I drew these pictures about 5 years ago. At the time, I thought I’d lost a whole swath of ground in the life I was wading through. I missed my briefcase, big paycheck, expensive haircut, snazzy shoes (all 96 pair), long eyelashes and my manicured nails. I hated that I was now a frump of a primary caregiver for my aging father, my brother with Down’s syndrome and Alzheimer’s disease; with no prospects beyond laundry, dishes, cooking and chauffeuring, living in the basement like the crazy aunt I was about to become.
Just now I feel differently. The sleek woman in the Bicci suit, Evan Picone silk blouse and three-toned snakeskin heels was a construct; an automaton who was wound daily by external ciphers. Bosses, significant or unworthy others, ersatz friends, acquaintances, all turned the crank that caused me to speak, act, dress, perform. I could be bought for a company car and an expense account. I drank too much because that’s what the boys did and I wanted to fit. I gave my personal power away with every move I made.
Look at that after me! I am fully engaged in the moment. I am cavorting (er, standing) in harmony with nature in a blizzard, swearing my ass off, with my father’s unlaced boots on, my pajama bottoms, no makeup, and a surly yapping dog who may or may not be French. Now I see me truly. My eyes are open. I’ve got laundry in the dryer, my soup stock cooling on the back porch. I am writing, which I love. Scott is latching his hook rug I started for him, which he loves. Dad has golf that he loves on TV and a chai latte in his hand, and excuse me a moment, my buzzer just went off. I have to go take the cake out of the oven.