where wildly different is perfectly normal
Reimagining Chaos
Reimagining Chaos

Reimagining Chaos

So. I’m back. Miss me?

Has anything happened since the beginning of November? Is the world still spinning? Anything different?

I am. Different, I mean. Kinda. Sorta. More or less. I’m not the same person I was back then. Pfft, I’m not the same person I was at breakfast, because I just finished eating a couple of chocolate dipped macaroons I bought at a bake sale and frankly, my mind is blown and I’m really happy they’re gone because I would have eaten them until I passed out.

But yeah, I have changed. Have I met my goal of finding my truth, finding my voice, finding my funny? Ehhhhhh…yes and no. And that’s ok, life is in the journey not the destination blahblahblah, and I’m gradually making my peace with that. I’m stronger in my truth, more confident in my voice, and tickling my funny in the spot that only I know, until it pees itself from laughing. Get your mind out of the gutter, not there. Or maybe it is, I don’t kiss and tell.

Change is hard, especially when what you do affects others. But if there’s something I’ve learned, it’s that it is much more painful to remain the same when you are straining against your bindings, desperate to grow. Apologizing for that growth is ridiculous and I have enough absurdity in other parts of my life. We’re not the same people our entire lives, not even remotely. That was all over the news recently. Timely.

In short, I have become a midlife woman with just no fucks left to give.

If there are frozen cookie disks in the freezer awaiting the oven, I will eat one as I am baking, salmonella be damned. Washing it down with red wine kills the germs and I’ll be fine, right? I draw the line at eating off the floor; god only knows what was dragged in on the dog’s paws.

Our spring band concert last May had an unusual dress code requirement. Instead of the standard concert black, we were instructed to wear “spring attire.” I wore a strapless Hawaiian dress that could more accurately be described as a delightful purple muumuu…braless. With a light cardigan it was perfect. I have never in my life been so comfortable playing a concert. Just needed to be very careful when standing, because if I caught the hem with my shoe I would have flashed the audience and that concert was long past Mardi Gras, thankyouverymuch.

Gaze upon my garden! I have planted no fucks, for I have none left to give. Please do not share yours, I do not accept unsolicited fucks from others. Plus I’m tired. If I’m growing something, I want to care about it. And there is so much I just don’t care about anymore. The list includes, but is not limited to: fashion, 95% of the crap shared on social media, bad wine, others’ opinions. Others’ feelings will be given a sunny spot in my fucks garden, because I’m not going to intentionally hurt anyone’s feelings; opinions go straight into the compost pile.

Offended by my language here? Hm. Right. Sorry-not-sorry. Probably not going to change at this point in my life. If it’s any consolation I don’t swear as often as you might think in real life, and I have a rock solid filter while teaching. So please just clutch your pearls and move on. It’ll be ok, promise. There are lots of other websites and blogs that have incredible resources for gifted and twice-exceptional issues. Mine has resources plus humor, deeply honest poignancy….and a little fucking language. Consider yourself alerted. Bless.

I’m at the point of my life where I am reimagining the chaos. It’s always going to be there, it’s just shifting and taking different forms. I have no idea what those forms will be, I just know it won’t be the same chaos I’ve laughed at in the past. That chaos used to be potty training, wondering just what the absolute HELL was up with our oldest son, and trying to not lose myself in the stress of unyielding parenting (please go read that post, worth your time). But now? I have two teen sons whose stories are not mine to share…unless I get written permission, signed in triplicate, and notarized with the phlegm of a asthmatic centaur during a lunar eclipse in the last week of the old Aztec calendar. I’m an old married fart whose inner child is a 12 year old boy, and whose inner dude is a frat boy named Chad who is freaking out, wondering what the fuck happened. I’m moving into a new stage of life, one of evaporating storm clouds, of feeling and smelling and tasting the refreshed air after the tempest has passed, but still knowing that another could blow up with little warning.

Laughing at Chaos will always be where wildly different is perfectly normal. No matter your age or stage of life, that describes living as a gifted individual. But it’ll be less on parenting (unless I get that aforementioned approval…where can I rent a centaur?), and more offbeat observations on the world, giftedness, and the chaos that is a woman in midlife. I don’t need permission to write about myself…unless the centaur has other ideas, of course. They can be opinionated little pricks.

It’s time lift a glass to the world with one hand while flipping it off with the other. I’ll bring the wine, you bring the treats.


One comment

  1. Mia

    So glad to have you back. For what’s it worth, my inner dude is a geriatric, chain-smoking drag queen from Jersey. Old Jersey, before those reality shows stepping in and kicked out the mob.

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