Have you ever seen yourself from outside the fishbowl? Let me offer an example…
After fending off Bags (cat #2) dragging the barrettes out of my hair with his teeth, and listening to Raja (cat #1) screaming for his breakfast from the hallway, I reluctantly fumbled out of bed and was startled by the sight of myself in the living room mirror. Perhaps it was the combination of bed-head and Bags’ styling prowess, but my hair rivaled the Amy Winehouse coif.
After that rather brisk awakening, I made it to the kitchen to feed the little bastards and start my water kettle when I saw them, lined up like wallflowers at a frat party: champagne bottles. FOUR. OF. THEM. I was overcome with simultaneous feelings of mortification and confusion until the reassuring a-ha moment that I’d only consumed one-and-a-half of the four the prior evening. Some a-ha moments don’t really make things any better.
With cats fed and quiet, English Breakfast in hand, I sat down to write. I’ve done such a great deal of work on myself the past six years––real work, productive work, hard truths kind of work. So, why am I drinking champagne like regulars drink Sprite? I’m not really one to drink away pain (though it has happened), or to hide from stressful situations (hmm, that’s happened before, as well… I’m sensing a trend); what I came up with was this: I’m drinking to feel happy. How screwed up is that? Who drinks to feel happy?! Apparently, I.
I don’t feel much of anything these days, and that’s a problem. That’s a big wall protecting a lot of fear. The goal for today is to sit outside in the gorgeous fall Chicago air and make some lists: what’s working, what’s not, where I want to be or not be any longer, what I’m afraid of, etc., so that I can start taking down these bricks to get a clearer look from outside of the fishbowl. First, though, I need to brush my hair. Wow.