OK, I lied. I do have something to say. Here we go.
My life has been defined by what I’m not and what I don’t like. When I was a kid, I didn’t like playing with dolls. I didn’t want to wear skirts or dresses. I didn’t dream about my wedding day, and I didn’t much care for anything outside of reading and some sports. As a kid, I wasn’t popular at all. I was smart, but I didn’t fit in. I didn’t look like other people, and I certainly didn’t think like them. I would rather climb trees than play jump rope. I would rather play with the boys than with the girls.
Ok. Skipping to religion. I didn’t believe in capital-G God, no matter how much I tried. I just couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that there was some guy up in the sky and that He actually gave a shit about, well, anything. In fact, I forgot to add in my week-long series that my current conclusion about god is that if he/she/it exists, he/she/it is very laissez-faire about matters on earth. I imagine he (let’s just say he for now) is off somewhere partying his ass off and not paying attention to all the shit happening on earth.
OK. I didn’t want to learn how to drive, and I didn’t want to go to college. During my childhood, my mom insisted that I take all sorts of lessons. I learned dancing (tap, ballet, jazz), the piano, the cello, and I played softball in the summers. I also learned tennis, ping-pong, and volleyball. However, I quit when I reached the fork in the road, and I had to decide whether to go forward or to dawdle.
For example. I started dancing at age two. I took lessons until I was fourteen. At that time, we started toe. I realized that I would have to put twice as much work into my dancing to become competent. I didn’t want to put in the effort, so I quit. It was the same with the cello. I started at age eight, and I made it to the second highest orchestra in GTCYS (Greater Twin Cities Youth Symphony) in my junior year in high school. In order to make it to the highest orchestra, I would have had to put in significantly more effort, sweat, and tears. I didn’t want to do that, so I quit.
I was slated to move to CA for college. I chickened out and stayed in MN. I took the first job out of college that I was offered so I didn’t have to go to any more interviews. I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture.
The older I get, the more I realize that I have to decide what it is I want to do with the rest of my life, and not just what I don’t want to do. If my life is going to mean anything, I have to give it meaning. I can’t just dick around and moan about how much I hate life. Well, I could, but I’ve already wasted twenty fucking years of my life doing that.
I have tried hard to wrap myself in marshmellow clouds so I won’t get hurt. Yeah, hiding away from the world might stop me from getting hurt, but it also stops me from living. I have lost so much of my life being cryogenetically frozen in place. I mourn the years I let slip away from me because of my fear, my pain, and my depression.
I know what I want from life at this point. I want to act. I want to be able to stand on my own two feet. I want my cats to live forever (yes, I know that’s a fantasy). I want to have hot, passionate, crazy sex. I want to be in lust. I want to think that I could be in a relationship some day. I want to get my shit published. I want to learn the whole damn form in taiji. I want to have mad, passionate sex with Alan Rickman, but I will settle for having a drink with him.
The thing is, I know intellectually, that many of these things are attainable. I just have to get my heart to feel it as well.