If You Belonged Here

Navigating the Parking Lot

I always park in the same place. Well, not precisely the same place, and not even the same parking lot. But I always park in the same row of a given parking lot when I'm shopping at, say, Target, the mall, or the grocery store.

I park in the same row regardless of how far I have to walk down that row, regardless of passing a much closer spot in another row, and regardless of the weather. It's not always the most convenient solution available but I never regret it.

Now, once upon a time, I parked wherever a spot was most handy. That seemed like a fine idea. Until I would attempt to return to my car only to find that it was gone. Well, not gone but not where I left it either. Okay. Maybe it was where I left it but it wasn't exactly jumping out at me and making itself known.

So, I'd wander. Which is annoying in the rain, and when I'm tired, and when I have a cart that won't fit between parked vehicles. And which is humiliating when someone is following me around a crowded mall lot with their car in hopes of getting my spot. But the absolute worst is when the bag boy is following me with a cart and I'm carrying a strung out toddler through the rain.

That sucks.

So I made a decision. Better to go the way I know. Better to head down a particular row and find my car at the bitter end of it than to quest for the car I left somewhere, maybe, closer to this entry. Or maybe it was the other entry. Oh, sheesh.

Now this strategy has it's limitations. Some lots are too small too consistently have the same row available. Some malls are experiencing a seasonal rush and parking anywhere at all seems like a faint dream. But mostly it works and when it doesn't, I am very aware that I am not parked in my usual row and take particular pains to remember all kinds of landmarks and details that I might otherwise ignore.

I'm glad I finally learned not to use other vehicles as landmarks. It worked out the first time I did it, but since then I've come to realize that was a bad precedent.

Process

I am not good at process. I much prefer an accomplishment to a goal. I hate waiting to see how things will turn out. I am obsessive in my need for resolution.

And I think we've already talked about surprises: I don't care if it's an all expenses paid trip to paradise. I'm not going to enjoy it unless I can plan, and backup plan for it. Worse, I won't even know if I liked paradise until I get home and the anxiety of the unknown is safely replaced by been there, done that.

There is no legal medication for this, people. I know because I've scoured the earth trying to find it. Mr. Poppins is glad I don't know where to score ecstasy because, dude, if there was ever a drug I was a prime candidate for, it would definitely be nicknamed "feel good, love, or happy."

I fantasize about ecstasy while I'm stopped at red lights. Let's be real, people. I don't need my serotonin uptake inhibited. I'm inhibited enough already. I need a total loss of inhibition. I need to spend hours feeling at one with the universe, at one with my fellow humans, at one with the pretty glitter.

I am sure of this: I do not like process.

Oneness is overwhelmingly appealing. Oneness means being complete, finished, done. Oneness is the epitome of resolution. And I'm not talking about those so-called New Year's-type resolutions either. What an oxymoron. Just because someone decided to call first-of-the-yeargoal-setting by the fête accompli mandate of resolution, doesn't mean that wishful thinking is going be to miraculously replaced by accomplishment.

Oh, no, people: miracle no happen.

If my life were a book, I'd have skipped to the end and skimmed the middle already. I'd have done it twice, and that's only counting the times I'd have managed it before reaching the third grade. I'm pretty sure my anxiety didn't set in until age nine. I mean, from what I remember, I was okay in kindergarten.

Or on closer retrospection, maybe not. Sheesh, now I'm trying to come up with the earliest memory I have that isn't tinged with anxiety and I can't do it, people. I'm pretty sure I don't have a memory like that. Take for example a tea party I threw for my Barbie when I was three. I forgot to put a shirt on her. My mom asked if I didn't want to "cover her pennies."

I'm still mortified.

I try, people, I really try. I want to be laid back. Well, sometimes I think being more laid back would be a good idea because TMJ is uncomfortable and migraines suck worse. But it's not me.

I am not a laid back person. I probably won't truly relax ever, not even when I'm dead. I mean, eternity is an awfully long time and it's never done, finished, tied up with a bow. Who knows how much process is involved in getting through forever. Scratch that. I know exactly how much process is involved: way too much.

How do you know if you've done a good job if you're never finished? I need to know I've done a good job, people. I need it the way other people need bacon. I won't die if I don't get it, but from where I'm standing that's not a selling point.

An Optimistic Pragmatist

I think it's in the core of my being to believe that people are good, if occasionally misguided, and most people would make the world beautiful, peaceful, and safe for small children if they only knew how.

I always take intentions into consideration. If the wrong thing is said for the right reason, I hold onto the reason. If the right thing is said for the wrong reason, I hold onto the reason.

When I'm the one saying and doing, I struggle to find the perfect word or act to not only express sympathy but to somehow magically make things okay. Sometimes that is not possible.

But that doesn't stop me from wishing I held the keys to the universe so I could open the doors for everyone who might need a new door to open.

Lately, I've been preoccupied with my own teacup tempest and not at all emotionally available for anything but a breakdown. I'm not proud but I'm not ashamed either. Some things are harder than others and lately I'm going through my own hard thing. Maybe I'll feel better when I'm 33 and an adult hobbit. In the meantime, I'm only 32, which by anyone's standards is a rather in-between age to be.

I made that last part up. I don't think anyone thinks about being 32. Not even 32 year-olds. Not even me. Well, just a half-thought, but that doesn't really count, does it?

The thing is that, just this morning, I booked my travel to the frigidly cold northeast. Those travel arrangements were the last thing on my Naggingly Bothersome Things to Do list. Seriously, even the laundry is folded. So now, I can get to using my morning time, the time when Secret Lulu is elsewhere, to be creative, productive, and intensely intellectual. Someone needs to find my oilcan so I can un-rust my brain.

Today is the first day of my new life. You might have thought the first day was two Fridays ago, when Secret Lulu first got the boot, but no, it's today. Today is the first day that I really feel I can think about something besides laundry, recycling, and donuts. Today is the first day, I believe I might just be okay.

As for the rest of the universe, well, it's best not to think about that.