When Mr. Possibility and I visited my family in North Carolina earlier this summer, I felt bad for him. Being the doting parents of an only child, my mother and father couldn’t resist the opportunity to show him at least one home video. They have records of everything I’ve ever done, a “wall” of fame for my journalism and pageant awards, plus diplomas and they still carry around a photo of me to show strangers.
I’d say it’s embarrassing, but it’s really just quite adorable. Mr. Possibility thought so too, especially after he had a few drinks. That seems to be the magic solution of surviving Lindsay as an energetic, defiant, and talkative toddler. While I’ve only grown a few feet and inches since then, my attitude is roughly the same. I’m still optimistic and too independent for my own good.
This was illustrated by my third birthday party, when my cousin attempted to help me unwrap a present and while sporting pink bows and a frilly dress, demanded: “I do it myself!”
That’s basically how I’ve felt all week – I’ve wanted to do it all, all by myself. I go through stages really, where I want to be around my friends or Mr. P constantly. Sometimes I crave company as badly as I do pizza at 3 a.m. on Friday nights – but at other times, there is no place I’d rather be than alone. In those moments or days, I don’t text as much, I appear invisible on Gchat, I don’t comment or update the Book of Faces as often, and I spent time working on my personal to-do list of things that really aren’t that vital. Like at-home pedicures, color-coordinating my closet, attempting a difficult recipe, or finding books to sell at Strand and clothes to give dollars for at Buffalo Exchange.
And when I’m really ambitious, as I was last night, I take on a day-long task at 7 p.m. at night. While giving my room a thorough cleaning, I decided on the fly that I was bored of the layout and wanted to rearrange. So with Pandora blasting in my fuzzy pink socks, sweatpants and sports bra, I moved my dresser, desk, bed, and bookshelf single-handedly. At one point I was cornered with no place to go and had to become Spidey-like to climb over top my furniture, while praying Ikea wouldn’t let me down with its flimsy durability. I replaced photos in frames, restructured my getting-ready-in-the-morning setup, threw out shoes that saw their last day years ago, and finally concluded that I’ll never be a 34A again, so holding onto training bras probably is a waste of space.
Around midnight, when my room makeover was complete, I stood in awe at my work. And of the change.
That little bit of reorganization makes everything look different and feel fresher. It makes me cleaner for a few weeks and gives me a new appreciation for the apartment and roommates I was lucky to find. And though I’d say most anyone reading this blog could do the same in their own space, I thoroughly enjoy the feeling of doing something by myself. I’m no Southern Belle who poses as a damsel in distress, but a young woman who would rather be sore and filthy than to rely on anyone to do the things I can do without help.
It’s that mentality, I think, that gets me far – in my career and in my love life. Accepting myself as an independent, as someone who can do most things she sets her mind to has given me the confidence to go after those things that seem unreachable. To push harder, to believe in my abilities, and to take responsibility for both my successes and my failures. It’s made me a product of my own doing – capable of not only being the person I want to be, but doing those things that others have said I can’t or have tried to do for me. Perhaps it make me a little much to handle in a relationship, but if a guy can’t hold his own while dating me – there’s an express train a few blocks away and I’ll provide the $2.25 he’ll need to catch it.
If someone else wants to come along the journey, they’re welcome to – just don’t slow me down or instruct me how to walk or to talk,, what to see or how to be. Because as I promised over twenty years ago, I’ll do it myself and I’ll be damn happy about it.