You never think it will happen somewhere as banal as a supermarket queue, this self-acceptance thing, but it does. It happens when you’re standing there in rolled up jeans and a holey jumper with chipped nail polish and hair all awry behind the perfect woman, who on a Sunday afternoon is turned out immaculately with perfect makeup and blow dried hair and an outfit that could come straight from the pages of Cosmo and you don’t feel like any less of a person for it.
I’m not a woman who wears heels and skirts and who spends time curling her hair. I roll out of bed into the nearest thing I can find, twist my hair out of the way because I can’t be bothered brushing it when I know it’ll be a tangled mess in half an hour anyway and power into the day. I’m cool with that.
I’ve got chipped nail polish and my fingers and my toes don’t match … and often my socks don’t match and I forget to do the washing until I run out of clothes. I have holes in my socks and holes in my shoes and perpetually have wet feet. I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head where my keys are or if I did the thing you asked me to. The best answer you’re going to get is probably. Deal with it.
I have piles of half-read books all over the place and socks down the back of the sofa from all the times I fell asleep and forgot to get up and go to bed. I push myself beyond the bounds of human endeavour and then crash for days. I couldn’t tell you the time but I could tell you a story. Perhaps about the time I went on holiday to Morocco and got propositioned halfway up a cliff. It’s okay. It’s just how I’m made.
Yes, I talk in metaphors and allegory and quite often round and round in cirlces until I can’t even remember where the starting point was let alone where I’m headed. I’m a dreamer, a creator, a storyteller. It’s my job to have unrealistic aspirations. It’s built-in contingency for making dreams come true. I’m a pragmatist too if you’d only listen.
I’m a wandering half-breed, gypsy mistrel adventurer. The horizons call to me and the winds whisper and sometimes I dream I can hear the strains of music from far distant shores that are carried in with it. I don’t rightly believe in home. I’ve never been anchored anywhere long enough to justify the title. Instead I consider myself at home when I’m immersed in the journey, when the possibilities are endless and that glorious horizon’s there, just waiting for me. I’m not powerfully driven by stuff. I don’t mind small spaces and attic rooms.I don’t need more than that and that’s okay too.