The internet will tell you what you are, how you should live, and who you’re supposed to be. If you let it, that is. After a few weeks of sleepless nights due to unexplained insomnia my usual rock solid cynical suit of armor was worn down so far that I let the internet tell me all the things. And this is what the internet had to say:
Ok, quasi-motivational meme. Bring it. Maybe I am the same person I was when the year started. You don’t know! But then, after a minute or two of thinking about it I started to wonder. Am I the same person I was at the beginning of 2018? I mean, I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast, so I really have no idea.
To uncover the truth, I went back in the archives and consulted my blog posts and all my social media posts from January 2018. Am I the same person I was then? But more importantly, does it matter and who the hell cares?
First, I delved into the January’s blog posts to see what I was thinking waaaaaaay back 7 whole months ago. I started January 2018 with an anti-resolution post. While most people started the year with goals they desired to meet, my new year began with a list of things I wouldn’t be doing. I’m proud to say I’ve held strong. I’m still bitching about the weather and hating the president. I still talk shit about the cat (and now the dog), am clumsy as fuck. And, I still love Muse’s Madness.
In January I was receiving an obsessive amount of emails from the Prez. I am happy (?) to report I am still being stalked by the Mighty Bloated Orange One. And his kids. And his in-laws. His campaign manager as well. Also, the Vice Prez. I think the maid sent me an email once. I don’t write about them anymore because I no longer find it funny. I guess that’s one way I’ve changed since the start of 2018. I’m not laughing anymore. I’m too busy being fitted for my handmaid uniform.
At the beginning of the year I warned you, begged you, urged you, and cautioned you to not read The Phil Factor. I told you of his love of decaf. As if that wasn’t reason enough, I listed four other things that make him the anti-Christ of blogging. The ties! My god, the ties! But you didn’t listen and as far as I know he still skulks around the recesses of the internet, entertaining the masses with his Amish obsession and his love of gluten. You people will never learn. But, thankfully, I have. I still don’t read The Phil Factor and you can’t make me.
In January I wrote a post about learning to love my post surgery body. I went back and read that post, remembered that hike, reveled in the glory of a broken body that still makes things happen. Am I the same? Do I still love this body, marvel at what it can do despite being cut up and transformed? That question is not so easy to answer because that answer is yes, but it’s also no. While my body is still the same, my feelings about it are never the same on any given day. It’s still broken. It’s still mine. Accepting it will be a lifelong challenge.
In January I saw snow through my son’s eye. His first snow, a respectable one. Snowballs. Snow angels. Crunching ice beneath his feet. We played. We laughed. We froze bubbles. Us Floridians, rejoicing at white flakes. It was magic. And it did change me, I’m proud to say. It made me younger, reminded me to play. The freeze transforms everything it touches. Turns water to ice, makes all things green enter their slumber. Reminds the middle aged mother to not take things so seriously. The snow did change me. I’m definitely not the same.
When this year started I didn’t have a dog to lie at my feet, I hadn’t reconnected with my sister after a decade apart, my roots weren’t gray. Back then they were bottle brown. When this year started I was agonizing over a tumor recurrence that thankfully only ever happened in my mind. When this year started I didn’t know where I’d land and how things were meant to be.
So, today am I the same person I was at the beginning of 2018? How could I be? None of us are. There have been seasons in between then and now and not just from snow to sun. People have come and gone, relationships constantly change. I’m older, if only by months, but it feels like years. I creak more. I write more. I’m closer to the end. It’s safe to say I’m not the same person I was back then. But, really, who would want to be?