The way I catch myself dancing in my room reminds me all-too-well of the scene in Bridget Jones Diary as she gulps Chardonnay and belts out Celine Dion’s greatest hits. Minus the headache, of course. Realistically, I can’t imagine that anyone else twirls in their comfy socks to the sounds of Vivaldi’s Adagio for Strings. Luckily, what happens in this room usually stays here.
But today is different. Today there is reason for energy–spunk, even. A twelve o’ clock appointment with the sports editor at the local newspaper keeps me on edge, but I attempt to use it to my advantage as I shove through the nearly dilapidated chest of drawers given to me by my aunt’s grandma…or someone along that line. Bottom line is–the house is old. Really old. I’ve managed to keep my room relatively tidy, but there is always the smell. I’ve come to call it ‘rustic’. Martha Stewart would probably call it something else. But my attempt at interior decorating has mended things some. There are about a thousand horse mementos, given to me over the course of ten years after I made the mistake of announcing my love for the animals at a family reunion. Nearly every Christmas after that, a new horse statue, picture, or book was under the tree. But it was something I couldn’t deny. I’d been working with them for every spare minute of that time, so there was some special place in my heart for the tacky display.
I change songs, settling on the comfortable drawl of a country song. Growing up in rural South Carolina does that to a person. Even if you claim to hate the music, there’s really no escape from your roots. My past was no different. Still, the overwhelming variety of music crammed into my iPod could give the most avid of musicians a severe case of whiplash.
The job interview heavy on my mind, I put on my most professional outfit.
Then change. And change again.
The action was about par for the course. Not only am I indecisive, I am a perfectionist. And just as often, a procrastinator. The combination is usually about as successful as a hobo on a Parisian runway. Nevertheless, I settle with a sundress and the cowboy boots that appear least filthy from hours at the barn. The idea makes me nervous, but without an honest impression, this potential job doesn’t seem quite so charming. My biggest obstacle now is to convince myself I am a good enough writer to nail the position. Sure, people had gotten their share of laughs in college when I told them I was majoring in English. And I am acutely aware that I run the risk of sharing the stable with my horses–but maybe, just maybe this job would open up a few doors for me. I grab my aviators from beside the door (the biggest ones I can find with hopes of hiding my insecurity), and make my way out to my over-sized Jeep, smiling as I imagine the reactions it will spark after leaving a trail of red, caked mud on the curb of downtown Southern Pines. But I often think that cars are reflections of people. And in this case, Dixie Rose, as I have come to call her, was no exception. I intend to leave my mark wherever I choose to go in life.
