 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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 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.  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.  There was a time not too long ago when I took pride in my amateur detective skills. I was always sticking my nose where it didn’t belong, and I usually came away with some dirt. I was a modern version of Gladys Kravitz from “Bewitched.”
Yes, I was that annoying guest who spent a little extra time in your bathroom, opening cabinets and drawers, trying to find some evidence (of what, I have no idea) lurking under your sink. And God forbid you left me alone in your house for any length of time. In my world, every nook and cranny were fair game. So, yeah. I was an entitled asshole. I mean, srsly. I don’t know why exactly I possessed such a nosy nature. I wasn’t trying to learn your seedy secrets so I could expose your dark side. My motivation was never malevolent.  Here’s the thing with me and dating: I don’t want to put forth the effort required to make it happen.
I am fine – happy, even – as a single gal. Sure, it would be nice to have some male companionship from time to time, but I don’t have any burning desire to seek it out. If it happens organically, that’s dandy. If it doesn’t, well then I have plenty of other stuff to keep me busy and fulfilled. (Get your mind out of the gutter! Oh wait, that was me. Ahem.) Several of my friends have encouraged me to join the online dating services Match.com, PlentyofFish.com or eHarmony.com. But that involves work. I don’t have the time or energy to determine the fucktard quotient of the guys who contact me, or vet hundreds of profiles to figure out whose pictures are from 15 years and 50 pounds ago. Plus, I know from past experience that you cannot judge chemistry potential until you meet in person. But sit me at a table and ask me to chat with a captive audience of 12 guys, all close to my age, each for only six minutes, then note on a sheet of paper whether I want to further the conversation with any of them, all for the price of a meal? DONE. I did speed dating once about eight years ago and wrote a column about it for Business First. I remember it being largely a waste of time in terms of dating prospects, but high on entertainment value, so when a friend asked me to go with her to an event for singles aged 38 to 50 this week, I was all, what the hell? It can't be any worse than what I am doing now, which is exactly nothing.  One of my favorite classic movies is the 1958 comedy, “Auntie Mame,” with Rosalind Russell. Her character’s mantra throughout the movie is one I have tried to live by over the years myself, with varying degrees of success.
Mame believes that “life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death.” She spends most of her time encouraging everyone around her to “live, live, live!” I gotta say… up until this past year and a half, I had spent a good chunk of my life simply surviving and not really living. My focus was always on taking care of other people, making sure bills were paid and waiting for the next shoe to drop … and I fully expected said shoe to fall on my head. That was an exhausting way to exist, and as a result, I realize now that I didn’t allow myself to properly acknowledge or celebrate so many moments of joy. I missed out on a lot of really good stuff because I was too busy dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. A family crisis last April -- and celebrating my milestone 40th birthday last July -- woke me up to the idea that survival is not good enough for me anymore. I decided that I want to be the best possible version of myself, and that I want to live life to the fullest every single day. So I set about to make some changes, which led to a full-on reinvention. You can read about some of that process here and 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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