Getting Thinky On Being Thinky

Every couple of years or so, I get all existential: you know, mega-self-thinky.

A few years ago, this involved me imagining myself in a variety of fantastically bohemian new roles -- boat painter, chef, coffee shop owner -- that had nothing to do with my "actual" life. I could better imagine my short hair growing into long thick, grey-flecked braids than I could see myself actually painting or cooking or making decent coffee. So I abandoned that and moved on.

Another time, I decided we were relocating to Savannah, a place I'd been but once before and only for an afternoon but which I knew, I knew held the secret to our life-long happiness. I spent endless hours conducting my "research" and in no time, I was a Savannahian (a Savannahese?) and practicing my new accent. I convinced the Kid to spend a weekend with me there, house-hunting, which we did. Trouble was, in addition to the framed photos of W in every foyer, there weren't any pay-the-bills opportunities. So I abandoned Savannah and moved on.

In my earliest thirties, I had back to back self-referential crises that all related to vehicles: I was a beat-up Suburu-wagon-driving sporty mom, all fleece and yoga pants, then I became SUV mama with a mission and then, ugh, minivan matron who touched buttons to open doors. I get into a car now that takes me places; I moved on.

In my latest twenties, I had back to back self-referential crises that all related to hair: mega short Drew Barrymore and plastic barrettes (alt-rock) then back-to-my-unruly-roots hair (when most people figured I was vegan) then the pig-tail look, which coincided not coincidentally with the sporty Suburu-driving phase. I still struggle with my hair, but I moved on.

(Oddly: my younger twenties, even my teens? Steady as a non-existential-thinking-person could be.)

I wish there were a chart, like for a menstrual cycle, that I could download on the Iphone to manage these ebbs of my authenticity. That way I could see them coming and what then? Eat more veggies? Check in to a sweat lodge? Howl at the moon, or maybe better yet, stop howling at the moon?

There are no clues ever to the ebbs: they come when they will. I might be suffering an icky unhappiness or feeling lit by boundless joy: then -- wham! -- is this who I am? I might be content or bored or traumatized or confused or simply happy: then -- wait! -- is this my life, my only one?

Is the phrase "a flight of fancy," or is it "a flight of fantasy?" I'm not sure and too lazy to check and also I really like both sayings and would hate to be disappointed with the truth because each sums up what these (short-lived, always temporary) experiences are for me. Which means: these flights, my ebbs? They don't suck.

I like them even though I can't predict them. It's like playing dress-up with a limitless box of costumes and make-up, trying on every way I can be, then washing up, cleaning up, and becoming my own very real self again. In any car, with any hair, in any place. But with a smudge, just a bit, a dash of something left over from where I've "gone" that changes me and my life for real.

There's no problem in getting self-thinky, no problem in having a moment away from who you really are. Existential crisis? Bring it.