When you're 6 years old, a wildly creative imagination takes you places. Two hundred acres of soybeans, pasture, and antique farm equipment is not only a playground, but a kingdom! Your imaginary farmboy says "As you wish" to your every command, and you ARE Princess Buttercup. We made fortresses out of bales of hay (when Grandpa wasn't looking), pretended to fly when jumping off the roof of the barn, convinced ourselves that certain hills had magical powers, and like Peter Pan, had no intention (or realization) of growing up.
When you're 16 years old, a wild imagination determines the places you want to go. I wanted to study in Spain, attend private school in an "exotic" place, like Louisville, Kentucky at Bellermine University. I worked and spent my hard earned dollars on dishes and furniture, hoarding household goods and carefully planning my escape. Life did not have to be miles away...it just simply had to be my own, and my dream would be complete.
When you're 26 years old, a wild imagination leaves you disappointed. By this time, you have a life that is your own. You might be sharing a life with someone, a partner to sail through murky waters together. Sometimes, by a twist of fate or niche in our Lord's Master Plan, you have experienced tragedy that had left you alone again. In my case, this leaves you alone (and okay with it), but this imagination can get the best of you. If I had no imagination, I would be sitting alone with Ben and Jerry, watching television like Bridget Jones. Unfortunately, I do have this cruel imagination....which leaves me expecting the phone to ring any minute with a friend calling that I haven't heard from in ages. This, is impossible, because in four moves, I have changed my number six times, and (in)advertently made it impossible to keep track of me, even for relatives.
So it's 8 AM on Tuesday morning. I was supposed to be on vacation this week but agreed to work. Fate has stepped in and I have lost my voice, therefore did not go into the office. My body is weak with fever, severe sore throat, and crippled with a bad attitude. I'm cuddled on the couch in the pink nightgown my Grandma gave me on last trip to Indiana. If I wasn't used to caring for someone with chronic illness, my hypochondria (root cause: imagination) and WEBMD would lead me to believe I have Epiglittitus, thyroid cancer, or possibly a hiatel hernia. My rational self beats out my imagination and I know I simply have bad luck. This is NOT a case of karma.....or if it is, it would have to be the case that I, in a previous life, was a total raving BITCH, and karma is just swinging it's way back around to me. (I don't believe in the previous lives thing...just saying.)
I'm disappointed, this morning, because my imagination combined with the constant state of irony I live in, leaves me expecting a surprise visitor, bringing popsicles, comfort food (Cracker Barrel's hashbrown casserole), and immunity that would allow them to sit on the other end of the couch and share the blankets and make me laugh without contracting my bad luck themself. This too, like the surprise phone call, is impossible because strangely enough, the only person who actually knows where I live is the (ever-continuing) oat-sower who is the only person to visit me here thus far. (NOTE: I am immune to those oats, as I spent the majority of that relationship not having any oats, while he had free flowing oats to spare.)
I'm tired now....and going to crash out again. Will update if medication + imagination + subconscience = wild dreams worth repeating.
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