I am wound tight. At 5:20 AM I stare at the alarm clock; daring it to ring. It is set to go off at 5:23 AM. I am funny that way; needing an odd number with the illusion that I am getting an extra minute or two. Usually I like 3’s and 7’s. Twenty minutes later, dog leash in hand, I head out the door.
Walking up the incline of a steep trail, in the dark, I wonder why I am out here? There are no people who walk this early in the morning; the pre-dawn darkness inching its way a minute or so forward each morning. But I feel the urge to press on; my gut tight and not really knowing why. I kind of like the “scare factor” of being alone on a walking trail in the dark; my adrenaline kicking in to make me, and the dog, walk faster. It makes me wonder what my problem is. I know the dog will bark if anything moves within 100 feet of us. But still….
The darkness focuses my mind on the images running through it. I see my eldest as a baby, myself toting him around in a carseat. I flash forward to my middle son in a Cozy Coupe car; the one that the child needs to use his feet to move around in. I see it fall into our swimming pool and the hands grabbing him right out of it. A ferret wiggles around our very first home’s hallway; squeaking as he shuffles from one room to the next. I envision myself with the two girlfriends who have known me forever; sitting in my bedroom as I contemplated having a third. They are godparents to my children now and I’ll see one of them when I go camping next month. Between all those events my life plays like a vintage movie; the shots fading in and out on the black and white scene. I think I am in this mood after finishing the book, Gone Girl; a somewhat morbid look at how things appear and the many ways to deceive.
As I make my way home the sun is rising, and the dog tugs me, jutting into the grass trying to chase a bunny. As much as I wish life wouldn’t change I know it has to. Growth, aging, black, gray. As I get older time really does seem to go by faster. I realized, finally, that my mind is replaying the various transitions in my adult life to remind me of coping strategies to deal with change. I keep telling myself to be grateful for where I am as I gaze at the green hills surrounding me. It is 6:15 AM. I snap the picture of the dog (remember one of my modalities of learning is bodily-kinesthetic) to remember the thoughts in my head.
If you could reinvent yourself, what would you be?
As I placed one foot in front of another a jogger comes past and I automatically wave in greeting. She waves back and we recognize one another; a fellow mom from school. I find myself the keeper of secrets; I know way too much about the woman who jogs past. The next book I am going to read is, The Secret Keeper by Kate Morton. There are things that I really don’t want to know and I did not glean this information from gossip. The woman posts these things about herself on social media.
This is my issue with Facebook. Do I need to know where you are, what you’re eating and your personality trait? Not really. When I first started on Facebook I thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread and, I too, would do these things. I lived on Facebook and almost every hour I would refresh my page to see what everyone else was doing. Was there an earthquake? I felt it too!
But I’ve discovered the insiduous thing about it. You can make people think you are something that you are not. You constantly share, like and post and many of your friends see your life; the life YOU want them to see. The more comments there are; the more loved you feel. You are not a lone profile in cyberspace. You are needed. Then, you find your group of friends at a party that you were not invited to; giving props with their comments and inside jokes to one another. You are excluded and become the cyber stalker. If their friends are not on private, you go to their pages to see what they’re posting. Hours can be spent doing this. And what outcome does this arrive to? You still feel excluded. And isolated as you stare at a bright computer screen.
I leave work to go to a hair appointment; arranged by my mother-in-law as she returns from her cut, perm and style. As I sit still in a salon chair, my layers dropping to the ground; the tightness in my gut is loosening, my head lighter. My hair is transformed by my normal blahness to something dressy and fun. I can never get my hair to look like this with my own hair dryer and 1 inch barrel curling iron. When I return to work I laugh as each son notices the difference. The middle one just stares at me, trying to figure out what’s different. The baby vocalizes the sentiment, What did you do to your hair Mom? The eldest asks if I’m wearing a wig and is tugging at my strands, just to be sure. And Dave, bless him, says to him, “Your mom doesn’t normally take the time but once a year to get a haircut. I like it!”
I didn’t realize I was going to rant about Facebook. Most times when I sit and blog I have a picture in my mind/phone/camera about what I is on my mind. On blogs I have no idea who reads it. You don’t have to comment or make yourself known. Most people are anonymous and you can choose to read it. If you don’t like what I have to say, don’t read it. It’s an easier venue for me because, of all things, I am much more communicative as a writer. My husband checks what I’m posting to gauge my mood. Sadly, it’s hard for me to vocalize a lot of things to him. I get easily distracted with, Mom! I need this…Mom! what are we going to eat or MOM! He’s BUGGING ME. He did this and so I accidently hit him…. I know my bff checks in and she is the person I am usually narrating to since she has tried to keep up with me on email, phone and Facebook. She knows I’m terrible at keeping up. She is always on time with birthdays and events and my calendar is a blur; the scatterbrained me. Thankfully, she loves me anyway?
There are things I love about Facebook too; namely to be able to keep in touch with family and friends across the globe. I love to share pictures and albums; an Instagram fan. But when I saw the mom jog past me, this morning, I think I snapped. I keep confidences. And it galls me to see people post trivial things about others, as well as themselves, on a social media network. (Note: I will check Facebook IF I am emailed with a message; otherwise, you won’t find me on there). I am about to explode with some of the recent things dear friends have shared with me. Some are painful, others I’m bursting at the seams! I want to cry, I want to leap for joy! I’m schizo, I tell you. My husband bears the brunt of this burden each night. I yak and yak and yak and he nods his head or grunts. When he tries to fix something I shush him. I just want you to validate me, I say. I can physcially see the internal groan. This, drives my husband crazy; his eyes glazed over as he is mentally checking out. I know he is thankful that blogging now takes that burden off of him BIG LOL.
Minus my picture of the dog this morning (not for blogging benefit) I have NO photos in my head. Time to get the visuals to attach. I have two more work hours to go. I am musing, in third person; emptying my mind.
If I had to reinvent myself, what would I be?