Thursday, April 15, 2010


When I was growing up, my mother wanted to have a cute little girl dressed in pink and doing ballet - someone just like her granddaughter, my neice, who was a year older than I was, and was blonde, petite and blue-eyed with ringlets.

Unfortunately, instead, she got me instead.

Tonight a friend and I were discussing her Type A... well, perhaps Type A++ compulsive need - perhaps obsession - to have every part of her life to be clean, organized, and in alphabetical, color and tonal order.

She said she envied people like me who can "let go."

And it made me realize once again how many years it has taken me to get here - to be able to "let go."
To not have to have things immaculate.
To not worry about things I have no control over.
To not try to be someone I'm not.
And not envy those who seem to remain 'focused' and intent and get things down but at the cost of high blood pressure, tension, and the inability to relax.

To paraphrase a very old expression, I don't think anyone of their deathbed is going to wish they had spent more time cleaning the kitchen floor.
So I'm okay with less than clean floors (heck, I have two dogs - they're pretty DIRTY floors regardless of what I do), dust on almost anything, a bathtub that is non-gracefully degrading into a permanent yellow shade, and a porch that is rarely (if ever) swept.

Because I have a good relationships with all three of my kids, I have low blood pressure, and I can take naps almost anytime I wish to. And with my dogs.

I'm okay being me.