The Incredible Floating Family

I know I probably have you all well-trained NOT to check my blog on the weekends, but now I'm all goal-happy, so I'm posting every day. And it turns out I lay out some serious plans on Saturdays and rethink those plans on Sundays. Quel shock.

And here we are Monday. Exhausted after a sleepless weekend because I'm stressing about my frickin' condo. But energized from a mind-blowingly good talk with my family.

See, I have the kind of family where you need to have your shit together. At all times, you should know what is happening with your career, your relationship, your real estate holdings, your investments and the contents of your refrigerator. And at all times, all of these things should be getting better, not worse.

At least that's how I've felt for the past thirty-odd years.

Being a creative-type in a family of scientists has not helped in the Having My Shit Together department. Especially since I've been trying desperately to fit into some half-assed hybrid state of having a full-time job while feeling fulfilled creatively. Which, of course, hasn't worked. So, I end up quitting job after job and looking like a real flake.

(Not to mention the fact that I bring up "The Universe" as a viable decision-making strategy in a family for which logic is the tool in the drawer.)

So, imagine my surprise and secret delight at hearing, one by one, all of my family members reveal how completely and totally OUT of control they are. My two sisters, my mom. Even my super-high-functioning, intimidatingly successful father is a little unsure. We're all in the same boat. No, we're OUT of the boat. Bobbing. Dog paddling. In a vast ocean of confusion.

On a Sunday afternoon, we all lifted up our skirts to reveal the swirling chaos we've been working so hard to hide from each other.

I finally told these people that I've been living Plan B for ten years and it's not working. And at 32 years of age (my saving years!), it's time I tried Plan A. So I'm selling my stuff and taking off to Paris.

I was so afraid of being judged. But the opposite happened. I felt lifted up by support. And I think that was because we all have something in common – we're all uncertain. Not one of us knows what's going to happen in six months. Where we'll be living, what we'll be doing, how we'll be paying for it. No clue. All of us have realized that The Way We Thought Things Would Go is vastly different from The Way They Went. All of us are hanging by our fingernails in limbo, hoping it all turns out okay.

How bloody refreshing.

My mom has a funny habit of blurting out usually-ridiculous bits of wisdom in the middle of regular conversation. For years we've been writing down things like, "You can't sue from the grave," and compiling them into booklets of what we call Momisms. I think we're working on Volume 3.

But yesterday, as I tearfully explained why Normal wasn't going to work for me even though I've tried, she came up with one that doesn't seem to fit with sayings like "Dijon mustard is a multimedia experience."

"Mel," she said, handing me my seventh Kleenex. "Normal is a myth."