 There’s a relatively new aphorism circulating the interwebs lately that has gotten my attention. It says, simply, “Stop the glorification of busy.” After doing some cursory research, I gleaned that it was lifted from the headline of a blog written in reaction to a book published earlier this year by Arianna Huffington.
Frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass where it came from, I only care that it perfectly captures my philosophy about work. Reflecting on the current state of my career is especially apropos because this week marks the second anniversary of my decision to start my own freelance writing and media consulting business. I didn’t quit my full-time job until about six months later, but that pivotal decision in September 2012 is the one that really set the wheels in motion for the career I have today. There were a lot of reasons I decided to venture out on my own — the potential to make more money, the freedom to choose who I work with and when, not being beholden to any one person or entity ... aka The Man — but the main reason was I wanted have a good life, not just a good job. See, I have always, always worked to live and not the other way around. Today, I love what I do, but it’s just work. I do it so that I can maintain a home and a lifestyle that make me happy. The work itself is not the source of my happiness. Never has been.
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 On Saturday afternoon, one of my dogs caught and killed a baby bird. I still can’t get the scene of carnage out of my head.
See, both my pups love to hang out on my covered porch with me. (I installed a baby gate to safely confine them.) I read and drink my coffee, while they observe the traffic, our neighbors and the constant procession of squirrels that fearlessly launch themselves from dogwood to crepe myrtle across my postage stamp front yard. Most of the time, Sam and Charlie just lay side-by-side in front of the gate, letting loose the occasional growl or muted “boof.” Pedestrians, cyclists, the white cat across the street and our long-suffering mailman get a full-on cacophony of threatening barks, but it’s just noise. If anyone actually approached the porch, my fluff balls would cower under my chair. Little wimps.  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.  “Welcome to Whitesburg. Home of 1,534 friendly people and 2 grouches.”
That’s the sign that greeted my best friend, Whitney, and I as we drove into town for brunch this past Saturday while on our annual camping trip in Eastern Kentucky. For me, it perfectly and succinctly captures the charm of small town America. Whit and I have been going to the Pine Mountain Tacky Lawn Ornament and Pink Flamingo Soiree for the better part of 10 years, but this was the weird little festival’s 29th event. (Actually, the T-shirts say 29rd, but that’s a whole other story; one of many inside jokes.) The Soiree, always on the weekend closest to the full moon in August, is nearly indescribable, but I did my best to give a loyalist’s overview last year. You can read that post here. This year, I was glad to have my wingman and travel companion back, and we stayed for three nights instead of two. It was not the worst trip I’ve ever taken to the mountains (there is no worst, actually), but it could’ve been better.  I’ve lived in Louisville all my life. I don’t count the two years I spent in undergraduate school at the University of Kentucky because I came home every weekend. I’ve traveled a bit, but Looavull has always been my base.
When I was a kid, I would often complain about my hometown, whining that there was nothing to do here (and then I went to school in Lexington, oy). Oh, how I could not wait to get the hell out. Sadly, I wasn’t quite ambitious enough to make that happen in my early 20s, and by 22, I was pregnant. There was no question about where I would raise my child — amongst family, friends and familiar surroundings. I was stuck, er, committed to a life here. And thank God. Today, I love this ol’ city, schizophrenic weather and all. There is a small chance, now that my son is grown, I’ll move to Florida or Hawaii someday — I wrote last week about my near-obsessive affection for the beach. The ocean is the only thing Loueyville is missing, in my humble estimation. (Update: flights are booked, and my October trip is officially on!)  I think, quite possibly — maybe even very likely — I will have the opportunity to go to Florida for one whole week in October. WHEEEEEE!
This is a big deal because it will be my first real vacation since I started my business in September 2012. It will also be the first time I’ve visited a beach since — gasp! — 2009. Oh sweet Lord, has it really been that long? How did I let this happen? See, if I lived in a different era (and a different state), I would have totally been a beach bunny. I love, love LOVE the ocean. The sand, the sounds, the smell, the salt water … it is truly my own little slice of heaven. It doesn’t even matter which ocean, or which beach. I’ve been to Gulf Shores and Orange Beach in Alabama; Destin, Fort Walton Beach and Panama City in Florida; Baker and Stinson beaches in Northern California; and several breathtaking stretches of sand and surf on the island of Maui. I adored each one, but I’m not gonna lie — Maui far outpaced all the others. I will go back there someday, mark my words. My upcoming trip will be to Bonita Beach, near Fort Myers, Fla., and I can’t wait to perch my ass in the sand there for the first time. |
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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