You May Say I’m A Dreamer

I’m generally content with myself. This makes a lot of people angry. It’s not that I don’t acknowledge my faults, trust me, I know what they are. I’m kind of a dork. I don’t like to clean. When I get hurt I complain more than the kids. I drink too much pop even though I know it’s bad for me. I never shut up about new things I’m trying. I can’t keep up with the Kardashians. I like the band Fun. I talk about myself too much. (Hello, blogger.) Possibly, one of my worst traits, at least in the eyes of some, is to be so damn content with myself in spite of all these confessions and more. Misery loves company. Trite because it’s true. I’ve been there. I’ve been wallowing in self pity, trying to invite others to my pity party, and I recognize it when I see it. That’s why most insults don’t bother me much anymore. I haven’t really developed the thick skin you’d expect being the youngest child and only girl. My brothers could probably still reduce me to tears by telling me someone paid my parents to take me away or that my hair is actually men’s butt hair and that’s why it doesn’t behave correctly when it’s wet. I’m getting a little teary eyed just thinking about it. I cried watching Special Agent Oso the other day because he was alone for the holidays. I’m soft.

I’m also content. I know my weaknesses and my strengths, my mistakes and my triumphs and at the end of each day I know that I’m okay. My home is stable. My house is cozy. My kids are safe. My van is still moving forward and so am I. Some people like me, some people hate me and enough people love me. Just the way I am.

Happy Holidays. May they find you content, and if not, may you find contentment within yourself.

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