Boots And Tattoos

It’s been near freezing the past few mornings in Åstorp. Lawns are frosted in glimmering icy dew; my nose resembles a Popsicle when I first wake. I’m no longer in San Diego.

I’m in Sweden during Christmas. That’s where I am.

But this morning was slightly different. Same icy dew, same cold nose but the air was warmer. My breathing wasn’t as labored. I was tingling. I was…happy.

Whoa.

I paused. I woke up like this? (Inner Beyoncé channeled.) That’s possible? How’s that possible? Because according to the long list of items with which responsible adults carefully measure success daily, I shouldn’t be happy at all. I have nothing of worth materially nor do I have financial stability. Zip, zero, nada.

Holy-fuck-what-the-fuck-am-I-going-to-do nothing.

Hmmm. I have nothing, I thought. That’s very true. “You should be scared, bunny wabbit, vewy, vewy scared,” I tell myself.

I sit down and wait for the fear to take over. And I wait.

Yeah. I’m not afraid. Should I be? I’m waiting.

Dawn hits the glimmering icy dew and then it dawns on me: I have everything I need. And that warm air wraps itself around me, continuing to make me tingle.

I have me. I have a brain. I have common sense and education and experience and knowledge to drop. I have love in my life. I have faith. I have confidence. I have a big mouth and an even bigger heart. I have words. I have ideas. I have…

Boots and tattoos. They make me feel sexy as hell. They’re my brick and mortar. They’re my reminder that I can do anything, overcome any obstacle; build out my dreams and desires.

Truth be told, I giggled after that. I like this happiness thing.

And, by the way, I’m done with this nothing conversation. It’s so past, so…2015.