 There is nothing under my Christmas tree this year.
That’s sounds melodramatic, doesn’t it? Yes, I’m verklempt, but it’s not because I’ve fallen on hard times or anything like that. I have a great life, a successful business, and I can afford to share a bit of my wealth. The problem is, there is nothing for me to buy for the first time in 20 years. See, the adults in my family suck at gift exchange. Christmas consists of me shoving gift certificates or cash in clever cards for my parents and brother. They almost always do the same for me. I don’t know if it’s because we’re lazy or not very creative, but we are collectively OK with that. There is no doubt we love each other, and we’re not concerned about expressing that love through material things. We show it in other ways throughout the year.
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 When I had trouble sending a PDF attachment via email to my insurance agent a couple weeks ago, she suggested I fax it to her.
“What the what?” I said. “Who does that anymore? And what dinosaur operation actually has a fax machine on which to fax, heretofore?” As it turns out, ahem, I do. When my rep suggested I fax her, my initial response was that I would have to go in search of a location to do so. Like Staples or the FedEx store. But as I glanced across my desk at my new-fangled printer display screen, I noticed for the first time in the nine months since I bought the damn thing that it has a gleaming “fax” icon, right next to “print” “scan” and “copy.” Color me embarrassed. All I had to do was plug my phone line in the back of it and, BAM. Fax me up, Scotty.  I am single and living alone.
I have friends who apologetically wince when they utter that statement, like it’s a source of shame. I own it, though. In fact, I practically squeal with joy when I share it, and pity the fool in earshot. Why? Because at 42 years old, this is the first time in my entire life that I’ve been completely, no-safety-net, bereft-of-responsibility-save-numero-uno, inde-fucking-pendent. It is damn liberating. See, I went from my parents’ house to the college dorm, then back to the parental units’ basement when I dropped out. At age 21, I met the man who would become my husband. We got an apartment together with two other roommates. When baby made three, the hubs and I moved to our own place.  Well people, the sun has risen over a new year, and it’s casting an exceptionally bright beam on my little corner of the world.
I have to say that 2014 was really, really good to me. So good in the work department, in fact, that I haven’t had the time or inclination to blog much in recent months. What a propitious problem to have. Personally, life is damn dandy, too. First, my 19-year-old son moved out on his own in October. I’ve enjoyed watching him acclimate to his newfound independence, make some valuable mistakes and develop crucial life skills. I’m so proud of his tenacity and work ethic.  My 19-year-old son moved out this weekend. Goodbye full fridge and cable TV, hello Ramen and rabbit ears.
I knew it was coming (I first wrote about his plans here), but I could not have adequately prepared myself to walk across the hall from my bedroom and survey the barren space he vacated for the first time. (Said sentimental surveying took place after I dusted and vacuumed, of course.) I won’t lie, I was more than a bit verklempt. I’m grateful the move was Ethan’s decision and not a result of an ultimatum by a fed-up mother. A year ago, it nearly came to that, when I grew frustrated with his lack of direction (and lack of employment). No, we parted on the very best of terms, and I was glad to help make his transition as comfortable as possible. After several months of looking, he decided to share a house with two roommates downtown near the University of Louisville. It ain’t the Highlands, but it’ll do for a bachelor pad. The crib, as his generation calls it, is populated with torn couches, mismatched dishes and the former tenants’ residual dirt. The few window coverings throughout the house are sheets, and neither bathroom has a shower curtain yet. Ethan is so happy he can’t stand it.  I’m really fortunate today to live a comfortable, middle-class existence. I’ve owned a cute, cozy, two-bedroom bungalow in the Highlands for 10 years.
I have an ancient car that runs OK but isn’t pretty to look at. But, if I need to replace it sometime soon, I could swing the added payments with very little hardship. My business has been steady and successful so far, and I cannot emphasize enough just how much I love being my own boss. Sure, I’ve got some debt, the house is always going to need some work, and I can’t afford to travel the world right this minute. Life ain’t perfect, but the intangibles of peace and serenity make up for any material things I might lack at the moment. Truly, I have everything I need and most everything I want. That wasn’t always the case. I’ve never lived in a cardboard box, but I definitely started at the bottom … in a crappy apartment with a minimum-wage job. When my son, Ethan, was small, we were even on food stamps for a couple of years. I wrote a bit about that time in our lives here. |
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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