a better word, ‘toxic’ and they make me shudder.
I think back on the knee jerk choices I made. Who I found redeeming…and why. I reflect back on the stupid and at times, even cruel things I did and said going all the way back to those loathsome four years called High School.
What I’m trying to say is that aspects of my life keeps flashing in front of me.
Well, if I allow logic and rational thinking to enter the picture, this is probably one of two things at work here: I’m either dying…
This is simply part of my continuing effort to shed and let go. I have for years been this one big walking definition of static cling. I walked around carrying everything on me, in me. And then after a chance opportunity a few years ago snapped me into reality, I made a conscious decision to release all the things that had been weighing me down for years: the guilt of horrible choices (in men, mostly) and a few other areas in my life. Behaviors; some dating back to High School. I keep telling myself that I should let that go– I was 17-years old and naive, immature and traumatized, in a way, by certain things that were happening at home.
But these memories are the last hold outs of a part of my past of which I’m having the most difficulty in letting go. I know that in order to completely let go, one must own up to mistakes. Some of these mistakes I made are so heinous (at least in my thinking) that the old Laurie enters the picture and desperately wants to apply that convenient salve known as denial on all of them. I think that’s actually the problem—I’m all out of salve. These are the last things that keep me anchored to a sad past…a past that will only hold my future at bay if I DON’T let it go. And I have to raise the anchor. Pummel the obstacles. Own the actions and behaviors.
So, I’m letting go….Of petty things I did as a kid almost 35 years ago; as things I did as a childish adult, seven years ago. And as I let go, I’m forgiving myself. Deepak and Tony would be proud of me. They’re right about one thing: there’s immense power in forgiveness.
So, I’ll go from the Masters of that oh so important Masters of the Mind/Body Connection to Samantha Stevens. POOF!!!! Nose wriggled….wand waved…edict made. I am forgiven. Regrets are such a waste of time, but necessary in that they’re annoying little barbs that remind you: you must remedy your life where it’s needed.
When it’s needed.
By the way, Miss Texas didn’t make the Top Five. She has two choices in terms of ways to view this ‘develop0ment’: she made it all the way through the pageant system. She probably started out as Miss Hen House–crowned in some hot high school auditorium in some tiny North Texas burg. And then she packed her determination along with her Maybelline and decided to head for glory.
We all watched ‘glory’ unfold when her name was called to join nine other women in the top ten. A coup to be sure.
She can choose to be angry and bitter and hate the those who made it through. She can also direct the negative feelings inward and hate herself for not being as talented or as pretty.
Naaaaaah. Something tells me this woman will display her Top Ten certificate proudly. Of course she would have loved to have gone all the way; to have been crowned Miss America would have been a tremendous milestone. Perhaps then, making it to the Top Ten was merely a mind pebble. But an accomplishment nonetheless.
I don’t know Kendall Morris. I don’t her family or the support system might have helped to arrive at the Miss America pageant, but I have a feeling that she did most of the driving herself. Call it a hunch, but something tells me she has enough properly placed, well-honed self-awareness to go with that drop dead figure and face, to supply an employment office for two years.