 I am no fashionista, but I love clothes, shoes, purses, jewelry and all the accoutrements of being a girl. I probably have 50 pairs of shoes, 20 purses and enough clothes that I have to switch out my closets every season because I don’t have adequate space to display all of them at once. Thank God for plastic storage bins.
These days, I wear clothes that are both comfortable and complement my body. I like to look nice on occasion, but gone are the days of misery for the sake of fashion. If an article of clothing is too tight, itchy, bulky or constricting — or if I have to iron it — I won’t wear it. All but two of my business suits have been retired, and I only wear them at media events. Nice jeans and a cute top work for nearly any outing in the current manifestation of my life, work or otherwise.
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 As I sat down to write this on Sunday evening, I was really flippin’ ticked off.
I don’t make a statement like that very often these days. For one, I rarely feel that way. About anything. I am happy, content and serenely tolerant 99 percent of the time. OK, more like 90-ish. But that’s still a vast improvement over the me of five years ago. Two, anger feeds negativity and fear, neither of which I choose to invite into my life if I can possibly avoid them. See, it has been my experience that the root of my rage, ire, pissed-offed-ness … whatever… is always fear. Fear of the unknown, of failure, of being forced to relax my boundaries. And fear can be a paralyzing emotion. I’m annoyed because this coming week is going to be batshit crazy, and it didn’t have to be that way. Unfortunately, I am not master of the universe (or even MY little universe), so said craziness is beyond my control. I’ve accepted my powerlessness, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.  When I hand off my business card to both new and old contacts, they often compliment me on my company name, Write Is Might Louisville. It came from a button — the laminated kind with a safety pin you impale on a lapel — that I’ve had hanging on my bulletin board since I was in high school. (That's it in the photo.)
It bears that simple message, minus the word Louisville, in white type on a red background. It’s attributed to Walden Theatre, though I never quite understood why a group of thespians would use it as their tagline. I have no idea where I got the darn thing since I have never attended a show at Walden, but I’ve always loved the sentiment. Over the years, referring back to that succinct concept encouraged me to persevere in my writing career. For me, writing has always been a major source of my strength. It was the primary skill that allowed me to excel in school, from first grade all the way through graduate school.  At 11:20 a.m. on May 22, 1995, I gave birth to a 5 pound, 10 ounce baby boy named Ethan Blake Higgs. I was 22 years old. When the nurses put the tiny bundle in my arms, the first thing out of my mouth was, “What do I do now?”
Clueless does not even begin to cover it. This week, Ethan will turn 19, the same age his father was when I met him. Which means that, if he finds a girl as naive as I was and knocks her up, I could legitimately become a grandmother at any time. Holy shit. Pass the Tylenol.  I’ve written with fondness about my childhood several times in this space. I am so grateful for the wonderful life my parents provided for me and my younger brother growing up. It certainly wasn’t perfect, but there was far more good than bad.
I had a chance to celebrate both of my parents this weekend, with my Daddy’s birthday on Saturday and Mother’s Day on Sunday. They are divorced, but still friendly, and I have a close relationship with each of them. They have given me many gifts over the years, and continue to do so all the time. (Not just financial, although there were plenty of those, too. Being a single mom would have been MUCH tougher without their help in that department, l'm here to tell you.) Yep, Mother and Daddy have given me innumerable gifts of affection, support, understanding and wisdom, all of which I will never be able to pay back. I love 'em both to pieces, and this weekend’s festivities got me to thinking about what aspects of my own personality I’ve inherited from them.  I’m not a competitive gambler, but I am pretty big on ritual and tradition. One of my favorites is an annual Derby Day party I have attended for the past 12 or so years. It didn’t happen in 2013 because Carolyn, the hostess and bookie, had to work, but she revived it this year … much to the delight of her regulars.
There is never a shortage of things to do around Derby. On the day of the big race, I generally receive two or three other party invites, plus the occasional opportunity to go to the track. I turn them all down in favor of this one get-together. As far as I am concerned, it is THE thing to do on Derby. I met Carolyn in 1998, when I started working at Business First. She was my managing editor. It didn’t take too long for us to become good friends, and she extended the invitation to her Derby soiree. |
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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