When I think of how far I've come from the person I once was it not only amazes me, but at times, I don't recognize myself at all.  Yes, it's as if someone else once resided in my shoes.  I was a person who lived on the edge, had poor impulse control and didn't know the definition of doing anything the safe or moral way.  One might surmise that the fast lane caught up with me and maybe it has...maybe this "slowdown" I feel is in some sense an atonement period or the simple, but harsh realization that much of the time I wasn't a good person.  Although in the past I longed for love, I never found it...now...well, let's just say I don't feel equipped for it.  The Mr. Wonderful I recently had in my life turned out to be not so wonderful, but I was okay with that.  I think I knew going in that it wasn't meant to be, but I have to admit it was nice to have someone show some interest in me even if it didn't last very long.  When the moment of truth came, it didn't hurt.  It actually felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders and the feathers had been scattered.

I think back to when I flitted from man to man in reckless abandonment.  I often lived the tasteless joke: "What's the difference between being kinky and being perverted?"  A kinky person uses feathers and a pervert uses the whole chicken.  I'm not saying I was abusive to my feathered friends, but if I remember correctly a few of my many lovers clucked or quacked a time or two in utter delight.

After my first legitimate heartbreak, I never seemed to let myself fully believe in the forever after kind of love.  I allowed that experience to confirm that true love was a figment of the weak-minded and emotionally feeble. I believed in the here and now type of relationships.  I believed in mind blowing sex with all the wrong people and yes, I lived dangerously where sex was concerned.  I'm often amazed that never came back to bite me in the ass...or maybe it has because now I'm a hermit satisfied with life without a significant other.  I live life with a huge bag of feathers and no one to tickle!

The other night I tried to compose a list of ex-lovers and I couldn't do it...too many were faces with no names. What I composed was a disjointed, unpleasing melody...an anthem for the promiscuous. I suppose at the time I knew their names, but who they were obviously wasn't important enough to remember.  I cringed when I thought about how close I came to trying out the oldest profession in the world.  What stopped me still is a mystery...I remember the hotel room and the gentlemen with a heavy French accent, but when it came time to get paid for my services I just couldn't do it.  I was hungry and homeless and living on the streets.  I was young...barely 15, but I knew what I was doing and that it was wrong.  I suppose even though I was desperate I still had moral fibers holding me together.  Now, those moral fibers seemed to have choked the life from me and keep Mildred from being an old, worn-out feather in anyone's hat.  Now, I am, but a gnarly feather duster to be kept in the hallway closet!


What does one write about when they really have nothing to say?  Some say silence is golden, but in my case silence is nasty by-product or better yet, the waste material of being a hermit.  So why should I sit here and type when my heart isn't in it?  That's a good question and one that can be answered with a simple explanation.  My friends, all whom I love dearly are real pains in my ass and don't know how to quietly sit by and let me drown in my own waste.  They seem to want to read all the tidbits I reveal here via Mildred's fingers.  You guys rock and thank you for not letting me drown.

Last night while I lay in bed wide awake counting defective sheep who couldn't jump over the fence (I even built a ramp so the fatter ones didn't have to attempt to jump over it...after all who wants a bunch of dead or gimpy sheep cluttering their thoughts), a question my sister-in-law asked me a few months ago echoed in my brain.  As the family sat around a table at Helen's Restaurant enjoying lunch together, we all listened to the colorful stories my brothers were telling about the days of their misspent youth.  After several stories had been told, my sister-in-law wanted to know where I was during all these stories and where were all my stories...great questions, but ones that don't have  simple explanations.  How does one go about explaining being "Rudolph" to the newest addition to a dysfunctional family.  I briefly thought about it because at this point in my life giving something that happened a million years ago consideration just seemed pointless.  The truth was that I truly can't remember joining in any reindeer games.  Whose loss was that? The lack of reindeer games most likely is due to being the youngest and only girl and while most of my stories are great for blog subject matter, they aren't really appropriate for casual family lunches.  Fifty Shades of Mildred and a slice of apple pie for dessert sounds delightful!  So I smiled and let my brothers have center stage...a place more suited for them then Rudolph.

After beating myself up for the better part of an hour while I twisted and turned for the childhood I didn't have, my mind jumped back to relive the whole fiasco I had with my aunt a few months ago while I was in Maine.  Does time really heal all wounds?  I really want to know because my heart is still broken.  Part of me wants to apologize to her because I miss her, but the sane part of me knows I did nothing wrong...well, maybe a little wrong by letting myself say what needed to be said while I was angry. Mildred can be a real bitch when she's angry! Many would say my anger was justified and my aunt deserved the tongue lashing I gave her, but hindsight tells me I should have handled it differently.  I shouldn't have let the mixture of being angry about how she treated my mother and I and being physically ill at the time come out so harshly.  I guess if I was really honest I'd have to admit that what really hurts the most is the fact that I'm not worth an apology.  I had to accept the fact that someone I love dearly doesn't feel anything for me. In hindsight, I think all I might have been to her was someone to fill the void...I was last on her list and now I'm gone. 

I heard something the other day that's stuck with me...people who are "collectors" never find love.  Collectors are people who never really burn any bridges or truly end relationships. They just collect people like they're some kind conservation piece. Romantic entanglements somehow morph into long, drawn-out, unhealthy friendships and friendships that are one-sided just remain that way to fester and be a constant source of hurt and disappointment and people who are relatives...well, they're in a category all to themselves. When the epiphany hit me it was like an arrow going through my brain. All of a sudden I short circuited as the reset button was pressed.  I actually lost my breath for several seconds.  OMG! I'M A COLLECTOR! I can't let go and although I do know what love is, love for me has been a fleeting thing.  Here I am by myself because collectors never find lasting love.

Okay, so I lied...I did have something to say after all.  As you see my mind set is in a dreadful place, but you know what?  I remain hopeful!  I really do and in the grand scheme of things that's what's important...isn't it?