Some day I hope I can dare to be a little risque, live it up, wear some skimpy halter top, and cut off short shorts. I want to crank it up a bit, play the music loud and shake my butt while I wash my van out on the driveway. So what if it is almost October? The weather is warm – 19 degrees Celsius.
I swam in an unheated pool in Arizona in February. This would be a piece of cake. But the thing is I’m Miss Sensible Shoes. While Miss Halter Tops is shaking her vibes, I’m in my basement slicing Roma tomatoes for the dehyrater and listening to my meditation recordings. I’m a Muse rather than an agitator. What can I do? I am what I am. Maybe in my next lifetime I can let loose, be like Janis Joplin and scream, Cry baby, cry baby, cry baby…
Isn’t that a powerful voice? It has so much soul, Southern Comfort and cigarrettes in its timbre. It grinds into your very being. Her image is the very epitome of what my heart craves – being “the queen of psychedelic soul.”
It would be great if I could just loosen my hair, let it fall and be the wild child/woman that is hiding in my head. But here’s the thing. I am afraid to let her out, afraid of what she will do. She could go out of control. I hang on tight to my sensible self.
I lack courage – to be the best, the wildest, most creative person I could be. I am trapped, for now, in my heavy sensible shoes. I cannot take them off. I am trapped by my upbringing and tradition. But mostly, it is by my lack of self belief. I am Miss Coward, hiding in my sensible shoes.
I’m hoping that Janis’ music can take me up a notch or two. Maybe if I belt out the lyrics along with her, I can gain some spunk and style. So what if I am a very mature adult. My 70ish ex-neighbour used to tan in a bikini and wore red barrettes in her hair. It was not a pretty sight but hey, good for her! She was living her dreams.
I’m not asking to be that crazy or flamboyant. My hippy spirit just wants to be unchained. All I want is a little touch of wildness – just a modest halter top and respectable shorts in black leather. Oh, I would want a pair of high heel boots, too. All real writers wear cowboy boots but I want Nancy Sinatra’s “these boots are made for walking.” I want to kick up a little dust and stomp out a few words and live my wildest dreams.
They do come true, don’t they? Cry baby, cry baby……
Oh, I like these boots! Okay, I want it all – the flamboyance, wildness, success, fame. You name it and I’ll want it. Ha!