“Wherever you are, be there. If you can be fully present now, you will know what it means to live.”
“Where art thou?” That’s the question I received via a comment on my last blog post. Which, in and of itself was a fair question to ask; even better, it was only a loosely-veiled pretend hater comment from a friend instead of a poorly written, straight up hater comment from (my 2015 new leaf of kindness continues)…elsewhere.
Here’s my view: if you don’t take a stand or do anything or are trying to make a difference by stepping outside of your comfort zone, then you will live a boring little life filled with much less negative feedback. Well, boring I ain’t and this lapse in writing I can no longer handle, so bring on the comments – even the hater misspelled ones in the form of not even close to a sentence. As Ini Kamoze likes to say, here comes the hotstepper.
Under the heading of “good problems to have,” part of what felt like the 400 years of silence stems literally from the fact that I have too much to write about. Is that even possible? Yes. Is that even a thing? Yes, I assure you, it is.
By proxy, as I watched one Taylor-I-wish-I-was-a-Victoria’s-Secret-Angel-Swift in NYC on New Year’s Eve, I remembered when she first hit the scene. I remember watching the Tim McGraw video and really kind of liking her and the immediate transport back to innocence. She seemed soft, sweet, charming, and sentimental.
Fast forward 8 years and I was watching her, thinking, “Man, how times have changed.” I’m all for growth and evolving into the best version of ourselves through age and experience, but I was shuddering at the thought of that being it. You are not a stripper, Taylor. You are not a VS model and NEWS FLASH, you are not a lesbian. Trust me. I get wanting to throw in the towel with G- to the exponential force and renounce the entire male population. Truly, I do and praise God that I did not (see above: too much to write about – more on the man who leaves me speechless later).
Once I was done rolling my eyes and cleaning up the puke in my mouth, I proceeded to watch the ball descend on its way to a year which I have, for the past 18 years, tried to avoid. That gigantic 2015 sign was a-blazin’ and sparkling and shining and all in my face, and somewhere in between the tears streaming down it and a shaky smile, I remembered in an instant when my own soft, innocent, sweet baby girl first hit the scene.
Where hath time gone?