I used to like rebelling but I seem to have lost that too. Like a penny under a car. I want to crawl under there after it as it rolls out of reach. Not because of the money, but because it got away from me before I said it could. But that’s just not done. Being myself is just not done, but if I paid attention to that at all, I’d never do anything. So many options would be off the table. Showing up as me. Showing up in love. Showing up wearing a pink hippopotamus onesie. But I show up. Maybe fuzzy, maybe dripping in gold, maybe bitchy or sunburnt or smelling like dirt and lavender, but I show up. I haven’t lost that yet. And I won’t.
Fur coats and fascinators over sandwiches and board games, topless and dusty in the shade of land yachts while bicycles take naps, snorkeling fully clothed, or dancing in the midwestern rain after a summer wedding to the horror of the terribly civilized family standing by worrying. What will people say? What if I ruin my royal blue satin gown? What kind of example am I? Dancing to the beat of my own heart. Sober, while all my more civilized cousins are high, drunk or both, mostly underage, but humming along to a much more predictable song. Nothing to bring about such a gasp like me. “God bless her heart” like me. “God forbid” like me. “What in God’s name” like me. “God only knows” like me! Say a prayer for me Auntie. I’m sure she did. Maybe it worked. I found myself losing my way. Found myself straying from the flock. Lost my ability to give two shits or a single fuck, and one thing I’m not going to lose is a wink of sleep over it. I found myself.