Have you seen Debbie Harry lately? No? Google her. She looks fantastic. She and Cyndi Lauper look amazing. I chose well in my childhood female rock icons. Terri Nunn’s not looking too shabby either.
Growing up, I either wanted to be Terri or Debbie, but also had a great love for Cyndi. I think it was the wrestling thing that kept me from jumping fully on board that crazy train. I shy away from wrestling in the same way I do clowns. There’s something not quite right about roided up grown men, who have fake tans and look slicker than a newborn. I just…can’t. No.
There is a Blondie song playing on the office Muzak, and that reminded me.
But I came here to write about my recent opportunities to act like a complete brat. Not specifically, of course, but in general. I took one opportunity and ran with it all the way down the dirt road until my feet were filthy. Another, I did not take.
Some relationships are like bumper cars. They are amazing fun, but you can end up with a busted lip or whiplash. As much fun as it is to drive bumper cars, too, I am always just a little surprised when I am bumped. I mean, it’s bumper cars. I know the object of the game is to crash into other cars, so why would I be at all surprised to be rear-ended, or side-swiped? And, if you’re already bruised, just a tap can feel like a full body slam.
Still, it’s just bumper cars, and you know that once the juice shuts down, you’re going to hop off the ride and be perfectly fine. You’ll laugh, rub your neck, and run on to the next amusement.
I am learning that there is a fine line between telling myself, “You know, it’s not all about you,” and “Even if it isn’t about you, you’re still in it, so it’s okay to have XYZ feelings.” Especially when you get rear-ended at someone else’s 6 Flags birthday party.
