Friday, the alarm clock called out with a particularly piercing and deafening tone. It was 5:45 am; an ungodly hour for anyone, in my books. Instinctively, nasty and savage thoughts ran through my mind as I glared at the smug alarm clock’s face; I wanted to wring its chubby little neck, kick it in the shins, or toss it into the lake head-first (if only I lived near a lake). But the best I could hope for was the satisfaction of insisting for two more minutes, by smacking the snooze button with a grumpy huff. Two millisecond-minutes later, the prompt and persistent Mr-Smug-alarm-clock once again summoned me to spring out of bed, with a grating margin of pushiness.
Fine. But I wouldn’t do it smiling. And there would be no springing.
With one feeble and ungainly stride, I swung my legs out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, whining under my breath and generally exercising my god given right to sulk about having to get up so early (a well established routine). ;) I flicked the light switch and hastily screened my eyes, avoiding the momentary blinding by the florescent bulbs, which I’m certain are in cahoots with Mr-Smug-alarm-clock.
I reached for my toothbrush while avoiding eye contact with the mirror. I stared at the sink which needed scrubbing instead (it was on my to-do list). There was a time when I looked straight ahead and recognized my customary reflection, but with no forewarning, my faithful mirror has seemingly turned on me. In vain, I reluctantly peeked ever so carefully, hoping to see the feisty girl who merrily flutters within my soul. *sigh* But there she was… the middle-aged impostor, staring right back at me. Naturally, I stuck out my tongue and resolved to self-pity. It’s not fair! *stomping feet*. I marched to the tub, cranked the hot water faucet and stepped into the shower, snubbing the fact that I was dawdling and would probably be late for work. Work shmirk. I was allowing myself one final kick at the pity-can before coming to grips with my ghastly, yet imminent reality. Work could damn well wait until I was done having my middle-aged temper tantrum. ;)
I drew in a breath and held it for as long as I could without passing out, then I exhaled slowly… winced slightly, then said out loud (for the time-gods to hear me), “Fine. Fine. FINE. I’m middle-aged… you win! Bring on the impending facial hair and menopause, lay it on me!” *sigh* I paused, then grinned slyly and added, “You can keep my former reflection, you can take my curves, you can even steal my feisty smile, but make no mistake big-fat-time-gods… you cannot have my dreams. They’re mine… thank you very much”.
And it was in that moment, friends… there in the shower (just me and the big-fat-time-gods), that reality hit me square in the throat. Time is slipping by, and I have got to get crack’en!! I have a dream! A dream I tell you! I’ve been sitting on my duff for too long, making excuses and putting off that dream until tomorrow. Perhaps it’s time to make time?
I wonder… am I the only one who has had this kind of realization? It’s as though I’ve been hit over the head with a brick-house! Is this a middle age thing? Am I going to follow through, or will the feeling of being hit over the head with a brick-house wear off? What if it does? What then? Will it be ten years from now when the brick-house knocks me over again, and I’m up to my ears with regret for not jumping on the band-wagon ten years prior?!
My head is spinning. I think a swarm of bees have taken my thoughts hostage! But I’m not wasting any more time, today’s the day to dream, out loud!
Dare to dream with me, friends!
