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Scottie Laughon
540-793-3982

TheShopKeeper@TheShopKeepersHouse.com

Saturday, January 5, 2008

:: Looking Forward ... and Looking Back ::

"The Urban Cottage"
One of my Resolutions this year is to begin and maintain a blog. I certainly enjoy the wit and wisdom of all the great "bloggers" I check-in with every day ... and I certainly learn something new every day. There is a huge and enormous bank of talent in this little world wide web, and I am truly grateful for the opportunity to share and learn from all of the talented folks out here.
Thanks to all who contribute to my new addiction,
these blogs ... and starbucks coffee!

My intent and purpose in this endeavor :: of begininng and maintaining a blog :: is to document the trials and tribulations of nurturing my own decorative painting business, while attending school to achieve the interior design *certificate* ... which will lead to my ultimate goal of membership in the American Society of Interior Designers. Don't ask me why ... but, to see my name with "AASID" beside it will be a true hallmark in my life ... this, and being the mother of three beautiful children and the happily married wife of a truly devoted and fantastic husband of eighteen years!

And I want to memorialize my "love-hate" relationship with my home, the house I grew up in. "The Urban Cottage Designs" is borne of my desire to marry the "cottage" of my soul with a new-found longing in my spirit to live in an "urban" setting ... to grow up, if you will. But, stay tuned ... more to follow!

Over the next series of posts, I will share "Before" and "After" photographs of the progress my loving and patient husband and I have made in this home.

So with this foundation laid, I would like to share an essay I wrote for an English 111 class which was required for my interior design *certification* and, if you will remember, my "ultimate goal in life".

Now, please realize that blogging seemed to me like an exciting adventure for the New Year ... a "Resolution" that I could certainly maintain, much easier than losing 20 pounds,huh? Then I actually sat down and tried to charm you, my potential readers, with the whit and wisdom and chatty repartee that I so enjoy from the bloggers that I stalk each and every morning, afternoon and night ... you guys make it look SO easy!

So, I was searching for an essay to share with you, one that I had written on the value of my home in my life ... not only to express my love for my lifelong home, but to open up the flow of words and fresh ideas with which I hope to nurture this blog in the coming days of 2008 ... but I found this essay instead ...

And I ask for your indulgence, dear reader, as I remind myself of where I am RIGHT now and of how far I have progressed, including one :*/ more birthday since this essay was written.

"For purposes of this assignment, we are asked to write an essay comparing and contrasting something, presumably items or people or events, which we have encountered in the course of our normal daily lives. Subject topics, such as the differences between my cat and dog, or even how similar my children have been to raise, yet how uniquely different each of them are, come to mind. There are even easier topics I could choose to write about, like how I hate spending my money at Walmart, as opposed to how I love shopping at Target. There is even the possibility of comparing and contrasting any number of the political, religious, or moral controversies that are occurring worldwide. But I think I will indulge my inner self and satisfy two goals with this one task. If only to memorialize the progress I have made in my life, I think I choose to compare and contrast myself, the unhappy and insecure eighteen-year old student at Radford University with the settled and mature forty-two year old student at Virginia Western Community College.

According to our textbook, a subject that is to be “contrasted” must first be similar enough to be “compared.” I originally began this theme with the belief that I was the same person -- in body, soul, mind and name -- way back then that I am now. In my mind, that fact alone was a strong enough foundation for this “Compare and Contrast” assignment. But as I began to put to-paper the statement that “I am the same person I was twenty-five years ago,” so I could list all of the similarities of ‘that me’ with the ‘me of today’ and continue on with the contrast of those two individuals, I realized that there are very few similarities between us at all.

I am the same person, technically. I still have the same Social Security Number. I still have mostly brown hair, at least for the time being. I still have the same parents and the same younger brother, and I still retain most of the values and beliefs that I held dear when I was eighteen years old. I am still kind to animals, and I still live in the same house I grew up in. And I still like pizza and chocolate ice cream, even though the ice cream makes me sick to my stomach now.

But, as it turns out, the foundation for my initial comparison, that I am the same person in body, soul, mind and name, has actually become the foundation for contrast of this essay.

A person’s body should be a constant in their lives. No matter what we do or where we go, we must take our bodies with us. I acknowledge that a person’s younger body is in better shape physically than the body they live with as it ages, and I realize that the ravages of time and gravity do take their toll on a physique. But a person dies in the same body they were born in, generally.

In my case, there is no comparison between my eighteen-year old body and my forty-two year old body. My eighteen-year old body was morbidly obese and very out-of-shape. Physical exercise was a form of punishment in 1983, and I hid myself under long hair and baggy clothes for most of my adolescent and young adult life. And no assault on a person’s body could compare with the ravages of three pregnancies.

