I Miss Being Young… For About Five Minutes

Every once in a while, I think it might be nice to be young again. Then I remember what being young was actually like.

For starters, I was broke. Not “I should probably watch my spending” broke. I mean counting change for gas broke. Living in a low income duplex broke. Choosing between shampoo and electricity broke. I didn’t have a 'savings' account. I had a 'hope' account.

Then there were the relationships. When you’re young, every relationship feels like the one. Every breakup feels like the end of the world. You spend hours dissecting conversations with friends like you’re working a cold case. 

“He said this...” 

“Yeah, but what do you think he meant by this?” 

Now? I wouldn’t give two rats’ ass what he said or what he meant. If a grown man wants to play games, he can buy a PlayStation. I don’t have the patience or energy.

Then there were the jobs. When you’re young, everybody tells you to 'follow your dreams'. Easy advice when you’re not the one living on ramen noodles and change you find in the couch cushions, wondering if your checking account will make it to the next payday that's still 7 days away. Back then I worked hard and worried about every bill in the mailbox. Lay awake at nights worrying! Today I still work hard, but at least I know the lights are staying on.

The truth is, I don’t really miss being young. I miss having a younger body. I miss reading a menu in a dimly lit restaurant without holding it at arm’s length. I miss eating whatever I wanted without my body filing a formal complaint the next morning. I miss shopping for and wearing a bikini!

But the rest of it? The uncertainty. The bad decisions. The drama. The lack of money. The terrible taste in men. No thank you! 

Every now and then I think it might be nice to be twenty-five again. Then I remember I was twenty-five once. And honestly, I’ll take sixty-one with money, wisdom, grandchildren, and a good husband over twenty-five, clueless and men that can't get their shit together...  any day of the week. 🤣

Not Everything Needs an Audience

Maybe I’m showing my age, but whatever happened to excusing yourself to fix a wedgie?

People used to slip into a restroom or at least wait until nobody was looking.

Now?

They’ll stop right in the middle of Walmart, Apparently that’s the perfect time to perform what looks like an emergency excavation and grab a handful of pants, and perform a full-scale recovery operation without the slightest bit of embarrassment.

The rest of us are left staring at a box of cereal, pretending we didn’t just witness it.

I don’t know when public wedgie removal became socially acceptable, but apparently I missed the meeting.

I’m Not Ignoring You, I’m Regulating Myself

​Leave Me Alone So I Can Lick My Wounds

I have to wonder… am I the only one who wants to be left alone when I don’t feel good?

I realized something about myself recently. I only really retreat and go lick my wounds for two reasons: when I’m physically sick  or when my feelings are genuinely hurt.

If I have a head cold, an earache, recovering from surgery or I’m just feeling awful, I don’t want company. I don’t want to talk. I want a blanket, some quiet, and to be left alone until I feel better.

And if my feelings are hurt? Same thing. I tend to pull back. I need time to process what happened, think it through, and let my emotions settle. I don’t usually need an audience or twenty people asking me what’s wrong. But for everything else? I write.

A lot.

People probably wonder why I’m always blogging, but honestly, this is how I work through my emotions. My blog is my therapy. It’s where I sort through my thoughts, vent my frustrations, celebrate my happy moments, and make sense of the world around me. I don’t retreat from life. I write through it.

Some people talk things out with friends. Some people bottle it up. I sit down at my computer and type. By the time I’ve written about something, I’ve usually figured out how I feel about it.

So yes, if I’m sick or my feelings are hurt, you’ll probably find me hiding out somewhere licking my wounds. But for everything else, you’ll probably find me writing another blog post.

And if you think I write a lot… now you know why.

Do Weird People Know They’re Weird?

One of the things I spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about is whether weird people know they’re weird. Not bad weird. Not dangerous weird. Just the kind of weird that makes you stop for a second and think, “Well, that’s certainly a choice.” Like wearing a tail and cat ears. Come on now… that’s weird.

The other day I saw a guy walking down the street wearing an outfit that looked like he got dressed during a power outage. Nothing matched. The hat made no sense unless he was someone’s little buddy on a stranded island during Pride month. His walk had a little extra drag to it. And yet he looked completely confident, like he owned the sidewalk.

It got me wondering. Does he know why people are looking at him? Or does he think he’s perfectly normal and the rest of us are the odd ones? Then I made the mistake of thinking about it too long. What if weird people don’t know they’re weird? More importantly, what if I’m weird and do know it?

I mean, I talk to myself. A lot. My husband is forever asking, “Who are you talking to?” And I answer with complete confidence, “Myself!” Sometimes I need expert advice.

Nobody has ever staged an intervention for me. I’ve managed to keep friends, jobs, relationships, and a reasonably good reputation. But maybe every weird person says the exact same thing.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized everybody has their thing. Some people wear strange hats. Some people collect things nobody understands. Some people sing to their pets or name their plants. I talk to myself. We all have our quirks.

Maybe normal is just a group of weird people agreeing not to point fingers at each other. And maybe being a little weird isn’t something to hide. It’s part of what makes us interesting. The world would be pretty boring if everyone acted exactly the same.

So I’ve decided it’s okay to be weird. Wear the odd hat. Talk to yourself. Collect strange things. Dance in your kitchen. As long as you’re happy, not hurting anybody, and not asking me to wear cat ears, I think we’re all going to be just fine.