Visceral Me vs. Rudimentary Self

I love my little modern luxuries like the next girl: my Clarisonic Skin Brush (which by the way will rock your face off), the Christian Louboutin online look-book, Botox that doesn't kill you, the freedom to stalk people you don't even know on social networking sites without judgment or ever getting caught... the list could go on for days. I also love being a grown-up: going to bed after midnight on a Tuesday, short skirts, downloading songs with explicit lyrics (no permission required), having licorice for supper, etc.

So there's that side of me that's shallow and materialistic and just generally relieved to have made it to twenty-seven without incident and glad that at the end of the day I can turn on the TV and drink a glass of wine, but then there's this side (the one that's blogging ridiculous titles like "Visceral Me vs. Rudimentary Self") that feels underwhelmed and disappointed that I'm somehow surviving on the meaningless - like eating Rice Cakes. Surviving on the things that mute my heart and soul. I start to feel like they are an enemy that intentionally muffles the still, small, voice that only speaks when you're listening and asks, "Do you know yourself?"

Blink... Blink...

I know what the visceral me wants and *thinks* she's capable of, but do I know the rudimentary me anymore? Ya know, the me that used to be certain of everything and doubtful of nothing? The undiluted kid version of myself; potent, raw and full-bodied.

If I could return to 1994 with a bottle and capture one-tenth of the determination and knowing I had (time travel info) as a feisty, unusual, unstoppable ten-year old sitting in the upstairs loft of our Wyoming abode, writing in a Lisa Frank notebook (in my neatest penmanship and with absoluteness) a list of all that I would accomplish in my grand life, my inner voice could have moved on to another question by now: "What are you waiting for?"

Any time I start these self-exams, the small, still, humble voice is able to speak a little louder. I feel the ten-year-old version of myself perk up and inhaling deeply say, "She's remembering -- she's coming back! She won't let anyone sway her or swindle her or defeat her or discourage her now. Nope."

I'm not saying I had it all figured out when I was 10 (turns out not all boys are icky and eventually sweet tarts would make me gag when I ate more than five), but I was dedicated to the task at hand... I had auto-pilot dedication to my rudimentary material - the cloth I was cut out of.

One thing I've always been is laid-back; more energy than a terrier, but easygoing. I still love all of the little pacifiers I listed above, but I don't want to allow them to mute the little voice. That little Carolina accented voice has some really good things to say -- and a Lisa Frank notebook that probably has the best ideas I've ever had.