I’ve Become My Own Worst Nightmare
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Image by Bill Lapp via Flickr
My mother was right. About everything. And if you ever tell her I said that, I may have to kill you.
I wasn’t always the upstanding, hard-working, settled-down, home-owning, pinnacle of the American dream that I am today. And yet, that’s exactly what my mother predicted, even as I was sneaking out all night, smoking, throwing parties, and piercing body parts that aren’t easily visible in everyday clothing.
My rebellion started after my mom sent my brother to live with our dad and forced him to relinquish his troublemaker badge of honor. I picked it up, dusted it off, and gave it the best run ever. I was rebelling against everything I found to be mainstream: office jobs, pearls, kids, marriage, and any other kind of socially-accepted lifestyle. Worst of all, I’m pretty sure I permanently corrupted my younger brother.
My mother has one small tattoo on her hip. I went levels beyond. Today, everyone can see my rebellion plastered right there on my forearm. And my back. And my hips. And my thigh. Never did I contemplate how looking like I belonged on the back of a motorcycle would affect job prospects, social interaction, or even the person I ended up marrying.
I stopped caring about school. Not to the point of complete and utter failure, but just enough so that the assistant principal was on a first-name basis with Mom. I still had plans to attend college, but never once thought beyond the typical in-state arts college.
Children were out of the picture. Marriage, a dream that belonged on afternoon sitcoms or bridal magazines.
I was living my life as though the story that had no ending. No regrets, no consequences, and no clue. Continue reading 'I’ve Become My Own Worst Nightmare'»
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