There's No Place Like Home

Erickson would say that I am experiencing a normal life challenge, give me a reassuring pat on the back and go on his merry way. Yet he is long since dead and thus I am left to wonder how I got to where I'm currently located.

It all hit me quite suddenly at the beginning of last week. I was driving to work one evening and everything was going as usual. As I peeled onto Interstate 75 northbound and squeezed into the far left lane, I glanced up at the sign. I read it everyday, and it really should have no particular effect on me, but for whatever reason it just struck me differently. I blinked as if to clear a blur in my visual field and grabbed one last glimpse on the sign reading Chattanooga. Chattanooga, Tennessee. Have I lost every shread of sanity that I thought I once possessed? I live in the South! Just why exactly I was so dumbfounded I cannot say. This really was no new epiphany for me. I am fully aware of where I reside. But why?

On a more hilarious note, someone else asked me the same question a few days before this occurance. I was at the grocery store to buy a few things to make some dry beef gravy. I searched up and down all the aisles until I was so overcome with frustration that I found a sales associate and asked for some help. She very nonchalantly informed me that dried beef was in a can in the canned meat aisle. What? Why that was proposterous! I had never heard of such a thing. But sure enough, she escorted me down the aisle, and there it sat in all its beauty on the bottom self, in a can. Rather embarrassed, I headed for the check out. The cashier was rather young, some poor soul who was stuck working in food service until she graduated high school.
As I pulled my wallet out of my purse to pay she complimented me on the wallet itself. I kindly thanked her and then replied to her question of where I purchased it. I proceeded to tell her that I am not from here and that it was something that I got as a gift that was bought in Philadelphia, which is where I am from. She then leaned forward and whispered in a rather shocked manner, "What are you doing here?" I then told her that I went to school here at one time, which promted her to ask if I liked it here to which I said yes. Of course there are some things that you just will always miss, like the fact that our dried beef comes in a package and not a can. But to each his own. She still seemed a bit taken back that I was still living here or that I considered to come here at all from what she considered to be such an aewsome place. Of course I had to pop my collar as I left the store because I was filled with such pride to be able to say that I am from Philadelphia, but I digress.

Point being is that I am not so sure that I fit in here. I am not sure why I am here and if this is where I belong. I know that I have settled into a job and an apartment, but does that really mean that this is where I am supposed to be. Of course it does not help that Mom keeps trying to tell me that I need to come home and "This is where you belong. . . . . ."

Sigh. . . .I just don't know anymore, and quite frankly I'm too tired to try to figure it all out. Maybe you can help me. . . . .

Comp 101 - Real Life

For those truly interested in my life, I have taken on a new project. Most truthfully it really all began the other day when someone at work asked me what I do for fun or when I am not at the hospital. I hesitated at first, concerned for half a millisecond what impression this person might derive from my response. But after rethinking the situation the more nonchalant side of me kicked my mouth open and out spilled my answer. "I write." Of course the next question came about quite predictably. "What do you write?" It was then that I unfolded myself to my co-workers. Some sat in shock and amazement, while I choked down a whopping helping of insult, as if I wasn't clever or even intelligent enough to write poetry. But I digress.

It was thus that I was inspired to begin writing my book. Yes, you heard correctly, a book. And might I add in my own defense that if any other schmuck can sit down and write a book about oh let's say sex positions and make millions, then why should I limit myself from being added to the list of schmucks? Besides, there are a million better things to write about and I have found one that suits me quite nicely. What is it you ask? Well you see that is classified information at the present, something that I am not going to reveal until my artistic expression is completed. Currently I'm in the middle of chapter 2, and thus far I am quite pleased with my work. I've not only found this project beneficial at filling those empty spaces in my schedule, but it has also proven to be quite therapeutic as well. Have I caught your attention yet?