Clearly defining who I “am” (yes, imagine me make air-quotes for emphasis) may be what my ego pretends to be doing in this race around the universe inside my head, but it consistently tosses Molotov bottle-rockets disguised as things I “am not” (more air-quotes) into my survivor’s back-pack.
I am not currently capable of sustained attention spans of longer than a few minutes.
I am not looking forward to the Arthur remake. (Sorry – just saw the commercial. See? Already proving first point.)
I am not to be trusted to not tell you the right way to do something.
I am not worry-free. Not. Ever.
I am not able to answer “yes” or “no” questions with a single word.
I am not a good listener. My ears are not ever free of a high frequency sound wave apocalypse and my mind does not like to sit around its own or anyone else’s neighborhood too long.
I am not able to get where I am going without having a mad, hurried dash at the end.
I am not nearly as trusting and forthright as I would have you think I am. But I am not going to tell you that.
I am not someone who gives up easily unless faced with certain, disruptive conflict creating what is not comfortable for me. Or a hang-nail – whichever comes first.
I am not a fan of the back-stab, overly-arrogant-superior-attitude-poorly-faked-to-hide-a-crumbling-attempt-at-knowing-what-the-hell-is-going-on persona, or the comb-over.
I am not patient when it comes to driving, grocery shopping or anything that has to do with the betterment of my body, mind or soul.
I am not able to eat just one Lays potato chip.
I am not finished grieving the loss of anyone I have loved. Any. One.
I am not a fashionista.
I am not watching, now or ever, American Idol, The Bachelor or The Bachelorette. There. I’ve said it.
I am not book-smart nor am I able to learn how to do anything by only reading about it.
I am not enjoying the transition from reproductive vessel to wise crone.
I am not letting go of much of anything without leaving a mark that may or may not sting upon contact with saltwater.
I am not afraid of God. Yours or Mine. Anymore.
I am not so many more innumerable things stuffed into the hidden pockets of ego-maniacal gray matter.
I am also not going to allow what my ego thinks I should not be complete my definition of me.
I am, after all, me.