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Heart of Dixie says. . . . it’s out choices, Harry.

Dumbledore is right of course.  It is our choices, far more than our abilities, define who we truly are.  It’s a phrase I have preached ad nauseaum to my girls.  It’s our choices.  It’s our choices.

And, so here I am, deeply imbued with the day-after-Christmas blues, beating myself with the phrase, “It’s our choices, Harry.”  Dammit, Dumbledore, I know, but sometimes I need a pity party.

It is our choices.  I could live in the half-million dollar house in the burbs.  I could have the closet as big as a baby’s nursery and a jacuzzi tub if I hadn’t made certain choices.  But here I am stuffed in an attic room.  Why?  Well, I have a nice roommate.  One who is a fine Christian gal.  God, Himself, put me here via a freak fire which destroyed nothing (another story).  Still I have the pity party.  God is good to me, yet I want more.   Sad.

Would I go back to get it?  Not in a million years.  There is no way.  In fact I really don’t understand how I ended up married to him. It was like Jim Carey in that movie asking God for a sign.  So many signs, but I ignored them all.  Ignoring is another choice.  I stayed with him as long as I could, another choice.  I stayed home with my kids and killed my career, another choice.  But those are socially acceptable choices.  I don’t beat myself up about those.

I also walked away from it all (it’s not like my name was on the house anyway).  Walking away is an unacceptable choice which lands one in the attic room of a generous friend.  That choice is the one is that people mourn and are embarrassed about.  That choice is the reason I have a hard time including my love in family things . . . with certain family.  With others (who saw my bad choices from the beginning) Scott has always been a blessing.  But it’s hard.  People love the people they think they know.  Figments of their imagination, kind of like Ashley Wilkes. People love the dream of a thing while someone else has to live through the reality.

Anyway, here I am.  Bemoaning my choices – all of them, except leaving…..I am sorry about when I left. Wish I had done so much, much earlier, but there are family and religious mores which quell all of that…..well, kids are home.  Gotta run.  The pity party has run its course in the face of hungry teenagers. 🙂