I had a great weekend. Not because anything spectacular happened per se -- in fact, it had the makings of being quite dreadful. The youngest is still sick, and that coupled with her I-am-going-to-get-what-I-want-or-else-I-will-have-a-complete-meltdown-terrible-twos, meant that it could have been a LONG, horrific weekend. And yet I managed to ignore the negativity. Instead, I found myself floating through the weekend, weightless and carefree. Nothing was going to get me down. And why is that?
Because I felt happy. Unexplainably, undeniably, and inextricably happy. And now I am addicted.
I can't put my finger quite on it. Regular happy moments interspersed throughout the day is normal for me. But a prolonged euphoric state is not. And I know that there is something out of the ordinary when, at a party yesterday, my husband knocked over my drink and it spilled all over my pants. Take that situation any other day at a party, and you could be certain that I would be at least slightly irritated and embarrassed. But all I did (other than try to dry myself off as much as possible) was smile and say "wow". I may have even laughed. I just didn't care. Nothing was going to get me down.
Now, I don't want anyone thinking that, in general, I am an unhappy person. That is not what I am getting at. I love my life. But feeling constantly happy and type-B no matter what obstacles present themselves, is not characteristic of my true nature. It is pretty well known that I am a classic type-A Virgo who stresses quite easily. And yet here I am, ready and willing to betray my inner self, searching for greener, I'm-on-top-of-the-world, pastures. And for all you naysayers out there, I leave you with this -- so what if it isn't realistic? I can dream, can't I?
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