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21st Century Lesbian Trailer Trash

These are the mad musings of a middle aged woman, dyke, nurse, poet. I have a dog, a cat, a mobile home, and delusions of grandeur.

Name:
Location: California, United States

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

56 vs 7

I remember reading a psychologist's odd theory about stages of development. Her theory went something like this. We travel through the stages of childhood development throughout life. I can't remember exactly how it worked but it went something along the lines that people relive their unfinished stages when they reach multiples of the years in which that stage should originally have occurred.

At the age of 25, which is 5 times 5, you are reworking the stage of development that, had you been raised in the perfect family, you would have been entering or completing at the appropriate chronological age. If you are a parent, you have a double whammy because you are also working through any unfinished business of the current developmental stages of your child or children.

Can you imagine being 3, 7, and 13 all at the same time? I must have been pretty screwed up when I discovered this theory because I found it wildly fascinating and enlightening.

If one subscribes to this theory, it means that I am working through the developmental stage of a 7 year old. Today, this sounds just about where I am. In the second grade, I ruined the class photo by bending over to pick something up that I had dropped on the floor just as the photographer snapped the picture. In those days, you only got one shot.

To top it off, my braids were in my face and my bangs were flying. My mother never let me forget this.

49 years later, I continue to be perpetually late, a procrastinator, and a dreamer marching to the beat of her own drummer. We had a corporate meeting today. I screeched into the parking lot to meet my boss, 15 minutes late.

While she drove, I brushed my hair and applied my lipstick. And when we arrived, I waltzed out of the car only to realize that the hem on the left leg of my navy pinstriped slacks was completely undone. I picked a seat front row and center and chatted up the nurses in my area.

The room became quiet and I looked up to find the corporate attorney, and one of the owners of the company, watching as I taped the hem of my pants leg together with scotch tape. Suddenly, I was 7 years old again. And apparently, I have not improved one iota in the organizational skills department.

Other than that, I made it through the day relatively unscathed. Well. My dishes are still in the sink. And my bed is unmade at 7:30 p.m. But at least I'm bringing home a paycheck.


Kinja, the weblog guide

2 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

I feel such a kinship for this scatterbrained, procrastinating woman! Some days we really shouldn't even get out of bed... but think of the fun and silliness we'd miss!

*w* ~ Nony

2:28 AM PDT  
Blogger NursePam said...

LOL Nony! It's a good thing that I am forced out of bed every day. I am thereby made to breathe in and breathe out. Gainful employment is the one thing that keeps me glued to the ground.

7:28 AM PDT  

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