someone's had a case of the "I-usetas"

When I was a little girl growing up in South Carolina, if my mother thought I was being pouty or bratty or self-absorbed she'd tell me I had "me-itis." As if this were a terrible, debilitating disease that would cause me to waste away as if consumptive or tubercular. "Get over yourself" was the basic message.

So, long story short, instead of getting over my me-itis, I allowed it to flower, giving in to the full force of my tempestuous nature and getting in many a pickle and many a scrape and behaving in a harum-scarum manner that caused a lot of trouble, broken bones, bad grades, catastrophe, estrangement and et cetera.

And also, I was imaginative and sweet and likable and sassy and fun and effervescent and et cetera.

And studious, and industrious, and curious, and at times like both the grasshopper and the ant. And I grabbed the thistle and seized the day and whatnot.

I suppose this is a bit of a long-winded and off-the-cuff way to introduce myself. Here I am, just turned 42 (the Answer to the Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything, right? Right?) and living all the way across the country from the only place I've ever lived in my life. All of a sudden, it seems--and yet I've been here five years already and just now starting to really dig in.

And I've noticed that my me-itis is still there (I mean, my last name begins with an I and my first name encapsulates the word "me"--) and that's okay. But what isn't OK? Something I'm barely becoming aware of and that is the I-usetas.

I useta be married.

I useta have a house.

I useta have a wooden beaded curtain.

I useta have a whole bunch of friends I saw from Thursday through Sunday if not more often.

I useta . . . I useta . . . I useta.

I guess some of this has been a mourning process. My life has flip-flopped in a major way. Not for the first time, really, but whew! Talk about pulling up stakes.
There have never been many pioneer types in my family. Not much of a template for moving around. I'm really doing pretty well. I have a lot of gratitude for my household of three (my beloved, and my fat cat, and me). But I have still been on some knife's-edge of my past and my heretofore unimaginable future.

I think of that tarn in front of the House of Usher.

And also of Elysium Fields.

Today I got my brand-new glasses--first time my prescription's been checked in six years. Oy, were my eyes bad! Now I have progressive lenses. Everything is sharp and clear, but there's still a little familiar blurriness until I shift my gaze around and find what the kind lady at the optician's office called the "sweet spot."

And there you have it. I can see. Not to belabor the point--but--I can see.