My husband and I got to talking the other day about the early days of our relationship, when we worked at the same organization. It so happens that he kept some e-mails I had sent, and he was recently rereading them.
"You were fiesty," he said.
Those three words had the effect of a stereo needle skidding across a record. Did he just say "were"? As in past tense?
I picked up my wounded pride and headed to our bedroom to be alone and let these words sink in, as well as to seethe and drown in self-pity. A little while later my husband came in.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Sure," I shot back. "I'm just mourning my lost fiestiness."
"Look, I didn't mean it like that."
"How do you think that made me feel?"
"Well, you shouldn't feel that way."
"Don't you dare tell me how to feel!"
He slowly backed out of the room and shut the door. And while I was pissed at him, I was even madder at myself.
The truth is, friends, that I used to be a girl who got stuff done. I dragged my mom to financial aid nights, so I could find out how to pay for college. I studied in London for a semester and worked a full-time job while I was there. I paid for my wedding dress, as well as for a good chunk of the reception.
Fast forward, and now I realized I was immersed--possibly drowning--in my husband, my children, my debt, my inertia. And I felt utterly lost. My only defense was to hide myself away from it all, mostly by falling asleep on the couch in front of the tv after everyone else went to bed -- my "me" time, such as it was. But as long as I was no longer getting things done or actively participating in my own life, part of me was still gone.
I'm coming back, slowly. I'm trying to get organized and stay on top of things. I want to give everyone in my family--myself included--the time and TLC they deserve.
And that will take all the fiestiness I can muster.
