I had some amazing shit happen to me yesterday. I had one of those meetings that indicated that dreams really do come true, just maybe.
It was a meeting that happens in musicals: the participants were brilliant, open, generous, motivated and kind. The possibilities were endless. By the end, it would’ve been fitting for us to jump on top of the table, break out into a masterful Andrew Lloyd Webber song, while the other breakfast patrons did a coordinated dance with and on their chairs. It was a moment.
Afterwards, I went to my car, put my hands and head on my steering wheel and cried.
“Why me? Me? Me?!”
Had the meeting not gone well, I would have turned up the old school station, pumped Tupac and driven to my next destination without much thought.
I had to “Dr. Phil” my reaction. Sometimes, I just gotta look in the mirror and say, “Girlfriend, wat up wit-chu?”
Some of us (yes, I said “us” cause misery loves company and we are in this therapy session together) — anyway, as I was saying before I rudely interrupted myself (yep, definitely crazy), some of us are more comfortable with the struggle than with receiving the prize. We handle marching down the yellow brick road like a champ, but can barely hold ourselves together when we reach Oz and realize that we had it in us all along. It’s not until we reach our destination that our too tight, shiny red shoes start to ache.
We aren’t accustomed to, or comfortable with, “great.” We dress and prepare for the battles, not for the celebrations.
I’d like to change that.
I would like to expect great. Actually, I’d like to expect for things to be freaking incredible. I want to keep my dancing shoes in the trunk of my car, expecting that at any moment, I may have to throw them on, jump on top of a table and dance until I’m sweaty.