Stuck in a Rut

When I was a little girl I imagined that I would grow up to be a fabulous fashionista career woman living in a big city like Chicago or New York. And I was headed in that direction. I had a career in fashion in my early to mid-twenties in Chicago. I was making a name for myself. I had even purchased an incredibly chic loft apartment in what was originally a pencil factory. Life was good. But it wasn't. I was lonely. I worked anywhere from 50-70 hours a week and the only socializing I was doing was with the up-and-comers at the Gap. We were a small entourage to the Regional VP, all of us hoping to "out fabulous" one another in order to move ahead. We were all exhausted and in desperate need of a healthy meal but we trudged along like good little soldiers and met up at whatever bar she had "discovered" that day.

Sometimes I thought I might bump into my handsome prince at one of our locales. He'd be sitting at the bar rubbing his neck after a rough day in the court room. Because of course he'd be a lawyer. I mean, right? And then he'd turn to leave and s
pot me, sitting at the back corner of our table for 8. My face would be nestled in the empty popcorn basket because, let's face it, I was too tired to shine this night and my 20 ounce beer put me to the bad. He would walk over to our table, extend his hand to me and say, "You look like you need to be saved.". And I would raise my head, a couple of popcorn kernels would fall off of my face, and I would say, "Yes. Yes I do.". I would take his hand as he guided me to the door. Everyone in the bar would of course be giving us a standing ovation. And we would jump into his Jaquar XJS and ride off into the sunset. The end.

Well, it didn't quite happen this way. Instead I decided that the only way I was ever going
to find "a life" was to move back home. That and if I didn't get away from the traffic that I endured on a daily basis I was bound to kill someone. Or be killed due to my reckless, um, use of vocabulary with my fellow commuters.

So home I came. And am. And here I find myself, today, stuck in "traffic" on Morton Ave. "Yes please, Farmer Ted, move at a glacial pace. It pleases me so."
"Who is that man, mom?", my 9 year old asks.
"Who?"
"That guy. Farmer Ted. Do we know him?"
"Oh no, honey. I was just calling him that because, well, it's, um...it's what Molly Ringwald's character in 16 Candles called this kid that was bugging her."
"Who's Molly Ringwald?"
Sigh. "I'll tell you later."
I have about a dozen or so topics that I need to discuss with my son "later"...why gum takes 7 years to digest, why Britney Spears lip syncs, what hotdogs are made of and why do I get a "special week" every month, just to name a few. I just haven't found the proper time to open the floor up for these discussions. Anyways...

OK, so my life is not quite so glamorous as I had once hoped.  But as little girls we tend to have rather grand dreams of how our lives will pan out.  I mean, I could have followed my dream, stuck with the plan and I would probably have that big brillian career in fashion in the big city.  And, I would probably be walking around in Christian Leboutin pumps, GAP skinny jeans and a Kelly bag slung on my arm.  I'd look fabulous, but would I be happy?  Maybe.  But I'm pretty sure everything happens for a reason. 

I have a darling home, beautiful healthy children and family and friends that I can connect with in a matter of minutes.  I even still have a career in fashion.  Well, sort of.  I think my life is pretty darn fabulous after all.  And I'll take a traffic jam on Morton Ave. vs. one on the Kennedy Expressway any day of the week, thank you very much.