Well, why not tell you about how I'm the sort of person who, seven years after moving to her current abode, still has to cycle through all the keys on her chain to find the right one.
Lightswitches, too. My entire life, my parents' home, I still fumble over which switch turns on the floodlight outside and which turns off the fixture over the center island.
Is there a deeper self-knowledge to be gleaned from these odd misfirings? Does it explain why, three years after quitting smoking, I find myself shuffling into the snow during naptime to not-so-stealthily puff the schwag left in J's old bag of American Spirit?
Does it explain the rest of it? The rest the will not be discussed here?
Having a baby is a great way to quit smoking. I can forget to give a shit about my own body, but when I'm the home harbor for another, a little defenseless bit of cells I already love with abandon, taking a puff that affects us both just... the smoke tasted sour. I didn't want any anymore.
I've been wondering if I can identify some sort of spiritual pregnancy, some sense of me harboring myself. My imagination is good. I don't know if it's that good.
If I were living my best life, what would it look like? I'm pretty sure it wouldn't look like the one I'm leading currently. Though at least trading running sneakers in for my husband's old slippers for my naptime shuffle reminds me less of my days in the psych ward. I think it's the laces. Even when I leave them untied.
It's not about revolution! Small, sensible substitutions are key.
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