Admittedly, my blog was a bit more fun when I was a bit more of a mess. It was funnier. It had many more drunken adventures and sleepover stories of nights spent with men I never should have even been talking to.
It had more drama and sassier comebacks when I was placing blame on people besides myself for where my life was at. I guess in a sense it had a bit more intrigue, although I don’t find myself particularly intriguing, wondering what kind of mess I would get myself into.
At first, I liked sharing the messes in my life more to see that I wasn’t alone than to show others that they aren’t alone, though I didn’t realize that until I wrote this sentence. But things aren’t quite the same as they were a year and a half ago when I started this blog.
I’m still a mess, but not quite as messy as I was. I haven’t had a drink in a month, and I have no plans to go back to my debauchery anytime soon. And I’m certainly not spending any time in dude’s beds right now.
To be honest, my life is boring. My life is so boring and I so love it.
I’m trading in my excitement for enchantment.
I have exciting moments coming up. A fantastic birthday weekend with my favorite girls, a road trip to Nashville, and next summer a MOVE to Nashville. But they’re blips in my boring day to day.
Now my days revolve around cooking, drinking tea, working, working out, writing as much as I possibly can. I read books by people much smarter than me and listen to music that makes me want to be better for the crazy hard profession I’m trying to break into.
There’s not much excitement in the day to day. There’s a lot of hard work, a ton of sacrifice, and a lot of monotony…but not too much excitement.
So I’ve had to find ways to be enchanted.
I learn lessons from words of wisdom written on teabags. I think about how incredibly lucky I am to have a job that allows me to go be fun and silly and exciting for awhile and still be allowed the time to write lyrics and blog posts by candle light. I bask in the fact that I can turn my phone off or let the battery run out and not be fearful of what I’m missing out on.
My circle of friends is very small and very real. I sometimes can’t even believe how lucky I am to have friends who know to follow up after a text message and say things like, “Oh, shit. That probably sent your anxiety through the roof. Sorry.” They also know how to pull me out of a moment and be honest with me, telling me my anxiety is getting the best of me without making me feel like an asshole weirdo.
I’m enchanted by the fact that I have two new little babies in my life to be Auntie Cass to, and that their mommies and daddies are some of my favorite people in the world. I’m grateful every single day to be at a point where having time alone is something I can revel in without feeling as if I’m too introverted or lonely or unloved.
I’m thankful that I can be without the guy I want to be with and not let it debilitate me or send me into a codependent spiral where I chase and cling and feel worthless without him.
I’m far from who I want to be, but I’m even farther from who I don’t want to be. And if that means finding blustery fall days of raindrops on pavement and swirling leaves more enchanting than the regrettable excitement that comes with trading stories of who I drunkenly texted last night…then I’m happy to turn in my heels for slippers.
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