A week before Paxton died, I had a sort-of spiritual epiphany. See, for some time I’ve struggled with my place in the world. Now whether that’s self-induced or real, I don’t know, but I’ve found it’s hard for people to completely understand you or appreciate you when you don’t necessarily follow the prescribed path of life or fit neatly in a box.
I’ve always wanted to fit-in, to be like my family and friends and have the American Dream: Education, house, marriage, kids, family. I craved the ordinary. And while I’ve been successful in some areas, namely education and well, kind of-housing, all my efforts to add-on, to upgrade to the full package have failed miserably–and not without a hell of a lot of effort, time and money.
By nature, I’m a fixer. If there’s a problem, I want to solve it. And for years, I’ve thought, I was a problem to solve. I thought if I knew the reason why every guy who had left me for another girl, I could understand and fix whatever it was about me that made them choose her over me. I thought if I went to the best fertility specialists on the East Coast, I could have a baby. I thought if I dated every man on Match.com, OKCupid or whatever dating site was hot at the time, I’d find someone who wanted more than just one date with me. I thought if I read enough books, followed enough marketing strategies I’d find the elusive “one.” I thought, I needed to be fixed, and in doing so I could be what everyone else was–ordinary and accepted.
But then it occurred to me that I had spent an obscene amount of time trying to be ordinary with futile results, when at my core I was adventurous, a risk-taker, a non-conformist. And then the big spiritual awakening: Maybe I’m not meant to be ordinary, maybe I’m destined to be extraordinary–Relief washed over me and for the first time in this millennia I was free from the box.