 On this lovely Monday, I’m recovering from my annual trip to the mountains of Eastern Kentucky for the 28th annual Tacky Lawn Ornament & Pink Flamingo Soiree. I camped, hiked, laughed ‘til I cried, ran around in the pouring rain and got a total of about six hours of sleep in three days.
And I can’t stop smiling about it. The Soiree is a festival of sorts, except it’s not. In fact, it’s impossible to adequately explain its appeal to those who have never been to that area of Pine Mountain in Whitesburg, Ky., for this particular weekend event. It’s an invitation-only shindig, and admission is $25 and a tacky lawn ornament. Another $10 will get you the event’s T-shirt, which is quite possibly the best souvenir EVER. This year’s Soiree was unique for me for a couple of reasons. One, I made the trek without my usual camping buddy for the first time — my wingman, my BFF, Whitney. And two, this is the first year in which my one and only vice was caffeinated iced tea.
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 If you don’t know how to do something, find someone who does. Then ask that person for help.
This sounds ridiculously simple, I know, but it took me a lifetime to learn. Asking for help is uncomfortable for many — probably even most — grown folk. I used to believe that it was a very unattractive sign of weakness. I needed help, therefore I was needy. If I was not totally independent, then I was dependent, and that made me a lesser person. To truly earn the badge of adulthood, I had to know all the answers. Or some such bullshit. Thank God I came to my senses. I’ve been on a journey of self-discovery in recent years, and one of the key tenets of that journey has been learning humility. When I started my process of reinvention five years ago, it was pointed out to me that my self-concept had historically swung from one extreme to the other, sometimes on a daily basis. I was either up on my self-righteous high horse, better than everyone around me, or I was a piece of garbage hell bent on self-flagellation. There was no in between. (Turns out that the “in between” is where serenity lies.)  I wrote last week about my proclivity for organization and planning. But for some reason, the act of arranging activities to celebrate my July 31 birthday sucked the life out of me.
Usually, my birthday — and all that it implies — is the highlight of my year. I am a Leo after all, and it’s the only day when my overly inflated ego is justified, accepted and even expected. A whole day all about me? Well, hell yes. In fact, let’s make it a week! I’ve been kind of blah about the whole deal-io this year. First of all, 41 is not a milestone and doesn’t warrant any particular fanfare. Plus I don’t have anyone in my life who is obligated to fawn over me. I am single, and my son is (technically) grown. His priorities do not include making sure his momma feels properly feted on her birthday. The big day fell on Wednesday this year, so planning something suitably celebratory wasn’t feasible. I scheduled a relaxing facial with a lovely friend who recently enrolled in cosmetology school, and then she took me to lunch. I had cleared my work calendar and basically took the day off, which was a welcome luxury. If the weather had been nice, you can bet your sweet arse I would have been at the pool.  I joke a lot about my propensity toward OCD. I freely admit that I am a hyper-organized control freak. Detailed. Particular. Meticulous. Ahem, anal retentive.
Let me go ahead and offer a disclaimer so none of my readership (all six of you) gets offended. I am aware that Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is a medically recognized condition that can be debilitating to its sufferers. I understand that it can, and often does, impede activities of daily living. The acronym is used flippantly (and usually inaccurately) to describe nutty people like me who write to-do lists just to cross crap off of them. But mental illness is no joke. I have several people in my life who have been ravaged by acute anxiety, bi-polar disorder, OCD, ADHD and various other brain synapse irregularities. In order to function normally, they require medication, counseling or behavior modification (sometimes all three). I have nothing but respect and empathy for them and their circumstances. Yes, I am very grateful that I am not afflicted with any of the aforementioned mental illnesses, but that is not going to stop me from lobbing the occasional self-deprecating grenade at some of my own extremist tendencies.  In less than 10 days, I’ll hit a milestone that officially will launch me into a brand new decade – my 40s. I will celebrate my 41st birthday on July 31.
Over 40. In my 40s. 40-something. Remember when we were kids, and that sounded so old? Yeesh. A lot has changed for me in the past year, and all of it has been good. And most of the changes have been deliberate, which is beyond cool. Last year’s 40th b-day was a big deal for me psychologically. Timing-wise, the second act of my marriage had just ended. The stress of that experience had literally sucked the life out of me, and I found myself at a crossroads. I’d been taking steps to improve my mental and spiritual well-being for a few years already – which is the ONLY reason I survived the end of the aforementioned relationship without medication -- but I had been neglecting my physical health for entirely too long. I’d also been limiting myself in other areas of my life, including my career. So on July 1st of 2012, I looked in the mirror and gave the sad, sallow 39-year-old in the reflection a stern lecture. I said, simply: “Girl, you have GOT to get your shit together.” And so I did.  Two damaged picture frames, a stuffed toy and novelty devil ears. A random assortment of useless crap? Maybe. God trying to tell me something? Definitely.
Bear with me for a minute. Coming up on five years ago now, I found myself just miserable enough to be willing to adopt a whole new prescription for living. With this prescription came a new arsenal of tools, which I continue to use in ongoing 12-step recovery work. These tools have made a tremendously positive impact on my emotional and spiritual well-being, and I don’t know how in the hell I lived without them for so long. To sum up … they make me happy. For realz. |
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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