DOLL2THEWALL

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Re-invention. (AKA Yes, I changed my name again.)

Friday, September 09, 2011

emoticonPhrase: balls to the wall
emoticonMeaning: to go "all out", full throttle, usually in pursuit of a goal or challenge
emoticonOrigin: aviation (no, not a man's dangly bits)

I always liked this phrase. Not really sure why it resonates with me, but it always represented determination. Power. Masculinity. (For obvious reasons, I guess, but maybe that's just because I have a mind that works in that direction.)


emoticonWord: doll
emoticonMeaning: A small model of a human figure, often one of a baby or girl, used as a child's toy

I loved playing with dolls as a kid. (I loved playing with Matchbox cars, too, but whatever.) Dolls could be whatever you wanted them to be. Did you want this little miniature representation of your "when I grow up" self to be Happy Homemaker one day, and a motorcycle-riding astronaut the next? No problem. The only limitations for your doll were YOUR imagination. (And maybe your doll's clothing choices. My happy homemaker wore pink plastic knee high go-go boots. She was far out like that.)


So I'm at this weird place in my life. I've made very large progress in some areas but, unfortunately, it's come at the expense of my previous progress in others (like shrinking my ass). I have all this "freedom" now. I don't have a schedule except for work, I don't have any real obligations... so what do I do with myself? Who am I? What do I want? I'm in the smack-dab center of a four way intersection with no other traffic for miles, and I have no idea which way to turn. My brain says I need to move on and move forward, but towards WHAT? Who do I want my doll to be today? Some days, she's a reality TV and junk food junkie. Some days, she's Martha Motherloving Stewart. Some days, she teaches herself to play piano while entertaining fantasies of becoming a songwriter. Some days, she's a neurotic sobbing self-loathing mess. Some days, all she can do is look in the rear-view mirror at the up-and-coming athlete she was morphing into, and long for those days while the athlete gets smaller and farther and smaller and farther.

No. Farking. More. Of. This.

Why do I have to decide? Why limit myself? ("We girls can do anything! Right, Barbie?")

I'm a doll. I can be whoever I want, and I'm at a good point in my life to do it. I don't have to decide to do ONE thing and needlessly sacrifice everything else I ever wanted for myself. I can be the person I wanted to grow up to be. And I'm going balls to the wall to get there. I have this image of a sweaty, fit, sexy thirty-something, parkouring and blazing her way over-around-and-through every single challenge that comes her way. A wall, big or
small, is no obstacle. She's unstoppable.

"But," I said to myself, upon deciding on this identity shift, "isn't an image of a woman up against a wall a little... disturbing? Scary? Self-defeating?"

Aw, HELL no. Because what do you do when your back's against a wall? Do you cry and snot and sniffle and crumble to the ground and give up? Ok sure, maybe you do. (I did, for awhile.) But what's the only way away from that wall? You FIGHT your way out. You get in the face of whatever is bothering you and tell it to back the hell up, and then come out swinging.

Well guess what? I'm swinging, and I'm not stopping until my stupid internal demons are down for the count. I'm not a doormat, I'm not a wallflower, I'm nobody's whipping girl. I'm a doll to the wall, and I'm full speed ahead.

(And I've named my new apartment The Dollhouse, just as a reminder.)
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