 I joke a lot about my propensity toward OCD. I freely admit that I am a hyper-organized control freak. Detailed. Particular. Meticulous. Ahem, anal retentive.
Let me go ahead and offer a disclaimer so none of my readership (all six of you) gets offended. I am aware that Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is a medically recognized condition that can be debilitating to its sufferers. I understand that it can, and often does, impede activities of daily living. The acronym is used flippantly (and usually inaccurately) to describe nutty people like me who write to-do lists just to cross crap off of them. But mental illness is no joke. I have several people in my life who have been ravaged by acute anxiety, bi-polar disorder, OCD, ADHD and various other brain synapse irregularities. In order to function normally, they require medication, counseling or behavior modification (sometimes all three). I have nothing but respect and empathy for them and their circumstances. Yes, I am very grateful that I am not afflicted with any of the aforementioned mental illnesses, but that is not going to stop me from lobbing the occasional self-deprecating grenade at some of my own extremist tendencies.
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 In less than 10 days, I’ll hit a milestone that officially will launch me into a brand new decade – my 40s. I will celebrate my 41st birthday on July 31.
Over 40. In my 40s. 40-something. Remember when we were kids, and that sounded so old? Yeesh. A lot has changed for me in the past year, and all of it has been good. And most of the changes have been deliberate, which is beyond cool. Last year’s 40th b-day was a big deal for me psychologically. Timing-wise, the second act of my marriage had just ended. The stress of that experience had literally sucked the life out of me, and I found myself at a crossroads. I’d been taking steps to improve my mental and spiritual well-being for a few years already – which is the ONLY reason I survived the end of the aforementioned relationship without medication -- but I had been neglecting my physical health for entirely too long. I’d also been limiting myself in other areas of my life, including my career. So on July 1st of 2012, I looked in the mirror and gave the sad, sallow 39-year-old in the reflection a stern lecture. I said, simply: “Girl, you have GOT to get your shit together.” And so I did.  Two damaged picture frames, a stuffed toy and novelty devil ears. A random assortment of useless crap? Maybe. God trying to tell me something? Definitely.
Bear with me for a minute. Coming up on five years ago now, I found myself just miserable enough to be willing to adopt a whole new prescription for living. With this prescription came a new arsenal of tools, which I continue to use in ongoing 12-step recovery work. These tools have made a tremendously positive impact on my emotional and spiritual well-being, and I don’t know how in the hell I lived without them for so long. To sum up … they make me happy. For realz.  Thank God my days of squeezing strangers’ boobs are over.
See, I’ve been making a concerted effort to socialize more this year, so I’m open to trying new things. Within reason. My most recent weekend excursion was boating in an area of the Ohio River affectionately known as “Party Cove.” I was a virgin to both boating on the river and the Party Cove bedlam. And boy, was it one delight after another. I mean that in the nicest possible way. Mostly. For the uninitiated, Party Cove is a summer hotspot for anyone who owns a boat and a beer cooler in the Louisville area. I’d heard of it, of course, but the idea of joining in the debauchery never really appealed to me before now.  As I was flipping through one of the trashy magazines I brought to the pool with me the other day, I came across the headline on a photo of Jennie Garth — you know, Kelly from 90210 — that referred to her as a “single parent.” My first reaction as I stared at this perfectly put-together celeb, smiling from ear to ear in her designer gown was, “Fuck her… she’s no single parent.”
Ahem, where did THAT come from? See, my only son, Ethan’s, father was a contributing parent for a sum total of five out of his 18 years. (In other words, not for long.) The rest of the time, he was MIA and the responsibility for raising our child fell solely in my lap. I’m not nailing myself up on a cross here, expecting a standing ovation or even a pat on the back, but it ticks me off to be grouped under the same moniker as someone who clearly has a hell of a lot more resources than I ever did. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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