Something really peculiar happened this summer. I started to relax; once I started, I just couldn’t seem to stop. I’m pretty sure I know what happened: I’ve been neutered.I don’t know who took my balls and if it involved a tribe scooping me up in the middle of the night and using two ceremonial rocks, or it was a quickie neutering by my Primary Care Physician…but something happened to me. I’m so entirely ball-less right now that I DON’T EVEN CARE that my balls are gone.
Actually, now that I think about it, I think Kealoha did it. That’s right! It’s all Kealoha’s fault. The bastard has made me so content and happy that I no longer want to prowl the neighborhood at night. No. I just want to sit home and purr and lick myself.
I may have just taken that metaphor a step too far.
WAY too far.
Here’s the thing: my whole life I’ve been running. Running to get out of Coopersville, running to finish college, running to figure out my identity, running to have kids before my womb dried up, running to start over, blah blah blah.
But this summer I just STOPPED. I really did. I haven’t been working as much since my teaching contract wasn’t renewed (turned out to be a mixed-blessing. I’m narrating more). I’ve slowed down. I’m not obsessively online anymore. I’m spending more time with the kids. I spend a lot of time just hanging out with Kealoha and then I think the trip to Paris was the final kicker: I have now been overseas and it was great, but it reminded me how much I love my home and my life and my PEOPLE.
So I’m like one fat, middle-aged, ball-less, contented cat…and I don’t even care anymore that I’m thicker in the middle and I need to dye my hair and I’m not writing as much as I should be because…well…life is pretty good. And sometimes you just need to acknowledge that.
I guess the price of being happy is that you become kind of boring. After a lifetime of running, Boring ends up being a pretty beautiful place. It’s got flowers and everything.
Now back to making dinner: crock pot ribs, coleslaw, and corn on the cob. God, I’m so domesticated now that—forgot the cat metaphor—I’ve turned into a dairy cow. A ball-less, happy dairy cow. Mooooo.