Life Is A Rocky Road, And We're Not Talking Ice Cream Here

 Life's a rocky road sometimes, and it's our duty as human beings to roll with the punches, go with the flow, run with the bulls, do whatever it takes, turn that frown into a smile. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Enough of that crapola.

Life is a rocky road much of the time, it sucks the big wazoo, and there are many times a day I wish I could simply do a do-over, like, from before the moment I was conceived in the godforsaken womb that unfortunately turned out to be my mother's.

So, I was given the short end of the stick in the childhood family department. Boo hoo for me.

I used to be all about feeling sorry for myself, and I guess I still go down that road more often than I should, but I'm much better than I used to be. At least, I think I am. I'd better ask my family and get back to you on that, because chances are I have a rather skewed view of such things. In fact, I know I do, just as I do about how small and cute I think my nose is, or how smooth and supple my buttocks are.

Nowadays, I tend to feel sorry for myself, not because of the rotten childhood I feel I had, but because I have reached a time in my life that isn't making much sense to me. Here I am, probably more than midway through my life, and I am lost. Lost like I've never been lost before.

I'm not lost in the literal sense, although Mr. Handsome would probably beg to differ. Apparently, I'm not the best navigator. Whatever. Highway 31 and Highway 16 are very easy to mix up.

I am, however, lost in the eternal, what-is-my-life-really-about way. You see, ever since I was a wee one, I knew I wanted to be a writer. That's it. Writing was my be-all and end-all. I would spend all my free and waking hours sitting on the couch, typewriter on my lap, writing story after story. I loved the worlds I created when I wrote. My dad would bring rolls of paper home from work for me so that I was never lacking. I lived in my newly created worlds, and they brought me some semblance of peace in my otherwise brutal reality.

So, I eventually became a writer, and worked for a variety of newspapers and magazines. And then I had Dee, and my world as I knew it ended. Cancer does that to a person.

Once Dee was out of the woods and we could once again start seeing life in a better light, I found myself grasping for something -- anything -- in an effort to re-invent myself. I couldn't focus enough to write.

So, instead, I did other things. I opened a daycare and ran it for six years. I became a Realtor and spent a few years stumbling there. Through it all, however, I didn't feel entirely fulfilled. I wasn't getting any younger, and what had I really done with my life that meant something, other than becoming the best mother I could possibly be to my two beautiful children?

I am now at a crossroads. I'm definitely not old, but I'm sure not a spring chicken either. And I've decided I want to do something that means something in the grand scheme of things, something that can maybe make a difference in someone's life besides my own. I want to give back to society, because, to me, that's what this life's all about.

So, I'm applying to college. That's right. I'm going to try and go back to school to learn a new trade. Either practical nursing or paramedic, because I've always been extremely interested in all things medicine, and what better way to give back to the world than to help those in the most need? I'm too old to actually go to med school to become a full-fledged doctor, because by the time I'd actually graduate, I'd have to become my own personal physician because I'd be moving into a nursing home with my walker and false teeth. Both the practical nursing and paramedic courses are two-year stints, which I could handle, and which this family could handle financially (well, not really).

My younger brother is a paramedic, so if he can do it, so can I. At least, that's how my pea brain justifies it. Unfortunately, he and I are not on speaking terms, so discussing things with him will never happen. And I know my older brother, Adonis, and his wife, Wood Nymph, who read this blog faithfully, are probably shaking their heads right now and dialing 911 to try and get me some help.

I'm not sure if I'll even be accepted into college, because for some reason, they want Grade 12 Chemistry (who the hell needs that, I ask??!) so if I have to take that course and play with Bunsen burners and beakers, I don't know if I'll get out of the classroom alive. I've been known to singe the eyebrows off classmates in the past. And husbands.

I'm also doing some writing, forcing proposals on to magazine editors and shoving them down their throats, but always with a smile on my face. I'm also on my way to writing for Suite101.com, and maybe even for Examiner.com.

I'll let you know how things go. At this rate, I'll probably end up working nights at the Tim Horton's handing out krullers and lukewarm coffee to the neighbourhood freaks.