My mother says I talk too fast. A little over 10 years ago, I remember hearing back from mom after leaving a message for her. (The good ol’ home phone, still kicking since 1978):
Honey, I’ve been your mother for 30 years and I still cannot understand you on the answering machine!
Mom isn’t the only one who says I talk fast. If the words, thoughts, ideas, and excitements that run through my brain in a 24 hour period were Olympic track athletes, they’d win gold for being the fastest, every single day. “You must be from The North” is a regular (correct) assumption, and “You should take some valium/smoke some weed/lay off the coffee” are regular suggestions as well.
If they only knew I worked for Red Bull during my 20’s and never even needed or drank the stuff to be a part of the Mobile Energy Team! (I did actually have a few vodka Red Bull cocktails that time our boss showed up in a limo fully stocked for a night out. Free drinks, friends, and a fancy car with a hired sober driver. I had my moment feeling like a Hollywood kid on prom night.)
I think I’ve been asked if I was on a speedball about 55,000 times.
I have the opposite of writers block. Too many words and too much energy I’ve been told. When I sit down to write here, there are so many things I want to say, and so many opinions, life hacks, thoughts, and ramblings I want to share, that I start, and my writing goes in 100 directions because I’ve waited too long. (Translation; not allowed myself the time/not taken the time, fallen into workaholic mode again, not shut my cell phone off enough, taken care of everyone else first, etc.) So my posts (book) end up in my drafts folder.
That friggin drafts folder!
It’s your own fault, sister.
As I call myself out publicly here again, for not gifting myself nearly enough time to do what I love the most until I start bursting at the seams, I hope you’ll take a little quiet time to think about what’s eating you up inside, and figure out a way to start feasting.
My favorite silent moments to recalibrate are during sunset each night:
(Yes, those are flowers in a vintage Cowboys juice glass. You’ll have to ask me about that time I married a huge Dallas fan.)
I’m stuck, but still sprinting…to help others. The irony! Here goes another swing at the bat for helping myself. Practice makes perfect.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! I know you might not always understand my fast messages, but you always totally get me. I love you!
#TodayIsTheDay #StartDriving #LifeOutsideTheDroneZone