I’m not so very sure what has happen over the course of the past couple of months…there a few fragments of memory that I have, and then there are so many of them that I have discharged as bad ideas, poor decisions, and perhaps cries for attention. Examples include:
“I followed you home, but you stalled your car about four times”
“You turned around in somebodies front yard”
“Will you please leave before the neighbors wake up”
Okay, so I make things up, this isn’t a mystery, but the cool thing is that I’ve got a talent to stretch things farther and thinner than a spider web across door frames. I don’t really do any of those things, nor do I actually admit to being a bit reckless sometimes. If anything, my current lifestyle has pounded the fact that I NEED to be responsible to be successful in life. There are a lot of things that I can fess up to, making bad decisions is one of them, but one thing that I will NOT fess up to is NOT learning from my mistakes.
Like that MMA fighter, like that buffet sushi, like that time that I decided to let the shady mechanic work on my Hyundai and made it start on fire. All of these things are stepping stones to a future of wisdom, of sage advice, of experiences….all of these things are, well, sort of not a badge of honor but a scar of pride.
I look around, I’m thirty, those that I grew up with in the quaint little town of Genoa City are all responsible (or so it seems) adults with kids, relationships, careers, and a future that seems bright. Through the wonders of social media I’m able to use my voyerism to see what I’m missing out on. I see one of the girls that I grew up with as my “cousin” with two kids, a spouse and all sorts of cool pictures of kid stuff to post. I see my best friend since second grade (although we hated each other in first grade) turn into an awesome chick that knows what she needs out of the world; more important are the things she doesn’t want compared to what the society things she should have. She’s a hero to me, the one that has kids is a hero to me, those that are living happily and well adjusted are heroes to me too.
I have all these heroes but ignore the fact that I can be my own hero. Of all the bad decisions that I’ve made, I have to take a moment are realize that those that I “hero-ize” had to make some mistakes and really tough decisions to get to where they are. The ones with kids, they had to convince themselves that it was a the “right time” to become a mother. To those that decided that “wife-hood” isn’t for them, it took a hell of a lot of courage to come to the conclusion that walking away is much better than living a life of a lie. I see these things, I respect these things.
I’m jealous of these things.
I was supposed to be happily married. It didn’t work out, doesn’t matter why, but the most disturbing part was the “kid” aspect. I was pregnant, I miscarried, violently, and my life was upside-down. Sure, you can look at it as a blessing in disguise, but at the time it was a nightmare. I didn’t talk for three days. I didn’t cry, I was confused.
I was engage to an amazing person that encouraged me to be the best person I could be. I evolved, I become awesome, and after that presence was gone I collapsed. I turned into a crying mess of blonde, eating and drinking in excess. There was no comfort, I wanted my red head back. I was devastated, I screwed things up again…that’s when I decided that the world was a scary, sick, depraved place.
Enter the red wax.
Makers Mark…..it has been in my life for, well, a decade now….and although I know that it’s the poison of the Kentucky hills, it has always been a crutch, a stabilizer, a go to for the nasty stuff going on in life.
Case in point my friend sick from Hepatitis leaned on Makers for some sort of comfort as he slept on a bale of hay in a barn (true story). The fact that those that get the weird satisfaction from ripping wax off of a next of a bottle….that moment that you have to decide to get 46 or the regular.
The fact that Makers Mark is one of those things that just sort of heal pain, and sits quietly in the corner waiting for you to ask it for an opinion.
The opinion, of course, is never going to be one of sound reason. The opinion is typically full of peppery comments and snarky remarks that will never EVER get you a husband, an child, or a job in some sort of big spectrum business empire. It will not get you a Bentley, it will not get you a slamming hot body, an it will certainly cause you to have to explain your emotions, reactions, actions more often than not. The curse of the red wax is on the hands of those that enjoy, but at the same time they infest the soul of those that obsess. Those that decide that the cure for the common life is the red wax poisoning are the ones that realize that companionship can come from a stuffed bee and YouTube. Those that realize that the red wax is poisonous to the health will realize that the gym, healthy eating and saving money is the key to happiness will prevail.
I’ll tell you this much, I still very much tote a stuffed bee around with me, his name is Zips, he’s the only “possession” that I have that I could not live without. I also have an odd tick of Anorexia that wants to surface and make me frown upon calories and embrace a life of constant exercise and movement. It’s a vicious cycle…and at this juncture the only real relief I get is from watching Roadkill and eating red bell peppers (it’s a long story)
Fact of the matter is this. I’m contemplating putting out a weekly via interwebs in which you can access via password only that will lead you into the “red wax diaries” a running dialouge of the, ahem, adventures of the little blonde girl getting to where she has to be in her life. Call it “The Great Red Shark Adventure Part Two”. Thing is, there isn’t a shark….instead of gas money, I’m asking for a writers wage. All of these adventures don’t come cheap….
Who’s coming with me….actually….I’d rather just do it for free and harvest the Karma that resides 😀