 So I jumped off the cliff, and I didn’t fall on my ass. In fact, I landed pretty damn softly on my feet.
See, it was one year ago this week that I walked out of the corporate world and into the ranks of the self-employed. One whole year of no one telling me where to be or what to do. One full, blissful year of crafting a career on my own terms. Best. Decision. Ever. I hope I never have to get a real job again. You can read about my journey here and here. To sum up, I had been freelancing on the side for the prior six months, during which time I worked hard to lay the groundwork for a successful leap from a steady paycheck to sporadic income. I had created an LLC, launched this website, and built a referral network and nominal book of business to get my own little entrepreneurial ball rolling. When I quit my full-time gig, my economic scenario was not optimal to start a business. But it was decent, and I found myself at the crossroads of Piss Avenue and Get Off The Pot Drive. I had gotten too busy to do two jobs well, so I closed my eyes, crossed my fingers and threw myself off the ledge. I am SO grateful that I didn’t go “splat.”
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 To me, folks who love winter are like morning people: curious alien creatures who compel me to commit reprehensible acts of mayhem. I just do not get you freaks at all.
I am a true babe of summer. Going to the beach isn't just an ideal vacation, it's the ONLY vacation. I love to lie by the pool, go for short runs through my neighborhood and work in my yard. I desperately miss all of those activities in fall and winter, and count the weeks until I can do them again. (FYI, there are 110 days until the pools open. Just sayin’.) As most people in this area of the country will attest, this winter has been especially brutal. I realize that the calendar shows we technically have six more weeks of winter regardless of what Punxsutawney Phil had to say this weekend, but Louisville’s temps usually warm up long before the spring equinox in March. I am not optimistic about an early warmup this year, and it really pisses me off.  I was raised in a branch of Christianity that, in my perception, was very foreboding. In it, God and the church were bullies who regularly threatened to take my lunch money if I didn’t do what they said.
I was a good girl as a kid mainly because I was terrified to be bad. I was taught that, if I lied, cheated, stole, sassed my mom or coveted money and fame, I would burn in hell while a menacing red devil fanned the flames on my ass. And don’t get me started on the crushing guilt that came with any minor bad acts. Oy. From as far back as I can remember, my family went to church every Sunday and participated in all its extracurricular activities. I was in youth group, went to church camp in the summer and attended a private Christian school from first through sixth grade. I believed in every word of the Bible and did not question any of its more preposterous notions. I remember actually being concerned about the second coming and some of the scarier shit written in the Book of Revelation.  Saturday night, I heard the most amazing version of “Sympathy for the Devil” ever, but not because it was an award-winning piece of artistic gold. I mean, it sounded pretty damn good and all, but it wasn’t the song itself that killed me so much as who was playing it and why.
Watching a certain group of guys rockin’ out on stage together for the first time in 20-plus years transported me to the back entrances of the Red Barn and Tewligans circa 1989. I vividly remember hauling guitar cases and random pieces of drum kit as the invested groupie in a few up-and-coming bands in the Louisville music scene during the late ’80s and early ’90s. Those were some of very best of times of my young adult life, without a doubt. It would be accurate to say that the pangs of nostalgia on Saturday night were palpable.  On my journey down the long and winding trail of self-discovery during the past five years, I’ve often heard the maxim, “You are only as a sick as your secrets.”
The sentiment behind such an exceptionally wise statement is this: if you’re living a life of deception on any level, you can’t possibly be a spiritually and emotionally healthy human being. And in my experience, unhealthy means real fucking unhappy, too. Fortunately, on my path to becoming a better person, I have been afforded many opportunities to unburden myself of all the major secrets that have kept me sick, through sharing them with my higher power (the ol’ HP) and others I trust who are on a similar journey. And what a gift that has been! I’ve tried very hard to live a good and honest life since my spiritual awakening, but I know I can always get better and be better. On that note, this week I’m joining a group of women who also want to be better in a study group of sorts. We’ll be reading, writing and sharing about a different core principle each week for the next 12 weeks. This week, the principle we’re discussing is honesty, so I’m spending some time delving a little deeper into what it means in my life today.  She’s gone. Outta here. Bounced. Left the building.
My girl, Rebecca, one of the closest friends I’ve ever had in my lifetime, packed up this weekend and moved eight hours away. Oh, and the bitch had the nerve to go NORTH. I mean, if she was going to leave me, the least she could’ve done is put down roots somewhere warm. Shit. I’m kidding. Mostly. Of course, I realize Rebecca did not leave ME. I am not nearly that egotistical or selfish. And I also know that her move to Madison, Wis., is going to be tremendous for her. She’s starting a kickass job and pursuing a romantic relationship with a stellar dude. The logical, gracious side of me is genuinely happy for her. But on a visceral, emotional level, I had to fight the intense urge to grab onto her ankles like a cranky toddler and MAKE. HER. STAY. |
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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