But thanks to gastric bypass surgery in October, 2004, and a membership at the local YMCA, my body is in much better shape today than it was when I was a teenager. I can now walk up a flight of steps, carrying an armload of books and holding a conversation with the person next to me. And I no longer hide underneath pounds of hair hanging in my face. I am by no means ready to compete in a long-distance triathlon or ignorant enough try my hand with a court full of pony-tailed eighteen-year old basketball beasts; but I am closer to doing those things now, at forty-two, than I ever was at eighteen.

I guess a more accurate comparison between my “old self” and my “new self” would be that I still walk around in the same skin -- although at this point in my life, I no longer feel compelled to jump out of my skin and into someone else’s, anybody else’s skin anywhere else in the world! I finally feel rooted and planted and comfortable in my own body.

My soul. My soul has taken a beating in the past 24 years. As an eighteen-year old, I had no respect for my own needs and desires, short of attaining immediate gratification with whatever shiny trinket caught my eye. The driving force in my life was accomplishing the tasks I thought I was supposed to accomplish. For instance, I knew I was supposed to go to college. Okay, what was I supposed to do then? I gave no thought whatsoever to the quality of life I could expect as a middle-aged adult, including even the basic ability to support myself. Where was my mind then?

As a result of my own mis-direction of my own life, I have watched dreams die and opportunities come and go. I have a whole long list of things I “should have” done and another long list of things I “wished I had” done. But, I have finally reached the point in my life where hesitation is not an option. If a dream or a goal is to have a prayer of being attained in my lifetime, it must be done now. Period. It is amazing what an impetus time can be!

I consider myself lucky, fortunate that I haven’t given up on my soul and my spirituality. I have not been beaten down so many times in the past forty-two years that I have begun to question the existence of God and the Heavens above. I have witnessed miracles with my own eyes. I have given birth to three beautiful children, I have seen a thoroughbred colt running along the pristine white fences of western Kentucky, and I have seen rainbows and sunlight beaming behind dark storm clouds -- and I finally appreciate the value of each and every one of these miracles. As an eighteen-year old, I would not have slowed down enough to notice.

Now, my mind is another matter altogether. As an eighteen-year old, I could remember just about anybody’s name, where they worked, what kind of car they drove, and who they were dating. As a forty-two year old, I could care less! Besides, I have found that a smile and polite greeting are all that really matter anyway. That attitude makes the days that I can’t remember my own name almost bearable.

And as an eighteen-year old student, I could wait until the last minute to complete just about any assignment, once I had made my mind up to do “it.” Being a forty-two year old student, with a house full of active children and a business to promote and run, I can still wait until the last minute to do something. It’s just that my “last minutes” now require more planning and forethought.

And lastly, my name. I have already written an essay on the effect that becoming someone’s mom for the first time had on my life. I will never be the same carefree, irresponsible eighteen-year old again. Ever. Regardless of whatever else I accomplish or neglect in my life, I will always be somebody’s mom, even when I am laid to rest. That much goes without saying.

But, I wasn’t much older than eighteen when my husband gave me his name. We were both twenty-four years old when we got married. This would be the first time -- and only time, according to him -- that he would give his name to the person he loved. I couldn’t claim that right of innocence, as I had already made that mistake once before. So I literally picked up my divorce decree from one window in the clerk’s office, took two steps sideways, and purchased my marriage license at the next window. Seriously. I am not exaggerating!

And it goes without saying that I was scared to death, probably for the first time in my life if past behavior was any indication. What was I thinking! How could I take this chance again? What if I let myself down? What if I destroyed this young man’s thoughts and ideals of marriage? That was my immature eighteen-year old mind at play again.

Even at the ripe old age of twenty-four, I had no confidence in my ability to make a lasting and rational, a good, decision. I was impetuous and spontaneous, and I had no guarantee at that point in time that I would ever be anything but irresponsible. My past history of bad decisions had proven that fear entirely possible.

But, in the ensuing years, through the early times of trying out my new name, I began to realize that I probably hadn’t made such a bad mistake after all. I give credit to my husband for his tenacity at staying married. I often wondered why he bothered; but thankfully, he pulled us through the difficult times. And for that, I am truly grateful to him and for him.

Neither of us was perfect and neither of us knew all of the answers. A lot of times, we didn’t know any of the answers; but together, we weren’t too bad, either. Keith and I have matured together and made stupid mistakes together and spent too much money on frivolous things together. But together, with the help of generous and loving parents of our own, we have created a home for our children to come back to on Thanksgiving Day with their children, and we have created the home where they feel loved and secure. Together, we have learned to love one another unconditionally and to trust each other and the decisions we make, sometimes making life-altering decisions independent of the other. And I have learned to trust the person I have become and the decisions I have made or will make. But above all, I value the name that was given to me by my husband and the life that we have made together.

So the eighteen-year old Radford University student and the forty-two year old Virginia Western Community College student are two entirely different persons altogether. Although, I can’t seem to shed the baggy clothes. And I doubt I ever will."

And I look forward to our next encounter ...

Hugs, Scottie