Hole in my Bucket

Do you remember the song “There’s a Hole in My Bucket”? I remember singing it when I was a kid: “There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza. There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, a hole”. Liza, always the common sensical woman (and no, this isn’t any sort of jab at men), answers, “Then fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry. Then fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, fix it”. As I become reacquainted with myself again, the only major problem I have come across to this point is that it feels like a part of me may actually be missing. Like poor Henry, I have a hole in my bucket.

So now what? Here I am on this expedition to “find myself” (I think that sounds so trite. I need a fresh phrase), and in doing so, have discovered that somewhere down the road, I have misplaced part of me. Nevertheless, I am left with a gaping hole where “something” used to be. And this isn’t just a little dimple, this is a yawning chasm. I now find myself wondering, like Henry, “With what shall I fix it?”.

To have realized that something is missing in my life, in me, makes me feel unbelievably guilty. How can I, as a wife and a mother, not have found complete fulfillment in exactly that? In needing/wanting more, does my selfishness know no bounds? What do I need/want? And there it is…the big question.

Boy, could I use a Liza right now.

L-

Dancing in the Living Room

I love to dance. When I hear music, it’s almost physically impossible to not move to it. I took ballet and tap as a kid, I danced in high school and college. I used to go out dancing with my friends. Dancing is a wonderful physical activity, and truth be told, a remarkable boost to the soul. Dancing can be joyful; a celebration of life, of happiness, of all things good and wonderful in the world. Dancing can be a mournful lamentation. Dancing can be sexy and erotic and as close to sex in public as possible without being arrested. ;) It can be flirtatious. It can be angry. It can be ridiculously silly. Dancing can tell a story. Dancing with a partner can be so romantic you forget to breathe—everything and everyone around you, completely forgotten. Dancing always made me happy; it was impossible not to smile when I was dancing, impossible not to move my body when music was playing. And years ago, I stopped.

Don’t get me wrong. I was never a good dancer, but enjoyment, I believe, makes up for lack of skill. I never had an aspiration to be a prima ballerina and spend half my life en pointe; I was never going to turn the dancing world on its ear. Dancing was just something I loved and enjoyed, and I did it every chance I got.

Until the last year or so, I had forgotten that; and that’s not all I had forgotten. I had disregarded the fact that I have dreams, wants, aspirations, enjoyments, desires, opinions, viewpoints, beliefs, ideas. When I got married years ago, I became my husband’s wife, but made the mistake of letting that be ALL that I was. The things I loved to do took a back seat to my new husband, my new marriage, my new life—not because my husband asked it of me, but because I allowed it to happen. Those things that had previously defined me, I mistakenly ignored. I allowed myself to become my husband’s wife, and nothing and no one else. Then, before I could blink, I had a child, and not only was I “wife”, I was “mother”. Those are wonderful people to be; I am loved far more deeply than I could ever possibly deserve, and I wouldn’t trade my beloved family for anything in the world. Lately, though, I have realized that in being only those people all of these years, I have somehow misplaced myself. I have been gone for a long time, and until recently, I hadn’t even missed me!

I am beginning to remember that I love theater, old movies, classic novels, plays on words, reading. I am a romantic at heart, how could I have forgotten that? I believe strongly about certain things, I have my own set of values; there are things and people I would fight for to the end. I love to laugh, and have a silly sense of humor (unfortunately, it is usually only me that cracks up at my jokes). I LOVE to dance. Amazingly, all of these things that I am slowly remembering make up the sum total of me; that person that I had pushed aside and shoved away so often that I finally just disappeared years ago. I would call this a midlife crisis (I turn 40 in 5 months), but cannot in good faith call this slow resurrection of myself anything other than something amazingly positive: A midlife recovery.

And so, I turn on my Ipod, now, and dance in my living room; I dance as my husband’s wife, my children’s mother, and as me.

Until my next pause,

L-

Blog Fright

I have made the decision to start (or should I say attempt) a blog. Having decided this several weeks ago, I began to painstakingly think about what I would entitle it. Oddly enough, this proved more difficult than I would have ever thought possible. I knew something like “My Blog” would be a bit pedestrian, so off the list it came. (Is it possible to be laughed right off the internet?) Sadly, that was the first thing that came to my mind when I finally decided to do this. Actually, it was more like “My Blog: The Blog Sans Readers”. Subsequently, I found myself in this weird state of near panic, which I have now decided was blog fright. Why on earth would anyone be interested in what I think or say? Who would actually read this? To my rescue, several very wise friends, who pointed out to me that one does not write a blog in the hopes that someone will read it; you just write. Having read some of the tripe out there, it wasn’t hard to determine that a lot of folks really don’t worry about that, either! :) Oh, I kid (well, somewhat)! So, having decided on my title (which will be explained in detail in another post somewhere down the line), and no longer worrying about who would read it, I realized something else entirely (said to dark, ominous, pipe organ music).

To my deep and everlasting shame, I am not in the least technologically inclined. I can barely use my cell phone half the time, and it’s a sad little dinosaur. Let’s just say I thought I was pretty hot stuff when I figured out how to use Twitter (yeah, it’s that bad). Computers have been known to commit electrical suicide when they see me coming; yet, somehow, I am going to create a blog??!?? In truth, I have that effect on all types of electronics…computers, alarm clocks, cash registers. Also, I have personally stopped more watches than I can count. But I digress…

Anyway, all the bloggers I know use this website, so I chose to use it as well. I don't think I can continue without saying, first, that I love templates! Easy, peasy…even for me! Problem solved, and rather efficiently. Easy is a marvelous thing.

All obstacles out of the way, I had no other excuse to avoid my first post. It was past time to put in my two cents worth. I sat down at my computer, and began to type. It was a lot easier than I thought, and I was beginning to think I might actually enjoy the whole blogging thing! Really, the words flowed easily, and it was quite well written and thoughtful, if I do say so myself! ;) Almost giddy with excitement (well, I had a couple of adult beverages while I wrote), I hit “post”, and then went back to look at my very first post on my very first blog, and…nothing. Literally, nothing was there. Zilch, zero, nada. My very first post on my very first blog went into my very first blog post black hole of literary death. *Sigh*. I believe I mentioned earlier my lack of technological skills??? Disappointing as it was, I cannot say it was at all surprising. I also believe that I may have forgotten to mention that I have a tendency to be forgetful. ;) As you may have surmised, I had not saved it. *Deep sigh*.

Ah, well. After I save this in Word, and paste it here, I will go back and try to look at my very *second* post on my very first blog (doesn't that sound like a child's toy? My Very First Blog by Fischer-Price). And, hopefully, said with fingers crossed, it will be there.

Until the next pause in the action,

L-