merge

Hey! Hello! I am abandoning the post I started writing ten minutes ago for this weird monkey mind one because I need to lighten up a bit. The abandoned post, which I may return to later, was all about muscular atrophy, specifically one of my muscles, specifically my assertive muscle, specifically specifically specifically. The word "specifically," if you squint really hard to the point where your eyes are completely closed and you use your wild imagination, looks like an alien. Everything looks like an alien! Or rather, anything can look like an alien if you want it to. Everything can also look like a cloud, a bird, a tire swing, a movie ticket stub, a piece of copper wire, a river, a stream, the bottom of the ocean, a cup of coffee, a lost doll from your childhood, your grandmother. What do you see? Do you trust your eyes?

Moving on.

When I was in my now-infamous-in-my-mind 20s, I had my head way way way way way way up there in the clouds. I believed it was all possible! I didn't even question how realistic anything was! I was too busy questioning reality, maaan. (Guess I still kind of am?) I believed I could easily learn French, get an art history degree, become a world-renowned art curator, and live a glamorously surreal existence in Paris. None of it seemed fantastical at all. The following week I had an even more elaborate and costly life plan. The money thing didn't concern me because I figured everything would just naturally fall into place. But of course!

Now that I am in my sexy (*has yet to prove to be sexy AHEM) 30s, life has suddenly decided to laugh at my grandiose dreams and pull my head from out of the clouds and stick it in the sand. Okay, it's not in the sand. I just like the way that sounded. My head is merely sitting on my shoulders, as it should be, sometimes looking down, but not in prayer. I watch for the cracks on the sidewalk and worry about broken backs. I also worry about actual muscular atrophy and diabetes and all of the cancers and bills and finding ways to pay for desperately needed therapists. I worry about eating a bowl of Grape-Nuts with unsweetened almond milk. I worry about my teeth. And why does my nose keep bleeding? I should get my oil changed and learn how to bake chicken. I don't even know how to order pizza.

Paris. Ha. Art curator. Double ha. Oh, those were the glory days. Dreamy.

I know I still have it in me to be this euphoric, ever-so-slightly delusional gal. And obviously I also have it in me to be an almost too realistic and unidealistic chick. What if I somehow merge the two? What if I keep my head on my shoulders while occasionally letting it float off and into the clouds? Leave the window open for a little wonder to enter. Where will that lead me? Let me find out.