 As I peered into my extra-strength magnifying makeup mirror this morning, I saw … my mother 25 years ago. Not just in the creases around my eyes, but the clothes, the attitude — all of it. I was beguiled and horrified at the same time.
Don’t get me wrong, my female parental unit is a classy, smart, sweet and loving woman. I would be lucky to inherit her grace, wisdom and patience. But every girl experiences a certain amount of shock and dismay when she realizes she has turned out exactly like her mother. It dawned on me during my sunrise epiphany that the reason my little momma (she’s 4’10”) frequently drives me bonkers is precisely because we are way too much alike. At 43, I hear myself doing and saying the very things she did and said at my age. Back then, I rolled my eyes or openly chastised her eccentricities. Today, they are my jam, man.
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 I am single and living alone.
I have friends who apologetically wince when they utter that statement, like it’s a source of shame. I own it, though. In fact, I practically squeal with joy when I share it, and pity the fool in earshot. Why? Because at 42 years old, this is the first time in my entire life that I’ve been completely, no-safety-net, bereft-of-responsibility-save-numero-uno, inde-fucking-pendent. It is damn liberating. See, I went from my parents’ house to the college dorm, then back to the parental units’ basement when I dropped out. At age 21, I met the man who would become my husband. We got an apartment together with two other roommates. When baby made three, the hubs and I moved to our own place.  The notion of not being enough is a menacing shadow that has cast a pall over most of my life.
When I was growing up, it went something like this: I am not smart enough. I am not pretty enough. I am not tall enough. I am not popular enough. My boobs are not big enough. My waist is not small enough. My hair is not shiny enough. No one will ever really love me because I am just not enough. In my early adult life, when I became a single mom, I was still plagued by many of the denunciations above, but add to that: I am not giving my son enough love, attention, discipline, material things, etc. And above all, I am not a good enough mom. Later, when a thundering moment of clarity demonstrated that I could no longer drink like a normal person, and my world summarily crashed around my ears, my inner voice screamed, “You are not strong enough!” All of this, as it turned out, was bullshit.  Well people, the sun has risen over a new year, and it’s casting an exceptionally bright beam on my little corner of the world.
I have to say that 2014 was really, really good to me. So good in the work department, in fact, that I haven’t had the time or inclination to blog much in recent months. What a propitious problem to have. Personally, life is damn dandy, too. First, my 19-year-old son moved out on his own in October. I’ve enjoyed watching him acclimate to his newfound independence, make some valuable mistakes and develop crucial life skills. I’m so proud of his tenacity and work ethic.  I just got back from seven, blissful days in Florida. It’s going to take me a minute to re-acclimate to autumn temperatures and, well, the real world. I predict it will be at least Thursday before I stop wandering out onto my porch in a tank top, expecting an ocean view instead of the dying hostas and caladium in my front yard.
Truth be told, I hope I’m still surprised that my Highlands bungalow isn’t, in fact, oceanfront property all the way into December. I want this beach high to last until spring because I hate, hate, HATE the cold. I feel like Louisville got gypped out of summer, what with all the cool snaps and dang rain, so this trip sort of helped me to reclaim the final fragments of a season that ended too soon in my hometown. And speaking of trips and vacations, the two are not mutually exclusive in my book. A vacation out of town is a time to reflect, rejuvenate, overeat without remorse, soak up your surroundings and basically sit on your ass. A trip, on the other hand, is an excursion with an agenda, guided tours, scheduled stops and a frenetic pace. You go on a trip to Rome; you vacation at the beach.  Billboards are a big deal in my life. And I’m not talking about ones you might pass along the interstate, like: “Honk if You Love Jesus, Text if You Want to Meet Him” or “Hot Naked Girls, Next Exit.”
My billboards are allegorical, but they always come to me as crystal clear signs from the universe. They basically demand I take certain actions, or not take them, as the case may be. For example, I was presented with a mile-high, neon billboard that told me without the slightest flicker of doubt that my marriage was over. I heeded the sign and never looked back. On some occasions (though just as impactful), a billboard appears as simply a quiet reminder that I am on the right path, or that I should be grateful for all my blessings. This week, I saw several of them in Technicolor. First, Mork returned to Orson. I am not normally affected by a celebrity’s death, but in the case of the brilliantly funny Robin Williams, my heart broke. It was a chilling reminder that if such a gentle, sweet soul could find himself in an emotional chasm so deep he couldn’t see a way out, it can happen to anyone. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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