Maybe I could trouble you for a minute. I wouldnt say thanksgiving was a trauma. Some of it is so lovely. Like when Georges pick won the dogs how! Nathan, the bloodhound. I was for Frida, the Frenchie. The problem came sometime on the drive home. I read a magazine called Click for women photographers. Suddenly my art was so amateur. So uninformed. I know nothing about aperture. Who am I anyways? We passed a billboard of Desmond Tutu. Gosh, I thought I would have done more by this point in my life. Im 42 and 3/4s for heavens sake. This is one thing Chad and I have in common. As a kid he thought he would either be JFK or MLK. I didnt have a person picked out but I was going to change the world. Driving home from Hilton head island on Friday evening that midlife crisis snuck up on me again. What am I going to be when I grow up? Photographer, artist, writer, special ed teacher, adoption advocate, a mom with 12 kids, Eating disorder advocate, blogger with a perfect tiny house, or big fat failure? Driving at dusk makes me moody and I catastrophize. I wanted to choose and just go full force. I blamed all my inadequacies on me. The closer to home we drove, I started to second guessI blaming myself. Hey! I should blame the passive aggressive secret conversationist guest that I encountered this holiday. The kind of person that nitpicks you about little things until you doubt your past, present and future. I thought I was too strong to be drug into the muddy gutter but Im not. I am fragile and sensitive and just plain old marteeish. The good news is, it only took me 24 hours to recuperate. And a new glue gun. Writing does make me feel better.
Posted on: Sun, 30 Nov 2014 01:32:06 +0000
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