I am, I think one of those people who falls off the wagon of authenticity at the merest suggestion of something that tickles my alter ego’s fancy.
You see what they don’t tell you about becoming real is that there is no map. No absolute destination. Not even satellite navigation can show you the way. (Though recently it has become clear to me that sat nav won’t get you anywhere without taking you down a few unmarked roads, and making you re-trace yours steps should you decide to go left instead of right. A metaphor for something surely?)
I’ve been in a bit of social whirl lately. I know you notice. I disappear and post vague little utterings of this and that and don’t share my self like I do when life isn’t quite as wonderful. Occasionally this here blog becomes little more than a rather dramatic excuse to navel gaze and I really should have it pierced with something pretty in order to give you all something more compelling to look at.
This morning I lay in bed recovering from a late evening of Rioja and tapas and wondering about what I’m doing. What I want and where I’m going.
You see there is a difference between happiness and contentment and I can’t decide where it is between the two that authenticity lies. Am I her sat in the bar last night all mad hair and fluttery false eyelashes? The mommy in the pink princess nightie who sits every morning with her babba curled up on her knee trying not to spill her hot tea on his head? This me, curled up in bed watching Brief Encounter and eating forbidden but very scrumptious indeed jammy crumpets in last nights smudgy mascara? The vintage housekeeper wearing a pinny and baking flapjacks that she won’t eat because she’s on a permanent diet?
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. Heckity pie, I just don’t know.
I know women who are what they are are. Always. Twenty four seven. I know before they open their mouths what there opinion will be on any given subject. What they will wear on any given occasion. What they will likely be doing at any given moment. Their lives have order. Their dreams have a path. There is no call for self indulgent navel gazing because they know who they are and don’t lie awake at night wondering if they’d recognise themselves in the street.
I admire them. It must be wonderful to know who you will be this time next week. This time next year. I haven’t even committed myself to plans for this evening.