 Good God, y’all, I cannot believe it’s been a year since I last posted on my blog. The lull was initially unintentional — a result of my energy being focused on other projects and priorities. To my few but mighty readers, my apologies for leaving this space unattended for so long.
At the beginning of March, I was all set to regale you with news about some personal and professional milestones: My eight-year anniversary as a thriving entrepreneur and freelance media consultant. An exciting and long-awaited home improvement project. A new, super fun gig in the arts. Plus, y’know, the most important announcement of them all — I cut off all my hair and dyed it platinum. Then COVID hit.
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 Truth bomb coming in hot: Whoever said money can’t buy happiness was never $40,000 in credit card debt.
Yeah, yeah. I get the essence of that old maxim —if you’re generally an unhappy person, no accumulation of physical wealth will change that. Misery is a choice, happiness comes from within … yada, yada. For quite a few years now, I’ve chosen gratitude over wallowing, and my life is pretty amazing as a result. I don’t do math very well (I’m a writer, after all), but this fact adds up for me time and again: The more I count my blessings, the better my life gets. All that being said, I am here to tell you that when I made the final payment on my last remaining credit card, the balance of which had been hanging on by its gnarly-ass fingernails for nearly 20 years, I experienced a palpable wave of relief and joy the likes of which I only felt one other time in my life, and that was after the birth of my child.  I was enjoying the balmy fall weather one recent night on my porch, when some patrons from a nearby neighborhood bar ambled down my street to their cars.
One woman, well-dressed and probably in her mid-50s, had parked her SUV directly across from my house. My dogs, who were enjoying the unseasonably warm evening with me from safely behind a baby gate, boofed a few times as per usual, then settled. I was nose deep in a book on my iPad and wasn’t paying any attention to the action in front of me until I heard keys jangling, dropping, then jangling again a few minutes later. This poor lady could not find the keyhole to unlock her car. And I am here to tell you that it may have been long past sunset, but between the street lamp above her and my porch lights across from her, it wasn’t all that dark.  There’s this marginally entertaining 1991 movie, “Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead,” that stars Christina Applegate as Sue Ellen, a teenager who has to go to work to support her siblings when the babysitter her mom hired for the summer suddenly dies. In a not-at-all believable turn of events, Sue Ellen gets a job as an assistant at a fashion design company.
At one point, Sue Ellen’s boss, Rose, tells her that the only correct response to anything she asks her to do is, “I’m right on top of that, Rose.” So she says this over and over throughout the film. While the movie is not worth much more than the celluloid it’s printed on, Sue Ellen’s canned reply is pure gold. It has stuck with me for 25 years because it IS me.  I saw an article over the weekend that really spoke to me. In fact, the title could have been, “Amy’s Road Map to a Fulfilling Future.”
It wasn’t though. It was called, “6 Traits People with Attractive Energy Possess.” It basically said that you are what you attract, and I have found that to be true over my 43 years on this Earth. For the first 35 or so, my energy brought in more than a few people who were not good for me. So for my second act, I’ll be damned if I am going to waste time any more time on toxic relationships. I try to embody the six things listed in the article every day, but like most things in my life, they are a work in progress. When I was younger, I possessed none of these traits. It is only in middle age that I am able to see their value and aspire to them.  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. |
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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